The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16

by Stephen Jones

  “You’re sure this is a good idea?” his boss said. She fixed her reptilian, watery gaze on him. She had problematical tear ducts. Though she could have had a minor surgical procedure to fix this, she’d chosen not to. It was a tactical advantage, the way it spooked people.

  It didn’t really matter that Henry remained immune to rubber bands and crocodile tears. She had backup strategies. She thought about which would be most effective while Henry pitched his stupid idea all over again.

  Henry had the movers’ phone number in his pocket, like a talisman. He wanted to take it out, wave it at The Crocodile, say look at this! Instead he said, “For nine years, we’ve lived in an apartment next door to a building that smells like urine. Like someone built an entire building out of bricks made of compressed, red pee. Someone spit on Catherine in the street last week. This old Russian lady in a fur coat. A kid rang our doorbell the other day, and tried to sell us gas masks. Door-to-door gas mask salesmen. Catherine bought one. When she told me about it she burst into tears. She said she couldn’t figure out if she was feeling guilty because she’d bought a gas mask, or if it was because she hadn’t bought enough for everyone.”

  “Good Chinese food,” his boss said. “Good movies. Good bookstores. Good dry cleaners. Good conversation.”

  “Treehouses,” Henry said. “I had a treehouse when I was a kid.”

  “You were never a kid,” his boss said.

  “Three bathrooms. Crown mouldings. We can’t even see our nearest neighbour’s house. I get up in the morning, have coffee, put Carleton and Tilly on the bus, and go to work in my pyjamas.”

  “What about Catherine?” The Crocodile put her head down on her rubber band ball. Possibly this was a gesture of defeat.

  “There was that thing. Catherine’s whole department is leaving. Like rats deserting a sinking ship. Anyway, Catherine needs a change. And so do I,” Henry said. “We’ve got another kid on the way. We’re going to garden. Catherine’ll teach ESL, find a book group, write her book. Teach the kids how to play bridge. You’ve got to start them early.”

  He picked a rubber band off the floor and offered it to his boss. “You should come out and visit some weekend.”

  “I never go upstate,” the Crocodile said. She held onto her rubber band ball. “Too many ghosts.”

  “Are you going to miss this? Living here?” Catherine said. She couldn’t stand the way her stomach poked out. She couldn’t see past it. She held up her left foot to make sure it was still there, and pulled the sheet off Henry.

  “I love the house,” Henry said.

  “Me too,” Catherine said. She was biting her fingernails. Henry could hear her teeth going click, click. Now she had both feet up in the air. She wiggled them around. Hello, feet.

  “What are you doing?”

  She put them down again. On the street outside, cars came and went, pushing smears of light along the ceiling, slow and fast at the same time. The baby was wriggling around inside her, kicking out with both feet like it was swimming across the English Channel, the Pacific. Kicking all the way to China. “Did you buy that story about the former owners moving to France?”

  “I don’t believe in France,” Henry said. “Je ne crois pas en France.”

  “Neither do I,” Catherine said. “Henry?”

  “What?”

  “Do you love the house?”

  “I love the house.”

  “I love it more than you do,” Catherine said, although Henry hated it when she said things like that. “What do you love best?”

  “That room in the front,” Henry said. “With the windows. Our bedroom. Those weird rabbit statues.”

  “Me too,” Catherine said, although she didn’t. “I love those rabbits.”

  Then she said, “Do you ever worry about Carleton and Tilly?”

  “What do you mean?” Henry said. He looked at the alarm clock: it was 4:00 a.m. “Why are we awake right now?”

  “Sometimes I worry that I love one of them better,” Catherine said. “Like I might love Tilly better. Because she used to wet the bed. Because she’s always so angry. Or Carleton, because he was so sick when he was little.”

  “I love them both the same,” Henry said.

  He didn’t even know he was lying. Catherine knew, though. She knew he was lying, and she knew he didn’t even know it. Most of the time she thought that it was okay. As long as he thought he loved them both the same, and acted as if he did, that was good enough.

  “Well, do you ever worry that you love them more than me?” she said. “Or that I love them more than I love you?”

