Irene Flannigan opened the door just as Amy was prepared to knock. Though Amy knew it meant she was waiting on their arrival, likely watching from the window, she did the whole surprise thing anyway.
“Oh!” Amy said. “Perfect timing.”
Irene Flannigan displayed every characteristic of the classic old Irish woman she was, right down to the red hair, the pale and freckled skin, and of course the accent that had never waned since her arrival in this country many years ago.
With a cautious, melodramatic face, Irene placed an index finger below one of her green eyes, bent to look at Carrie and Caleb, and said: “I’m always watchin’.”
They all laughed, even Carrie.
Irene invited them in. The kids immediately went for Irene’s computer in the den. It contained one and only one video game: Tetris. And while Irene proclaimed she’d downloaded the game solely for Carrie and Caleb, many a night had passed with her clacking away on her keyboard in a bid to organize the little colored shapes floating downward on the screen, cup after cup of tea at her side, cursing in her thick brogue when the colored pieces grew increasingly jumbled and piled up too fast.
Amy went to reprimand her kids—darting for the computer as quickly as they had without first asking permission—but Irene smiled and waved a hand. “It’s all right, love.” She then leaned in and whispered: “Have you played the game? Like a drug, the bastard is.”
Amy laughed.
“Cup of tea?” Irene offered.
“No thanks, Irene, I really have to get going. Their homework’s all done—all you have to do is tolerate them for a few hours.”
Irene gave a playful gasp and slapped a hand over her chest. “Such a thing to say about two adorable babies as these!”
“Shall I let you keep these babies for the week then?”
Switchblade quick, Irene changed characters. This time to one who had just heard the most absurd question ever posed. “I should think not. I’ve done my time, I’ll have you know.”
Amy laughed again. “How are they doing?”
“Ah, they’re doing just fine. Tommy came round to see me not long ago. Caitlin is expecting her fifth.”
“Fifth?”
“We’re Irish Catholic, love.”
Amy laughed again. It was tough to remember a time they were together when Irene didn’t make her laugh. “Okay, well, you have my number and everything, and you have the address of where I’ll be, yes?”
Irene smiled, closed her eyes, and gave one reassuring nod.
“Great.” Amy then called to her children in the den: “I’m leaving, guys. I love you.”
Carrie and Caleb, eyes stuck on the computer screen, mumbled something simultaneously over their shoulders that sounded like “love you too.”
Amy turned to Irene. “Such sincerity.”
Irene smiled.
Amy turned back to the den. “Password, please,” she said to them.
Carrie elbowed Caleb and yelled at him for missing an important piece in the game. Caleb elbowed back and told her to shut up.
“Password, please,” Amy reiterated firmly.
Both kids spun in their seats, faced their mother, and said “unicorn,” then quickly spun back and resumed playing.
“Thank you. Be good for Mrs. Flannigan now.”
“Oh, they’re always good,” Irene said.
“Yeah? My offer for the week still stands,” Amy said.
Irene put a hand on Amy’s shoulder and gestured toward the front door. “You’re going to be late, love.”
Amy laughed yet again and left.
Chapter 15
Hosting a support group session wasn’t too difficult. As long as you had chairs, coffee, and pastries, things seemed to run smoothly. And typically, not many chairs, coffee, and pastries were needed. Attendance was spotty at support group sessions in one’s home. Certainly nothing like group therapy at one of the clinics where it was usually a packed house.
But then that was therapy. A therapist was present and running the show.
This was support group. No therapy offered, none asked. Just a social gathering run by whomever the host might be, where attendees were free to open up about any and all things. No sign-up sheet, no last names. Just a smile, a welcome, and a please help yourself and have a seat.
