But You Scared Me the Most

by John Manderino

  I’m on the ground now, yelling after her, “Sweet Pea, come back! Come back!”

  She doesn’t even turn.

  For two whole days and nights I laid there, waiting to die, wanting to. By day three, though, I had some company. In the tree overhead a bunch of smug-looking vultures were waiting. I hate those motherfuckers, always have. So I got better, just to spite them.

  But the deeper wound she gave me, that’s something I don’t think I’ll ever recover from, not fully. She hurt me bad. And what I’d like to know is, why? What the hell was that about, turning on me like that? What did I do? Like I told you, we were just sitting there.

  You know what it was like? It was like she’d been under some kind of spell all spring and now she’d all of a sudden woken up from it. Is that what springtime does to female black bears? Is that all it was for her, a spring fling?

  I went back to eating meat with a vengeance.

  I even ate one of you recently. I’m sorry but he had it coming. All morning the silly sonofabitch kept following me around from tree to tree, in his L. L. Bean–wear, clicking away. I pretended not to notice—just walking along, another beautiful day in paradise—meanwhile leading him deeper and deeper into the woods. Then I hurried on ahead and hid behind a large oak, waiting for him to catch up. When he did I stepped out very casually. “Oh, hello,” I said. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  The look on that man’s face.

  Priceless.

  But I want you to know, I only meant to slap the bastard, give him a good hard slap in the face for being such a pest, but his whole fucking head came off. And get this, for a full five seconds he’s still standing there, still upright!

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

  Anyway, I went ahead and ate him: waste not, want not. He wasn’t bad. Meat is meat, right? You’re wondering did I eat the head. I did not. Brains are supposed to be good for you, but frankly I don’t think this fucker had any. Afterwards, though, I borrowed his camera, took a bunch of selfies, let you people see what kind of “monster” you’ve been harassing all these years:

  Looking off, pondering the mystery of existence . . . Click.

  Smiling down at a cute little chipmunk . . . Click.

  Staring into the lens with a smoldering sensuality . . . Click.

  Showing outrage at man’s abuse of the environment . . . Click.

  Looking lonely . . . lonely . . . Click.

  I hung the camera up on a low branch for someone to hopefully find and send the photos to National Geographic—not, if you please, the National Enquirer, sharing the page along with the latest Elvis sighting.

  I read all your leavings.

  I’m aware of the way you think of me. A freak, a tabloid freak. And you know what? Let’s face it, you’re right. That’s exactly what I am—a freak, a fluke, a mistake of nature. Where’s another like me? Nowhere.

  Nowhere.

  But hey. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Are you kidding? With all this beauty around me? All these trees? All these birds and brooks and butterflies to wander among? Day after day after day? No, listen, I’m so happy out here I could fucking scream. In fact I often do, like this:

  AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

  Then you can hear all creatures big and little as they scurry off into caves, into trees, into burrows. Then it’s quiet. All around, it’s very quiet.

  And I walk on.

  OTTO AND THE AVENGING ANGEL

  There once was a scrawny boy named Otto who, out of boredom, often spied on his fat aunt Mary in the shower. They lived alone in a house full of animal knickknacks, doilies with brown scorch marks, Jesus half-asleep on the cross, lots of afghans, some peacock feathers in a dusty vase, and a very loudly ticking clock on the living room wall, like drops of water on Otto’s head, like Chinese torture.

  School was no relief: The capital of Alabama is Montgomery, the capital of Alaska is Juneau, the capital of Arizona is Phoenix . . .

  Otto was actually afraid of boredom. You could die from it, he knew. He passed out from boredom once, in his room. He hurt his elbow when he fell.

  Aunt Mary always showered at exactly six in the evening, then afterward cooked their dinner: pork this, pork that. She never locked the bathroom door. She trusted Otto. He would wait until he heard her singing in there:

  “Old MacDonald had a farm . . .”

  Then he would carefully open the door and step into the bathroom. That was always the scary part, the stepping-into-the-bathroom part, so he would silently say to himself, Otto opened the door and stepped into the bathroom, as if he were in his room reading a story about a desperate boy named Otto stepping into the bathroom to spy on his overweight aunt in the shower.

  The bathroom was already quite steamy.

  “And on this farm he had some ducks . . .”

  From his aunt’s blurry form behind the milky curtain he could tell which way she was facing and he would tiptoe to the other side.

  “With a quack-quack here and a quack-quack there . . .”

  Then he would pull back a tiny bit of curtain, just enough for one eye, and stand there for a full ten seconds gazing in amazement at her glossy fatness: big fat back, big fat butt, big fat legs, and sometimes, if she turned a little, one of her big fat wobbly boobs.

  “And on this farm he had some pigs . . .”

  Then he would quickly tiptoe out of the bathroom, hurry to his room, collapse across the bed, and laugh and laugh at how fat and pink as a pig she was, singing away like that, no idea her dear little Otto was there. That was what tickled him the most, how she just kept singing away:

  “With an oink-oink here and an oink-oink there . . .”

  Then at dinner while his aunt blabbered on about this and that, he would sit there politely nodding and smiling, as if he were listening.

