Jokers Club

by Gregory Bastianelli

  He rarely made an appearance outside the house, except for the occasions when he would chase members of the Jokers Club with a long-handled spade shovel, yelling, “Keep out of my yard!” The only other times Woody saw him was when one of the green shades would suddenly shoot up and his bulging eyeballs would peer out of the dusty windows, ping-ponging back and forth until, just as suddenly, the shade would jerk down.

  His name was Emeric Rust, but to all the kids, he was the Tin Man.

  His name originated from the condition of his back yard. Amidst the tangles of the overgrown lawn was an ever-expanding pile of junk. It had grown continuously over the years. It was now a mountainous mound coated with rust. Amid the heap were old tire rims, bicycle frames, an aged mailbox, electric fans (box and oscillating), toasters and other small kitchen appliances, rakes, hoes, the guts of a washing machine, tin cans, a television set with an exploded picture tube, a baby carriage, a lawn mower and the blades of a snow blower. Near the top was a box spring with the padding long worn away, leaving only the skeletal remains of springs and frame.

  There were things that seemed to be growing out of the pile as if through some form of metallic gestation. Some stuff appeared to melt together to form one object, and other things were so dripping in rust as to be indecipherable. It seemed as if everything and anything had found its way onto the pile. At the very top there was even a kitchen sink.

  Beside the junk pile there was also an old black junked car, resting on rusted rims, the trunk open, the hood missing (probably buried in the junk pile), a spider-web crack splattered across the windshield, the back window blown out completely, and the vinyl seats shredded and spilling out stuffing.

  It was between the car and the junk pile that the seven boys had stood earlier that day. They were playing Relievo, a game of capture the enemy played between two teams. A cross between hide and seek and tag. One team pursued another. The goal was to elude the pursuers for an allotted time period. If members were captured, they were held in a designated “cell” and could not escape unless a member who hadn’t been caught was able to sneak up to the cell and tag a teammate yelling, “Relievo!” The prisoners would run free and the pursuit would continue. Only when all the members were captured could the pursuing team claim victory.

  The Jokers Club members considered themselves experts at the game, and they accepted challenges from anyone who wanted to dethrone them. This time the challenge came from a group of kids from a neighborhood on the west side of the lake. As usual, Oliver had chosen the Jokers Club to be the ones pursued.

  Jason Nightingale was with them. He had avoided them for the first couple of weeks after the clubhouse fire, but, living right down the street from them, it became difficult. Shortly after school let out for the summer, he came to them and apologized. He said his father had pressured him into telling the truth about the clubhouse fire.

  They had all agreed not to have anything more to do with Jason Nightingale. All of them had gotten in deep trouble because of him and suffered a variety of punishments, though none as severe as Oliver’s.

  Woody was stunned at first when Oliver decided to accept the apology. Eventually he realized something was up Oliver’s sleeve. He was biding his time till the right moment arose. He had no idea when or what, but he knew something would happen.

  Five minutes before the Relievo game was to begin, the Jokers Club all looked to Oliver.

  “What’s the plan?” they asked.

  Oliver looked them over, and then glanced around.

  “We need a shadow,” he finally said.

  Woody saw the confusion on Jason’s face. They explained it to him. The shadow was a tactic they sometimes used in the game. One of the players would remain completely concealed in a hiding spot so even if the rest of the team was captured, he could remain hidden until the game was over. At one time or another they had all been the shadow, with the exception of Oliver.

  “This time,” Oliver said, “it can be you, Nightingale.”

  Jason started to utter a protest, but wisely halted.

  “Where do I go?”

  Woody looked at the trunk of the junk car. They had used it a few times, and he himself had lain in its darkness, being the shadow, being obscured by the dark. Oliver even took a step toward the car, but then spun on his heels and pointed.

  “There!”

  Woody turned and followed his outreached arm and extended index finger to a spot halfway up the south face of the junk pile.

  There stood, embedded in the surround metal and tilted backwards, an old refrigerator. Its whiteness had dulled and there were blood-like splotches of orange as if it had been fired upon with rust bullets.

