Wicked Cruel

by Rich Wallace

  Our house is only a few blocks from the college, but we’re in a quiet neighborhood. No rooming houses on our street. It’s a dead end with only a dozen houses backing into a wooded wetlands area.

  There weren’t any lights on when I fled the house earlier, so I turn on every one as I make my way around downstairs. I also turn on the TV; my dad had it tuned to one of the ESPN channels, so it’s showing a poker tournament. I’m soaked from the rain and all of my clothes are upstairs. So …

  I grab a flashlight from a kitchen drawer crammed with masking tape, rubber bands, toothpicks, and batteries, and make my way up. Every step creaks. I get some light from the second-floor hallway, but the stairway to the attic isn’t lit. The only light in my “bedroom” is a lamp on a table on the other side of my bed, so most nights I feel my way up the stairs, climb onto the bed, and reach over to the lamp. Usually it’s no problem. Tonight I want the flashlight.

  The attic is pitch-black. I stop halfway and listen hard. Then I inch the rest of the way up and shine the light on the bed. I see a slow movement, a slithery sort of rising. The beam catches two eyes.

  “Spike,” I say, letting out my breath. “Come downstairs with me.”

  The cat rushes past me and I can hear her going all the way down to the living room. I pull off my shirt and pants and grab some dry things, then shine the light around the attic, into the corners and under the bed. Nothing.

  But then I hear a high-pitched ringing and a couple of beeps—my computer turning on. The screen flashes and I back slowly out of the room. My stomach clenches as I hear the opening notes of “Way Back into Love,” and I move as fast as I can down the two flights of stairs and out the front door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The doorbell rings about six times and I lift my head and try to focus. I can smell coffee, and the sunlight is coming through my parents’ bedroom window.

  I sat on the porch last night until I finally saw David coming home close to two. Then I lay awake for at least a couple of hours after that, freezing up with every rattle in the pipes or scrape of a branch against the house. I fell asleep fully dressed—sneakers even—and pulled my mother’s bathrobe over me when I got cold instead of getting under the covers.

  All seems peaceful now. David’s answering the door and Gary’s saying, “Where is he? The game’s in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m coming!” I yell, and head for the attic stairs. It’s daytime; safe.

  My basketball shorts are hanging from a nail above my bed, where I put them after practice the other day. We’re supposed to be given our jerseys before the game.

  I hustle down to the kitchen. It’s 9:30, so Gary’s exaggerating: we’ve got half an hour. I grab a banana and my jacket and we head out. The morning is gray and damp.

  “You woulda missed the game,” Gary says.

  “I was up all night.”

  “What? Because of Bainer?”

  “Mostly, yeah. My uncle went out last night and weird things kept happening. This is getting bad.”

  “You should chill, Jordan. If anybody should feel guilty, it’s Scapes. I told him about it yesterday at the skate park.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He didn’t believe it. I brought a copy of that obituary with me today, though. I’ll shove it right in his stupid face.”

  We cross Main, and Gary starts jogging. “I don’t wanna be late,” he says. “We’d wind up sitting the bench.”

  We start walking again as we get near the Y. Gary’s been rubbing his arm. “He sucker punched me.”

  “Scapes?”

  “Yeah. After I told him about Bainer definitely being dead. I’m walking away and he whacks me in the bicep.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Yeah, it hurt. I got a big frickin’ bruise and everything.”

  “Well, you went asking for it.”

  “How?”

  “You go to the skate park and confront him—what do you expect? When you walk into his territory like that, he’s gonna pound you.”

  “Yeah, well, he’ll pay for it. Wait’ll he sees this obit. He’ll crap his pants.”

  Incredibly, we aren’t the last ones from our team to show up, we’re the first.

  “Where is everybody?” our coach asks. “It’s ten to ten.”

  Four of our guys walk into the gym at that point. Coach shakes his head and starts pawing through a box of yellow T-shirts. He hands me one with a black number 3.

  “Go shoot some layups,” he says. “Two lines. Crisp passes.”