  But then one evening as she cut up her pork chop Aunt Mary said to him, “You know, Otto, you’re getting way too big to be spying on your fat old auntie in the shower, don’t you think?”

  Otto sat there with a forkful of mashed potato halfway to his mouth, having turned to stone.

  “Would you like to know what happens to boys who behave like that?” she said. “An angel with a sword comes to their room at night and chops off their head. He chops . . . off . . . their head,” she repeated, then ate and ate.

  Otto didn’t really believe an angel would come to his room and chop off his head, or even come at all. But as he lay in bed that night he stayed awake just in case, because if an angel really did come he wanted to see it, because that would be interesting, an angel.

  After an hour, no angel.

  After another hour, still no angel.

  Just like everything else halfway interesting, there’s no such thing, he thought bitterly, and turned over, facing the wall. He was on the brink of sleep when a quiet voice said, “Otto,” and he flipped over.

  An angel was standing there.

  It was holding a broadsword at its side, its huge white wings slowly opening and closing, lifting it up and down a little. It had a soft-looking face and long, curly golden hair, but its arms were powerful looking, so Otto wasn’t sure if it was a womanly man-angel or a manly woman-angel.

  “Did you know,” it said in a soft man-or-woman voice, “the name ‘Otto’ is the same spelled backwards?”

  Otto sighed and said of course he knew that and asked the angel if it knew that carpenter ants can lift forty times their own weight.

  The angel said that was very common knowledge and asked Otto if he knew Our Lord Jesus was a carpenter.

  Otto asked the angel if Jesus could lift forty times His own weight.

  The angel said of course He could, being the Son of God.

  Otto asked the angel if it knew “God” spelled backwards was “Dog”?

  The angel said, “Look, just quit spying on your auntie in the shower.”

  “Or else?” Otto prompted.

  “Or else I’ll be back.”

  �
�With what, another warning?”

  “That’s right, mister.”

  Otto gave a contemptuous little snort.

  “Don’t push me,” the angel warned.

  “You don’t scare me,” Otto told it. “You bore me.”

  “Is that so? Well, how’s this for boring?” said the angel, lifting the sword in both hands above its head.

  Otto turned onto his back and spread his arms. “Go ahead,” he urged. He didn’t care. If even an angel from Heaven was boring, there was really no hope, in this life or the next. “Do it,” he said, and closed his eyes, hoping it wouldn’t hurt very much.

  After a minute went by and his head was still attached, he said, “Problem?”

  There was no reply.

  He opened his eyes.

  The angel was gone.

  On the floor near the bed was a tiny white feather. Otto picked it up. He studied it carefully, turning it by the shaft, trying to decide if it came from Heaven or his pillow. What’s the difference? he thought, and flipped it away. It hung in the air a moment, then drifted down and lay on the floor.

  Otto returned to his back and lay there staring up at the ceiling, at that set of cracks resembling a monkey on its hind legs flourishing either a bowling pin or a turkey drumstick.

  Even here in his room with the door closed he could still hear the living room clock, like a dripping faucet. He wondered what insanity might be like. Might be kind of interesting, he decided, and placed all of his attention on the drops of water falling one by one, smack in the middle of his forehead.

  WOLFMAN AND JANICE

  “You through?” she asked him.

  Sitting very straight, his face raised to the full moon, Frank held up a furry finger meaning not quite.

  She sighed.

  He gripped his knees and howled some more.

  They were sitting at opposite ends of an iron patio bench, Janice in her pink terry cloth robe and slippers, a magazine open in her lap, Frank still in his shirt and tie, his face and hands and bare feet covered in thick brown fur. His right ankle was shackled and attached by a chain to a leg of the bench, with a few feet of slack. A putter and several golf balls lay close at hand.

  When Frank was finally through howling he sat back, spent. “There,” he said.

  “Is it absolutely necessary to be quite so loud?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “You trying to be funny?”

  “No, Frank,” she told him wearily. “Believe me.”

  “It’s not something I can control. It’s a . . . what’s the word . . . when you can’t control something you do.”

  “‘Weakness.’”

  “No, come on, what is it, it’s a . . . it’s a . . .” He held his head in both hands. “I can’t think when I’m like this.”

  “‘Compulsion,’” she told him.

  He pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s a compulsion. You know what a compulsion is, Jan?”

  “I just gave you the word.”

  “All right, then.”

  “All I’m asking, could you possibly lower the volume a little.”

  “Howl quietly, you mean?” He whispered, “Owooo.”

  She sat there looking at him. “Don’t be a wiseass, Frank. On top of everything else, don’t be a wiseass.”

  “I’m saying I can’t help it.”

  “Being a wiseass?”

  “Howling loud.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” She returned to her magazine. “I don’t have to like it.”

  “Hey.” He leaned toward her along the bench, jabbing at his chest. “You think I like this? Any of this? You think I’m having a good time here, Jan?”

  “You’re spitting on me.”

  He drew back, apologizing, and wiped his mouth with his necktie.

  She explained to him, “The only reason I mention the volume, Mrs. Krapilowski heard you last night.”

  “Thought she was supposed to be so deaf.”

