Bad Things

by Tamara Thorne

Dinner was a Carmen Zapata specialty: pork loin, slow-roasted until it fell apart under a fork, black beans, sliced radishes and tomatoes, guacamole, sour cream, fresh salsa, and warm flour tortillas to wrap it all up in as one saw fit. Food of the gods. Rick now sat in the lumpy old recliner and stared at the television without digesting what he saw because all the blood in his brain had gone south to help digest the obscene amount of food he had consumed. He felt logy and content.

  He’d insisted that Carmen and Hector join them tonight, and they’d had a wonderful time, especially since Shelly and Jade, the current malcontents, had refused to join them for dinner. Jade wanted to watch television in her room, so Carmen had taken her a tray, and Shelly pretended to be too infuriated to eat. That didn’t bother Rick at all, because when he’d checked his car to make sure it was locked—it wasn’t—he’d cleaned out a pizza box, McDonald’s wrappers, and three large soda cups.

  Carmen and Hector had gone home nearly an hour ago, and now he and Cody had the place to themselves.

  His son was sprawled on the floor in front of the television, his head propped up in his hands. They’d flipped a coin for the early evening reruns: heads, Murphy Brown, tails, Married with Children. Cody, with tails, had won. As he watched, Kelly Bundy miscalculated and walked into a wall. Rick stifled his laugh, because, while he didn’t believe in censorship, he wasn’t sure he should let his son know he was amused by dumb-blond antics.

  His gaze drifted to the draped picture window, and almost instantly, he heard their voices.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky . . .

  Shivering, suddenly wide-awake, he wondered if he’d always heard the voices only when he thought of them. It certainly seemed so now. Back when he was a kid, he’d thought about them all the time, so he had no way of knowing, did he?

  He’d been a regular little obsessive back then.

  Carmen’s admonition to find out if Cody could see them had haunted him since last night. Now, he decided, it’s time to find out. Steeling himself, he tilted the lumpy old chair upright and rose, stretching, fighting down the anxiety that was already threatening to turn his knees to rubber. Thomas Piper, he reminded himself, wouldn’t be afraid. His hands trembled. He felt like a child.

  Remember the Halloween when you stuck out your tongue and flipped the bird to the jacks? Remember how brave you were . . . for a few hours, until Robin climbed out in the tree and you saw—

  “Bull,” he said aloud.

  “What, Daddy?”

  An ad was on, and Cody was staring at him.

  “Nothing.”

  “You wanna have some ice cream? Carmen said we can make sundaes. There’s Redi-Whip and cherries and chocolate sauce.”

  “Not now, sport. Maybe later.”

  “But—”

  “We just had dinner. I’ll pop if I eat anything else.”

  “I’m starved,” Cody whined, but the ads were over and his interest was back on the set.

  “Later.” As he spoke, Rick crossed to the window and, without pausing to reconsider, pulled the drapery cord.

  The greenjacks were out there, faint in the summer dusk, a dozen of them, maybe twice that, it was always hard to tell. The evening wind was up, and they moved through the blowing grass and tumbling leaves, dancing and cavorting among them, human yet not human, possessing faces yet featureless. As he watched, they became aware of him, turning, coming closer. Watching him.

  The panic started low in his abdomen, spread heavily into his legs and arms, making his brain dull and frantic at the same time. Pretend you’re Thomas. Carmen’s words echoed in his head, and he did what she’d said, though he felt like a fool.

  Several came closer, melding together to form long-limbed wraithlike figures tall enough to peer in the window. He barely retained control of his bladder, but then he thought: I’m Thomas. I’m not afraid.

  The old trick helped. For the first time in his life, he remained calm enough to examine them, to really see how they resembled liquid mercury, unable to retain form when they melded together, but were merely long-limbed and ghostly. I’m not afraid, he thought again. And he began to believe it. He tried to think of them as fog shifting in the wind.

  Ricky, icky Ricky, sicky Ricky, Ricky, Ricky, Ricky.

  The voices stirred his fear, and he tried not to hear them. Most of the greenjacks remained back beneath the oak so that they could see and be seen, though the formless wraiths stayed at the window, sometimes showing a suggestion of hollow eyes or a mouth, though never for long.