  “Do you?” Henry said.

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “I have to. It’s my job.”

  She found the gas mask in a box of wineglasses, and also six recent issues of the New Yorker, which she still might get a chance to read someday. She put the gas mask under the sink and the New Yorkers in the sink. Why not? It was her sink. She could put anything she wanted into it. She took the magazines out again and put them into the refrigerator, just for fun.

  Henry came into the kitchen, holding silver candlesticks and a stuffed armadillo, which someone had made into a purse. It had a shoulder strap made out of its own skin. You opened its mouth and put things inside it, lipstick and subway tokens. It had pink gimlet eyes and smelled strongly of vinegar. It belonged to Tilly, although how it had come into her possession was unclear. Tilly claimed she’d won it at school in a contest involving donuts. Catherine thought it more likely Tilly had either stolen it or (slightly preferable) found it in someone’s trash. Now Tilly kept her most valuable belongings inside the purse, to keep them safe from Carleton who was covetous of the precious things—

  – because they were small, and because they belonged to Tilly – but afraid of the armadillo.

  “I’ve already told her she can’t take it to school for at least the first two weeks. Then we’ll see.” She took the purse from Henry and put it under the sink with the gas mask.

  “What are they doing?” Henry said. Framed in the kitchen window, Carleton and Tilly hunched over the lawn. They had a pair of scissors and a notebook and a stapler.

  “They’re collecting grass,” Catherine took dishes out of a box, put the bubble wrap aside for Tilly to stomp, and stowed the dishes in a cabinet. The baby kicked like it knew all about bubble wrap. “Woah, fireplace,” she said. “We don’t have a dancing license in there.”

  Henry put out his hand, rapped on Catherine’s stomach. Knock, knock. It was Tilly’s joke. Catherine would say, “Who’s there?” and Tilly would say, “Candlestick’s here. Fat Man’s here. Box. Hammer. Milkshake. Clarinet. Mousetrap. Fiddlestick.” Tilly had a whole list of names for the baby. The real estate agent would have approved.

  “Where’s King Spanky?” Henry said.

  “Under our bed,” Catherine said. “He’s up in the box frame.”

  “Have we unpacked the alarm clock?” Henry said.

  “Poor King Spanky,” Catherine said. “Nobody to love except an alarm clock. Come upstairs and let’s see if we can shake him out of the bed. I’ve got a present for you.”

  The present was in a U-Haul box exactly like all the other boxes in the bedroom, except that Catherine had written HENRY’S PRESENT on it instead of LARGE FRONT BEDROOM. Inside the box were Styrofoam peanuts and then a smaller box from Takashimaya. The Takashimaya box was fastened with a silver ribbon. The tissue paper inside was dull gold, and inside the tissue paper was a green silk robe with orange sleeves and heraldic animals in orange and gold thread. “Lions,” Henry said.

  “Rabbits,” Catherine said.

  “I didn’t get you anything,” Henry said.

  Catherine smiled nobly. She liked giving presents better than getting presents. She’d never told Henry, because it seemed to her that it must be selfish in some way she’d never bothered to figure out. Catherine was grateful to be married to Henry, who accepted all presents as his due; who looked good in the clothes that she bought him;
who was vain, in an easygoing way, about his good looks. Buying clothes for Henry was especially satisfying now, while she was pregnant and couldn’t buy them for herself.

  She said, “If you don’t like it, then I’ll keep it. Look at you, look at those sleeves. You look like the emperor of Japan.”

  They had already colonized the bedroom, making it full of things that belonged to them. There was Catherine’s mirror on the wall, and their mahogany wardrobe, their first real piece of furniture, a wedding present from Catherine’s great aunt. There was their serviceable, queen-size bed with King Spanky lodged up inside it, and there was Henry, spinning his arms in the wide orange sleeves, like an embroidered windmill. Henry could see all of these things in the mirror, and behind him, their lawn and Tilly and Carleton, stapling grass into their notebook. He saw all of these things and he found them good. But he couldn’t see Catherine. When he turned around, she stood in the doorway, frowning at him. She had the alarm clock in her hand.

