When We Fall

by Peter Giglio

  “She’d have to be working through issues to want to spend time with a dork like me.”

  “C’mon. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  Ben heaved a sigh and started to unbutton his shirt. “Look, Dad. I’m…I’m sorry for jumping down your throat, but I’m all right. Really, I am.”

  Ben’s father rose from the bed and put his arms around his son, pulling him close. After a moment of hesitation, Ben listlessly returned the embrace, fearful his dad wouldn’t leave the room before Aubrey returned.

  * * *

  After he filmed the title cards—Aubrey holding them steady in front of the reading lamp on his headboard—Ben grabbed a large box from the floor and said, “Ready?”

  “What’s the box for?” she asked, following him into the living room.

  “We need a way for the evil spirits to get here,” he said. “In the first one, we didn’t really have a way, they just came. Pretty stupid. We filmed the second one on Commercial Street, and—” He stopped for a moment and laughed. “And we had a few homeless guys help us. The evil spirits came from the broth at the soup kitchen.”

  “You have to be kidding?” She raised a hand to her mouth to cover a blooming grin.

  “Yeah,” he said, “my parents told me it was tasteless, but the homeless guys on Commercial thought it was hilarious. They were happy to help, and we even gave ’em a few bucks for their trouble. We went into the kitchen with them, and when one of the nuns asked us what the camera was for, we told her we were making a student film about the homeless. She didn’t even bat an eye.”

  Aubrey chuckled. “Brilliant. How did you do it the third time?”

  “I filmed Johnny jamming out to heavy metal music. We didn’t have sound, of course, but I filmed him putting a Metallica tape into his boom box, then he pressed play and made devil horns with his hand while head-banging. Then we had him start choking, and the evil spirits came out of the speakers, went into his mouth, and then a speaker popped out of his chest like the thing in Alien.”

  “What? I have to see that! How the hell did you do that?”

  “Johnny had a cable release, so we used stop-motion animation and fake blood. We stacked books under his T-shirt to make it look like something was coming out of his chest. The stack got higher and higher, until it was about the same size as the speaker. Then we put the speaker in the place of the books and cut away a little of his shirt for each frame, until you could see the bloody speaker on his chest. Then we moved the speaker around, shooting a frame at a time. So it was the boom box speaker, covered in fake blood, that terrorized folks. Johnny put on different costumes for each of the victims. It was a riot. Our best one ever.”

  Ben opened the front door and they stepped onto the patio that looked over Emerson Public Park.

  “But wait,” Aubrey said, “how do you make the evil spirits?”

  He smiled. “That’s all done in post.”

  “Post?” She laughed. “Wow, you really are serious.”

  He put the box down on the ground, then pulled a blue Sharpie from his pocket, waggling it at Aubrey. “These things are magic.”

  “A permanent marker? What does that do for you?”

  “I draw the spirits on the frames of the film. I animate them. They end up looking like big balls of light that move around and do what I want them to.” He pulled a red marker out of his pocket, then a green one. “These won’t do me any good till the film is developed, of course.”

  “Then why do you have them on you now?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. It just feels right to have my tools on me. That’s one of the things Johnny told me. He read a lot of books and magazines about making movies, and he taught me loads of stuff. He was the one who wanted to be a great director someday, and I think he would have. He was an awesome artist, too. The best! We made a bunch of other films, ones that he shot, ones that I don’t have, but the Evil Spirits series was mine to direct. I was so happy when he told me the third one was our best.” Ben gazed into the clear blue sky, and the image of Johnny, as if a layer of film had been superimposed over the day, lingered for a silent moment. A ghostly image of a smiling boy filled with dreams.

  “So tell me about the box,” she said, snapping Ben from his reverie.