  On his seventh Halloween, he’d gone out among these creatures and found that he was able to live through the fear. To transcend it. Then the few hours of freedom were cut short later that night when Robin climbed out the window and . . .

  What? Rick wasn’t sure. Robin had changed, he knew that, but was it because he’d grown sour over his handicap, or had Rick, always so guilty over his normalcy, merely read more into his brother’s teasing than he should have? The notion that Robin had switched bodies with a greenjack seemed ludicrous to Rick now.

  It had to be nonsense. But here he was, a grown, hopefully rational adult, and he was looking at greenjacks and listening to their rhyming catcalls. He smiled sadly. I’m nuts, he thought, that’s it. But at least I’m not afraid, thanks to my patron saint, Thomas.

  Slowly he raised his right hand to the window, made a fist, and extended his middle finger. It felt as good as it had when he was seven. He lifted his other hand, fisted, extended that finger, too, mouthing the words “screw you.”

  There was a reaction of sorts: The voices dimmed slightly—probably in amazement, he thought wryly—and their movements slowed down. The wraiths at the window seemed less stable than before. Experimentally he wiggled the fingers, pistoned his hands up and down half an inch.

  “Daddy!” Cody’s arrival at his side was so loud and unexpected that Rick froze where he was.

  “Daddy! You’re making a flip-off!”

  “No I’m not.” His hands slowly obeyed his order to unclench.

  Cody giggled. “Who you flipping off, Daddy?”

  “No one, Cody. I was doing, ah, isometrics.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Exercises.”

  “Well, it looked like flip-off, Daddy. Do you know flip-off?”

  “Yes, I do. But who taught you, young man?”

  “Lil.” He giggled and slapped his hands over his mouth, then spoke between his fingers. “She showed me how, but she said I couldn’t tell you. You won’t tell on me, will you, Daddy?”

  “No. As long as you don’t do it anymore.” That bitch. Of course, he himself had learned it from his grandfather, but the knowledge had come vicariously. That was . . . normal, but for Magill to purposefully teach a child . . . that bitch.

  He stared at the jacks. As darkness grew, their activity, if it had indeed slowed, now increased again. They reminded him of ants, so ceaseless were their movements.

  Rick’s heart lurched as he saw one, especially dim, just becoming visible as the night grew darker, standing by itself under the oak. Its very stillness made it noticeable.

  It reminded him of the one he’d seen the night Robin changed.

  Bullshit, he told himself. Don’t even think it. But he couldn’t help himself, and his next thought was strong and hard and directed: Robin.

  The greenjack looked and raised one arm—Cody yanked on his shirt cuff. “Whatcha looking at, Daddy?”

  Jesus, he’d forgotten about his own kid. Glancing down, he saw Cody staring up at him, a quizzical look on his face. Rick swallowed. “What do you think I’m looking at?”

  Cody pressed up against the glass. “Cool!”

  Oh, no. “What’s cool?”

  “The wind. It’s blowing good!”

  Thank you, God.

  “Daddy, let’s go outside and smell the wind!”

  “No, Cody, I don’t—”

  “Please, Daddy, please!”

  “It’s dark out.”

&nb
sp; “Not very. Come on, just for a minute. Please?”

  He tried to spot the dim greenjack, but it was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t know.”

  “Please?”

  What could it hurt? He’d been among them before, hadn’t he? Suddenly it seemed like a good idea, a final step to cure him of his fear. “Okay, but just for a minute.”

  “Yay!” Cody took his hand and dragged him to the front door, waiting impatiently while he undid the bolt. Slowly the door creaked open, and they stepped out on the wide front porch.

  The jacks saw them.

  “This is fun!”

  Rick swallowed his fear as the greenjacks gathered at the base of the steps. Suddenly Cody let go of his hand and raced down the stairs. Rick cringed as the creatures, giggling and singing, surrounded his son.

  “Come on, Daddy!”

  “Coming.” Dear God, what am I doing? He took one step, two, finally all six of them. Then he was standing on the stone walk at the base of the stairs, and the little jacks lined the border.

