Calamity

by J. T. Warren

  He smiled. “We can go to that old flea market where we made love in the back of your father’s Pontiac while Mexicans were selling rotten fruit right outside. Remember how the fat one knocked on the window and said, ‘Hay la fruta verdadera’?” His Spanish accent was terrible, but Chloe laughed again, this one more genuine, finding it more amusing than Delaney had found his Dracula voice. “I had no idea what that man said to us, but I remember him saying it again and again.”

  “That’s because you didn’t want to stop,” she said with the faintest flirtation.

  He rubbed her thigh. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Even with fat, fruit-selling Mexicans watching, I can’t help myself.”

  “I think you were showing off.”

  “Me?”

  “You knew what he was saying.”

  He chuckled. “I did not. Not until later.”

  “Yeah, once we got out and he said, ‘fruta de la vagina.’ I think then it was pretty obvious.”

  “If we had been on that table between the avocados and the little bananas, I think he would have had more customers.”

  “Oh, really, Mister Funny Guy?”

  “Nothing sells quite so well as vagina fruit.” He squirreled his hand toward her crotch so quickly that she screamed in surprise and batted it away. Then he was on top of her and her arms were around him and laughter filled the bedroom for the first time in what felt like forever.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asked. “Back to the flea market?”

  “Heck, we can just go have lunch at Casa de Mexico and go at it on the table.” The laughter started again. “I’ll even pay the guy with the guitar to serenade us.”

  He kissed her and though her lips were dry and her breath stale, it felt wonderful. Happiness wafted in her eyes. She stretched her arms to her side, arching her back in that familiar way, and he wanted her. Even now, even as she was almost emaciated and unshowered, he wanted her—his wife, his love.

  Lizzy, their cat who would sleep in here all day too if Anthony didn’t force her out when he got up in the mornings, always stretched after a long nap, a signal she was ready to get some food and maybe sniff out the litter, but people in states of deep rest didn’t always stretch to awake the muscles for activity. Sometimes, the stretch was merely to stave off atrophy. Chloe might end up in a wheelchair one day if she stopped using her legs. That might be farfetched, but so was a baby’s death, at least in the heart where authentic truth lived.

  Chloe’s arms curled back into her body, hands joining beneath his chest, and her eyelids settled closed again. The part of him that could have slapped her for giving up on life so easily did not flare up. Instead, he admired how peaceful Chloe looked, how sweet and gentle. Maybe the bad time would finally end. Maybe the darkness had lifted.

  He settled next to her and was soon asleep. At some point, Lizzy crawled out from some hidden spot and curled between them. Lizzy Borden, he thought.

  The phone rang and Anthony assumed it was Stephanie, Chloe’s sister, who always called Saturday afternoons to check up on everything. Those conversations recently lasted only the few minutes it took for Anthony to tell Stephanie how many hours Chloe had logged in sleep this week. He should have realized it was too early for Stephanie’s call. He should have realized that everything was going so well this morning that something had to go wrong. He wouldn’t be able to think about it until a few days later, and then only after he washed the blood off his knuckles, but he should have known that darkness was going to descend again. Not that it would have made any difference had he recognized the sound of death in the phone’s ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Williams?” the gruff voice asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m Sergeant Fratto. There’s been an accident.”

  6

  The idea came so suddenly and right out of nowhere that Brendan believed the gods had given it to him. Probably had been the gods’ intervention since he’d be doing it for them. Brendan opened his composition book on his lap and added to his list: 47—drop bowling ball onto car.

  “What are you writing?” Tyler asked.

  Brendan shut the book. “Nothing.”