  Gary’s already down at the other end of the court, showing Scapes the obituary. I watch for Scapes’s reaction and I get hit in the butt with a basketball.

  “Right on target,” says Louie Kulik, laughing. He’s our tallest guy but probably also the weakest.

  I scoop up the ball and dribble in, making a clean layup and getting my own rebound. Gary’s running back toward us so I flip the ball to him.

  “What’d Scapes say?” I ask.

  Gary shrugs. “Not much. He was kind of stunned, I think.”

  I look over at the other team’s bench. Scapes is sitting next to Callas, talking. They’re wearing their blue team shirts, and Scapes has a white headband.

  “We’ll exploit that,” Gary says. “Keep him thinking about it the whole game.”

  I glance at Gary’s arm and I see the bruise, about the width of a golf ball and the shade of a purple grape.

  All five of their starters are taller than all five of ours, but we’re quicker and get out to an early lead. I hit a long jumper from the corner just as the first quarter ends, and we run to the bench with a 12–7 advantage. Scapes has three fouls and seemed to grow more agitated but less aggressive after every whistle. I heard Gary mutter Bainer’s name to him at least twice.

  Me and Gary get taken out late in the second quarter, and I realize how starving I am. “Can I get a drink?” I ask the coach.

  He’s watching the game intently and seems startled when I ask. “Sure, sure,” he says, flicking his hand toward the water fountain. I leave the gym and go out to the lobby, where there’s a charity bake sale set up. I get two chocolate cupcakes with pink icing for a dollar and eat them as fast as I can.

  The scoreboard shows less than a minute when I get back to the bench.

  “What’d you do, fall in?” Gary asks.

  “I was eating,” I say. “All I had this morning was that banana.”

  “Scapes hasn’t played since the first quarter,” he says with a smirk. “I think he’s shook up.”

  “Yeah, well, so am I,” I say.

  Without us in there, Callas and the others have fought back and taken the lead. “No worry,” Gary says. “We’ll get it done.”

  The score goes back and forth in the second half, but we’re clinging to a one-point lead down the stretch. I’m dribbling outside the arc, watching my teammates scramble around cluelessly, trying to get open. “Set some picks!” I yell, and Gary finally steps out to the foul line and plants his feet. I break toward the basket, slicing as close to Gary as I can so my defender will get screened. Scapes steps up and tries to block my shot. He misses, but so does the shot, and Scapes barrels into me and knocks me to the floor.

  The whistle blows. That’s his fourth foul. One more and he’s out. But the clock shows only twelve seconds left as I take the ball for the free throws. If I can hit them both, it’ll all but seal the win.

  I let out my breath and eye the rim, dribble twice, then shoot. The ball bonks off the back of the rim and goes straight up, then swooshes through the net.

  My teammates clap and shout, “One more!” But my second shot rolls out and Callas grabs the rebound. He whips the ball up the court, and Gary and another guy are chasing after it. Gary deflects the ball and it rolls out of bounds.

  Seven seconds left. We pack into the key, shoving and grunting while waiting for the ball to be thrown in.

  Gary is leaning into Scapes, arms up. “Watch those elbows,” Gary says. “Don
’t go killing anybody else.”

  “Shut up,” Scapes says.

  “Don’t want another Bainer on your conscience.”

  “Shut up!” Scapes yells, and he shoves Gary back about six feet.

  The whistle blows. Technical foul on Scapes. He’s out. Our ball.

  Game over.

  Gary runs to the bench with his fist up, yelling, “Yeah!” The coach and the rest of the team are celebrating, too, but I just walk to the bleachers and take a seat. Across the way, the other coach has his players huddled up around him. Scapes is staring at the floor, looking pale.

  “We have the one o’clock game next Saturday,” Coach says. “Try to do some shooting during the week. Good job today.”

  I pick up my clothes and walk slowly to the dingy locker room to change out of my wet T-shirt and shorts. But I just sit on a bench for a few minutes and stare at the lockers.

  Scapes comes in and gives me a nod. “Nice game,” he says.

  “You too.”

  “My head wasn’t in it.”

