Charnel House

by Anderson, Fred

  Tina had known that.

  Maybe it really was time to lay off the beer. He couldn’t afford it now, anyway. Not if he wanted to eat and pay the rent. Not until he found another job. Garraty lowered the window and held the half-empty can of Pabst out, then upended it as he coasted down the bumpy lane. It felt kind of good. Empowering. Sure, this night had been a fuckarow, but that didn’t mean it was too late for him to turn things around. Pour the rest of the beer down the sink and try to get a good night’s sleep—but with the help of some Tylenol PM, because he had a feeling if he didn’t get at least a little nudge for the next few nights there would be a lot of tossing and turning and remembering and reliving as soon as his head hit the pillow. Tomorrow was another day, as the saying went, and instead of dwelling on the stupid thing he’d done, he could focus on getting his resumé up to date and checking employment web sites to see what was out there. And maybe one day soon he could put this hell behind him. Hell, he might even try an AA meeting, even though he wouldn’t need to stand up and say my name is Joe and I’m an alcoholic because he wasn’t.

  He pulled onto the narrow concrete pad in front of his trailer, parking the Prius as far forward as he could. The old bat across the street was the nosiest person Garraty had ever seen, always sitting on her stoop in a white plastic rocking chair watching the goings-on in this part of the trailer park. Luis Mendoza, the man who managed the place for the property owners, had told Garraty she was a widow one night as they sprawled in flimsy lawn chairs in the laundromat, drinking beer while Garraty’s clothes dried. At least she say she a widow, esse, Luis had proffered, you axe me, she too damn mean for any man I ever know. The two had shared a laugh and several more beers that night before Garraty had staggered home with his basket of warm clothes tucked under his arm and a numbing fog in his head. The smell of smoke had drawn his gaze across the way and he saw her rocking slowly in her chair, watching his approach. The orange glow of a cigarette revealed a disapproving scowl on her face. He’d raised a tipsily happy hand to her and she looked away without responding, although he guessed that was a response in itself.

  Now, as he swung his legs out of the car and stood, wincing from the flare of pain in his knee, he cast a glance over toward her place. Sure as shit, she was already out there, cigarette jutting from between her lips and a mug of coffee in one bony hand. Goddamnit. He couldn’t very well check the Prius for damage with her sitting there like a modern-day Gladys Kravitz, watching every move he made. The last thing he wanted to do was raise her suspicions. He could practically hear her on the phone with one of her old biddy friends. And then he came back outside with a bucket of soapy water and dishtowels and a flashlight, Mabel, and started washing his damn car before the sun was even up good! And since she was apparently on regular speaking terms with Luis, how long would it take her to ask him about his drinking buddy’s weird habits? Luis would eventually mention it, and though he could blame it on too much beer, the seed would have been planted. Shit had a tendency to unravel in ways you didn’t expect, when a single odd behavior coupled with a news story about a missing boy tripped some switch inside someone’s head, and before you knew it someone in a uniform was knocking on your door to ask you a few questions.

  Paranoid much, Joe?

  Maybe. Probably. Either way, the Prius could wait for a few hours. No one could see the front end where it was, and the bitch had to go in sometime. If she didn’t, he could just take care of the car later, when it looked less out of place. Nothing wrong with a man washing his car on a fine May afternoon, was there? People did that all the time, nosy neighbors be damned. Maybe he’d ask her to give him a hand. The shape his left one was in, he could use it.

  Garraty got the case of beer and climbed the steps—which weren’t really steps at all but pieces of two-by-twelve on stacked cinderblocks—to his trailer. As he worked the key in the deadbolt in the cheap aluminum door he wondered why he even bothered locking it. A simple kick would probably knock the thing off its hinges. The bolt receded and Garraty pushed the door open. Home sweet home, such as it was. The threadbare carpet was a drab brown—the better to hide stains, my dear—and at least twenty years old. Water stains marred the ceiling, yellow like piss. There had been no new leaks since he moved in, but the patchwork overhead indicated a hard fought battle between the roof and the elements. No pictures adorned the off-white walls. It had seen better days, for sure—probably when Clinton was busy getting his dick sucked in the Oval Office—but there were worse places one could live. The trailer was clean and reasonably well kept. Tina had trained him well.