  “Oh…oh, the box. It’s a mail package. I’m going to film some establishment shots first. One of the house from the park, then one that starts on the mailbox and pans down to the package beneath it. I wish we could film the mailman delivering the—”

  Ben’s attention was captured by the sudden sound of an approaching vehicle. A mail truck. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. The postal truck was six houses down, the mailman leaning out the window, lowering the flag on the Hendersons’ box.

  Aubrey smiled at Ben. “Run,” she said. “Get in place for your first shot. I’ll talk the mailman into playing along.”

  “He’ll think you’re crazy,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, and maybe he’ll be right. Just go, run. I’ll step outside the action and you start filming when I give you the thumbs-up.”

  Ben laughed. “You’re the best, Aubrey.” Then he ran for the park.

  * * *

  Ben loved riding in Aubrey’s Trans-Am almost as much as he’d enjoyed making the movie with her. The car, a lot like Burt Reynolds’s ride in Smokey & the Bandit, though less shiny for wear, rattled down the road as Ben ran his thumbs over the spent film cartridge, daydreaming about its contents. Too bad the photo counter at Osco Drug would take five days to get it back to him. They had to send it to St. Louis to be developed.

  “I think it will turn out great,” he said.

  Downshifting into a turn, she nodded agreement. No longer driving into the sun, she lifted the Wayfarer sunglasses from her squinted gaze and rested them atop her head. Morrissey crooned from the tape deck: “Time’s tide will smother you.”

  She’d been the one who turned Ben on to alternative music, which had spoken louder to his emotional state after Johnny died than the happy pop he used to listen to. It felt right to him that his taste ran more “Head on the Door” than “Hungry like the Wolf” these days. He was tuning into harsh realities, he thought, which meant he was growing up. He liked that notion.

  Pulling the car into the Osco lot, Aubrey said, “Hey, why don’t I take you for ice cream after you drop off the film.”

  With a tight grimace, certain there wasn’t enough time, he glanced at his watch. “Damn,” he said, “I can’t. Dinner’s in twenty minutes, and I promised my dad I wouldn’t be late.”

  “No sweat,” she said, bringing the car to a squeaky halt in front of the store’s sliding glass doors. “Some other time.”

  “Yeah, that’d be super!”

  “And, hey, I got a surprise for you.”

  “Another one?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, another one. Hey, I don’t have any little brothers or sisters to spoil. I just have you, brat.”

  He felt his heart unaccountably sink. There it was. Little brother: his station in her mind. Even though he’d assumed that truth before the sting of her words, there had always been part of him—a fantasy—that held out hope she liked him as something more.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “Don’t you want to hear what my surprise is?”

  “Of course I do.” He gazed through the bug-splattered windshield and forced a smile, then swiveled to face her, one hand gripping the film cartridge, the other on the door handle. “What is it?” He was anxious to get away from her, fearful that tears might cloud his eyes at any moment. Above all else, he knew his sensitivity made him unpopular at school, and he didn’t want to appear weak in front of Aubrey, his sole island of acceptance in the non-adult world.

  “Well,” she said, “you know I’ve been looking for a summer job, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I got one you’re gonna really love. I start work at Beggar’s Video tomorrow.”

  “Cool,” he said.

  “So, when I
come over on Tuesday night to hang out, I can bring movies over. We’ll make popcorn and watch anything you want.”

  “Really?” His sadness fled in an instant, and he loved how she said “hang out,” like she was actually looking forward to it. “Wow!”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “Bond,” he said in his best British accent. “James Bond.”

  She laughed. “Which ones? I think they just got Octopussy.”

  “Connery,” he said, “but not Never Say Never Again. Any of the old ones are great. Goldfinger, for sure. And Thunderball, if they have it; I haven’t seen that one yet.”

  “Consider it done.”

  He stepped out of the car, strengthened by his good fortune, then closed the door. Before running into the store, he leaned into the open window. “Hey, Aubrey?”

  “Yeah.” She brushed bangs out of her eyes and put her sunglasses back on.

  “Why are you so nice to me? Why aren’t you running around with your friends instead of hanging out with a dumb kid?”

