Grimm Reapings

by R. Patrick Gates

  Her eyes wandered to the left of Debbie and came to rest on Melissa Teags, Jeremy's friend Ed's wife. They lived in Connecticut. Melissa was a slim, beautiful, and talented young woman of twenty-four with striking raven black hair and piercing sky-blue eyes. She was a musician-songwriter and played regularly at the many cafes and pubs in Hartford, not to mention doing regular gigs at the numerous colleges in that area. Next to Melissa was her husband, Ed, who had been Jeremy's best friend in college. Ed was a near twin of Melissa-tall, dark, and very Italian looking with eyes as piercingly blue as his wife's. He had long black hair that he always wore in a ponytail. Jen thought he looked like Al Pacino.

  Next, sitting on the hassock on Jen's other side, was Mrs. Holcromb-Rosie-the part-time cleaning woman/maid/waitressJen had hired two days ago. She was in her sixties but didn't look it. She was a tall-five feet eleven-statuesque woman, built more like a man. Her iron-gray hair was short and tightly curled, never a twist out of place. It matched her countenance and personality; she rarely smiled and was always all-business.

  Looking at Mrs. Holcromb, Jen's thoughts turned to things she still had to do to renovate the place into the B&B. She was making a mental tally in her head of things to pick up at Home Depot when her attention was briefly drawn back to the television program the others were engrossed in. The screen was showing the old Grimm Memorials Funeral Home, and then the picture faded to the new place, under renovation and soon to be renamed the Magic Forest Bed-and-Breakfast, owned and operated by-everyone cheered when the screen showed Jen and Jeremy standing on the front porch waving to the cameras.

  Several toasts were called for and everyone drank their wine or soda. Jen had to smile. Buying Grimm Memorials and turning it into a B&B was the last thing she would have thought would happen to her, but when it did, it felt like something she had been meant to do. For the past thirteen years she'd had the feeling that there was something important she needed to do in life-some goal she had to achieve. For a long time, she had thought it was motherhood, or teaching, since she enjoyed taking care of and teaching Little Steve so much, but then the older she got the more she began to feel that it was something else. She felt something missing from her life. Then, two years ago, she'd met Jeremy Watson and within six months they were deeply in love, planning marriage, a future, and buying Grimm Memorials-and that was when Jen had realized that was the missing part of her life.

  Jeremy was a wonder to Jen. She regarded him with awe and described him with pride as a Renaissance man to people who didn't know him. He was an artist, painting magnificently weird landscapes that were a cross between Dali and van Gogh. He sculpted, in both the classical style using marble and stone and in modern styles, using everything from old automobile parts to wire and papier-mache. He was also a gifted carpenter and architect, not to mention a CPA, just another of his talents. Combined with her culinary degree from Johnson and Wales cooking school, she thought the two of them were the perfect couple to run a B&B.

  Jen hugged his leg tighter and looked up at his gentle face, with his wide yellow-brown eyes, Roman nose, and strong mustached mouth and bearded chin. She couldn't remember ever feeling so satisfied with her life. Then she thought of her mother, wondering if she was coming, and knew better than to hope, but couldn't help it. She craned her neck to look beyond Mrs. Holcromb to the front driveway, but her mother's SUV was not there. Jen had begged her to come with Little Steve to help them celebrate and watch the show, but she had declined. It was the same with Jackie. She had invited-begged-him to come, too, but he wouldn't. His excusewas that he wanted to watch on campus with friends, but when she told him to bring them along, he still declined with the feeble excuse that his friends were too weird. The real reason Jackie wouldn't come, Jen suspected, was the same as her mother's: neither of them liked the idea of going back to Grimm Memorials, the place of nightmares.

  In Sunderland, the next town over from Northwood, Diane Nailer, Jennifer's and Jackie's mother, sat on her porch, enjoying the unseasonably warm night air for late October and looking at a recent copy of Newsweek by candlelight. On the table next to her, which also held the candle, was a large plastic bowl containing two bags of bite-sized Three Musketeer candy bars, one open, one not, for trick or treat. She was thinking about having another candy bar-the last of the trick-or-treaters had come by over an hour agothen thought better of it. She didn't need the calories. She only handed out candy on Halloween so that her youngest son, Steve (called Little Steve by everyone), would not think there was any unusual significance to the holiday. Proclaiming himself too old to trick-ortreat, Steve had helped hand out candy before going to his room to watch TV and go to bed.