  Jason looked at it, then at the others and finally at Oliver. “In there?”

  “They’ll never find you.”

  Jason hesitated momentarily, looking at the others as if for some clue as to how he could back out. No one said anything. He looked back at Oliver.

  “We don’t have much time.”

  The footing was tenuous to say the least. Some bits of metal scrap held more firmly than others, but Jason reluctantly picked his way up the hill of junk.

  Woody looked at Geoff’s face, then the others. They just looked back. Nobody knew what Oliver was up to; nobody knew what to do.

  Jason’s sneaker gave way on the side of an empty paint can and he lost his balance, his arms wind-milling like a cartoon character, but he reached out and grabbed a protruding piece of lead pipe and steadied himself. He looked down at the others.

  “I don’t know about this, Oliver,” he said.

  “Florence,” was the sneering response and that was enough to spur him on till he reached the refrigerator. With a tug he opened it.

  From where Woody stood, he thought he saw something in the shadow of the inside of the refrigerator, something shifting. He wanted to call out, but knew it was only his imagination and he kept quiet.

  “Not much time,” Oliver said.

  Jason stepped into it and swung the door closed behind him with a thud that echoed in Woody’s ears.

  Nobody moved for a moment, as if that thud had frozen them all. A muffled voice came from beyond the door.

  “It don’t open from this side!”

  “We’ll let you out when the time is up!” Oliver yelled.

  He turned his back to the pile and stepped away from it.

  “Is he gonna be okay in there?” Dale asked.

  “Sure,” Oliver said, turning and facing them.

  Woody could see the glint in his eyes.

  “What are you up to?” Geoff asked.

  “He’s gonna stay in there. All night.”

  Lonny smiled. “Yeah.”

  “How long?” Woody asked.

  “We’ll let him out in the morning.”

  Woody looked at the others, not knowing what to do.

  “You gotta be with me on this,” Oliver yelled. “He ratted on us.” He looked from face to face. “We all got punished, now it’s his turn.” The tone of his voice elevated. “It’s his turn to be punished. Right guys?”

  Woody thought about it. It was true. They had resented him when he squealed. No one in the club had ever done anything like that before. Jason deserved what he was going to get.

  “But he is gonna be all right?” Woody asked.

  “Sure. He spends the night, cries a lot, then we let him out in the morning and kick his ass out of the club.”

  Woody thought about it for a moment, as he was sure the others did. Jason hadn’t been a part of the club for very long. It wasn’t like the two of them had made any special connection. Jason had always seemed more interested in Geoff and Dale. It could be easy not to be friends anymore. And he did deserve it.

  Oliver took the silence as agreement and gave them one last order.

  “Scatter.”

  * * *

  They had won the game of course, like always. Afterwards, Woody and the others stood silently in Oliver’s back yard, as i
f not sure what to do next.

  “Are you really going to leave him there all night?” Geoff asked.

  “You’re damn right,” Oliver replied.

  “Hasn’t he had enough?”

  “No!” Oliver’s face flushed. “He could never have enough.”

  “We let him out first thing in the morning,” Dale assured.

  “What if he tells his old man on us?” Woody asked.

  Oliver went up to him and looked him in the face. “He wouldn’t dare!” He turned to look at the others. “We go home. Nobody says a word. Nobody lets him out till morning.”

  Quietly, they all went to their own houses as night came on.

  Woody thought about Jason in the refrigerator. He imagined time would be crawling slowly for him, wondering when they would come for him. If they would come. Panic would set in and it would dawn on him that he wouldn’t be getting out. He imagined Jason, trapped inside that white coffin, pounding on the door, screaming for help. But there would be no one to hear him. Or would there? Maybe the Tin Man would hear his calls and come for him. But once he let Jason out, what would he do to him then?

  He felt sorry for Jason, but it was his own fault. No one in the club had ever squealed before. It just didn’t happen.

