Aja stood up, tried to sound firm. “Go to your room or I’m calling the cops.”
Vickie stood up too, but it wasn’t to argue. Instead she laughed, not a giggle or chuckle, but a full-on howl that brought tears to her eyes, her mascara running. “Or you’ll call the cops. That’s priceless.” She turned toward Leon. “Are you hearing this?”
Leon didn’t answer on account of his sudden onset lockjaw.
“Take it out of me!” Val screamed. The blood began to spill onto the table and her plate.
“I mean it,” Aja said. “Get out of my sight. You disgust me.”
Vickie clapped and continued to laugh, snorting every few seconds. “Bravo, bravo. It finally comes out after all these years. I’m willing to bet I’m the reason dad here got a vasectomy. He forgot to pull out one night and here I am, The Mistake That Isn’t Val. I was a disappointment from the moment I came out of your twat.”
“That’s it!” Aja held Val’s hair, soothed her. “Leon, call the police. I want her out of my house.”
Vickie picked up her plate and tossed it toward her mother. Aja ducked just in time and the expensive china, reserved for special occasions, shattered against the wall. In the span of a nanosecond Vickie’s laughter died and her smile was replaced with an expression more on the side of psychotic.
“You want me out of here?” Vickie said. “That’s fine. I’ve got friends who’ll take me in. I’ve even got a place to stay. But listen very carefully and think before you say anything else.” She reached forward and grabbed the fork in Val’s arm as if to drive it in deeper. “Call the cops and they’re going to find your superstar here bleeding out on the floor. She won’t be much of a doctor is she’s dead.” Vickie showed her teeth, yellow from nicotine, another new development. “Got it?”
Aja put a hand to her chest and stepped back.
Val’s crying died down to quiet sobbing.
Vickie’s grip around the fork tightened and Leon was certain his older daughter was going to lose an arm but Vickie pulled the utensil out, bringing on a fresh batch of screams from her sister, and tossed it onto the carpet. Without another word, Vickie grabbed her purse and keys from the kitchen table and slammed the door shut on her way out.
“Bring the car around,” Aja said. “I think Val needs stitches.”
Leon didn’t move, didn’t speak. Mostly because at that moment he no longer thought Vickie was going through some phase. She’d just threatened to kill her sister and he realized it hadn’t been hyperbole.
It had been a promise.
Chapter Eleven
Art sighed. “Remind me again what we’re doing up at…” he looked at his watch and scowled. “Nine on a Saturday morning? Shouldn’t we be doing normal teenager stuff like, I don’t know, sleeping in?”
Justin turned left, eyeing the GPS every few seconds. According to the directions, they’d be there in five minutes. “I told you already. I need a favor.”
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say this has something to do with Alyssa. I’m also going to guess you were up half the night watching through the window again.”
“No, I wasn’t. In fact, I passed out early. Played some Xbox and crashed around ten.” It was a lie, one that Art most certainly saw through, but Justin didn’t want to seem more pathetic than he already felt.
“Look, will you at least tell me where we’re going? I’m tired as hell.”
“From jerking off too much?”
“From getting laid you mean.”
“I doubt it.”
Art punched him in the shoulder. “Seriously. Spill the beans. No one else would’ve given up their sleep to go on a mysterious drive this early.”
“Okay, fine. You’re helping me do someone else a favor.”
“Come again?”
Justin yawned and rubbed his tired eyes. He didn’t often drink coffee but today he had a large with a shot of espresso in the cup holder. He took a sip, winced at the bitterness, and hoped the caffeine would take effect soon. Alyssa had been out with Busty late last night. He knew he had to stop this cycle. He was depressing himself at this point. That was why he needed to find something out about that Alice Cooper wannabe and get him out of the picture. “I had a talk with Frank,” he said.
“As in Frank Tanner?”
Justin turned right at the intersection as the GPS instructed. “The one and only.”
“Did he knock you out this time?”
“No, he didn’t lay a hand on me. In fact, it turns out we have something in common.”
“You both hate the guy that’s dating his daughter.”
“You got it. He wants me to find something out about Busty, something he can use for leverage when he tells Alyssa she’s got to break up with him.”
“Then why are we fifty miles away in a town called… where the hell are we anyway?”
“Hawthorne, New Hampshire,” Justin said. “It’s where Busty’s mother lives. It turns out Busty’s brother was that kid that killed himself at the old school. Melvin? You remember hearing about him?”
“Yeah, blew his brains out in the cafeteria because he got picked on a lot.”
“Right. So we sit down with his mother and ask her a few questions.”
Art picked up his own drink from the cup holder, a jumbo-sized Mountain Dew, and slurped through the straw. He belched. “And why would she answer to a guy like you?”
“Because I may have told her we’re reporters.”
Art choked on his drink. Soda came out of his nose and he wiped at the neon green liquid with the back of his hand. “You what?”
“I did some research online. Marianna Brown moved from Massachusetts to New Hampshire after Melvin killed himself. That’s why we don’t know Busty. He grew up here and moved back to Lynnwood last year. Or at least in the general area.”