  The truth was that Little Steve was completely ignorant of the events surrounding his birth and his father's death on Halloween thirteen years ago. After the events that happened at the Grimm Memorials Funeral Home, Diane had attempted to give her family a normal life, and a big part of that was forbidding any talk about Eleanor Grimm or anything to do with that whole business. She and Jackie and Jen went to therapy, often together, but that was the only time a discussion of those horrible events was allowed. Once they left the doctor's office, she expected Jackie and Jennifer to go mute again.

  Recently, Jen had tried to convince her to tell Little Steve the truth, especially since the Barbra Waters show was giving it so much exposure, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Everything had been going so well, so normal, until that damned TV show had to drag up the past again. It had driven Diane back into therapy, seeing Dr. Gibbons twice a week, as she had for nine years after Grimm Memorials. When Diane had asked Dr. Gibbons if she should tell Steve, the doctor had replied, as she always did, that Diane had to learn to trust her instincts and make her own decisions. Diane had latched on to that, ignoring Dr. Gibbons's next comment that it was also very freeing to tell the truth about things you've kept hidden. She didn't want to hear that; her deepest instincts told her that Little Steve should never know about what had happened with that horrible woman, Eleanor Grimm.

  Diane had long ago taken steps to isolate and insulate Little Steve from the truth about the past. Not willing, or able, to move back into the house on Dorsey Lane thirteen years ago, she had moved her family to Deerfield, where they lived until two years ago when Jen got married and Jackie went away to UMASS Amherst. With a house that was suddenly too big, and the CBC network beginning to snoop around, trying to get her to appear on that awful show so they could drag up the horrid past-a past she had thought she was done with-she decided it was time to move again. She sold the house in Deerfield and bought a little five-room cottage-three bedrooms, kitchen, and living room just for her and Little Steve (and Jackie during school breaks and vacations) on the other side of Mt. Sugarloaf, on the outskirts of the town of Sunderland on a quiet little circular cul-de-sac. It wasn't too far from Jen in Northwood or from Jackie in Amherst, but it was just far enough that she was surrounded by strangers and felt she might be able to hold on to her anonymity there. She continued to have Little Steve homeschooled, as she had Jen and Jackie, and registered him as such with the town's school board. While she taught the kids art and music appreciation, over the past thirteen years she had hired various tutors to teach her children English, math, science, and history. She had tried to fill each day with so much activity that neither Jackie norJen would ever think about the horrible things that had happened to them and might heal. In this way, she had also hoped to keep Little Steve from ever learning the truth about the events surrounding his birth.

  Sitting there by the flicker of candlelight, she shook her head sadly. She had thought she'd done a pretty good job of burying the past, only to have it dug up again, on national television no less.

  Will we ever be free of that old bitch? she wondered, wearily, and gave in to the temptation of candy, taking a bar from the bag and eating it in silence.

  Like her daughter, Diane Nailer had no idea how wrong she was. She thought all her planning and maneuvering had kep
t her youngest son ignorant of the past. Her very manipulations had been her undoing. One of the tutors, Mr. Gaste, whom she'd recently hired to teach English and history to Little Steve, had a son Steve's age. A perceptive man, he had seen how Diane Nailer was isolating her son and he had balked against it. He was a strong believer in the need for kids, especially teenagers, to learn to socialize with all types of people. When Mrs. Nailer shot down his suggestion to bring his thirteen-year-old son over to play with Steve, Mr. Gaste had done it on the sly. It was obvious to him that the Nailer kid was starved for a friend his own age, so Mr. Gaste had set it up. On the pretense of taking Steve to the library or to one of the many local college museums for frequent exhibits, Mr. Gaste had brought Steve visiting to his house in Deerfield where Steve and Gaste's son, Randy, soon became close friends.