  “Look at you,” she said again. It worried her, the way something, someone, Henry, could suddenly look like a place she’d never been before. The alarm began to ring and King Spanky came out from under the bed, trotting over to Catherine. She bent over, awkwardly – ungraceful, ungainly, so clumsy, so fucking awkward, being pregnant was like wearing a fucking suitcase strapped across your middle – put the alarm clock down on the ground, and King Spanky hunkered down in front of it, his nose against the ringing glass face.

  And that made her laugh again. Henry loved Catherine’s laugh. Downstairs, their children slammed a door open, ran through the house, carrying scissors, both Catherine and Henry knew, and slammed another door open and were outside again, leaving behind the smell of grass. There was a store in New York where you could buy a perfume that smelled like that.

  Catherine, Carleton and Tilly came back from the grocery store with a tire, a rope to hang it from, and a box of pancake mix for dinner. Henry was online, looking at a jpeg of a rubber band ball. There was a message too. The Crocodile needed him to come into the office. It would be just a few days. Someone was setting fires and there was no one smart enough to see how to put them out except for him. They were his accounts. He had to come in and save them. She knew Catherine and Henry’s apartment hadn’t sold; she’d checked with their listing agent. So surely it wouldn’t be impossible, not impossible, only inconvenient.

  He went downstairs to tell Catherine. “That witch,” she said, and then bit her lip. “She called the listing agent? I’m sorry. We talked about this. Never mind. Just give me a moment.”

  Catherine inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. If she were Carleton she would hold her breath until her face turned red and Henry agreed to stay home, but then again, it never worked for Carleton. “We ran into our new neighbours in the grocery store. She’s about the same age as me. Liz and Marcus. One kid, older, a girl, um, I think her name was Alison, maybe from a first marriage – potential babysitter, which is really good news. Liz is a lawyer. Gorgeous. Reads Oprah books. He likes to cook.”

  “So do I,” Henry said.

  “You’re better looking,” Catherine said. “So do you have to go back tonight, or can you take the train in the morning?”

  “The morning is fine,” Henry said, wanting to seem agreeable.

  Carleton appeared in the kitchen, his arms pinned around King Spanky’s middle. The cat’s front legs stuck straight out, as if Carleton were dowsing. King Spanky’s eyes were closed. Its whiskers twitched Morse code. “What are you wearing?” Carleton said.

  “My new uniform,” Henry said. “I wear it to work.”

  “Where do you work?” Carleton said, testing.

  “I work at home,” Henry said. Catherine snorted.

  “He looks like the king of rabbits, doesn’t he? The emperor of Rabbitaly,” she said, no longer sounding particularly pleased about this.

  “He looks like a princess,” Carleton said, now pointing King Spanky at Henry like a gun.

  “Where’s your grass collection?” Henry said. “Can I see it?”

  “No,” Carleton said. He put King Spanky on the floor, and the cat slunk out of the kitchen, heading for the staircase, the bedroom, the safety of the bedsprings, the beloved alarm clock, the beloved. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed and given to evil habits, or else it can be a man in his late forties who works too much, or it can be an alarm clock.

  “After dinner,” Henry said, trying again, “we could go out and find a tree for your tire swing.”

  “No,” Carleton said, regretfully. He lingered in the kitchen, hoping to be asked a question to which he could say yes.

  “Where’s your sister?” Henry said.

  “Watching television,” Carleton said. “I don’t like the television here.”

  “It’s too big,” Henry said, but Catherine didn’t laugh.

  Henry dreams he is the king of the real estate agents. Henry loves his job. He tries to sell a house to a young couple with twitchy noses and big dark eyes. Why does he always dream that he’s trying to sell things?

  The couple stare at him nervously. He leans towards them as if he’s going to whisper something in their silly, expectant ears. It’s a secret he’s never told anyone before. It’s a secret he didn’t even know that he knew. “Let’s stop fooling,” he says. “You can’t afford to buy this house. You don’t have any money. You’re rabbits.”

  “Where do you work?” Carleton said, in the morning, when Henry called from Grand Central.

