Sticks and Stones

by Angèle Gougeon

  In the shop, Danny never asked why she was worried. He never pressed her for answers, just let her sit, slumped next to the wall or by the car he was working on, sitting on top of a pile of nearly clean rags or cardboard. The only other man who worked there spoke about as much as Danny, which meant nearly never at all, and Sandra could often get lost in the quiet, breathing in air that smelled of oil and grease and orange cleaner.

  Sandra thought about telling the boys about the things she saw in her dreams – but she’d seen what came of changing their future. In her head, she counted signs. One. Two. Three. Four. Fivesixseveneight. She watched Jack and Danny shed pieces inside her head, little by little, until there wasn’t much left to them. It was almost funny how very much not different they’d become. After all, feral dogs remained feral dogs – they just get angrier.

  Sandra watched … and she noticed as Jack began to disappear at odd times of day. He talked to Danny and suddenly they were both sneaking away. As though she wouldn’t notice. They stopped sitting in the coffee shop and they were late at night to pick her up.

  Then, one night, she saw Harvey Davis. Grey-haired and blue-eyed, Sandra recognized him from her nightmares. He was a kidnapper and murderer. And Jack had found him. Maybe he’d recognized something in the man, something that was a bit like himself.

  It was possible Jack and Daniel thought about her when they saw him watching the girls.

  Maybe they thought of Lem.

  They followed him. In her dreams, Sandra saw the day where they would see him take a bleached-blonde girl. She’d get hit from behind, fall unconscious and land in his arms. He’d put her in the trunk of his car. And Jack and Danny would come home messy, blood on their knives and their hands and Sandra had to swallow back bile just thinking of it.

  Sandra followed Danny to work and tried not to let her worry show.

  In her first dream, Jack and Daniel had done something bad, and then something else, and then something even worse until they weren’t much like themselves at all. Something bad done for the sake of something good didn’t make things right.

  She’d seen what came of trying to change it. She’d seen herself taking it into her own hands. She’d seen herself gunned down. She’d seen another black-eyed human catch wind of them and turn it into a game, twisting them in his twisted spider webs until they either joined him or broke. In almost every dark future, Danny slashed his own wrists. Jack drank himself to death, and countless deaths would follow them before their fall, turned into righteous apostles as they burned a whole country to the ground.

  The wretched rarely thought they were wrong.

  She had seen every possible outcome and there had only been one future where her boys hadn’t become killers. Their eyes didn’t go black and they didn’t hunt human beings and they didn’t do evil things. And neither did she.

  All because of a gun they’d taught her how to use.

  “Come on,” Danny said, slapping dust off his jeans and leaving grease stains behind. His voice made her blink.

  “Done?” she asked, voice rough.

  “It’s five.” Danny smiled, sweet and small, and it almost broke her heart. He held a hand out and she gripped it tight. Her legs were numb, half-asleep, and she stumbled, getting more grease on her shirt.

  Danny looked more content in this place than Sandra could ever remember seeing before. He used his hands and they weren’t worried about money and Jack wasn’t coming home with other people’s blood on his knuckles.

  They said their goodbyes to Alan and Rangley and headed outside. The sky was clear and the air was hot, so humid that it felt like breathing in wet paper.

  “No work tonight?”

  “No,” she whispered. Daniel’s fingers were sweaty against hers. The house had air conditioning and she couldn’t wait to get inside. Most days it felt like a whole other world, cool air and her and the boys, her and her worry, them and the television as the sun went down and the fuzzy light painted them in shadows of blue.

  Their neighbor, Mrs. Gertie, sat on her front stoop and Danny waved. There were kids playing down the street, makeshift goals and a worn red ball. It made a hollow thwack with every hit.

  It sounded a lot like her heart.

  The house curtains were shut when they arrived. Dark and silent, a short stretch of hallway sweeping out before them, and Sandra made an inquiring noise, almost rousing the energy to call for Jack. But she already knew. He was gone. A shiver worked its way down her spine, goose bumps on her skin nothing to do with the sudden cool. “He’s not home.”