***
All traces of his daughters’ sleepover gone, a semicircle of folding chairs now center stage in his den, and refreshments spread out on a table in back, Allan checked his cell. 6:50. Ten minutes until showtime. He wondered whether that was enough time to sneak a quick drink. Booze was forbidden in support group. The reason was fairly simple. Booze made it easier to talk. Easier to open up and share. The goal of support group was to open up and share without any substance crutch. A somewhat amusing prospect to Allan when odds were better than good that every single attendee was on some type of medication to deal with their grief.
Still, it wasn’t booze. Unlike the myriad antidepressants that attendees were likely on, they were just that—antidepressants. Booze was a depressant. A sinister little devil who promised the goods at a price. Working faster and more efficiently than anything from the pharmacy, it caught you smack in the ass with its pitchfork before too long, reminding you that you knew the deal coming in, buddy.
Allan had managed to steer very clear from the bottle immediately following Samantha’s death, focusing all of his attention on his girls and the support they needed. But “slippery slope” was a saying for a reason. Soon, a small nighttime scotch became a large nighttime scotch became two or three or four large nighttime scotches.
The end came one day when he was supposed to drop off Jamie’s science fair project at noon. The night before, the number of large nighttime scotches had hit a record high, and he’d been horrifically hungover all morning. Promising himself a short nap around ten, he then proceeded to sleep straight through his alarm and didn’t arrive at Jamie’s school until almost two, begging the teacher to forgive his tardiness, imagining what a hungover fright he must seem—once discovering he’d overslept, he’d bolted from the house without so much as a brush through the hair or across the teeth—and then having to shuffle on over to his daughter’s desk where she sat crying as he apologized repeatedly, only to have her look up at him with eyes that seemed to scold Allan with the very real truth that Mommy would have never let this happen.
For a solid year following that, Allan never even entertained a glass of wine with dinner. Yet as time went on, and after managing a decent enough footing within the new dynamics of his home, he was able to drink again, becoming the poster boy for moderation.
And right now, ready to entertain who knows how many people in his home, he’d love nothing more than a quick nip from the bottle to give him the proper layer of chill he’d need to get through the night. Maybe during their first break, he might be able to persuade Amy Whoever (no last names in group) to sneak into the kitchen with him for a quick belt just as they’d done the last time he hosted. He hoped so.
Amy Whoever was good people. She reminded him a lot of his Samantha. The confident way she carried herself that never once crossed the line into arrogance. A natural beauty right at home in either a five-star restaurant or a company softball game and, better still, eagerly taking part in both. Allan was not ready to date. He didn’t know whether he’d ever be. But if the time did ever come, at the top of his list would definitely be Amy. Their secret sip of whiskey shared at the last session he hosted had cemented that truth—a woman who drank whiskey weakened his knees faster than a punch on the jaw.
Allan hurried to his cupboard, reached for the bottle of whiskey, and the doorbell rang.
“Balls,” he said, and put the whiskey back.
Maybe it’s Amy, he hoped, thinking the two of them might hurry right on back to the kitchen and pick up where he’d left off.
Allan opened his front door. It was not Amy.
***
It was not one but two people. A man and woman. Bo
th young, pale, and thin. Dark circles under their eyes. The man had thinning blond hair; the girl’s locks were long and straight and black with what appeared to be a thinning patch on the side of her head. Putting it politely, neither looked well. And to many, that fact might have been cause for alarm. But not to Allan; he saw it as the result of grief. Lord knows, he must have appeared no better soon after losing Samantha.
Allan smiled and stepped aside to allow them entry into his home. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m Allan; please come in.”
The young man and woman stepped inside and immediately began scanning their surroundings.
“Nice house,” the woman said.
“Thank you. Any trouble finding it?”
“No.”
Allan smiled. “Well, you’re certainly not required to give me your real names, but it usually makes it easier if you give some—”
“Jennifer,” the woman said.
Allan extended his hand. Jennifer shook it. “Nice to meet you, Jennifer.” He turned to the man. “And you are?”
The man was still seemingly entranced by the house, eyes going all over. Jennifer nudged him. The trance broke.
