Methods of Madness

by Ray Garton

  Hurried by a gnawing feeling of urgency—he knew Mr. Moser could not be gone much longer—Brett returned to the living room, rewound Ghostbusters, and put it away. He found a brown paper bag in the kitchen, took it to the bedroom, removed LITTLE RASCALS-#3 from the headboard, and stuffed it in the bag. He turned all the lights off on his way out of the house, locked the door, and put the tape in the basket between his handlebars.

  Less than a minute after he turned onto Glass Mountain Road, Brett heard a car up ahead. The glow of headlights illuminated the upcoming curve in the road and Brett drove his bike into the ditch, tumbled into the weeds and remained perfectly still, hoping he was out of sight.

  The car passed, slowed, turned into the driveway.

  It was Mr. Moser.

  Brett waited until the crunch of the tires on the gravel road began to fade, then pulled his bike onto the pavement again. Before getting back on, he leaned over and vomited until his eyes burned.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and rode home, already thinking about tomorrow morning.

  Mr. Moser came to Sabbath school late the following morning. He rushed in looking rumpled and winded; his hair was mussed and his brow glowed with perspiration. The moment he entered, his eyes locked with Brett’s and narrowed briefly to dark bloodless cuts.

  He seemed preoccupied as he led the class through song service, kept tugging his tie as he quizzed them on the weekly Sabbath school lesson, and wiped his brow again and again as he stuttered through a retelling of Daniel’s stay in the lion’s den. He cut the story short and excused himself, asking Mrs. Juarez, the pianist, to take over. Before leaving the room, Mr. Moser looked at Brett and nodded toward the door.

  Brett followed him.

  In the main corridor, Brett could hear the sanctuary organ playing a hymn; voices sang along glumly, blending and garbling until they seemed to be singing in some ancient long-dead tongue.

  Mr. Moser took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face and neck; when he was through, the white cloth looked drenched.

  “I don’t seem to be feeling too well, Brett,” he said nervously. “What do you suppose might be wrong?”

  “I don’t know. The flu, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so.” He dabbed the underside of his chin with the handkerchief. “Enjoy the movie last night?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You, uh… you left before I could give you your surprise. That wasn’t very nice. I thought maybe—”

  “I took it, Mr. Moser.”

  He froze, still as a snapshot, his eyes searching Brett’s face, his mouth open slightly, tongue darting around inside.

  “Don’t worry,” Brett whispered. “It’s in a safe place. And I won’t tell anyone. If… ‘‘

  “If?” Mr. Moser breathed. “If what?”

  “If you do what I ask.”

  A moment later, Mr. Moser chuckled; his nostrils flared and what might have been a tear glistened in his eye.

  “Blackmailed,” he muttered, shaking his head in wonderment. “I’m being blackmailed.”

  “If anything happens to me,” Brett said, “someone will find the tape. There’s a note attached that explains everything.” It was a lie, of course, but Mr. Moser could never know that.

  Mr. Moser wiped an eye and scrubbed his shiny face.

  “I don’t want much,” Brett said.

  “And what… is that?”

  “I want you to take me to the movies. Whenever I want to go.”

  The music and singing stopped and somewhere in the church a chorus of voices exclaimed, “A-men!”

  The next day, Brett called Mr. Moser and said he wanted to see the new Clint Eastwood movie. He really wanted to see Bedside Manners more than anything but it was only playing in San Francisco, which was too far away, and he wanted to see it with Mom; that would make it special. He and Mr. Moser agreed to go to a theater in Santa Rosa so no one they knew would see them.

  After hanging up, Brett went to the kitchen and told Grandma he was going for a bike ride and would be back in time for supper.

  “You stick close to the house,” she ordered. “Don’t go riding off someplace where you’re all alone. And say your prayers.”

  On his way through the dark living room, Brett saw Grandpa sitting in the far corner by the phonetable. His big gnarled hands were joined on his lap and his head turned slowly, following Brett as he passed.