  In early September, when the CBC network had started advertising the new season of It Was ? Years Ago Today! with emphasis on the Halloween special program on the Grimm Memorial murders, and he realized who Diane Nailer was, he began to understand why she was doing what she was doing. After a Google search on his PC and a visit to the library where he found two books about the Grimm Memorials' murders that told the whole story of what Eleanor Grimm had done to Diane Nailer, her kids, and so many others, he cautiously questioned Steve about what he knew and quickly discovered the boy knew little. He had a suspicion that his father had been murdered, but beyond that, nothing. After much thought, Gaste had decided to honor Diane Nailer's wishes to keep her son ignorant of the facts, and he kept quiet about the upcoming TV program.

  His son, Randy, on the other hand, did nothing of the sort. When he saw the first ad for the show, two days before it was to air on Halloween night, and realized it was about his friend Steve's family, he couldn't wait to talk to him about it. Together, they made secret plans for Halloween night, plans that Little Steve Nailer now ran over in his head, in his bedroom, on the edge of his bed, looking at the digital clock that read 9:15 p.m.

  He checked the pillows and rolled-up clothing he'd stuffed under his blankets to make it appear that he was sleeping and thought it looked okay; it would pass his mom's scrutiny as long as she didn't come in to kiss him in his sleep. He hoped she had bought his lie that he was really tired and going to bed early. He was glad he had woken the last two times she had come in to check him and told her that he didn't like it. She had argued until he told her that it scared him; then she'd done an abrupt about-face and apologized, promising never to do it again. Steve had learned early in life that all he had to do was intimate that something frightened him, and he could always get his way with his mom.

  He took a pack of gum from his pocket and unwrapped a piece. The scent of strawberry bubblegum, his favorite flavor, wafted up to him. It was time. He got off the bed and went to the door, opening it a crack. The house was dark and quiet. The only sound was the faint creak of the rocking chair on the porch as his mother sat by candlelight. Steve's bedroom was at the rear of the house, farthest from the porch. He closed the door and, on tiptoe, crossed the room to the window and gently slid it open, wincing at the squeal of vinyl on rubber. He slid up the screen, wincing again at its metallic rasp. He paused, ear tuned to the door, listening. All was still, quiet.

  Awkwardly, he climbed through the window. He was wearing shorts and scraped his left inner thigh on the screen frame. He fell on the brown grass, groaning silently and grabbing his leg. The flesh had been scraped from the tenderest part of his thigh, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying. Normally, such a wound would have sent him bawling for his mother, but not now, not tonight. Tonight was his chance to find out the truth about the past and why his mother was always so mysterious about it.

  He got to his feet, gingerly rubbing his leg and wiping the squeezed-out tears from the corners of his eyes, thankful that he hadn't scraped his balls. Randy had accidentally kicked him in the balls a couple of weeks ago while they had been playing at kung-fu fighting, and Steve had almost puked his guts out, the pain had been so bad. But no one at Randy's had freaked out the way his mother would have. Mr. Gaste had laughed and told him to walk it off, and he had!

  Steve pulled the inside glass window down, then the screen, leaving it open just enough at the bottom that he could get a grip on it with his fingers when he wanted to sneak back into the house. Looking through the window at his lumpy bed, he felt a thrill of excitement, and more than a bit of fear, at what he was doing. Running bent over, he dashed to the tree by the driveway where his new Schwinn Stingray with the radical Harley chopper chassis and the fat motorcycle rear tire was. He unchained it using the key he always kept in his left sneaker, while keeping a wary eye on the front porch. From where his mother was sitting, in her favorite rocking chair, she couldn't see him. But if she stood, he'd be in plain view. Quietly, carefully, Steve laid the chain on the grass next to the tree. He didn't like leaving it behind, but trying to wrap it around under the bike seat would make too much noise, and it was too awkward to carry while he rode.

  As quietly as he could, Steve walked the bike away from the tree and front porch, along the side of the house to the backyard and beyond, through the neighbor's yard to the next street. There, he finally mounted his ride and pedaled off, heading for the playground over on Municipal Street where he was going to meet Randy, who was going to take him to another friend's house-someone who lived in Sunderland not far from Steve-to watch It Was ? Years Ago Today! As he rode along, staying to the right near the curb even though there was little traffic, Steve wondered about what he was going to see and learn from the TV show.

