by Billy Wells
As he lay there, trying to doze off, he thought about how he would need to find a job soon. The money his grandmother had left him wouldn't last long. He’d never had a job before he was committed. His reputation as a troublemaker had preceded him, and consequently, no one would hire him then.
After eating a bowl of cereal, he washed the dish, put it away, and walked into the front yard. The grass was long and needed cutting. One of the slats on the picket fence was missing. His grandma's house needed a makeover badly. The white siding wasn't white anymore. The gutters were rusty on the bottom, and the middle step leading to the porch was broken. The neighbors probably talked about how shabby his house was compared to the others on the street.
The only thing good about the property was the ocean view, but the other small houses on the street detracted from the house selling for any substantial sum in spite of the awesome view.
He opened his front gate, which squeaked loudly, and walked across the street to the house directly across from his.
He knocked on the door and waited. Finally, an elderly woman opened the door and squinted at him with a bewildered expression.
“If you're selling something, I don't want any.”
“No, ma'am. I'm your neighbor, Frank James, from across the street.”
“Neighbor? Mildred Pierce lived there by herself for years, but she died several weeks ago. Did you buy the house that quickly?”
“No. I'm her grandson. I inherited the house, and I moved in yesterday. I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm looking forward to meeting all my neighbors, and I thought I'd start with you.”
She glared at him for a time, and then softened. “Well, I’m Mrs. Jenkins. Pleased to make your acquaintance. What’s your name again?”
“I’m Frank James.”
“You know, I've lived across the street here for twenty-five years, and I don't remember Mildred mentioning a grandson other than….”
Suddenly as if a light bulb went on in her head, the old woman shrieked as if she’d just scalded her hand with boiling water, "Grandson! You're not the grown up version of the little turd, who tortured and killed my precious Barbara, are you? Certainly you wouldn’t be stupid enough or brazen enough to darken my doorstep after what you did to her.”
Frank tried to remember what Barbara's mother looked like twenty-five years ago, and the image of an attractive woman with big blue eyes returned in his memory. He continued standing there, trying to put some words together, and finally muttered, “ I'm sorry, Mrs. Jenkins. It was a long time ago. I didn't remember you lived here.”
“I didn't live here then, asshole. I lived on Barbary Lane. You mean to tell me they let you out of the nuthouse after you tortured and killed thirteen children in this neighborhood. How could those morons sleep at night with someone like you walking the street without a strait jacket?”
“I was sick then, but I've been rehabilitated. Truly, I'm a God-fearing Christian. Since I found Jesus, my mission is to do what I can to help my fellow man. According to my Savior, my sins have been forgiven.”
“Well, believe me, I haven't forgiven you, and I'll bet I know twelve other parents in this neighborhood that haven't forgiven or forgotten what you did to their precious children, you depraved psychopath.”
She gathered as much spittle from her mouth as she could and spat an ugly green gob in his face that rolled off his nose onto his white shirt.
“Get off and stay off my property before I grab my shotgun and blow you to kingdom come. I'm sure a soulless killer like you will burn in hell for all eternity no matter what Jesus has told you.”
Frank shrunk timidly backward, shocked at his neighbor's reaction to his friendly visit.
He should have known it would be this way, but his rehabilitation had brainwashed him into believing that through Christ his sins had been forgiven. Everyone around him at the institution had preached he’d been sick and didn't know what he was doing when he did those horrible things. And now, after years of hypnosis, he didn’t remember the atrocities he’d committed. In the eyes of the law, he had paid for his crimes, and he was a free man. Unfortunately, even though the law, his fellow patients, and his doctors had forgiven him, it was painfully clear, Mrs. Jenkins didn’t believe in forgiveness. She remembered what he did to her daughter, Barbara, and thankfully, he did not.
Frank retreated to his house and sat on the sofa in the living room, thinking about the unpleasant confrontation he had just had with his irate neighbor. He knew now, he should not have come back to his old neighborhood. How could he have been so stupid? It was like walking into a lion’s den. He felt like he was in the middle of the jungle surrounded by ravenous wild animals that wanted to kill him.