“You got all this from Google?”
“Google, Bing, Facebook, all of them. That’s what reporters do.” He smiled, tried to come off as sneaky but inside he was nervous as hell.
“So you called her up and told her we had a few questions we wanted to ask her about her sons, one of which is dead, and she actually bought it?”
Justin shrugged and slowed the car. According to the GPS, the house was at the end of the block. “She sounded convinced.”
Thus far, Hawthorne was a wasteland of strip malls and pawnshops with fast food joints sprinkled in between. The city seemed to be split between residential homes and discount firework stores. He tried to imagine Busty growing up here. Had he always dressed like that? Had he always intended to find a pretty girl and steal her away from a boy who was just trying to get through his senior year?
He didn’t steal her away. She broke up with you, remember?
Art found a napkin in the glove compartment and wiped the remaining residue off his face. “Don’t you think she’ll find it a bit odd when a couple high schoolers come barging in saying they’re reporters? We don’t necessarily look the part.”
“Speak for yourself,” Justin said. The morning was cool and he’d worn a hoodie. He unzipped the front and revealed a shirt and tie. Then he scratched at the stubble on his face. It wasn’t much but he hadn’t shaved in nearly a week. He could perhaps pass for twenty-two, maybe twenty-three with his newfound muscles.
“Okay,” Art said. “So maybe you look the part but what about me?” He wore a blue Halo shirt and baggy jeans. His hair was long and messy and freckles littered his cheeks, remnants of a childish face.
Justin slowed to a stop and parked along the curb. “You’re my assistant.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Justin cut the engine just as the GPS informed him they’d reached their destination. The house was a sprawling Victorian. It didn’t match the other ranches and trailers on the street. For some reason, he imagined peering into the upstairs windows and catching something peering back at him. It was the same sensation he got whenever he passed the old high school back home.
He watched the windows for a long time, certain he’d see that pale face part a curtain and smile at him, but instead there was only glass reflecting sunlight. It should’ve helped his nerves, but if anything, his pulse increased.
Justin pulled out a notepad and a few pens, slipping them into his chest pocket. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
●●●
The woman who greeted them at the door seemed even more out of place than the house. She was much heavier than Busty and wore a checkered apron. Her hair was long and flowing, strawberry blonde instead of jet black. Her dress reminded Justin of something that would’ve been worn in the south during the fifties. She resembled an aging southern belle and it was hard to imagine she’d given birth to Justin’s arch nemesis.
“Mrs. Brown?” Justin said.
She nodded. “You must be the reporter from the phone. Mr. Raimi was it?”
Justin nodded and felt Art’s eyes bore into him. “That’s right ma’am, and this is my assistant, Art Craven. Say hi, Art.”
Art gritted his teeth. “Morning, ma’am.”
“I know we’re a bit early,” Justin said. “I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“Not at all. I’ve made some coffee. And I hope you both like cookies.”
The smell hit him then: sweet and salty chocolate chip cookies just like his mom had made before she’d started working every shift she could get her hands on.
It smells like a home is supposed to, he thought.
“Sounds delicious,” he said.
“Then come on in.” She waved them on and stepped inside, walking down a hall and turning into the kitchen.
“Raimi and Craven?” Art said. “Really? Why not Krueger and Voorhees?”
“Just shut up and come in.” He stepped through the doorway.
Marianna was taking cookies from the oven and putting them on a plate. “Living room’s just that way. I’ll be right in.”
Justin thanked her and followed her directions. The living room was perhaps three times the size of his own. There were rustic tools hanging on the walls. A giant grandfather clock stood beside the doorway. There was no television, he noticed. The room seemed out of time as well, like it belonged in baby boomer Alabama instead of modern day New England. He was surprised there wasn’t a tire swing in the backyard.
Aside from the décor there were dozens of family pictures, most of which were little boys with bowl cuts: Melvin and Busty. They resembled each other so closely as children that it was impossible to deny their family relation.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Art whispered as he looked at the photos.
“Why’s that?”
Art took one down from the mantle. “Because one of these boys is dead now and the other looks like the antichrist.”
Justin winced. “Keep your voice down, will you?” He grabbed the photo from his friend’s hands. “And let me do all the talking. Just nod and look attentive.”
Art mock-saluted him. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Justin hated to admit it but Art was right. He suddenly felt strange in this home. It was like a time capsule. He didn’t see a single photo taken in recent times. It was like she’d frozen their younger years in time, a museum exhibit.
Or a memorial.
“They certainly do look alike, don’t they?”
Justin nearly dropped the photo as he heard the voice. He spun around and saw Marianna holding a tray of cookies and carafe of coffee. “Hard to believe they were so far apart in age.” She set the tray down on the coffee table and pointed to the couch.
Justin put the picture back, sat down, and pulled out his notepad, clicking the pen. “I’ll try and make this as quick as possible,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you some questions about your sons. We’re doing a retrospective on Melvin’s… incident.”
“And what paper was it you said you worked for, Mr. Raimi?” Marianna poured herself some coffee, dropping in five sugar cubes and a healthy portion of cream. She stirred and smiled, waiting for an answer.