  Cody, on his knees in the grass, windmilled his arms and giggled.

  Rick could feel the jacks, like cool breezes, touching his legs. I’m Thomas, he told himself again, feeling foolish as hell. I’m Thomas and I’m not afraid. Heartened, he stepped off the path and sat down on a wrought-iron bench in the grass near the oak.

  They gathered around him and they felt very cold, chilling his legs. Gingerly he reached out. A jack flickered through his hand, a cold, slimy feel. It returned, impaling, itself upon him. Repulsed, Rick drew back.

  “Cody, let’s go in now.”

  “Just a second, Daddy.”

  Rick stood, his legs swathed in repulsive greenjacks. A deep chill enveloped him. “Let’s go, sport,” he managed as he looked around, hoping to see the solitary jack again. He saw nothing, and the voices were growing louder. Too loud.

  “Now, Cody.”

  “Just another minute.”

  “Well, I’m going to go make myself a sundae. If you want one too—”

  Cody was past him, up the steps in a flash. Rick followed quickly. Before he closed the door, he took one last look, and for a moment he thought he spotted the solitary figure, but in an instant it was caught in the midst of the others, lost to his eye, but not to his mind.

  21

  The phone woke him at eleven-thirty.

  “So how’s it going out there in the butt end of California?”

  Rick chuckled. “I miss having you around, O’Keefe.”

  “You just miss my gutter mouth.” He paused. “You’re lonely. Want my sister’s phone number?”

  “Stop trying to fix me up, Dakota. Listen, I’m building Don Quixote for the garden. Wait’ll you see it. When do you think you’ll have a chance to visit? You’ve got a standing invitation, you know.”

  “Wait a minute. You’ve lost it, right? You’re on drugs? The old twat with the poodles raped you? What the hell does ‘I’m building Don Quixote in my garden’ mean?”

  “For my garden. It’s metal sculpture. I used to do it when I was a kid.”

  “Piper, I’m impressed. You’re a Renaissance man, and here I thought you only excelled at writing cleverly snide comments about trucks, and bras, and cake mix. Guess I’ll have to get a look at this. Does he have a big, hard lance?”

  Rick laughed. “He will. The biggest one you ever laid your eyes on, O’Keefe.”

  “I’ll visit soon.” Dakota spoke in his sultriest voice. “Can’t pass up the world’s biggest lance, right?” He chuckled. “But what will your neighbors say?”

  “ ‘How’d that guy get such a big, buxom blonde to pay attention to him?’ is what they’ll say.”

  “And I’ll just smile and tell ’em that you can lick your own forehead. You’ll never be lonely again.”

  “Bite me,” Rick said, and instantly regretted the words because Dakota said he’d be glad to.

  “So, Piper,” he said after a few more minutes of banter and innuendo, “Have you see any of those jack-off things you were telling me about?”

  “Greenjacks, not jack-offs.” Rick paused. “But I like your term better. Wait a minute, Christ, I told you about those, didn’t I?”

  “That and more, Piper, dear. You’re such an easy drunk, you had to tell me. You were compelled. But you didn’t answer my question. Have you seen any jack-offs?”

  He almost lied, then thought: What the hell? “Yeah, Dakota, I saw some. Isn’t that a kick?”

  Dakota didn’t tease. “Does Cody see them?”

  “No, it’s just me. Nobody else is crazy. Same old story.” He tried not to sound bitter.

  “You’re not crazy, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself. Knock it off.” Dakota didn’t say anything else for a moment. Then: “What about that fat-bottomed cat of yours? Has he seen anything?”

  “No, he just hates the poodles. And I don’t blame him.

  “Have you held Quint up to the window and shown the things to him?”

  “No.” Rick hesitated. “He did act odd last night at the same time as I imagined I heard the jacks. But I think it was coincidence.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Look, cats are always staring at things normal people . . . Sorry Rick, you know what I mean—”

  “Yeah, yeah, go on.”

  “Well, cats see things people don’t. They stare at things in corners, and sometimes their fur stands on end.”