He withdrew a business card from his wallet, picked up the phone, and was happy to hear a dial tone. He had rarely used a phone during his incarceration. Since he had no friends, he had no one to call. His grandmother was hard of hearing, and it was impossible to talk to her without screaming. Even then, she couldn't understand a thing he said when he called.
He punched in the number of his lawyer, who had filed the papers on the transfer of the deed for his grandma’s property. Schneider was also a realtor. He would have him list the house right away. The receptionist indicated her boss would not be in the office until late that afternoon.
Reluctantly, he stayed in the house and worried about what might happen at any moment. Somehow, in spite of the fear, he dozed off.
At seven thirty, the phone rang, and he answered it. Thank God, it was the lawyer finally returning his call. He quickly replied, "Mr. Schneider, I've decided that living in the old neighborhood was a very bad idea.”
“I'm not surprised, Frank. I didn't understand it when you told me you planned to return there.”
“Somehow during my rehabilitation, my doctors tweaked my memory of the past so completely, I don’t remember the enormity of what I did back then.
“Really? You don't remember anything?”
“I know what I did. Different people have told me, but I don't remember doing it.”
“So you want me to put the house up for sale?”
“ASAP, I don’t have a choice.” Frank said dejectedly.
“It's a bad time to sell a home, and your grandma's place needs a lot of work to make it salable.”
“Mr. Schneider, I don't have the cash to fix it up. Just let it go for whatever you can get. I don't even have enough for a cheap motel room. I have a bad feeling about staying here tonight, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. I want to leave as soon as possible. Is there any cash I can get my hands on now?”
“Not really. You'll probably get a small check in the mail in about ten days for about twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“Do what you can do to expedite it. Mr. Schneider, I hope you believe me. I know I did some horrible things in my youth, but that was over twenty years ago. I’m no longer that psychotic maniac. I'm a God-fearing Christian.”
“I'll do what I can, Frank.”
Schneider slammed the phone down on the receiver and said aloud to no one, “I hope they hang you from the highest tree, you sorry sack of shit.”
When Frank replaced the phone on its cradle, he felt a sense of impending danger surrounding the house like a black cloud. Only one neighbor knew he was there. Thank God, he hadn’t gone to any other houses. Maybe Mrs. Jenkins would not blab to everyone else he had moved in.
He saw his grandma’s ancient computer on a small desk in the corner and sat down in front of it. When he moved the mouse, the Microsoft Network slowly appeared on the monitor. Great. Her computer wasn't protected by a password. Frank had become fairly savvy on a computer at the sanitarium. Video games and surfing the web were his main pastimes the last ten years he was there.
He saw the mail icon on the dashboard and clicked on it. He discovered, scanning the entries, his grandma had received fifty-two messages since the day she was rushed to the hospital. He noticed she had received the last message about
ten o’clock this morning. It was labeled “neighborhood watch alert!” He opened it.
To his horror, he found Jenkins had sent the message to about half the families in the community. The message read: Be aware! Frank James, the child torturer and killer of our thirteen children has been released from the sanitarium and is now living at 314 Memory Lane in the house formally occupied by his deceased grandmother, Mildred Pierce. He has expressed a desire to rekindle old times. Let’s meet at his house tonight at eight o’clock. Please bring something he’ll remember you by. Yours truly, Margaret Jenkins.
"Fuck!" he said for the first time in about ten years. Mrs. Jenkins was a member of the neighborhood watch program, and she’d blown the whistle on him. Thankfully, she must have inadvertently included his grandmother by mistake.
Suddenly a large stone crashed through the picture window across from where he sat. He heard loud, agitated voices shouting obscenities outside. The throng of people sounded like a lynch mob in an old western movie.
Frank scrambled for the phone, lifted the receiver, and punched in 9-1-1. The color drained from his face when he realized he no longer had a dial tone. Someone had cut the line.
