Bad Things

by Tamara Thorne

  “Them. Don’t play with me.”

  “That was a long time ago. I was a scary little kid. My imagination—”

  “Have you looked?”

  “No. There’s no need.”

  “Madre de Dios, you’re telling me you don’t believe in them anymore, but you won’t look out the window? I think you’re lying to yourself.”

  “Would I come back if I believed in them?” He held the shot glass with both hands to hide their trembling.

  She stared holes through him. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. I’ll tell you what I think, Ricky. I think you better take a look, just to make sure.”

  “And what if I see them, then what do I do? Check myself into an asylum?”

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You just go look out the window and you’ll be free of them, once and for all.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Does Cody know the stories?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You make sure and have him look out the window tomorrow night, and make sure you’re with him, whether you saw them or not. He’s young enough, he’ll tell you if he sees something. If he does, I think you better go back to the desert.”

  “You really believe—”

  “I just believe anything is possible.” She stood up. “Come on. You gotta look.”

  “Carmen—”

  “We’re gonna get it over with. Come on.”

  She took his trembling hand in her firm, dry one, making him feel seven years old again. Meekly he let her lead him into the living room. Cody and Shelly were sprawled in front of the TV, Cody fast asleep. Carmen let go of his hand, stepped forward, and scooped Cody into her arms. “Okay, Shelly, time for bed.”

  “What? It’s too early!”

  “I know. But your dad and I want to talk.”

  “Dad, can’t you talk in the kitchen?”

  “There’s a little TV on the dresser in my room,” Rick told her. “You can take it in your room for now.”

  “Little?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Shel, Carmen and I want to watch something on PBS.”

  “What?” she whined.

  “An opera,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Carmen lied. “When your dad was little, we always watched the opera.”

  Shelly rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding.”

  Rick put his arm over Carmen’s shoulders. “Rigoletto. Hey, I have an idea, Shelly. Why don’t you watch it with us? You’re old enough to enjoy—”

  “No, thanks.” Shelly stood. “I’ll take him,” she said, lifting Cody from Carmen’s arms. She started up the stairs.

  “Night, Shel.”

  “Night.”

  Carmen crossed to the set and turned it off, then flicked off the light switch. “You can see better if it’s dark. You ready?”

  “Sure,” he said dully. Outside, a summer breeze had come up, and he told himself he didn’t hear his name within it.

  He controlled the old panic quite well as he waited for her to return to him. Suddenly his hand was in hers again and she was leading him forward, toward the window. “Don’t trip,” she said as he raked his shin on the end table by the easy chair. She led him to the center of the picture window. “Stay there.”

  He closed his eyes and waited, listening to the drapes open, listening just as he had so many times so many years ago. He swallowed, feeling as if he were in front of a firing squad.

  Her hand returned, and he could feel her standing next to him. “Ricky, look now.”

  He couldn’t open his eyes. The wind called.

  “Ricky?” She waited.

  “I can’t.”

  Both her hands enveloped his. “Yes, you can. You have to.”

  “No.” His voice broke.

  “Ricky, they can’t get you in here.”

  You jerk, he thought fiercely. You asshole, you moron. You’re making a fool of yourself. Again. He was afraid he was going to cry.

  Carmen’s voice was soft and gentle. “Remember Thomas, Ricky? Remember him?”

  Thomas McEnery Piper. He remembered his first hero, the one preceding Don Quixote. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

  They were out there in the night, dancing beneath the oak, their voices riding the wind. In the night. In the wind.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky . . .

  “No,” he whispered.

  “You see them?” Carmen asked.

  He pulled away from her. “No. Good night, Carmen.”

  Barely controlling his panic, he took the stairs as sedately as he could, then, out of sight, he trotted to his room. The door had no lock, so he shoved a chair under it, then threw himself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, his eyes wet.

  Since then, he’d gotten up to check on Cody, and found him peacefully asleep in the bed nearest the door. The curtains weren’t closed, but that was fine because he could see that the window was locked tight. Shelly, too, was fine, asleep on the bed, the TV still playing. He’d turned it off and returned to bed.

  That was an hour ago. He stared at the ceiling a moment longer, then rose and walked into the dressing room.