  Danny eyed her sideways as he passed, “Guess not.”

  The floor was cool on her bare feet, catching at her damp heels and toes as she followed him, caught up to him in the living room, watching as he pulled his dirty shirt over his head, leaving a smear of oil on his skin.

  “Where do you think he went?”

  He shrugged, just one shoulder, brushing past to get to the bathroom hamper.

  “Do you think he’s okay?” She hated how small and tight her voice sounded.

  Danny startled her by reappearing. He nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. He pushed a little, getting her to move so that he could get into the bedroom without shouldering her out of the way. Sandra watched as he pulled on a clean shirt and a pair of sweats. They were loose and hung low on his hips. She would’ve blushed, once upon a time.

  He stood a moment, considering, and she wondered, if she hadn’t been there, would he have gone to join Jack, watching Harvey Davis and plotting a way to stop him for good? His mouth hitched up, but it wasn’t a smile, and he made his way to his bed. Him and Jack shared a room and Jack’s bed was all a mess. Danny’s was made with hospital corners, but he wasn’t too careful when he flopped down. Sandra crossed the room and slipped down beside him onto the navy sheets.

  His skin was warm and he shifted when she pressed against him. She wanted to bury her face in the hot curve of his neck, whisper sorry and don’t go after him and did you know this would happen, the day you decided to teach me how to shoot that gun?

  How did you tell someone you’d dreamed of killing them?

  Sandra closed her eyes.

  In her sleep, there was a man. His first wife died. It was an accident but it didn’t look like one. She’d fallen down the staircase and he was so afraid. Who would believe he was innocent when they knew the problems they’d both had? So he bleached the stairs. He cut up her body and buried her in the swampy shallows just outside of town.

  He got married again. Lisa Bellows sure was beautiful.

  He loved her a lot.

  Except this time it wasn’t an accident. She’d blackmailed him. So, really, it was okay, because he was only protecting himself. Right?

  And this one now … well, he was just tired of her. Of her expensive tastes and cutting words. Of her cold shoulder. And when she came home tonight, Xavier Stancliff was going to take her up the stairs and push her down. And if that didn’t work he’d take his hands, put them around her neck and twist until—

  Sandra woke. A strangled sound caught in her throat. Danny was asleep, turned away from her and resting against the wall.

  It felt oily inside her head. There were strings of Xavier Stancliff caught inside of her, holding on and spiderwebbing out as he plotted and waited and thought: this is all the bitch deserves. Swallowing, Sandra pushed herself off the bed. It was late and the room was dark. She could see the bundled lump of Jack beneath his own covers. He’d left the television on and the light flickered down the tiny hall. Shadows danced and Sandra shivered as she left the room.

  In another life, she would have told Danny and Jack about the man. Danny would have whispered, “It’s alright,” and smoothed back her hair from her face and kissed her, lips dry and coarse on her forehead. Then he and Jack would’ve left while she was sleeping. They would’ve trampled the flowers and cli
mbed into Xavier Stanliff’s window and when Sandra woke up there would have been one less man in the world.

  She knew exactly what they would do.

  Sandra leaned her head against the cool hallway wall and pressed her fingers against the old paint and deliberately did not think about the gun in her bag.

  In the room one of the boys shifted. The air conditioner hummed. The television flicker-flashed.

  If she didn’t do a thing, that woman would die. He’d do it again. It was possible he would never be caught.

  If she did it herself, though…

  The next day, when Jack and Danny disappeared, Sandra walked the five blocks to the library. She used the internet to look up Xavier Stancliff. She scoured archives of newspapers until she found the wedding announcement. Dayla Stancliff even owned her own gossip rag. It was easy to find the number in the local phone book. When she phoned the Busybody Babbler, Sandra talked the secretary into letting her speak to Dayla directly – she had a wonderful story for their magazine. “Just what do you know about your husband?” she asked Dayla when she picked up.