  “Who says you’re a dumb kid?”

  “C’mon. I’m a dork and I know it.”

  “Hey, maybe I like dorks.”

  “Seriously, Aub, what’s up?”

  “You’re more fun than my friends, Ben. Simple as that.”

  “Okay,” he said, then turned and walked toward the store.

  He wanted to believe her more than anything in the world. Wanted to, but didn’t.

  2

  Unable to sleep, Ben stared at the Super 8 camera for hours, caressing the trigger as he aimed the capped lens into the shadows beyond his reading lamp.

  Then he rested the camera by his side and tried to read for a few minutes, but he couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t get Aubrey out of his head. Everything on the page became her—beautiful Aubrey in pink and white sweat clothes, jogging down Catalpa Avenue. His body, in a low crouching position, had been a hinge, swinging the camera to follow her graceful strides. He couldn’t believe how well she took his direction, her ability to look surprised, even though there weren’t any monsters for her to react to.

  And he thought about how he’d animate the evil spirits, how he’d make them move in on her. He was proud of the long shots he’d taken after her reaction, how he’d crept toward her, trying like hell to hold the camera steady, easing the zoom back, to give the shot what Johnny had called “Hitchcock’s nuts,” the illusion that the character in the foreground remained still while the background telescoped backward.

  I told you to watch Psycho and The Birds, Johnny seemed to say. Did you ever do that?

  He lowered the paperback and shook his head. This happened sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep. Johnny’s voice echoed from the dark corners of the room; more accurately, the dark corners of Ben’s mind. He was sure his imagination took over in these moments, filling in the blanks of all the conversations the two friends would never have for real. Only these weren’t like the talks of old, which would have been welcomed.

  The Birds was on WTBS last week, Johnny informed him. This was something Ben already knew, something he had to know in order for this bogus exchange to play out. And knowing that gave Ben some relief.

  He wasn’t crazy. Not yet.

  “I know,” said Ben.

  Well, why didn’t you watch it?

  “I forgot to. It’s no big—”

  You never really gave a shit about me. You were glad when I died, ’cause my mom gave you my camera. Now you can make movies with that slut friend of yours, while I rot in the ground. Things worked out pretty well for you, didn’t they?

  Ben shook his head. Although aware he was only talking to himself, the cruel words from his fallen friend stung. “No,” he croaked. “That’s not—”

  Stupid James Bond movies.

  “What? You loved James—”

  She said she’d bring you anything you wanted to watch, brother. Remember when you called me that? Brother! Ha! What a laugh! I can’t believe you had the nerve to call me that to my face.

  “I still feel that way. I always will.”

  But no brother of mine would be so dumb. How are you gonna learn anything from 007 that you don’t already know? You need to watch Hitch. You need his nuts, not more Pussy fuckin’ Galore.

  “You never talked to me this way, Johnny. You were never like this. Why are you being mean now? Is it ’cause you’re dead?”

  Snide laughter echoed from the darkness.

  Do you think Aubrey is gonna give you some of her Pussy Galore? You heard her today, didn’t you? She told you the score.

  “Don’t say bad things about her.”

  There was no response.

  “Johnny?”

  Yeah, what?

  “Do you hate me now?”

  I don’t know, brother. I’m still thinking about it.

  The door snapped open, and Ben jerked away from the sudden movement, pressing himself against the wall. Shame, as if he’d been caught jerking off, came when he turned and saw his mother squinting through the crack. He exhaled slowly.

  “Who’re you talking to?” she asked.

  “No one.” He picked up his book and pretended to read. “I was just…just reading out loud.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, turn off the light and go to sleep. You woke me up.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Some of us aren’t lucky enough to have summer break.”

  He nodded and snapped off the light, but his mother lingered for a moment before the door clicked shut. Once he was certain he wasn’t being watched, he turned his top pillow sideways and rested it alongside his body. Hugging the pillow, he pretended it was Aubrey, trying to push Johnny from his mind.