  “That’s called a pylo-erection, O’Keefe,” Rick said lightly. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

  “I know that. We always had cats. I know all about them.” Dakota gave a small, throaty laugh. “I knew what I was doing when I went to the pound and chose Quint.”

  “You said you found him—”

  “Well, I saved him from the gas chamber. He needed you, Piper, but I think you needed him more.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say thanks.”

  “Thanks,” Rick repeated. “Really, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, seriously, first chance you get, have the cat check out the jack-offs. See what he does.”

  “I hate to say it, but that’s a good idea, O’Keefe.”

  “Of course it is, sweet thing. Call me back soon and tell me what happens.”

  22

  After hanging up on Dakota, Rick went to check on his son one last time and was surprised to hear him giggling. He paused outside Cody’s bedroom and waited a moment.

  “Cody Thomas Piper,” his son said softly. More giggling. “I wanna be a cowboy.” Muffled giggles laddered the scale and down again. “Five.”

  “Cody?” Alarmed, Rick rapped on the door twice before opening it. In the shadows, he could just see his son’s form in the bed nearest the window.

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  Rick flipped the overhead light on, making Cody squint and rub his eyes. “That’s too bright!”

  “So what’s going on, sport?” Trying to appear casual and easygoing, he crossed to the bed and sat down next to his son. The frame creaked, a familiar sound.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “My friend.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You can’t see him.”

  “Can you see him?” Rick asked, alarm returning.

  Cody just giggled. “Of course not! You’re silly, Daddy. He’s invisible.”

  Rick felt better. Shelly had invented an invisible playmate that lasted her entire seventh summer. This sort of thing, he could deal with. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Bob,” Cody told him solemnly. “His name’s Bob.”

  Shelly’s friend had been named Joyce. What normal names children give the invisible, he thought with amusement.

  “Well, Cody, I heard you laughing in here. What were you guys talking about?”

  “Bob wanted to know my biology.”

  “Your biology?”

  “About me.”

  “Biography.”

&nbs
p; “Uh-huh. I told him about me and about you, too. That you’re a big TV star.”

  “Was a little star,” Rick corrected. “But thanks. It’s kind of neat to have your own kid brag about you.”

  “Are you gonna be on TV again?” he asked hopefully.

  “Maybe after a while.” He might have to take the job if he was going to do all the renovations on the house that he planned. “It’s getting late, sport.”

  “But Bob wants to talk some more.”

  “Not tonight.” Rick raised his voice slightly. “Cody’s going to sleep now, Bob. You can talk to him again tomorrow, okay?” He waited a moment, his ear cocked. “Bob said good night.”

  “No he didn’t,” Cody replied.

  “He didn’t? Well, what was that he said then?”

  “Nothin’. He didn’t say nothing.”

  “Anything,” Rick automatically corrected. “Well, maybe he can’t hear grown-ups. You tell him.”

  The boy was a born giggler, but once he got it out of his system, he looked around the room and announced, “Daddy says I gotta go to sleep now, but we can talk tomorrow. Okay? Bob? Okay?” Cody looked at Rick. “He won’t answer me.”

  “Well, he probably went to sleep.” He leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead. “You too.” He rose and walked to the door. “Good night, Cody.”

  “Night.”

  Rick flipped off the switch, adding, “Good night Bob,” as he pulled the door closed. He smiled to himself.

  Cody’s giggle broke the silence.

  “Cody?” he called sternly.

  “Bob says good night,” Cody called.

  “Go to sleep, kiddo,” he admonished. Shaking his head, he returned to his own bed. His son hadn’t seen the greenjacks, but he turned right around and invented an invisible friend. He wondered if Cody would imagine greenjacks if he knew the stories.

  As Rick lay down and switched off his lamp, he wondered if he himself would think he saw them if he hadn’t been told the stories. He honestly didn’t know.

  23

  July 16

  Despite, or perhaps because of, all the memories he’d allowed himself yesterday, Rick slept like a baby until he awoke at eight Wednesday morning. Relaxing, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the morning sun, petting his cat, and feeling serene and calm, he was at peace for about three minutes.