“Huh?” the man said.
“This is Tim,” Jennifer said for him.
Allan extended his hand. Tim took it. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”
Tim nodded and mumbled: “Nice to meet you.”
The newly grieving, Allan guessed. The girl seemed sharper, more assertive. The guy, somewhat stoned. Again, no cause for alarm. He probably was. Klonopin or Xanax, most likely, Allan thought. Once again, booze was a no-no, but everything else was fair game, as long as it was prescribed by a doctor, that is. Although truth be told, Allan had smelled the skunky smell of pot on several attendees on more than one occasion in meetings past.
“This your first meeting?” Allan asked.
“Yeah,” Jennifer said. Then, bluntly: “Our mom died.”
Allan hid his surprise at her bluntness. Once again, though, he did not question nor judge it. It could simply be another prime example of the unpredictable behavior that loss caused in some people.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Allan said.
Both Jennifer and Tim muttered a thank you.
Allan flashed a warm, practiced smile and gestured towards the den. “Well, why don’t you come on in and have a seat? The others should be here any minute.”
“How many?” Jennifer asked.
“I’m sorry?” Allan asked.
“How many others will there be?”
Allan stuck out his lower lip and gave a little shrug. “I really don’t know—it varies.” He chuckled and added: “It could just end up being the three of us.”
Tim, still appearing a little stoned, turned to Jennifer with a confused frown. “What?”
Now it was Allan who frowned. First-timers usually preferred a small crowd. The way Tim was looking at his sister now, it almost seemed as though he was counting on more.
Jennifer looked at her brother sharply, as though annoyed by his ignorance. “He was just making a joke. Of course there’s going to be more people coming.”
Allan’s gut did a funny swirl. The kind of swirl he felt when someone was eying him up in a bad part of town. The newly grieving. First-timers at group. Loaded up with benzodiazepines and antidepressants. All solid reasons for odd behavior. But these two…as much as Allan’s mind justified their odd behavior with those solid reasons, his gut apparently wasn’t having it. His gut felt something was off.
The doorbell rang, quieting Allan’s gut before he could indulge it further.
“Ah—there you go,” he said to them with a smile. “More people.” He gestured into the den again. “Why don’t you guys go on in and make yourselves comfortable.” He then gestured toward the table of coffee and pastries. “And please help yourselves—all the coffee and sugar you can handle.”
Tim and Jennifer went into the den.
Allan answered the door.
“Amy, welcome,” he said.
Chapter 16
“Any trouble finding it?” Allan asked Amy as she entered the foyer.
“No—I’ve been here before, remember?” Amy said. She then mimed a quick sip from a bottle followed by a finger to shushed lips.
“Oh, right! I forgot all about that.”
Seriously, man? Lame. So lame.
“Am I the first one here?” Amy asked.
“No—we have two first-timers in the den.”
“Darn. Was hoping we could”—she mimed the secret drink gesture again—“before anyone arrived.”
“Looks like we might just have to be ninjas in the kitchen again after first break,” Allan said.
Amy raised her fist. “I’m in.”
Fist bump. Sam used to do that.
Allan tapped his fist against Amy’s. “See you then.”
***
“Amy, this is Jennifer and Tim,” Allan said when the four of them were in the den.
“Hello,” Amy said pleasantly.
Tim, sipping a cup of coffee, slowly lowered the cup from his mouth and just stared.
Jennifer offered a thin smile. No hello.
Well, nice to meet you too, Amy thought. She shot Allan a quick, uncertain glance.
Allan flashed a big codependent grin for all. “Tim here was worried it was going to be a small turnout,” Allan said to Amy.
“Oh yeah?” Amy said. “Most first-timers prefer a small turnout.”
“How do you know we’re first-timers?” Jennifer said.
Amy frowned a little. “Uh…because Allan told me in the foyer.”
“What’s your last name?” Tim blurted to Amy.