  He limped into the kitchen and set the case of beer on the counter. The cheap Formica surface was rippled where water had leaked under the lip of the sink and soaked into the pressboard underneath. Garraty had first tried caulk, then silicone, to no avail. The goddamn water had a mind of its own, and always found a way in, just like through the roof. Better get used to it, bubba, because you’re stuck here in paradise until you can find a job and maybe make up with Tina. His left hand needed attention, but first he wanted to take care of the beer while his will was strong. Strike while the iron was hot, you might say. He took a beer from the box, popped the tab, and poured it down the drain. As the golden liquid foamed across the bottom of the sink it sent up a pleasant, yeasty smell. The smell of forgetfulness.

  Of forgiveness.

  Garraty crumpled the empty and pitched it across the tiny room to the trash. Two points. He pulled out a second beer and opened it. The glubbing sound from the can directed his attention to his bladder, which he had forgotten in his haste to get away from the old house. His kidneys were going to thank him just as much as his liver. He set the can on the counter next to the case and hobbled down the narrow dark hall to the bathroom, bumping into the wall twice as he walked. Jesus, he was tired. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight. And what a fun-filled day it’s been! As he relieved himself, he realized he was swaying like a man in a strong breeze and put one hand against the wall to steady himself. It felt like everything had caught up with him all at once, the way a big scare and rush of adrenaline will do. One minute you’re hopped up like a methhead bouncing off the walls and the next you’re weak and shaky as a newborn fawn. Fuck the beer, he thought, zipping his pants. I need to rest.

  But first, the hand.

  The medicine cabinet, which was just a drawer under the sink, was woefully lacking. Right after Tina banished him from the house and he’d rented the trailer, one of the first things he did was make a run to Walmart for a load of all the little things he’d taken for granted. Things he never bought while Tina was around to do it, but were just there in the house. Shaving stuff, soap, deodorant, toothpaste, and his idea of medical supplies: a bottle of rubbing alcohol, aspirin and Tylenol PM, and a box of Band-aids. He set the alcohol and bandages next to the sink, then pried the cap off the Tylenol PM and took three of them with a swig of water from the tap.

  When he pulled gingerly at the stiffened sock he discovered it had glued itself to the skin of his palm, using his own fluids as an adhesive. Fuck. He turned on the warm water, then gritted his teeth and stuck his hand under the stream. It wasn’t as bad as he expected. Not pleasant by any stretch, but tolerable. Working the sock between his fingers until it became first pliable, then soft as the water ran pink, Garraty peeled the fabric off his hand and got his first look at the gash across his palm. God. The thing looked like a gaping mouth stretching from side to side. The skin at the edges was dead and white, and reminded him of the lips of a cadaver pulled from the river. Thick clots of nearly black blood filled the gap, and the surrounding skin was an angry shade of red.

  Garraty let the water flow directly into the wound—this time it hurt like a motherfucker and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out—to flush out the dirt he knew had to be in there. Dirt and God knew what else. How many years had the piece of roofing been covering the entrance to the crawlspace? He’d be lucky if he didn’t get lockjaw. As the chunks
of gore washed out of the cut and gathered around the drain, too big to fit under the stopper, he realized the sheet metal had sliced his lifeline almost in half. Good thing I’m not superstitious.

  Once the wound was cleaned, he turned off the water and held his hand close to get a good look. Beneath the skin he saw a yellow pad of fat, then the pale red of muscle. He tried to make a fist and thought he saw something moving down in the opening, thick and rubbery and bulging, but couldn’t be sure. God knew his imagination had been in overdrive already, and he was working on no sleep. His eyes couldn’t be trusted right now, that was for sure. He was happy to find that he could close his fist a little tighter than when he’d tried right after the metal cut him. Maybe he wouldn’t need surgery, though without stitches he was going to have a hell of a scar.

  It’ll just add to my charm.