  Unable to sleep, he had looked at the clock and saw it was just before midnight. Sleep was not going to come. That was when he grabbed his flashlight and signaled to Geoff’s window.

  Now the two of them found themselves walking down the sidewalk on Shadow Drive. The night was hot and clear and eerily silent. No cars turned down Shadow Drive. No one was about in the neighborhood at this late hour. Stars spattered the black sky above, helping the moon to light darkened air. The shambling house at the end of the road moved closer toward them, as if it rested on wheels that were slowly rolling down the quiet street. The boys could almost imagine the sound of the tires squeaking, for indeed they would be old, worn and rusted rims like the rest of the house and like the junk pile in the back yard that was their destination.

  As the house moved closer to them, the pace of their steps slowed. When they first left they had been running, as if urgency were their utmost concern. But now that their arrival at the Tin Man’s home was imminent, the need to hurry did not seem as important.

  Before they knew it, the structure was upon them, seemingly leaning out over them like some lumbering beast, stretching its creaking timbers and beams. Geoff motioned for Woody to be quiet as they crept around the side of one wall with caution, as if the sound of sneakers on grass would be noise enough to wake the rotting hulk. Once out back they saw the junk pile, looking twice its size in the moonlight, one complete entity instead of being made of multitudes of organisms, like a giant beast rising up from the dark earth.

  They stood beside each other in front of the pile, not speaking. Woody flicked the flashlight on and guided its beam up the sloping surface. Weird twisted shapes jumped out as the spotlight shone on them, like macabre performers on a ghastly stage. The junk seemed even more unrecognizable in the dimness of the interrupted dark.

  It’s gone, Woody thought as he frantically played the beam over the pile searching for the refrigerator. Maybe the junk beast had swallowed it whole, Jason and all. But then he saw it, higher up than he remembered, and pinned his beam on the reflective surface.

  At the end of the flashlight’s tunneled vision the refrigerator looked as if it were bobbing on an ocean wave. Its surface appeared gray and looked cold to the touch even in the hot summer night. There was an unnatural silence that surrounded the box that had become Jason’s prison.

  Woody heard a gasp and it took him a moment to realize it came from himself. He forgot Geoff was even with him till he felt a hand grip his arm. He turned and looked into his friend’s face. He was met with nervous eyes and rapid breaths. They both looked back up, at the refrigerator.

  “Jason,” Geoff whispered. There was no answer.

  “Jason!” Woody yelled out loud. Geoff clamped a hand over his mouth. The name echoed around them in the darkness.

  “Quiet. The Tin Man might hear you.” They turned and looked back at the house. The dark green shades were all drawn as usual.

  They returned their gaze to the junk pile.

  “Maybe the Tin Man already got him,” Woody said.

  “Maybe. But he probably just fell asleep. He’s been in there a long time.”

  “Well, we better hurry.”

  “Yeah.”

  Woody aimed the flashlight beam to guide Geoffrey who began climbing the metal mound. He proceeded cautiously as if he was uncertain about the foothold for each step he took. Woody had visions of him planting his foot on a sharp metal shard and having it come right up through the top of his sneaker, or of losing his balance and falling backwards and impaling himself on a jutting pointed spike that rips through his back and out his chest.

  The higher Geoff got, the easier the going seemed, and he moved quicker. He was almost within reach of the refrigerator. With his next step there was a sudden screech of metal as his right foot sank into the pile.

  “Geoff?” Woody called from below, this time in a lower voice than earlier.

  “I’m okay.” He pulled on his leg. “I’m stuck, though.” He looked back, but Woody only looked up at him helplessly. Geoff was close to the refrigerator. He leaned forward and stretched his arm out. The handle was just five or six inches from his fingertips.

  “I can’t reach.”

  There was a sound in the night air that froze Woody. It was a flapping sound. Could it have been a bird, he thought, or a bat, flying overhead? But it sounded more like the raising of a window shade.

  Slowly he turned and, lifting a shaky arm, scanned the flashlight beam across the windows at the back of the house, petrified he’d see the image of that cragged face staring out at him. But the window shades were all drawn. He turned back around quickly.