  The road to the bowling alley took them past a seemingly endless row of houses bordering the street. Each house had a well-cared-for lawn and no campers or even kids’ toys cluttered the driveways. There were only four styles of homes, and four colors to match, and they repeated over and over, styles alternating from one side of the street to the other. Did people ever forget which house was theirs and try to enter one only to discover they were attempting to break into their neighbor’s home? It probably happened more often than people cared to acknowledge. Brendan had seen it happen in his neighborhood where most homes were one-car garage condos that were symmetrically stuck to another one-car garage condo. Their house was the two-car exception; nor did their house border their neighbors’ or resemble it symmetrically or otherwise. Kids at school said he lived in Rich Boyville. It was meant as an insult, like most things kids said, but Brendan liked the name. It actually sounded like someplace he’d like to live, a place where maybe life was rich and happy. A place the gods blessed.

  “You dress like that for bowling?”

  Brendan wanted his brother to shut up; he had some planning to do if he was going to carry out the sacrifice without anyone knowing. “What do you mean?”

  “You look like you’re going to school. Catholic school.”

  And you look like you’re going to smoke pot, Brendan wanted to say. Tyler’s jeans were dirty, stained in some places, and deep-creased wrinkles patterned his shirt like the face of an old person. “We’re supposed to dress appropriately. It’s league rules.”

  Tyler snorted. “It’s a youth league for twelve-year olds, not some PBA thing.”

  Even if Brendan tried to explain the real meaning behind the clothes, he knew that Tyler would say it was stupid and that he should stop wasting his time on fantasies. It was better to let Tyler rag on him a bit for the clothes than to actually try to explain why Brendan had made sure his pants were clean, his shirt unwrinkled.

  After a few minutes (still no break in the house pattern), Tyler sighed loudly. “So, how long’s this thing last, anyway?”

  “About two hours,” Brendan said, “but you don’t need to stay. Mrs. Capra will drive me home. And if not her, then Mr. Coyle. He’s always there. His son is really good. 185.”

  “What?”

  “His bowling average.”

  “No, I was thinking I’d stay, watch you bowl.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “Dad doesn’t stay?”

  “He used to.”

  After a pause, Tyler said, “They got food there, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, I’ll get us some hot dogs and French fries and I’ll watch you bowl.”

  If Tyler stayed, it would be even harder to do what must be done. “You probably want to see Paul or something. I’ll be fine.”

  “Paul?” A tremor of concern peppered his words. “Why would I want to talk to Paul?”

  … fucked up real bad with that weird bitch …

  “I just figured he was your friend. That’s all.”

  Tyler relaxed. “He is, but you’re my little brother. That’s more important.”

  Brendan loved Tyler; there was no question that Tyler had been a good big brother, especially when Brendan had been younger. Tyler taught him how to ride a bike with no training wheels, how to throw a baseball like the professionals instead of like girls, and how to manipulate Mom and Dad so that he could always get what he wanted. That play-one-against-the-other strategy stopped working since Mom no longer came out of her room, but it had still been a hell of a trick and though Tyler used it more, Brendan had used the tactic a few times, the most memorable when he got out of going to church last Easter. He had stayed home eating chocolate while Mom, Dad, and Delaney went to church. Tyler had slept right through until th
ey returned. The sleeping strategy worked best for Tyler, as it did now for Mom.

  Tyler never hurt Brendan or was really mean to him. He wrestled with him sometimes and always won, but he never left any marks or permanent damage. The only thing Brendan didn’t enjoy was the tickling wars in which Tyler took on both him and Delaney and always stood victorious over their shuddering bodies, tears streaming from their eyes. Tickling could be ruthlessly painful but it was always sort of fun. He had even started talking about girls with him. They’re all crazy, he told him, always remember that and you’ll be okay.

  That Tyler wanted to watch him bowl was cool. It was fun when Dad would watch him bowl and cheer him and his team on and tell him it was okay when he missed an easy spare or dropped the final frame and cost the team a win. Without Dad watching, bowling had become more like a chore. The other parents cheered him on, especially Mr. Coyle, but the fun had seeped away little by little, almost frame by frame, so that now, almost a month since the baby died, the sport of bowling had become no more entertaining than long division problems in math class.