“Come on out, Frank,” came a voice he thought belonged to Mrs. Jenkins. “You said you wanted to meet the neighbors. So, I sent emails to all the parents I know would want to see you. I even went door-to-door to tell the ones I didn’t hear from to be sure to attend. And I was right, everyone of them is dying to see you again.”
Frank heard the clang of what sounded like shovels and hoes striking in unison.
“Please, Mrs. Jenkins. I'm a changed man now. I wouldn't hurt a fly.”
Someone yelled, “Maybe not a fly, but what would you do to a six-year-old girl if you had her strapped to a table?”
“You've got it all wrong,” he screamed, “I've been saved. I asked Jesus to come into my heart and cleanse my soul.”
Another voice rang out, “We’re here to help Jesus cleanse your soul a little more. I think a hot bath of sulfuric acid should do the trick. Don’t you, Frank?”
He heard something heavy strike the front door and saw it explode into pieces into the living room. A throng of wild-eyed crazed maniacs, worse than anything he’d seen in the asylum, rushed in with an arsenal of tools, guns, and machinery. Strong hands grabbed him kicking and screaming, and dragged him out the back to the patio and strapped him to a large picnic table with lanterns hanging from ropes above it.
Frank knew the back of his house was and not visible from the street. It was the perfect place to torture and murder someone without being seen, and it had a magnificent view of the ocean.
Frank saw the bloodlust building in the frenzied eyes of the psychotic maniacs who only hours before had been sane law abiding citizens. He shrieked, “You’re making a terrible mistake.”
Mrs. Jenkins’ face appeared in the light. We want to give you a taste of your own medicine. Each parent of the poor children you tortured has brought the implement you used on them.”
“No,” Frank whimpered. “Please have mercy.”
“Don’t worry, Frank. We’re going to show you the same mercy you showed our children,” Mrs. Jenkins chuckled with delight.
Frank cringed as he looked around the table at the implements they’d brought with them. He saw a chainsaw, a nail gun, several drills, a hatchet, a claw hammer, a vice, a box of railroad spikes, and several butcher knives. He was in the hands of drooling psychopaths who had obviously lost every shred of sanity and compassion after hearing he had come to town.
The throng roared with approval when Mrs. Jenkins drew first blood. Then they squealed with joy with each spike she drove into Frank’s hands and feet on the picnic table.
Mrs. Flanagan was on deck with a drill.
Everyone had decided to save Mr. Jessup’s chain saw for last, which they had scheduled for day after tomorrow.
THE ROCK
Larry picked up a hefty rock about two inches in diameter from a flowerbed along the driveway. His best friend, Donnie, and three other close friends, Charlie, Ed, and Bruce were pitching a baseball around in the street in front of Donnie’s parents house.
Larry stood about twelve feet away. With a stern expression on his face, he called to Donnie, who had just caught the ball thrown by Bruce. Donnie turned toward him, smiled, and then frowned when he saw the serious look in Larry’s eyes. He also saw something in his hand, and asked, ”Whatcha got?”
Donnie had never seen the scary look on Larry’s face when he shouted loudly so everyone could hear, ”It's a rock, you sorry sack of shit, and I'm going to hit you with it.” All four of his friends looked at Larry as if he had grown three heads since they last saw him and stood with their mouths agape.
Larry wound up like his favorite pitcher, Mariano Rivera, and hurled the rock as hard as he could over his best friend’s head. Oops! At least that's what he meant to do, but to his horror, the missile crossed the short distance like a bullet and struck Donnie squarely in the right eye. He fell to the ground on one knee, holding his hand over his eye and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Right away Larry could see blood streaming down his friend’s face. He ran to him, totally disbelieving the insanity of what he’d just done.
Charlie rushed around in front of him and shouted, “Keep away from him, Larry. This is serious. Why the fuck did you want to hurt Donnie?”
Larry voice quavered with a combination of shock, fear, and guilt, “Fellas. It was supposed to be a joke. I would never intentionally hurt Donnie. You know that. He's my best friend, and he always has been.”