  “See you later,” he said, his voice sounding like gravel being crushed. Grandpa did something then that Brett had never seen him do before and he didn’t know quite what to make of it at first. The old man’s lips pulled back around his scraggly teeth; the corners of his mouth twitched into slight curls. He was smiling! “Have a good time,” he said.

  In the car, Brett and Mr. Moser were silent for the first half of the forty-five minute drive.

  Mr. Moser fidgeted at the wheel, drumming his fingers and cracking his knuckles as he drove. He acted as if he was alone in the car.

  Brett finally spoke: “Was I going to be next?”

  Mr. Moser blinked, wiped his mouth, shifted his buttocks in the seat, but kept his eyes on the road and said nothing.

  “That was the surprise, wasn’t it?”

  No reply.

  “Why do you do it?”

  Still nothing.

  “Because you enjoy it?”

  Silence.

  “It doesn’t bother you that it’s wrong?”

  Mr. Moser sniffed and ran a hand through his hair; he was crying silently.

  It bothers him, Brett thought, deciding not to ask any more questions.

  The theater they went to held six screens. Brett stood in the lobby, breathed in the smell of popcorn, and looked at the rows of posters on the walls. He took in each and every detail around him— even the feeling of the carpet beneath his shoes—as if he were in the last hour of his life and wanted to miss nothing.

  He looked up at Mr. Moser and said, “I’d like some popcorn.”

  Without meeting Brett’s eyes, Mr. Moser got in line, bought a carton of popcorn, then they went into the auditorium and found seats.

  Moments later, the lights dimmed and the screen came alive.

  The back of Brett’s neck prickled with excitement and he stuffed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth.

  The next two hours were everything Brett had hoped they would be.

  Two days later, Brett called Mr. Moser again from the upstairs phone and said he wanted to go see the new James Bond movie that evening. Grandma was gone shopping and Brett wanted to hurry out before she returned; the less explaining he had to do, the better. He raced downstairs and through the living room, stumbling to a halt when he heard his name called.

  Grandpa was sitting in the corner again by the phonetable. He was holding something out to Brett.

  “Here,” he said.

  Brett stepped forward and saw two one dollar bills held between Grandpa’s beefy fingers.

  “For Milk Duds,” Grandpa whispered conspiratorially with a crooked smile.

  Brett chilled for a moment, realizing he’d been found out, but Grandpa’s smile was reassuring. He seemed to be saying, Just between us.

  As Brett took the money, Grandpa said, “Have fun.”

  Riding his bike to Mr. Moser’s house, Brett wondered how often Grandpa listened in on telephone conversations, and how much he’d heard.

  Over the following two weeks, Brett had Mr. Moser take him to seven movies; one day they even saw two, back to back.

  At first, they said little, but began to talk a bit more each time, until it seemed they were nothing more than two friends going to the movies together.

  They did not mention Jimmy Greenlaw or the tape or Mr. Moser’s laundry room.

  Sometimes Brett spotted Mr. Moser staring at him, like he used to when Brett watched movies on his VCR. But now he stared with tense eyes and chewed his lip nervously; he would look away immediately, but Brett knew—felt, anyway—that he’d been stari
ng at him for a while. Brett tried not to wonder what Mr. Moser thought about while he stared at him because that reminded him of what he’d seen on that video tape, and that conjured thoughts too frightening to entertain.

  During the first week, Brett worried about Grandpa. How much did he know? Most importantly, would he tell Grandma?

  By the second week, Brett felt better. Grandma knew nothing yet, and when they passed in the house, Grandpa always gave him a silent secret smile and a wink, something he’d never done before.

  For the time being, he seemed to be safe.

  It was turning out to be a fun and interesting summer.

  Until he came home after his seventh movie—a Steve Martin comedy—and found his mom seated on the sofa talking with Grandpa.

  When he walked in, she dashed across the room and greeted him with a laughing, perfumed embrace.

  She was beautiful. Her hair fell around her head in a golden mane; tiny stones sparkled in her earlobes and bracelets clicked together on her wrists. She looked like a movie star.