Justin opened his mouth but no words came out. He hadn’t told her over the phone and he couldn’t say they worked at the Lynnwood Daily Times. What if she called and followed up?
“The Lynnwood Tribune,” Art said. “It’s a start-up alternative paper. We’re trying to focus on stories that don’t get as much attention back home.”
Justin’s jaw hung loose at Art’s answer. He silently thanked his friend for saving their asses.
Marianna nodded. “I see. Well, the herald certainly never paid much attention to Melvin until after his death. That’s for sure.”
“How do you mean?” Justin said, writing in his notepad.
She sipped her coffee. “My oldest son didn’t get along with many people. Lynnwood is a small town. Word travels fast. If you start dressing a bit different than everyone else and you start getting picked on because of that, it catches like wild fire. Soon everyone’s jumping on the bandwagon and calling you freak or psycho just because you wear a lot of black and don’t quite fit in with everyone else. That’s what happened to my boy.”
“What about the teachers?” Justin said. “Did they offer any assistance?”
She snorted. “None whatsoever. You had a clear divide with the staff. Half of them were teachers with tenure, old cronies that didn’t believe in intervening with bullies. The other half were fresh faces that were getting paid pebbles. They wanted to make a good impression so they focused on the curriculum instead of the kids themselves.”
Justin thought back to his conversation with Frank.
I may have turned my head at some of the hazing.
“Mrs. Brown, could you tell me anything about your younger son?”
Marianna took a cookie from the tray and held it up to them. Justin took one. Art took several. “May I ask how this is relevant to Melvin’s situation?”
Justin’s mouth turned dry at the question. He was halfway through chewing a cookie. He set the rest down on a napkin and poured a cup of coffee, sipping it quickly. It burned going down but it prevented him from choking. “We couldn’t track him down,” Justin lied. “It would’ve been good to get his side of things so perhaps you could give us some insight.”
“Busty was only nine when Melvin did what he did. It was his first introduction to death and he took it hard. His big brother was his idol. Their father walked out after Melvin left us. Richard took it the worst, blamed me for some odd reason. I got the divorce papers in the mail not long after. But eventually Busty moved on just like I did and he was quite a normal kid—whatever that actually means—until about a year ago.”
“What happened a year ago?” Justin said.
“I honestly don’t know what started it. That boy had perfect grades in high school. He may have looked just like his brother but he didn’t dress or act like him. He was outgoing, always cracking jokes, and nobody gave him any grief for being gay.”
“What was that?” Art said. He kicked Justin’s leg.
Marianna nodded. “Yes, he came out his junior year of high school. The school newspaper ran an article about students who were openly gay and Busty was featured in it. I could probably find it somewhere.”
Justin’s mind swirled but he tried to focus. He cleared his throat. “You mentioned something about last year.”
“Well, I don’t know what exactly happened. One day, just after he graduated from the community college two towns over, he showed up and he was… different somehow.”
“Could you explain?” Justin said, still feeling dizzy.
“He said he was moving out. He’d found a job near Boston and he had a place lined up back in Lynnwood. I asked him why he’d want to move back there but he didn’t give me a straight answer. I was taken aback by how he was dressed. He wore all black and he’d gotten this tat
too on his hand, just like Melvin had on his eighteenth birthday. Ugly little thing. A flaming skull in the exact spot. He had piercings where there had been none and his skin looked so pale. I thought he was sick. It was like…” She trailed off.
“I know this is hard,” Justin said. “We’re close to getting what we need from you.”
She leaned forward and patted his knee. “What I mean is that he looked exactly like his brother. I know it sounds stupid and maybe a little superstitious but I had the strangest thought that day, one that wouldn’t go away. Heck, it still pops up now and again when I’m trying to sleep.”
“And what thought is that?” Justin said.
“It’s like Busty turned into Melvin somehow. Like Melvin came to him in a dream—or maybe a nightmare—and transformed him.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and wiped her nose. “I’m sorry. I must sound like a lunatic.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Brown.” Justin looked at Art, his eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost float through the room. In a way, that’s exactly what had happened.
“Thank you for your time,” he said. “I think we’ve got all we need.”
Chapter Twelve
Frank was running late the next day—Sunday—so he didn’t bring the watering can to the cemetery. Luckily, Jeremy’s flowers looked fine this week. He’d stop by tomorrow evening or the next and give them a drink.
Speaking of drinks, Justin had three root beers at the ready this week, one for himself, one for his dad, sitting untouched atop the gravestone, and one for Frank.
“Thanks,” Frank said, taking the bottle. “I hope cheers are in order.” He clanked glasses with Justin and they each took a sip. He sighed, remembering how good the soda tasted.
“I’m not sure what’s in order,” Justin said. The kid looked like an insomniac, like he hadn’t closed his eyes in days.
Probably hasn’t, Frank thought. He’s too busy playing the tragic lover while your daughter dates his worst enemy. Spends his nights thinking of how he’d like to win her back.
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