  “She got her hearing aid adjusted. She was telling me all about it.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “It works fine now.”

  “About the howling, Jan. What’d she say about the howling?”

  “She wanted to know if we’d gotten a dog.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her yes, as a matter of fact we had, a very large one.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “What was I supposed to say? ‘No, Mrs. K, that was just my husband, that was just Frank.’”

  “Tell her to mind her own goddamn business.”

  “You tell her.”

  “I will,” he said, giving his ankle a yank. “Let me out of this and I’ll go over there right now.”

  “All right, take it easy.”

  “You think I’m kidding? Unlock this thing and watch me.”

  “You’re getting worked up, Frank,” she warned.

  “She doesn’t scare me.”

  “I should hope not, the woman’s eighty-two years old.”

  “I don’t care, I’ll go over there right now and kick her ass.”

  “All right, easy, big fella.”

  “I’ll crush . . . her fucking . . . skull.”

  Janice got to her feet and pointed down at him: “Stop it, Frank. Right now. You can stop.”

  He sat there breathing hard.

  “Settle down,” she commanded.

  His breathing began to taper off.

  “Look at me, Frank. Look at me.”

  “Quit bossing, will you?”

  “You okay now?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said irritably.

  She remained standing there. “Would you like me to bring the little TV out? Do you want to watch some television?”

  “No. Sit down, Jan. Please,” he added.

  She sat and began rummaging through a large straw bag at her feet. “I’ve got your Golfer’s Digest.” She pulled out a small magazine. “You want it?”

  “Is that the July issue?”

  She scanned the cover. “Uhhhh, yes.”

  “Already read it.”

  She put it back and pulled out a stack of large Dixie cups. “Need to pee?”

  “No. Listen, I’m fine, Jan.” He reached down for the putter near his feet and stood up with it. “Really. I’m fine.”

  “All right, then.” She reopened her magazine and looked for her place.

  Frank set up a ball and putted toward the mouth of a Dixie cup at the other end of the patio. “Get in there,” he told the ball, but it veered off. He nudged another one in place. “What’re you reading?”

  “Article.”

  “‘Why Men Are Such Stupid, Brutal Slobs and Women So Intelligent, Loving, and Kind.’”

  “It’s a gardening magazine.”

  “‘Why Men Are Such Lousy Gardeners and Women So—’”

  “Frank?”

  He putted, watched it, and shook his head. “Pathetic.” He set the putter against the bench and sat down heavily. “Absolutely pathetic.”

  “This isn’t a very good surface,” she offered.

  “That’s not it. But thank you,” he added. He sat there gazing at the moon.

  She went on reading.

  After a while he gave a quiet chuckle.

  She looked at him. “What.”

  “Told her we got a dog, huh?”

  She smiled. “A big’n’.”

  “A goddamn wolfhound.”

  They laughed together.

  He was still laughing while she sat there looking down at her hands. “Frank?” she said when he was through.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. Krapilowski also wanted to know if we’d seen her cat anywhere.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Remember her cat? Billy Boy? Apparently he’s been missing. For a while now.”

  “And she’s wondering if our new dog ate him?”

  She looked at him. “Did you?”

  “Jesus Christ, Jan.”

&n
bsp; “Did you, Frank?”

  “In the first place, how could I? When? You’ve been with me every time, right here.”

  “Not that first time. I wasn’t with you then. You were on your own all night.”

  He looked off.

  She waited.

  “How long’s the thing been missing?” he asked.

  “About three months,” she told him, significantly.

  “Yeah, well . . . so what if I did?”

  “Aw, nice going, Frank,” she said with disgust.

  He turned to her. “You never even liked that cat. He used to crap on your geraniums.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay to eat him, for God’s sake.”

  “I didn’t say I did. I don’t know what the hell I did that night.” He looked off again. “The last thing I remember, I was doing the dishes. That’s the very last thing I remember, washing the dishes.”

  “Frank, we’ve been over this. I was washing, you were drying.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Then all of a sudden—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “—you flung the salad bowl against the wall, turned into a werewolf, and ran out of the house. I didn’t see you again until morning.”

  He stared into the distance. “I remember running. I do remember that. Running through the dark, from yard to yard . . .”

  “By the way, do you happen to know how old that bowl was?”

  “Swinging myself over fences . . .”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Leaping over lawn chairs . . .”

  “Frank.”

  He snapped out of it. “What.”

  “I’m saying, that bowl you broke?”

  “You already told me. It belonged to your grandmother.”

  “My great-grandmother. That bowl had been in our family for over a hundred—”

  “Well I’m sorry, Jan, y’know? But I can hardly be held accountable for—”

  “Wait a minute, now,” she told him, a finger in the air. “First you threw the bowl. That was Frank. Then you turned into a werewolf. So don’t try your ‘compulsion’ defense on me.”

  “Okay, so why did I throw the bowl? Answer me that.”

  “I have no idea. You were putting it in the wrong cabinet—it goes in the cabinet with the punch bowl and the colander and you were putting it in with the little bowls. I happened to point it out to you, and that was it—there goes the bowl, there goes Frank.”