  “How are you, baby?” she breathed. “Look at you, you’re such a big boy! Oh, give your mom another hug!” She covered his face with kisses and ran her fingers through his hair.

  Brett could hear Grandma washing dishes and humming a hymn in the kitchen; naturally she wouldn’t be visiting with Mom. Apparently there was no love lost there.

  “How about a sundae?” Mom exclaimed. “A bit one with everything! C’mon, let’s go. I’ve got some surprises for you in the car.” She kissed Grandpa’s forehead and said, “Be back in a while, Pop.”

  As Brett followed her out of the house, he heard Grandma’s voice behind him.

  “Brett!” she hissed.

  When he turned, she hunkered down in front of him and whispered, “Now, I don’t want you eating any of that ice cream stuff. Jesus doesn’t like you to pour all that bad sugar in your body —it’s His temple.” She tossed a glance over his shoulder in the direction Mom had gone and her face darkened with intense bitterness. “And I don’t care what you mother says.”

  Brett went out the front door behind Mom and Grandpa’s quiet throaty laughter faded behind them.

  On the way to St. Helena, Brett trembled with anticipation, unable to stop smiling; he knew his days in Manning were numbered now and he’d be going to live with Mom in Los Angeles soon. He’d be able to go to movies anytime he wanted without fear of being caught or punished; there would be no more dreary Sabbaths, no more long church services with long church faces, and—best of all— no more Grandma.

  “The stuff in the back seat’s all yours,” Mom said breathlessly. She was bouncing in her seat like a little girl.

  Brett put the two boxes in his lap and opened them; one held shirts and pants, another held a blazer and tie.

  “Brand new, all designer, expensive stuff,” Mom said. “See that blazer? Roll up the sleeves a little and you’ll look just like Don Johnson on Miami Vice”

  Brett had never seen Miami Vice. Didn’t she know that? Didn’t she know what it was like living with Grandma? Sure she did; Grandma was her mother.

  “You’ll be the best dressed guy in church, kiddo!” she laughed.

  Church? Brett thought.

  “There’s more.”

  He found a bag full of school supplies; paper, pens, and binders with pictures of the Hollywood sign on them, and a drinking mug that read on the side, HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD!

  “Now you’re all set for school in the fall,” Mom said.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Brett said, “But I thought I was gonna—”

  “Where shall we go for ice cream?” Mom asked quickly.

  Brett felt himself sinking into the seat of the rented car as some of his excitement drifted away like a thin mist.

  “I thought I was gonna come live with you,” Brett said over his hot fudge sundae.

  “Well, honey… we’ll see.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know, and I meant it, sweety. It’s just that… well, things are a little different now.” She stirred her milkshake thoughtfully, frowning. “I met this man. He’s a producer, a very successful producer, I should add. Four big hits in two years. He’s… I’ve… well, I moved in with him last week. He’s got this incredible place, you should see it! A pool, a theater in the back. Clark Gable used to live there!”

  Brett didn’t know who Clark Gable was and didn’t care.

  “Anyway, my producer friend—his name is Jeff—he wants to use me. He thinks I’d be good for a lead. Can you imagine that, baby, a lead! A starring role. But… well, for now, there’s just no way I could take you back with me. Not now. Maybe later, after I’ve done a couple of pictures. But not now.”

  Brett suddenly lost all interest in his sundae. His stomach ached and his head felt bloated with thoughts of staying in Manning, trapped in Grandma’s house, listening to those skin-crawling hymns and having to give Grandma more Ben-Gay back rubs.

  He had to concentrate hard to steady his voice as he said, “But Mom, you said—”

  “I know, honey, but I can’t Not now. But… that’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, you’re doing well here, aren’t you? Grandpa says your grades are good, and he says you’ve made friends with your Sabbath school teacher. That’s great. I mean, Lord knows, I’m not much of a Bible reader these days, but I suppose it’s good for you. C’mon, sweety-pie. You’ve waited this long, can’t you wait a little longer?”

  He put his spoon down and stared at the table.