  He sits on the end of the bench and pushes a locker closed with his foot. “It’s true, huh?” he asks softly.

  I peel off my shirt and ball it up. “Looks that way.” I shake my head. “Weird. I was just … I was thinking about Bainer right before I heard. Like he was trying to contact me, you know? I hadn’t thought about him in a year, at least.”

  Scapes sits there with his mouth hanging open. He takes off the headband and wrings it out, making a little puddle on the cement floor. “You think, uh … you think somebody could get in trouble over that?”

  “Because of hurting him? Way back then?”

  He wipes his mouth with a fist. “Just wondering,” he says, real low.

  I wouldn’t know about that. How could anybody trace Bainer’s death back to one particular punch or shove or blow to the head? “How could they say that one guy was more responsible than a dozen others?” I ask. “Too many guys participated.… It was just one of those things.” I feel numb all over when I say it. I start shaking.

  Scapes closes his eyes and puts his head in his hands. Then he gets up and walks really fast toward the bathroom. I hear a stall slam shut and then I hear him puking.

  Gary and Kulik barge into the locker room, laughing and yelling. “We kicked their butts,” Gary says.

  “They were big guys, too,” Kulik says.

  “Big wussies,” Gary says. “I took Scapes completely out of his game. He was scared to death.”

  I stare at Gary until his eyes lock on mine. I jerk my head toward the bathroom. “He’s right in there,” I say.

  “Good.” He raises his voice again. “Hey, Scapes. Great game! Five fouls in what, about three minutes of playing time? Nice contribution.” He smacks hands with Kulik and laughs.

  “I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” I say.

  Gary sneers. “I don’t think I have much to worry about. Scapes has one foot in Hell already!” He laughs again. “If he hurts somebody else, it’ll seal his fate for eternity.”

  We leave the Y before Scapes comes out of the bathroom, but Gary keeps jabbering about the game and how he shut Scapes up and shut him down.

  “Why don’t you shut up, Gary,” I finally say. “A kid died, you know? That isn’t exactly worth celebrating.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I mix Cheerios and Froot Loops in a giant bowl before I realize that we’re out of milk. Uncle David must have heard me banging around, because he calls, “You hungry?” from the living room.

  “Yeah.”

  “I can make you anything you want for lunch.” He enters the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “You want scrambled eggs? A hamburger? I was planning some roasted chicken for dinner, but that’s a long ways off.”

  “I was just gonna eat cereal, but the milk’s gone.”

  “I put the last of it in my coffee this morning, but there was only about six drops. You want to go get some?”

  “Yeah, but I’m starving now.” I reach into the cold-cut drawer and find a few slices of turkey. They’re a little slimy, but they smell only the slightest bit rank. I roll them up and take a bite and say I’m going to the Citgo for milk.

  “I’ll go with you,” David says. “I could use a walk.”

  From the end of our street you can turn left and walk half a block up to Main, or right and walk half a block to Adams, which is quieter but loops around and meets Main way down by the post office and the Citgo. We take Adams, which has no sidewalk, and scuff through piles of soggy maple leaves near the gutter. The sun’s come out and it feels warm on my face.

  “You expected to get clobbered this morning,” he says.

  “Yeah, but we didn’t.”

  “You must be better than you thought.”

  “We’re okay. It was a strange game. Their best player was, like … I don’t know. You remember what we were saying about that kid who died?”

  “The urban legend.”

  I stop and take the obit out of my pocket and hand it to him. “No legend,” I say. “He’s dead.”

  David looks surprised. He raises his eyebrows and says, “Hmmm.” He hands me back the paper. “So … had you heard that and forgot, or maybe half heard it at school and it didn’t sink in?”

  “You mean, before I saw him on the computer?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shake my head hard. “No. I had no idea. Nobody did. What Gary was saying the next day was a load of crap, but then it turns out that Bainer really was dead after all.”

  He lets out a low whistle. “The urban legend comes true.”

  We walk the rest of the way without talking. We go back on Main, me carrying a quart of milk and him with a six-pack of Long Trail Ale.