  Time for the bad part. Garraty spun the top off the bottle of alcohol and before he allowed himself to think about it and chicken out, upended the bottle over his hand. The pain bit him like a beast, burrowing into his bones and sending electric bolts of agony halfway up his arm. He spat a few invectives through his gritted teeth, and that made him feel a little better. Leaning against the washstand for support, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the burning to subside. After several seconds that felt like a lifetime, it did. The cut looked a lot better when he was done. Less angry. Fresh blood welled thickly in its depths as his body prepared a scab.

  It became obvious as soon as he pulled one of the wax-papered Band-aids from the box that they were going to be pretty much useless for his needs. For a moment he considered trying to attempt it anyway, maybe line the damn things up in a row, side to side, until the whole cut was covered, but he knew they wouldn’t stay. The thin plastic strips never seemed to stick worth a shit on moving parts, and would simply peel off in a big tan sheet. He needed gauze and medical tape, neither of which he had on hand, no pun intended. Something else would have to do until he could get to a drugstore later in the day. After he slept.

  Garraty went back to the kitchen and opened the door to the utility closet, where the breaker box and water heater lived. From a shelf above the water heater he took a plastic basket and carried it over to the counter. His toolbox, as it were. The real one was at the house with Tina and the kids, left in what had so far been vain hope that he’d be welcomed back one day. The basket held an assortment of home repair items he’d needed since moving in. Luis was there to take care of the big things, like the appliances and electrical problems, but he’d found plenty of minor stuff it was easier to fix himself. A fat roll of black Gorilla duct tape sat among the items in the basket, and he took it out. Pulling a few paper towels from the roll hanging under the cabinet next to the fridge, he fashioned himself a bandage of sorts, securing it with a few small pieces of the duct tape carefully arranged to minimize hair pulling when he removed them later.

  He returned the basket to the shelf, then shambled down the hall to his still-dark bedroom and shucked off his clothes before climbing into the creaky double bed. The Tylenol was starting to work, and the pain in his hand and knee had diminished a little. The bed wasn’t very comfortable, and certainly not one he would have bought if he were out shopping, but when the price is right for a furnished place—and you don’t really have a choice because it’s all you can afford anyway—you suck it up and learn to live with it. Roughly thirty seconds after he got the covers pulled up to ward off the chill that seemed to have crept into his bones during his time under the Barlowe house, he was out.

  10

  When Garraty woke hours later, bright sunlight streaming through the blinds crossed him in thin white stripes. He lay in a spot of wetness so big at first he thought he’d pissed the bed. Sweat. The room felt like a goddamn oven. Whatever cold front had pushed through last night had been burned away by the light of day. It couldn’t be all that hot outside, not in May. Probably not much over seventy, but with the window units off the trailer had heated up like a locked car in summer. He kicked the covers off and blinked blearily at the clock radio. Almost three. Jesus. His head felt thick, cotton-packed, but at least it wasn’t hurting. Yet. His hand throbbed and his knee pounded. A dull crimson line across the makeshift bandage told him the cut had been leaking while he slept.

  He scooted across the bed and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The spot where the rock had jobbed his knee when he fell was puffy and purpling, the leg stiff. His shoulders ached from carrying the boy’s body and digging his grave, and his lower back sang a song of agony. Maybe he should start working out as part of the new leaf he was turning over, so shit like this didn’t practically incapacitate him. Shit like this. As if he had the need to bury dead kids under the local haunted house regularly. Garraty grimaced as he stood, and pressed his good hand into the small of his back. Nothing like growing old gracefully.

  Before he crossed the hall to the bathroom he turned on the air conditioning unit mounted in one of the two windows in the back wall. He set the thermostat a little high. Utilities weren’t part of the rent—already more than it should have been because Garraty opted to go month-to-month instead of signing a lease, just in case Tina wanted him to come back—and he couldn’t afford to run it down as far as he’d like. Opening some windows would help, at least for a few weeks. July and August were going to be brutal unless he found work. He might have to spend his days hanging out on the concrete pad in front of the trailer, exchanging glares with the crone across the way.

  In the bathroom, Garraty turned the crank on the frosted roll-out window while he peed. Get a little air flowing. He peered through the narrow gaps between the slats of glass, looking at the trailer opposite his. She was out there on the stoop again—or still—rocking slowly in the white chair, a tumbler of iced tea on the small plastic table beside her and a paperback in one spotted hand. For once, she wasn’t looking his way.