“You just told all of us you were going to hit him with the rock, and then you threw it as hard as you could. You didn’t give Donnie a chance to dodge it,” Bruce barked, seething with anger.
“I know it looks bad, but you’ve got to believe me,” Larry pleaded, tears streaming down his face. I was just fooling around. I meant to throw it over his head.”
“Gee, Larry. It didn't look that way to me. You looked totally serious. In fact, you looked as mad as a wet hornet when you threw it, and you called him a sorry sack of shit,” Ed replied hoarsely.
Suddenly, Donnie's mother and father emerged from their house and ran to their son, writhing on the ground, now with a circle of neighbors surrounding him.
Someone asked, “Did anyone call 9-1-1?”
“Yeah, I called them, and they're on their way,” Bob Ritter said.
Donnie’s mother, who Larry had known all his life, ran at him shaking her fist, her face red with anger, “ Why did you throw the rock at Donnie?”
Larry repeated, “I didn't mean to hit him. I meant to throw it over his head.”
“The other boys say you told everyone you were going to do it. Did you have an argument with him over something this morning?”
“No! We didn't argue. We hadn’t even spoken today when it happened.”
They heard a siren approaching. Then, a rescue squad vehicle pulled to the curb, followed by a police car. Two EMTs jumped out of the van and rushed to Donnie on the ground. Two police officers exited their cruiser and started asking questions.
Larry stood with his mouth agape, watching everyone glaring at him like he was Lee Harvey Oswald, and he’d just shot JFK.
The EMS people put Donnie on a stretcher, placed him inside their van, and drove off in the direction of the hospital. Several groups of neighbors remained scattered about the street, still glaring at Larry. Most of the adults had known him since he had learned to walk. Now, in their eyes, he had become a monster overnight. No one was buying his story.
A police officer Larry recognized, John Forbes, separated from one of the groups and approached him. “I understand you threw the rock that hit Donnie Flagg in the eye?”
“Yes,” he confessed and repeated the same script a third time, “I threw it, but I was just fooling around. I meant to throw it over his head, but I screwed up.”
“That’s odd. One of the neighbors said yo
u were only ten feet away when you threw it. How could you misjudge a throw in that short distance?”
“It wasn’t that close, but even so, I can't believe I did it either. But I did.”
“The rescue squad tech said Donnie might lose his eye. It's severely damaged and was actually hanging outside the socket.”
“What?” Larry stammered. He had no idea Donnie’s injury was that serious. His friend had been holding his hand over it from the time the incident happened until he was taken to the hospital.
“If he loses the eye, you're going to be in even more hot water than you are now. Anyway, you're going to have to come with me to the station for more questioning.”
“I told you all I know already.”
“Maybe so; maybe not. We’ll see. Give me the names of your parents so I can contact them.”
Larry complied. The neighbors were still giving him looks that could kill as if they had never seen him before in their lives. He kept his eyes riveted to the ground as he followed the police officer to his cruiser and got in the backseat. He started to cry, thinking about Donnie with only one eye, and how the other kids would make life a living hell for him from now on.
When Larry arrived at the police station, Forbes escorted him to a conference room. After he sat there for a while, another officer entered the room, sat next to Forbes, and resumed the interrogation.
He continued to answer the same questions and gave them the same answers for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Larry’s parents entered the conference room, and the two officers left them alone.
“I can't believe you threw a rock at Donnie, and he may lose his eye. What would cause you to do such a terrible thing?” his dad said, blistering mad.
“Dad. I didn't do it on purpose. I meant to throw it over his head, and I screwed up.”
“You've been acting peculiar lately,” his mother said, biting her lip like she always did when she was upset. “Locking your door and staying up to the wee hours of the night. Is there something you're into we don't know about, Son?”
“Of course not, Mom.” He didn't want to tell her about the site he found on the net with the naked girls. He offered an explanation, that sounded pretty lame, “I like to play my music louder than you and dad like it so I shut the door.”