“Last names aren’t required in group,” Allan said.
“We’ll tell you ours,” Tim said.
Amy shot Allan another quick glance, then replied: “That’s okay—I don’t need to know.”
“Why do you keep looking at him?” Jennifer asked Amy, gesturing to Allan. “I see it, you know. Is something wrong?”
Yeah, you’re fucking weird. “No—everything’s fine on my end. How about you?”
“Our mom died,” Jennifer said.
“Oh yeah? My husband died,” Amy replied flatly.
Allan flashed his codependent grin for all again. “Uh, Amy, can you help me with something in the kitchen for a sec? Jennifer and Tim, please help yourselves to more coffee and food.”
***
“What is the deal with those two?” Amy whispered once she and Allan were alone in the kitchen.
“So it’s not just me?” Allan whispered back. “They seem kinda strange?”
“Well, I would expect them to be a little strange—lost their mother; first-timers—but they’re rude. New surroundings and loss shouldn’t justify that.”
“Yeah, they seemed a little off to me. Like not sad or shy off, but, I don’t know…off, off.”
And then like so many memories that arrived unwelcomed, and with an even more unwelcomed clarity, Amy was suddenly back in Crescent Lake with Patrick, sitting at the kitchen table, heavily shaken after her first “chance” encounter in a supermarket with what would turn out to be one half of the infamous Fannelli brothers, James Fannelli:
“He was so creepy, Patrick. I mean, I’ve met some strange men before, but this guy…there was something different about him. Something…wrong.”
“Amy?”
Amy was still in Crescent Lake. She had not ignored her gut back then about James Fannelli; Patrick had ignored it for her. She’d told him she wanted to pack up and leave following the supermarket incident. Especially considering earlier events at a family diner when Carrie, then just six, had traded her beloved doll to a stranger for a single piece of candy. That stranger would end up being the other half of the infamous Fannelli brothers, Arthur Fannelli.
Patrick had refused to leave. Refused to let two unrelated incidents with two unrelated assholes (they’d not yet known that supermarket jerk and family diner weirdo
were related and in the beginning stages of one of their sick and twisted games) ruin his family’s vacation.
Bullheaded male ego on Patrick’s part? Perhaps. But the truth Amy had come to back then was the same as it was now: She hadn’t truly wanted to leave Crescent Lake; she’d just wanted Patrick to convince her all would be well, that he would look after his family with all the vigilance of a lion who led his pride. It was the dynamics of their relationship. Amy worried, and Patrick soothed her, even at the expense of his own misgivings. In hindsight, in all of hindsight’s cruel truths, they were the stereotypical family who refused to leave the haunted house even after the ghosts all but appeared and warned them to get the hell out.
But they hadn’t. And chaos had ensued. And her husband was dead because of it.
“Amy?” Allan tried again.
Are there ghosts here now, Amy? Are they telling you to leave?
“Amy?”
Amy snapped to. Allan immediately asked whether she was okay.
She dropped her head and nodded. “Yeah. Just bad memories, I guess.”
The doorbell rang.
“I need to go get that,” Allan said. He then gestured to the kitchen cabinet. “You can start your ninja training without me, if you want.” He winked and smiled—not a secret naughty wink and smile as they’d shared before, but more a sympathetic one that was the equivalent of a hug.
Amy returned an equally compassionate smile that silently thanked him, not for the offer of the booze, but for the offer of understanding.
“Thanks,” she said. “But something tells me it wouldn’t taste as good if I started it alone.”
Allan raised his fist.
Amy smiled again, and they fist-bumped.
Allan left to answer the door.
Chapter 17
The first thing Allan noticed as he started crossing through the den and into the foyer to answer the front door was that there was no sign of Tim and Jennifer. When he’d left them to go into the kitchen with Amy, they were standing by the coffee and pastries, huddling and keeping to themselves in their odd little way.
Bad Games: Malevolent Page 8