  “I work at home,” Henry said. “Home where we live now, where you are. Eventually. Just not today. Are you getting ready for school?”

  Carleton put the phone down. Henry could hear him saying something to Catherine. “He says he’s not nervous about school,” she said. “He’s a brave kid.”

  “I kissed you this morning,” Henry said, “but you didn’t wake up. There were all these rabbits on the lawn. They were huge. King Spanky-sized. They were just sitting there like they were waiting for the sun to come up. It was funny, like some kind of art installation. But it was kind of creepy too. Think they’d been there all night?”

  “Rabbits? Can they have rabies? I saw them this morning when I got up,” Catherine said. “Carleton didn’t want to brush his teeth this morning. He says something’s wrong with his toothbrush.”

  “Maybe he dropped it in the toilet, and he doesn’t want to tell you,” Henry said.

  “Maybe you could buy a new toothbrush and bring it home,” Catherine said. “He doesn’t want one from the drugstore here. He wants one from New York.”

  “Where’s Tilly?” Henry said.

  “She says she’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with Carleton’s toothbrush. She’s still in the bathroom.” Catherine said.

  “Can I talk to her for a second?” Henry said.

  “Tell her she needs to get dressed and eat her Cheerios,” Catherine said. “After I drive them to school, Liz is coming over for coffee. Then we’re going to go out for lunch. I’m not unpacking another box until you get home. Here’s Tilly.”

  “Hi,” Tilly said. She sounded as if she were asking a question.

  Tilly never liked talking to people on the telephone. How were you supposed to know if they were really who they said they were? And even if they were who they claimed to be, they didn’t know whether you were who you said you were. You could be someone else. They might give away information about you, and not even know it. There were no protocols. No precautions.

  She said, “Did you brush your teeth this morning?”

  “Good morning, Tilly,” her father (if it was her father) said. “My toothbrush was fine. Perfectly normal.”

  “That’s good,” Tilly said. “I let Carleton use mine.”

  “That was very generous,” Henry said.

  “No problem,” Tilly said. Sharing things with Carleton wasn’t like having to share things with other people. It wasn’t really like sharing things at all. Carleton belonged to her, like the toothbrush.
“Mom says that when we get home today, we can draw on the walls in our rooms if we want to, while we decide what colour we want to paint them.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Henry said. “Can I draw on them too?”

  “Maybe,” Tilly said. She had already said too much. “Gotta go. Gotta eat breakfast.”

  “Don’t be worried about school,” Henry said.

  “I’m not worried about school,” Tilly said.

  “I love you,” Henry said.

  “I’m real concerned about this toothbrush,” Tilly said.

  He only closed his eyes for a minute. Just for a minute. When he woke up, it was dark and he didn’t know where he was. He stood up and went over to the door, almost tripping over something. It sailed away from him in an exuberant, rollicking sweep. According to the clock on his desk, it was 4:00 a.m. Why was it always 4:00 a.m.? There were four messages on his cell phone, all from Catherine.

  He went online and checked train schedules. Then he sent Catherine a fast e-mail:

  Fell asleep @ midnight? Mssed trains. Awake now, going to keep on working. Pttng out fires. Take the train home early afternoon? Still lv me?

  Before he went back to work, he kicked the rubber band ball back down the hall toward the Crocodile’s door.

  Catherine called him at 8:45.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said.

  “I bet you are,” Catherine said.

  “I can’t find my razor. I think the Crocodile had some kind of tantrum and tossed my stuff.”

  “Carleton will love that,” Catherine said. “Maybe you should sneak in the house and shave before dinner. He had a hard day at school yesterday.”

  “Maybe I should grow a beard,” Henry said. “He can’t be afraid of everything, all the time. Tell me about the first day of school.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Catherine said. “Liz just drove up. I’m going to be her guest at the gym. Just make it home for dinner.”

  At 6:00 p.m. Henry e-mailed Catherine again. “Srry. Accidentally startd avalanche while puttng out fires. Wait up for me? How ws 2nd day of school?” She didn’t write him back. He called and no one picked up the phone. She didn’t call.