  “Hey, how about a movie tonight?” Mom asked, taking his hand. “I’ll go back to my hotel and change and we can go to dinner, then catch a movie. Whatever you want to see. Tonight’s your night. Can’t be out too late, though. I’ve got an early plane to catch.”

  She was leaving tomorrow!

  Without him!

  Panic began to rise in his throat. He wanted to cry, scream, kick something, but he remained silent, thinking of church, trying to shut the feelings off.

  They would go to dinner and a movie that night and maybe he could change her mind. At least he got to pick the movie. And he knew exactly which one he wanted to see.

  After he showered and changed, Brett went downstairs to wait for Mom to come back from her hotel and get him. He slumped on the sofa and stared out the window.

  Grandpa’s chair rumbled into the living room and his gravelly voice said, “You don’t look too happy, boy.”

  Brett didn’t reply.

  Grandpa stopped in front of him and began drumming his fingers on the wheelchair’s armrests.

  “Your mom’s not gonna take you with her, eh?”

  Brett shook his head.

  “Well. Guess you’ll just have to make the best of things here, eh?”

  Brett shrugged.

  “Not so bad, is it? You got your friend Mr. Moser to keep you company.” He winked and added, “Don’t worry, boy, your secret’s safe with me. You got Gabby. And, in her own way, I suppose Grandma… well, she thinks the world of you.” Then, with a frown, he muttered, “Hell of a lot more’n she thinks of me.” His eyes suddenly snapped open wide and he looked around cautiously as if he might have been overheard. In a moment, his face relaxed and he smiled as if he’d just remembered something. “Grocery shopping,” he mumbled.

  Brett sat up straight, surprised; this was the most Grandpa had ever said to him. In fact, it was the most Brett had ever heard him say, period.

  “Course, now, if I had a pair of those,” Grandpa said, pointing at Brett’s legs, “you and me, we would have a good old time.”

  Brett chuckled. “Grandma wouldn’t let us.”

  Grandpa’s head fell back and his wheelchair squeaked beneath the weight of his laughter.

  “I suppose not. Fact, I just might be better off without her than I would be with legs. But… “ He waved a hand with resignation. “You going to the movies with your mom tonight?”

  Brett nodded. “Have you ever been to the movies, Grandpa?”<
br />
  “Used to go a lot. Before I met your grandma. I often wish we had a TV in here so I could watch some of them old movies late at night. Don’t sleep like I used to. We got enough money saved up to get a good one, you know. Color. Remote control. I look at ‘em in the catalogs sometimes. But… “ Another wave.

  Brett looked at Grandpa for a long moment, seeing a different person in that wheelchair, much different from the silent, empty old man who wheeled around in the dark. He wondered what it would be like to live there with Grandpa, just the two of them. Maybe they’d stay up late at night and watch old movies. Grandpa could tell him about the movies he’d seen when he was a boy, about his days in the Army and how it felt to fight in a war. And they could listen to real music instead of those depressing hymns, music like he’d heard in the movies.

  A car rolled to a stop out front and honked.

  “There’s your mom,” Grandpa said. “You better git. And don’t worry. Things won’t be so bad.”

  Brett stood and gave Grandpa a long hug so unexpectedly that it surprised them both, then he rushed out to meet his mom.

  Over dinner, Mom asked, “So what movie would you like to see?”

  Brett smiled with anticipation and said, “Bedside Manners.”

  Mom’s fork stopped half way to her mouth and she slowly lowered it to her plate with a frown.

  “Well… “ she said, drawing the word out to a troubled sigh. “I don’t think so, honey.”

  Brett’s smile disappeared and his spirits dropped even further.

  “How come?”

  “Well, it’s not such a good movie. Really. I mean, it’s low budget and, and… well, there’s one scene where you can see the boom hanging about two feet into the frame, and… “

  “What’s a boom?”

  “Never mind. It’s just a bad movie, that’s all.”

  “I don’t care, Mom. I just wanna see you.”

  “Look, sweetie, my part is really small and I’m… well, I get… “ She sniffed and straightened her posture. “I just don’t think you should see it. It’s not a movie for kids.”