  After that night, when they’d heard their parents talking about sending Robin away, Ricky’s spirits had briefly soared, but Robin took his revenge so quickly and gleefully that his life grew instantly worse.

  Before June 7, the night of the eavesdropping incident, sleeping in the same room with Robin had been a trial that he could stand because he knew he could go to Carmen’s room if it got too bad. But on the night of June 8, he nearly didn’t make it.

  June 8, 1975

  Ricky had almost asked to sleep in Carmen’s room, but he didn’t want to do it in front of his parents—he worried that they might ask him why—and he couldn’t get her alone. Finally he’d gone to bed, and was so tired that when he saw that Robin appeared to be asleep already, he didn’t even wonder if he was playing possum or not. He didn’t have the energy to wonder. Sometime later, he awoke.

  Eyes in the dark.

  Ricky felt them staring at him, watching him, and he pulled the covers around his body, over his head, and waited, almost suffocating in the close crush of blankets, feeling the eyes boring into him, feeling his own hot breath push the sheet in, out, in, out, like a doctor’s mask on TV. His fear receded slightly as he made believe he was Hawkeye Pierce performing open-heart surgery and everyone was cheering and applauding, especially his parents and even his brother. Then, finally, the inevitable song began.

  “Ricky, icky Ricky, I see you-ooo.”

  “Stop it,” Ricky whispered into the sheet.

  “Stop it, drop it, says icky Ricky.” There was a thump as Robin dropped to the floor. “Whatcha scared of, sicky icky?”

  “Nothing!” Ricky pulled the covers from his face and gulped the fresh, cold air. “I’m not scared of nothing!” But it took every ounce of courage not to hide his head again.

  “Nothin’?” came his brother’s voice, closer now. “Not afraid of nothin’? Liar, liar, pants on fire. Icky Ricky, you’re afraid of me! Me! Me!”

  Panicked, Ricky reached for the bedside lamp and turned the switch. Nothing happened. He tried again.

  “Maybe it got unplugged, picky Ricky. Why don’tcha come down here and look?”

  Ricky bit his lip to keep from crying. “Stop it!” he pleaded.

  Robin didn’t answer. Instead, Ricky heard his brother’s hand-slaps as he crossed back to his own bed, the creak of the handgrip attached to the headboard, the protest of bedsprings as he swung energetically back onto his bed.

  Burrowing into his covers, Ricky relaxed slightly. Usually Robin’s teasing only lasted a few minutes, and though he still imagined he could feel his brother’s eyes on him, he closed his own, hoping the worst was over, letting drowsiness overtake him slowly, peacefully . . .

  “It’s kinda hot in here.”

  Startled, heart pounding, Ricky awoke, knowing time had passed, but not how much. The bed frame creaked, and he saw Robin’s silhouett
e across the room. He was perched on the end of his bed, next to the window.

  “Don’tcha think it’s kinda hot in here?” As he repeated the words, he turned the latch. Thin moonlight slashed the room as the white curtains fluttered with the incoming breath of night air.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky came the voices on the wind.

  “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky,” sang Robin.

  Ricky pulled the covers back over his head.

  “Icky Ricky, Icky Ricky, come out and play.” Robin bounced up and down on the bed, babbling softly.

  “Close the window,” Ricky begged.

  “It’s only open a little,” Robin said innocently.

  “Please.” Ricky choked on the sudden flood of tears. For a short time, he’d lost his fear of the greenjacks, but under Robin’s constant threats to throw him out the window, the fear had returned.

  “Crybaby, titty mouse.”

  Suddenly Robin swung off his bed, and almost instantly was on top of Ricky. He yanked the covers once, twice, and Ricky lost his grip.

  “Hi, hi, hi, icky Ricky!” Robin’s strong hands clamped on Ricky’s throat and started to press.

  “It was kinda fun fuckin’ with you, baby brother.” He seemed oblivious to Ricky’s thrashing. “But we’re not gonna play anymore.” He laughed through his teeth, hissing like a snake. “I’m not gonna kill you, icky Ricky, don’t worry, I’d never kill you. I’m just gonna take you outside.”