  Dayla didn’t believe at first, not about his first two wives and their bog-covered graves. As a reporter, Sandra figured Dayla would’ve kept her head well out of the sand. Fortunately, Sandra didn’t need proof. Doubt was more than enough.

  Dayla’s bitter contempt would do the rest.

  Feeling successful, Sandra hurried home. The boys were still gone. She walked to the coffee shop early.

  When Frank and Betty came in, they ordered at the counter and didn’t sit down. They had an air of expectation and Sandra read a hotel room inside Betty’s head.

  “Have fun,” she said. They looked sufficiently spooked as they headed out the door and Sandra couldn’t bring herself to apologize, only wait and watch for the following shadow of P.I Haldon.

  She felt mean and broken and wrong.

  That night, she dreamed and she watched as hands with long, richly lacquered nails pulled open the ornate front door. The window was filled with stained glass. There were antiques in the front hallway – pretty dark-wood tables and canvas paintings on the walls.

  Sandra recognized the steep rising staircase.

  Xavier came down the steps. He smiled, wrapped one lean arm around her shoulders, and leaned in as he pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips. She remained stiff, head held high, a frown on her face. He pulled back, said, “I’ve a surprise for you.” When he led her up the stairs, he paused at the very top. Then he turned to her, eyes flashing, and Dayla Stancliff pulled the two-inch revolver from her purse and very calmly shot him in the chest.

  For a moment, Sandra was Xavier and she was falling and there was a hole burning through her lungs, and then she was awake and gasping and realized just what she’d done.

  Swallowing, Sandra climbed from her bed. Jack and Danny’s room was quiet across the hall. The house was dark and silent and she crept into the kitchen. She could call the police. Perhaps Dayla hadn’t even done it yet. She could…

  …She could do nothing.

  It wasn’t the boys. Sandra hadn’t killed him and they hadn’t killed him and that was all that mattered. Wasn’t it?

  She never used to think like that.

  She felt sick.

  “Sandra?” Danny stood at the entrance to the kitchen, a dark shadow in the long lines of the night.

  She stared at him, and then turned to stare at the fridge.

  Danny’s shadow shifted, leaned against the ragged doorframe. Sandra grabbed a can of pop and settled her hip against the counter. The chipped enamel felt rough through her thin t-shirt. The can lay freezing against her fingers. She fiddled with it, didn’t look at Danny, and thought if he was waiting for her to speak first then he was going to be waiting for a very long time.

  “It’s late,” he said.

  I know what you’re up to, she thought about saying. She figured he already knew. She wasn’t dumb. Did they think she missed them sneaking out the door?

  And, yet, she continued to ignore what they were doing. Didn’t bring it up. Didn’t say a word because she was afraid of what they might ask in return. Her own truths were much more horrible than theirs.

  “Is Jack back?” she asked. He didn’t say a thing. “You think he’s alright?”

  “It’s Jack.”

  That was the problem. Jack – who was irritable and impulsive and angry. Sandra turned the unopened pop can right side up and carefully pushed it onto the counter. “Do you think Harvey Davis is still alive?”

  Daniel went still, and then he breathed out. “You know. You dreamed it.”

  “I dreamed it. Were you ever planning on telling me?”

  Danny hesitated, said, “We weren’t sure.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  Sandra thought about first learning how to shoot a gun. She thought about steadying her stance and squeezing down, how the butt had felt in her hand and how the trigger touched her finger. It had felt like something forbidden. Something awful. Sandra stared at Danny and imagined putting a bullet into his head. She imagined waiting for Jack to get home. She thought about placing the barrel into her own mouth, tasting the cold of the metal just as she died.

  She already knew what a bullet felt like going through her chest. Through her stomach. Through so many pieces of her.

  “Hey,” Danny said. His palms were rough and warm and smelled like the detergent from the sheets. Her cheeks felt far too brittle beneath them. “We haven’t done anything. It’s fine. We’re going to make this work. I promise, okay? Everything will be alright.”