  You’ve already replaced me, brother.

  He clenched the pillow tighter and concentrated on Aubrey—the sunburst halo behind her head as she fell to the ground and pretended to die, clutching her throat. How real her fear—her pain—looked.

  Shifting for comfort, he felt something sharp poke his back. The camera. He’d forgotten to put it away.

  Eyes adjusting to the darkness, he found the box on the floor and slid the cover off. He started to put the camera away but couldn’t see well enough to ensure he was doing it right. The cap might pop off, he worried, and the lens might get scratched. He reached up to turn the light on, just for a moment.

  Snap.

  And there he was—Johnny, standing over Ben’s bed, looking down, a wounded expression deepening as shadows danced across the dark contours of his face.

  This happened sometimes, too, though less frequently, but Ben didn’t flinch like he had for his mother. This, he knew, wasn’t real.

  “Go away,” he whispered. “Just go away.”

  He tucked the camera, now properly packed in its case, beneath his bed, clicked off the light, and smothered his face into the Aubrey-pillow.

  Sleep didn’t come fast, but when it did, it was uninterrupted and dreamless.

  * * *

  Ben stepped through the sliding back door into the house and kicked off his grass-stained Vans. In the kitchen, he jerked the refrigerator open and relished the cold blast of air against his sweat-soaked skin.

  “Close the fridge, Benjamin,” his mother called around the corner. She was in the TV room, watching one of her “stories.” General Hospital or As the World Turns—they all looked and sounded the same to Ben. They were junk.

  “Just grabbing something cold to drink,” he said.

  “Well, don’t take all day. We’re already running the AC.”

  He grabbed a can of Dr Pepper and pressed it to his flushed face, then slammed the door. Bottles and jars rattled as a loud commercial for a car dealership blared from the next room. Ben heard the old couch springs sigh relief, warning of his mother’s approach. Scowling, she glided into the kitchen.

  “How many times,” she said, “do I have to tell you not to slam the refrigerator door?”

  “Sorry,” he moaned, then popped the top
of the soda and downed half of it in one swallow.

  “You finished mowing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Front and back?”

  He nodded, took another drink.

  “Did you mow behind the fence in the backyard?”

  “Aw, c’mon, isn’t that city property back there?”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “I don’t like to mow back there. The weeds are high. It chokes the mower out, and there’s all kinds of stuff in those weeds.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Someone has to do it, and since you don’t pay rent to live under this roof…”

  Ben trudged to the door, slipped on his sneakers, then returned to the suffocating stillness of what promised to be a scorching day. The pre-noon air already felt thicker than maple syrup, and the cloudless sky promised no relief. He eyed the swimming pool for a moment and thought about pulling off his shirt and going for a dip. Instead, not anxious for another scolding from his mother, he wiped sweat from his brow, planted a foot on the ready-for-the-junkyard lawnmower, and yanked the starter cord. The mower sputtered, didn’t start. The next three pulls yielded the same result.

  “It’s probably out of gas,” Ben’s mother shouted from the deck. She stepped back inside and slid the door shut.

  Without acknowledging her, Ben started for the garage to get the gas can. Just then, his father’s work truck rattled into the driveway. Roy Rose, sitting in the passenger’s seat, smiled at Ben.

  “Hey, son,” his father said, stepping down from the cab.

  Ben nodded.

  “How you getting along today, Ben?” Roy bellowed.

  “Not too bad,” Ben said.

  “Hope my girl didn’t get you into any trouble yesterday.”

  Ben blurted a nervous chuckle. “No, not at all. We had fun.”

  “Just here for a little lunch,” his dad said.

  Roy gave Ben a playful smack in the gut. “Way your mom cooks,” he said, “I’m surprised you’re not a fat boy.” He then patted his own stomach, shot a glance at Ben’s father, and added, “A fat boy like me.”