  Ricky coughed, his vision blurring. He stopped fighting, unable to think.

  A second later, Robin’s hands loosened, and Ricky gulped air as his twin grabbed him around the waist and yanked him off the bed. They rolled in twisted somersaults across the floor, Robin propelling, Ricky unable to fight, barely able to breathe. By the other bed, Robin let go and climbed up on his bed. Before Ricky could drag himself away, Robin reached down and grabbed him under the armpit and hauled him onto the bed as if he weighed nothing.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky . . .

  “No!” Ricky choked on the word. “No!” He kicked, but Robin only laughed and pulled him up against the open window. He pinned his arms with one hand and clamped the other over his mouth.

  “Shhhhhh! You’re so stupid, icky Ricky. You’re such a scaredy-cat. You don’t know anything!” As he spoke, Ricky cringed, hearing adult fury hiding behind his brother’s falsely cheerful tones. “Be quiet and listen, Ricky Piper, Ricky Diaper. You don’t know what you’re missing. If you go outside with me tonight, you get to live forever. You don’t have to go to bed or eat your vegetables. You can do anything you want and never get punished. You get to play all the time!” He grinned. “Would you like that, little brother?” The hand was lifted from his mouth. “Would you?”

  “No!” Ricky whispered.

  A string of drool dripped onto his cheek. “Aw, come on, icky Ricky. If you don’t go with me, I’ll tell the folks all about how you don’t think I’m your brother, and then they’ll know you’re the crazy one and they’ll have the men in the white coats come and take you away, away.” Robin’s teeth glinted in the streak of moonlight. “Hee hee, ha ha, ho ho!” He paused. “They already decided you’re crazy anyway. They changed their minds again. I heard them talking again this morning. They’re going to send you away, not me.”

  “You lie.” Ricky hissed.

  “I heard them. They don’t like you anymore, Icky Ricky; they’ve decided to send you away and keep me here. So why don’t you go with me outside instead? It’ll be a lot more fun, it really will. And you get to see your real brother. He misses you, Ricky. He misses you a lot.”

  “No!” Ricky whispered. “You killed him. You took his body away, and nobody knows he’s alive. He can’t talk to anybody.”

  “No, no! That’s not true!” Robin sounded happy and sincere now. “He has lots of new friends. Friends you can have too. Friends you can share. All we did was trade bodies for a while, just like trading marbles or baseball cards. I’m letting him use my body while I use his. He has legs now, Ricky. He’s happy because I gave him my legs.”

  “You want my legs!”

  “Shhhhh! You don’t want Mommy and Daddy to hear you, do you? If they hear you saying crazy things again, you’ll be sorry!”

  “You just want my legs!” Ricky repeated, but more softly.

  “Not true, baby brother. I want your eyes, too.” Robin pushed him up against the windowsill. “I only want you to share, Ricky. Is that a bad thing? To share with friends? Robin’s sharing and he’s happy. He has legs. But he misses you. He wants you to come out and play.”

  “You lie,” Ricky whispered again.

  Robin’s expression changed, hardened into a scowling mask, the eyes glittering like black onyx. Strange eyes, animal eyes, not his brother’s eyes. Ricky moaned as Robin twisted one hand into his hair and pulled.

  “If you won’t go with me willingly, then I guess it’s time to play, little brother,” he whispered. He grabbed Ricky under his arms and lifted him up into the window. “We’re gonna go down there, and I’m gonna choke you just a little more, and then you get to see your brother again.”

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky . . .

  Gathering all his will, Ricky kicked Robin as hard as he could. His brother fell back on the bed, clutching his stomach.

  “You little shit!” he hissed. “You little shit!”

  Ricky started screaming, his voice loud and raspy, not stopping as he hopped down from the window and ran across the room.

  “You stupid little shit!”

  As he was about to open the door, he heard his parents’ door open and close, his mother’s hurried footsteps, his father’s slower, heavier ones just after. He sighed, and sat on the edge of his bed. He might as well let them think he had a nightmare, because even though they might be on his side now—he wasn’t entirely sure—they’d never believe that Robin tried to kill him.