  Stupid, he thought. Shining the light in the windows might stir the old man.

  “Did you hear that?” Woody asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Hurry up,” he called to Geoff.

  He pulled on his leg, again to no avail. “You’re gonna have to come up here. I can’t budge it.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Hurry up so we can get the hell out of here.”

  To his surprise Woody had little trouble making his way up the side of the pile lighting the way with the flashlight. When he reached Geoff, he grabbed onto his leg and pulled hard on it. It gave a little, but did not come free.

  “You’re stuck good,” Woody said, letting go of the constrained limb.

  “Get Jason out and he can help.”

  Woody handed the flashlight to Geoff and moved up to the refrigerator. He put his ear to the door and rapped his knuckles on it.

  “Rise and shine, Jason.”

  “Come on, Woody,” Geoff said, keeping the light trained on the refrigerator, “just open the door.”

  He grabbed the cold metal handle tightly and pulled. There was a sound of rushing air as the door swung open.

  The light shone directly on the figure in the refrigerator. Jason was slumped down inside it, his eyes wide open, the skin on his face a purplish hue. His mouth was also open, a blackened, swollen tongue protruding from it. Long jagged gouges, caked with dried blood, ran down his neck all around it. His hands lay frozen in front of him, twisted into claws, the fingernails tipped with blood and bits and pieces of flesh. These were the hands that had ripped and torn at his own throat as he tried to get air to breathe. He couldn’t breathe. My God, Woody thought, he couldn’t breathe. The whole time in there, and he couldn’t breathe.

  Then Woody screamed.

  It was a scream that pierced the air with a crack. Geoff dropped the flashlight and the light flicked out on impact, but the glow of the moonlight still framed that horrid face. Woody started to back down the pile, but before he got any further, he stopped to do something – for what reason he had no idea. H
e reached up with his hand and threw the door shut. Maybe so those eyes wouldn’t see him.

  He turned and saw the horror on Geoff’s face and felt he was looking into a mirror and seeing his own reaction. He moved down the pile quickly, as if his feet touched nothing but air. Geoff must have gotten his leg free because he soon heard running feet behind him. At least he hoped it was Geoff behind him as he raced down Shadow Drive, but he did not dare look over his shoulder. He was afraid one of Jason’s bloodied, clawed hands was reaching out to grab him.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  After writing, I left the inn and took a walk down to the beach. It was sunny and warm enough that I was glad I left my jacket in my room. I even pushed my sleeves up to my elbows. Indian summer. It reminded me of youthful hot days, school vacation and playing outdoors. But that made me think of Jason and the chapter I had just completed. There were very few days for him, Indian or otherwise.

  As I stepped onto the beach, I looked at my watch. It had stopped. I shook my wrist and held it up to my ear, but no ticking.

  The soft sand yielded to my every step and my balance felt beyond my complete control. It dawned on me that I had been walking on concrete so much the past few years that the beach felt like an alien surface. Just like I had forgotten what it was like to be a kid until this weekend, I had forgotten what it was like to walk on sand. As I approached the edge of the water, I was able to get on firmer ground and steady myself.

  Someone was at the opposite end of the beach walking in my direction. Otherwise the immediate area was deserted. Out in the middle of the lake sat Professor Bonz in his boat. A slight breeze brushed across the lake, causing the water to reach the edge with a soft lapping sound at my feet. It was all so peaceful here, not the type of scene that would include such a vicious act of violence. Maybe in my stories, but not here. Not in real life.

  I reached into my pocket and felt something soft and wet. I pulled it out and saw it was the rotten piece of apple I had hastily put in there and forgotten. I hurled it into the lake. There were footsteps on the boardwalk and I turned to see Carrothead. He shuffled slowly along the wooden planks. I could hear the faint sound of his voice, mingled with static from the walkie-talkie in his hand, but none of the words he was saying were clear. He didn’t look any older. Maybe his mind was so damaged that he didn’t know he was supposed to age.