  With Tyler watching him, perhaps some of the fun might seep its way back into the games. Three games with an actual family member cheering him on would be a treat. Even if Tyler made fun of him for gutter balls or looking silly on the approach (he had adopted the leg kick common to the professionals and even the kids on his own team ragged on him for it), it would still be cool to have him watch. But that would make it even harder still to do what the gods wanted and offer the sacrifice they demanded. It was tempting to put off the sacrifice, tell the gods they could wait, but after Tyler’s problem (fucked up real bad) last night, Brendan knew the gods were growing impatient. If he didn’t do it today, the situation would get worse and before next Saturday it might be too late. Tyler could end up in jail … or dead.

  “You really don’t have to,” Brendan said. “In fact, it might make me nervous. Today’s the first round of qualifying, so we need to do well or we won’t make it to the playoffs.” The first round of qualifying wasn’t until after Easter but Tyler wouldn’t know. That was the number one rule from Tyler’s own How to Fool the Parents Handbook: be sure the lie is believable.

  “Pretty serious stuff, huh?”

  Tyler kept glancing at him, but it wasn’t just at him; there was something else, and it held his focus a few seconds too long. “You’re going to miss the turn.”

  Tyler made the turn with only the faintest complaint from the tires. The bowling alley was at the end of this road (more trees than houses on this one) set between Fillipe’s Pizza and Jan’s We Do Nails Salon. Mom used to go there.

  “How’s school?” Tyler asked.

  “Fine. How about you?”

  Tyler laughed. “Fine, too, I guess.” He turned into the bowling alley parking lot. The lot was over half full; most of the kids and their parents were already here. “You must do well in English.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “That book.” He gestured to the composition book. “You’re always writing in it.”

  Brendan had known something was up and now he was starting to figure it out. “I guess,” he said. “It’s nothing really.”

  Tyler parked the car between a minivan and shiny SUV. “You write down stuff that happens, like in real life?”

  He wanted to know if Brendan had overhead him last night. He was afraid his little brother had been a eavesdropping and had written down the conversation. Tyler tried to use the same manipulation tactics he used on their parents against his little brother. Brendan almost felt betrayed. Well, it was okay. Brendan was going to do something to make everything better, and then Tyler could forget about (weird bitch) his date last night and (fucked up real bad) whatever had happened.

  “No,” Brendan said, “just made up stories. Fictional stuff.”

  Tyler nodded, appraised him. This was the moment of truth. Stay or go. “Sounds good. Maybe I can read some of it while you bowl?”

  Damn. “I have to start my practice throws.” Brendan got out of the car.

  * * *

  All the parents made a big fuss over Tyler. Mrs. Capra asked repeatedly if their mom was alright and to have her call anytime she wanted, day or night. Mr. Coyle slapped Tyler on the back and gave him a man hug. “How’s the old man holding up? I miss our Saturday morning beers together.” His full-bellied laugh made everyone smile.

  While Tyler handled the parents, Brendan went through his warm up routine and started throwing a few practice balls. Two of his three teammates had arrived—Dave and Nick, but that was okay: he had a plan.

  He couldn’t take the composition book with him without appearing like he was up to something, but he had learned enough about misdirection from Tyler to know what to do. While Dave and Nick donned their shoes and started their practice throws, Brendan turned to a page well away from his sacrifice list, a page marked CHAPTER SEVEN: The Discovery, and scribbled above it, Tyler’s Problem. He folded the page diagonally to make a triangle and closed the book without really flattening the page. He placed the book in his bowling bag. When Tyler finally got his hands on the book, he would turn right to that folded page and, hopefully, start reading. The temptation would be too great for him to resist. Instead of discovering his little brother had overheard the conversation from last night, Tyler would read about a mysterious detective named Bo Blast who was, by Chapter Seven, in hot pursuit of a killer known only as The Darkman.