  As the doorknob began to turn, Robin grinned and propelled himself across the room and onto Ricky’s bed. Then his twin’s arms were around him again, so tight he could hardly breathe. “You little shit,” he whispered again, and began rocking him back and forth in his arms, a pretend soothing for the grown-ups to see.

  Light bloomed overhead and then his mother was at his bedside, his father standing behind. He could see Carmen waiting behind them in the doorway.

  “Another bad dream, Ricky?” his mother asked, her gentle embrace removing him from Robin’s rough one.

  She smelled good, like Breck shampoo and Ivory soap, and Ricky nodded, burrowing into her shoulder, putting his arms around her neck, letting himself cry just a little.

  “Do you remember the dream, Rick?” his father asked softly.

  “I forget,” he muttered, clinging to his mother.

  “He just screamed,” Robin said. “He screamed and I woke up.”

  “It was good that you tried to make your brother feel better,” Dad said hesitantly.

  “Yes,” agreed Mom, though she glanced oddly at Dad as she said it. She stroked Ricky’s hair and rocked him.

  “Is there anything you need to tell us, Rick?” Dad asked.

  He was tempted to tell until he saw Robin’s threatening glare. “No.”

  Dad stared at him a moment, then nodded,

  “Frank, would you mind shutting that window?” Mom asked as she continued to hold Ricky.

  He saw a look pass between his parents, then Dad said, “Robin, I thought you learned your lesson about that window when you were seven.” He closed the window and turned the latch.

  “I was hot,” Robin said softly. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t playing. I think maybe I have a fever.”

  Mom let go of Ricky and felt his twin’s forehead. “Well, you’re a little warm, I guess.”

  Dad picked Robin up and carried him back to his bed. “No more open windows, son,” he said, tucking him in while Robin smiled angelically. “You get some sleep now.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Dad returned to R
icky. “What about you, Rick? Do you think you can go back to sleep now?”

  “Can I sleep in Carmen’s room?” he asked.

  Mom and Dad exchanged glances. “Sure, honey,” Mom said. She kissed his forehead, then stood. Ricky ran past her, out of the room, and took Carmen’s hand.

  “See you later, Ricky,” Robin called.

  In the hall, Mom kissed him again, then a concerned look crossed her face. “Look at those dark circles. A little guy like you shouldn’t have such big circles under his eyes.”

  “I’m okay,” Ricky said.

  “He just needs sleep, Miz Piper, and I’ll make sure he gets it.” Carmen smiled. “I don’t allow bad dreams in my room, so you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  He stayed with Carmen that night, and all the nights thereafter, until, on June 25, she and Hector were married, and he inherited her room with the nailed-shut passage in the closet and the lock on the door.

  Suddenly the cat jumped on the bed, startling him from his reverie. “Well, it’s about time,” he said as Quint planted himself on Rick’s chest and began to knead with his claws, eyes half-closed, purr rumbling, looking completely happy and moronic. Absently Rick petted the animal. He’d acquired Quint four years ago, a few days after Laura was killed. He’d had to be strong for Shelly and Cody, but he had no one to lean on himself, and the lonely nights were especially bad. Over and over again, he’d wake up sobbing and reaching for his wife, and he didn’t know how he could go on without losing his mind. Then Dakota O’Keefe, a new neighbor he barely knew at that time, knocked on the door and showed him a tiny orange kitten, no more than a month old. Dakota had found it abandoned in the alley behind the theater where he was working. It needed to be fed with an eyedropper every hour, he’d explained, and he couldn’t do it because he had to work, and his roommate was allergic to cats. He begged Rick, who worked at home, to watch it for a day or two while he tried to find it a good home.

  Reluctantly, still in a depressive haze, Rick took the kitten. Within an hour it had burrowed into his shirt and fallen asleep against his heart, remaining there while Rick worked on his column. That night he put it to bed on a finger towel in a shoe box lid that he placed on the nightstand. When the dream about Laura’s death came, he woke up sobbing, and found the kitten snuggled up between his shoulder and neck, watching him, purring as hard as it could, and gently batting at the tears as they ran down his cheek. They’d been together ever since. The cat knew his moods and had proven itself to be a great listener. Rick could tell it anything.