  Standing on the ground next to her stoop right in the middle of a patch of purple and yellow pansies was the dead boy, and he was looking Garraty’s way, staring across the lane at him with those half-lidded eyes full of crusted blood. His arms hung limp and broken by his sides, splintered bone glistening wetly in the afternoon sun. The lower half of his body still had that strange skew to it, like the Prius had twisted him the way Garraty twisted the boiled crawdads they sometimes served down at Titsville on Friday nights. He was so close to the old woman she could have reached down and taken hold of the ice scraper handle, which poked jauntily out of the split crown of his head. Garraty jerked and the stream of urine danced out of the toilet and spattered across the cheap linoleum. To his racing mind it sounded like dirt falling on a Mylar blanket. The boy’s lips were moving, and though he made no sound Garraty could hear it was easy to see what he was saying.

  Toomey. Toomey. Toomey.

  Over and over, like a goddamn metronome. Garraty closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened them, the boy was still there. Still repeating his mantra. The old woman was completely unaware of his presence. Garraty wondered if he’d be able to hear the kid if he were standing closer. He suspected he would. He tucked his penis back into his underwear and watched the boy, considering. It was one thing for his imagination to have run wild when he was under the house with the dead boy, but this was something else entirely. This was the middle of the goddamn day. He let his gaze drift up to his neighbor, still lost in her paperback. Maybe she was deaf. Wouldn’t Luis have said something if she was, though? Besides, she should be able to smell him. He was still wearing the same clothes, and had to reek. His last load had been stewing in his jeans for hours now, and she was well within the circle of stench.

  But the kid was dead, asshole, and you know it. If the car didn’t kill him, the ice scraper sure as fuck did.

  And yet there he stood in the bright sunshine, looking just as solid as the trailer behind him. No wispy haints or transparent phantoms here, no sir. The first finger of fear flicked at Garraty’s heart. What if the kid was alive and d
ug himself out and followed me here? He knew the question was absurd. No one could have survived the injuries the boy had—not to mention the amateur lobotomy with the ice scraper—much less dug himself out of the makeshift grave and traveled six miles to the trailer park. But the kid was there, plain as day, and he didn’t look much like a figment of Garraty’s imagination.

  Toomey. Toomey. Toomey.

  The old woman casually set her paperback aside and picked up a pack of cigarettes from the little table. She flipped the box top open and withdrew one, which she tucked between her thin lips and lit with a shaky hand, cupping the flame to keep the wind from blowing it out. Settling back into the rocker, she let her eyes drift toward Garraty’s trailer. If she knew the boy was next to her, she was doing a hell of a job ignoring him. Likewise, the kid didn’t acknowledge her at all, just kept looking at Garraty cowering behind the thin slats of frosted glass through those awful blood-filled eyes. Mouthing that goddamn word.

  “Why are you staring at me so, Joe Garraty?” the woman suddenly called, and Garraty jumped like he’d been goosed. She leaned forward in her chair and glared over the top of her reading glasses at him. Good Christ, who has vision that good? This thought was followed closely by how the hell does she even know my name? Luis. It had to be. Garraty hadn’t shared more than ten words—most of them hi or hello from him, and at the most a grunt in response from her—with her in the time he’d lived here. He wondered what else Luis had said about him. The woman plucked the cigarette from her mouth and tapped ashes over the side of the stoop. They fell like snow on the head of the dead boy. He seemed not to notice. “I can feel your eyes crawling all over me like fingers. Are you over there doing something perverse to yourself?”

  Garraty flushed. Damned old biddy sure knew how to get under his skin. Like someone would ever want to spank it while looking at her wrinkled old ass. Instead of responding—God knew that’s what she wanted—he grabbed hold of the crank in the window frame and closed the window. Fuck her. Luis was right. She was one mean bitch. He heard her raspy, wheezing cackle through the glass. If she could see the dead boy beside her, with his cleaved head and shattered arms, the laugh would wither and die on those livered lips, Garraty thought. He could look out at the boy from the living room. Lift a slat a little bit and watch as long as he wanted. Let’s see her spot that.