  “So what did that have to do with the game?” he asks. “You said something about one of their players.”

  “This kid Scapes. He was always beating on Bainer. We showed him the obit and it shook him up. A lot.”

  “You too?”

  “Yeah. I’m shook up. Last night when you were out, I saw Bainer on the computer screen again. Just a glimpse, but …”

  David puts a hand on my shoulder and pats it. “Don’t put much stock in that,” he says. “When you get nervous and worried, you’re bound to start seeing things. It’s that power of suggestion I mentioned the other day. Guilt and fright and who knows what other psychological effects playing games with your perceptions.”

  After lunch (David insisted on making me a tuna-fish sandwich after the cereal), he tells me to get out and enjoy the day. “Forget about this dead kid for a while,” he says. “Go shoot baskets in the park or something. The sunshine’ll do you good.”

  But the sunshine doesn’t last more than an hour, and I don’t feel like shooting or hanging out with anybody, so I wander around on the streets for most of the afternoon.

  Eventually I walk down a wobbly cobblestone alley between two brick buildings off Main. The buildings go far back, nearly a block, with apartments near the street but just dark empty windows and thick ivy climbing the walls toward the back. The end of the alley opens onto an old industrial area, lots of brick mill buildings either abandoned or converted to office space and shops—a shipping place with UPS and FedEx signs in the window, an accountant’s office, the Classy Clippers hair salon. There are four very tall—five-story at least—silos crammed close to each other and looking ready to collapse, and several signs saying OFFICE SPACE FOR RENT or NO PARKING. It doesn’t feel unsafe, just depressing. I can hear wheels screeching at the skateboard park, which is behind the auto parts store with the blue-painted cinder blocks. The blue paint is covered with graffiti that I can’t quite decipher.

  I take a seat at a wooden picnic table in the corner of a parking lot next to Papa’s Tacos, a trailer that’s only open on weekdays. A couple of blocks away I see kids on the swings behind the Catholic school.

  I know why I ended up in this neighborhood today, but I’m reluctant to go farther. Still, I should take a look.r />
  I get up and walk two blocks past college rentals—music blaring from most of them, guys sitting on the stoops with cans of beer and cigarettes, baseball caps on backward, some hibachis sizzling with hamburgers and sausages. TVs are tuned to college football games from Texas or Ohio; Cheshire Notch State doesn’t have a team of its own.

  Beyond those blocks, at the end of a dead-end street that’s too desolate even for the students, is the house. It’s tall and narrow, with gray asbestos siding peeling away and two of the windows covered in plywood. It’s been empty ever since the Bainers moved out. There’s a broken Dumpster in the yard overflowing with debris, and the lawn looks as if it hasn’t been mowed or raked in more than a year.

  Bainer used to ask me to come over, after school or on the weekend. I almost went once, back in fourth grade. Got this far and then turned back. Wouldn’t risk being seen with him. And who knows what stupid stuff he would have pulled if I’d gone in.

  I stare at the sad-looking house for a few minutes. No signs of life. On one side is an empty, run-down warehouse. On the other side is a junk-strewn yard and another dead house with a CONDEMNED sign on the door. Looks like a long time since anybody lived there. Three sneakers are hanging from a wire that connects the two houses.

  There’s a note on our kitchen table when I get back.

  Hey Jordan: Had to go home for something. Be back early eve. Made the chicken, it’s in the frigerator. Hope you’re feeling better. Have fun!

  Home? His home is in Boston, two hours away. If he had time to cook the chicken, then he couldn’t have gotten out of here before three. It’s quarter after five now.

  Boston College is playing Georgia Tech, so I flop on the couch to watch that. I’m way behind on sleep so I nod off in about three seconds and stay there until the front door opens.

  “Hey, buddy,” David says.

  “Hey. What’d you need in Boston?”

  He points his thumb outside. “Picked up my other guitar. These guys I met at the Shamrock, they’re playing there tonight and asked me to sit in. I figure it’s an easy fifty bucks, but I needed my ax.”