  He knew his mother thought he was completely ignorant of the Grimm Memorials affair, but he wasn't. Though he knew very little-in fact, as far as he could remember, he had never heard the name "Grimm Memorials" until Randy Gaste had mentioned it a few days ago-he had always sensed that something really bad had happened to his father, mother, brother, and sister before he was born. Being so much younger than Jackie and Jennifer, he had never had the chance to become friends with either of them, though he had always had a special connection with Jen, who had been like a second mother to him when she was living at home. The one time he had confronted them to ask what had happened, they had told him to talk to his mother. In turn she had refused to talk about his father, saying it was too painful. She had denied his feelings so strongly and insisted so vehemently that nothing had ever happened that he had been afraid to ever bring it up again.

  But he had known, deep inside, that she was lying. He had always felt that his mother's life, and his, was built on a lie, on something secret and hidden, and that his mother wanted it to remain so. That was why when Randy told him about the Barbra Waters show he had eagerly plotted with his friend to be able to see it and learn the truth at last.

  He rounded the corner of Municipal Street and reached the playground. Randy was waiting by the monkey bars just as he said he would be. With him was another boy, a kid with a wild mess of red hair, sitting on a ten-speed. This would be Jimmy, Randy's friend, Steve guessed. It was at his house that they were going to watch the show.

  "Here he comes," Randy Gaste said to Jimmy Walsh when he saw Steve Nailer pedal around the corner of Municipal. He was glad to see his friend was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt instead of some of the weird outfits he'd worn in the past, like cowboy boots with parachute pants and a turtleneck sweater. He was also glad to see that Steve had taken his advice and cut his long, dark brown hair. He now sported a crew cut, like Randy's, and no longer looked like a girl, even if he still acted and sounded like one. "Remember what I said. His voice'll throw you-he sounds like a fagbut he's cool, really. So don't make fun of him."

  "Don't worry about it," Jimmy replied.

  Randy did worry, though. He knew Jimmy Walsh too well. Jimmy loved to make fun of people, especially people he thought were gay. And since he thought practically everyone was gay, he made fun of a lot of people. Randy and Jimmy had been close friends while playing Little League baseba
ll on the same team the past three years, but this past summer they had drifted apart when each had been picked by a different Babe Ruth League team. Randy hadn't minded really, mostly due to Jimmy's nasty sense of humor and need to put people down, but now they attended the same middle school and had had occasion to hang out. Still, if Randy could have arranged tonight with anyone other than Jimmy Walsh he would have, but Jimmy was the only other kid he knew who lived in Sunderland. The fact that he lived only a few blocks away from Steve was a big plus.

  Randy took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he watched Steve hop off his bike and walk it across the playground toward them. If Jimmy did laugh, Randy couldn't really blame him. The first time Randy had met Steve and heard him speak he'd almost laughed in his face. If his father hadn't been the one introducing them, he might have. His father had given him no warning that Steve Nailer's voice and mannerisms were so stereotypical of a flamboyant homosexual that he bordered on parody. Randy had wondered if he was for real or if it was an act, but the more time he spent with Steve he'd come to realize that that was just the way the poor kid was, and it wasn't his fault.

  When he'd questioned his father about why Steve was the way he was, he'd learned to lay the blame at the feet of Mrs. Nailer, Steve's mother. Randy's dad told him she had coddled and overprotected him, isolating him from the world since birth. Without any adult male influences in his life he had naturally acquired his mother's feminine traits, but in him they'd become exaggerated to the point where anyone who met him had to wonder about his sexual orientation. Randy felt bad for him, and Steve, who was starved for friendship, had latched on to him. It was a good friendship. Randy liked having a friend who looked up to him and was willing to follow his lead and advice. In all his previous friendships, Randy had always been the follower; he liked being the leader for a change. He also liked the way that now carried over to Jimmy Walsh-for the first time in their relationship, Randy felt like he was in charge so that he was comfortable telling Jimmy to leave Steve alone. Whether or not Jimmy would heed his command was another matter.