  “I dreamed I had to kill you,” she said. Her voice sounded odd in her throat, got caught there somewhere, went small.

  Danny touched her head. He touched her chin. He pressed a dry kiss to the corner of her lips. Sandra gathered her courage and thought: if the only option they had was to die, then Jack and Daniel had the right of deciding that for themselves.

  “Tell me what you saw,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Once upon a time Sandra had made a promise She’d promised to look after them.

  She didn’t want to fail.

  Deep down, she was left with the horrible knowledge that maybe she already had.

  At dawn, with morning light breaking through the city and slipping between the curtains, turning the world to pinks and golds, Sandra gathered the boys into the living room. She felt tired and old. The couch sunk beneath them, an uncomfortable press of springs through the old material and padding. Jack’s hair was a mess, faint scars still red on his face, his head bent wearily over his mug of coffee.

  Sandra wasn’t ready for this.

  “Do you remember,” she finally asked, long after Danny had settled near his brother, “when we moved to Respite, right after Mr. Murray?” Jack didn’t look away from her, but his long fingers fisted tight around his mug. It was the silly one with the big happy face and inspirational message on the side. Danny must’ve handed it to him; Jack hated that mug.

  The way he was steeling himself reminded Sandra of herself, sitting on the motel bed weeks ago, gripping her gun and trying to convince herself to murder when all she could think of was older times, when Danny helped her with her homework and Jack teased her, either or both of their arms tight around her shoulders. Supporting her. She’d shoved the gun into the bottom of her bag, still loaded and dangerous and not caring as she ran into the bathroom to heave over the beige toilet seat. She hadn’t been able to breathe, her chest tight, throat thick and tears on her face.

  No, she didn’t want to think of the gun.

  “Lem talked to me afterwards,” she said. “He didn’t really say anything. I mean … I knew what he meant. It was something I’d noticed when Mr … when Dan Murray had me.” This time, it was her shifting and Sandra cleared her throat, knuckles turning white as Jack touched her
shoulder. “I didn’t notice before at school. But after he took me, I could see it. Like there’s this thing, this darkness, inside of men like Mr. Murray, and sometimes it gets out. And once it’s out there there’s no way of getting rid of it.” Sandra took a deep breath, already wincing at what she had to say next.

  “You ever look at that photograph of Lem’s?”

  Danny frowned, not catching on, while Jack looked suspicious. He’d moved his arms over his chest, scowling hard.

  “What color were his eyes?” she asked.

  “Grey,” Danny said immediately. “They’ve always been. Just like mine.”

  “But they got darker.”

  Jack snorted. Danny jabbed him hard to stop him from saying something dumb.

  “Whatever’s inside a person that turns them dark, it was there, in Lem’s eyes, for as long as I knew him. I just didn’t want to see it.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched and, this time, Danny didn’t stop him when he made a sound, not exactly rude, but angry as hell. She hadn’t mentioned a word of this to him before. “No,” said Jack. “No.”

  “He ripped a man apart with his bare hands.”

  Jack closed his mouth. He had nothing to say to that.

  “He held on as long as he could because he had his family. He had you. But he knew there was something inside of him. Something dark. Something festering. Even though he could never exactly say what it was.”

  She wasn’t implying Lem hadn’t tried. He had – he’d tried very hard to be a great man, especially for his sons – but in the end it hadn’t done a lick of good. He’d still changed. He’d still gotten angry and lost control and gotten shot. In the long run, evil done in the name of good was still evil.

  Jack shook his head, then shook it some more.

  “Back in Respite he was asking me to make sure it didn’t pass to you. But it’s too late. It’s already inside of us, maybe inside of everyone. We make one bad decision, and then another, and eventually we come to the point when we just don’t care anymore. You go out fighting and conning and eventually it’ll all go wrong. Maybe it already has.”