  Neither Nick or Dave made any comment about the two gutter balls Brendan threw, though Cody, arriving late as usual, flashed him a look which was as loud as saying, Jeez, if you bowl like that, I guess it’s going to be a long afternoon. In response, Brendan said to himself, It will be a long afternoon, alright, but not for me or any of us. He threw another practice shot, the ball knocked off the six and ten pins, and he told his teammates he was going to get his ball cleaned before the match started. They nodded, perhaps hoping a little ball-cleaning would work or perhaps wondering how a simple cycle through the ball cleaner was going to fix his shitty throws. He slipped his blue and yellow-orange ball (“Brendan” carved into the ball above the finger holes and filled with green chalk) into its carrying sling.

  Tyler stopped him with a simple hand on his shoulder. Though he wanted to run, Brendan willed his feet to freeze and his body to remain relaxed and as inconspicuous as possible. His shirt was starting to stick to his back with sweat but surely no one would notice that.

  “Where you going?” Tyler asked. Mr. Coyle was looking on, huge smile still painted across his face.

  “Just to clean my ball before the match starts. It’s not hooking right.”

  Tyler squinted as if trying to see Brendan through a haze. What was he thinking? Could he feel Brendan’s sweat through his shirt? What if he asked to tag along, see how a bowling ball was cleaned, or some stupid thing like that?

  “Whatever,” he said.

  “You want to get us some fries or something?” Brendan asked. It was a possible risk since they had just eaten only a short while ago, but if Tyler agreed it would buy Brendan some extra time, which could prove crucial. The old guy who worked the concessions stand also worked the bar, which lay on the other side of the wall displaying the menu. He smelled of beer and cigarettes and moved so slowly that were he not old, people would be hollering for him to hurry up before all the kids were done bowling.

  “Sure,” Tyler said. “Curly or regular?”

  Brendan smiled. Either Tyler was in an especially good mood or he was trying too hard. It didn’t matter; Brendan knew who had the upper hand. “They only have one type of fries.”

  Tyler nodded and turned back to Mr. Coyle, who immediately launched into a discussion of cars. Tyler couldn’t care about sports cars or souped-up engines, but it didn’t seem like Mr. Coyle cared. Sometimes adults just wanted a youthful ear to hear them out. It was probably because they were so afraid of dying that they wanted to feel like they were still young, still in the game.

  Adult
s could be ridiculous like that. Dad wasn’t that way, at least not in public or in front of his kids. Maybe he liked getting older, or maybe he wasn’t afraid of dying. Brendan could be afraid for him; that was fine. Michael Mance, a kid in his grade, had a father who was dying of cancer. Their teacher had made them write Get Well Soon and Thinking of You cards for him one day when Mike was absent. Brendan did it and honestly hoped Michael’s father would get better, but he knew cards made out of construction paper weren’t going to help. If anything, they would just make Mike feel embarrassed and stupid or even angry at his father for making him endure the pity of his peers.

  In cartoons, Death was always portrayed as a guy in a black cloak who carried a thing called a “scythe” (he had asked his father what it was and Dad launched into a dull discussion of farm tools) and whomever he touched died. Brendan would keep Death at bay. Death had slipped past him into their house and into the baby’s room, but Brendan had been ever-watchful since and would continue to be. Dad might not be worried about his own death, but Brendan needed to protect everyone. It was what he could do for the family. And for the gods, too, of course.

  The ball cleaner was a clunky machine that probably did nothing more than splash the ball around in a little bit of water, but it took at least a few minutes to do that splashing and it was stationed near the Men’s Room, which was right next to a rack holding league balls that anyone could use and that was perfect.

  Brendan opened the door of the ball cleaner—Cleans Your Ball in Just Minutes!—placed his bowling ball in the pocket for it and shut the chute-like door. He put in the two dollars’ worth of quarters and waited for the machine to rumble to life. After a few seconds in which it seemed Brendan had been pick-pocketed by an inanimate object, the ball cleaner, Removes Wax, Dirt, and Grime, emitted a heavy clunking sound and began to vibrate.

  He wasted no time choosing a ball from the league rack. Unlike the rack near the front of the alley where the latest league news was posted on a bulletin board, only posters advertising various types of bowling balls (urethane, reactive, particle) filled the wall space above this rack and no one was nearby trying to get a closer look at them.