BLACK STATIC #41

by Andy Cox

  Tom, fourteen, tall and thin, sitting on the forest floor, face noncommittal under his crew cut, shrugged.

  Peter, a year younger, a head shorter, but more muscular, standing in front of Tom, raised his big-nosed face, flop of brown hair across his forehead. “You have to swear you won’t tell your dad or my mom I showed it to you. Swear?”

  Tom looked down the hill, where, in his new driveway, his dad and Peter’s mom were still talking to each other. “Yeah.”

  “Say I swear.”

  “I swear.”

  “I need a handkerchief to show you what I have.” Peter pulled one out of his pants pocket. Laid it carefully on the forest floor. Spread its whiteness into a square. “Did you and your dad get a good deal on the house?”

  “Yeah. My dad said it was a good deal.”

  “Really! Do you know why you got such a good deal?”

  Tom tried to remember. “My dad said it had to do with something that happened to the people who lived in the house before us. He said it wasn’t important. He said the seller repainted the bedroom walls, and some of the ceilings. And replaced the carpets. Are there any girls on the block?”

  Peter put a small rock on each corner of the handkerchief, holding it down. “They all have diseases. That girl across the street who was watching you unload? That you kept looking at? Peggy?”

  Tom blushed. “She looks pretty.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s something wrong with her. She has a disease. If she stands in one place too long, stuff drips out from under her dress, dropping on the sidewalk between her shoes. It’s gross.”

  “I didn’t see her dripping.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  Tom rubbed his knee. “She decided to leave us. She said she didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Didn’t sign up for what?”

  “I don’t think she said what. Where’s your dad?”

  “He fell down some stairs. His forehead split open. His eyes fell out.”

  “I’m sorry your dad died.”

  “See that big gray house over there?”

  Tom obediently looked where Peter was pointing.

  “Don’t cut through his front yard. The guy tries to chase you. He gets red in the face. I keep hoping he’ll have a heart attack and die on his lawn while the sprinklers are going. That’d be like a scene in a comedy movie. There’s a puppy that shows up on the sidewalks sometimes. It’s a little brown dog. It wags its tail a lot. If you stick your thumb between your index finger and your middle finger and wriggle it, he’ll come over.”

  Tom looked down at his right hand. “Which fingers?”

  Peter touched two of Tom’s fingers. “Jesus, you don’t know anything.”

  “Shut up, stupid-head.” Tom’s eyes got red.

  “You gonna cry, cry baby?”

  Tom rubbed his nose. “My dad said I should make some friends. I thought maybe you could be my friend.”

  Peter kept quiet a moment, studying Tom’s averted gaze. “That house with the big Maple tree in the front yard? The guy there likes to talk a lot. He’s got really good candy. He doesn’t snitch if you eat it. He can put both his ankles behind his head. Can you do that?”

  Tom looked away, shy. “I don’t think so. I never tried.”

  Peter finally got the handkerchief the way he wanted it. “Want me to show you what I have?”

  “Well sure, you’re making such a big deal about it.”

  Peter reached down inside the front waistband of his tight blue jeans. “Remember, you swore!” Pulled out a pen knife. Opened it.

  Every boy knows a knife is something powerful. “Can I hold it?”

  “Yeah. Let me show you how.” Peter’s big warm hands molded around the backs of Tom’s hands, showing him how to grasp the younger boy’s knife by its handle.

  Once Peter drew his hands away, Tom was surprised by the weight. It felt like it weighed as much as a gun.

  “See that square handkerchief? The game is to throw the knife at the handkerchief, and get it to stab the handkerchief. The knife doesn’t have to stand up. Just make sure you stab it.”

  Tom hefted the knife, slow eyes looking at the white square. “Okay.”

  He threw the knife down. It landed sideways, outside the white handkerchief square, spuming up dirt.

  “That’s okay.” Peter sat down behind Tom, got his legs around the outside of Tom’s legs. He wrapped his hands around the knuckled backs of Tom’s hands. Tom could feel Peter’s breath on the nape of his neck. The smell of oranges. Peter, holding the outsides of Tom’s fingers, raised Tom’s hands. His right fingers took control of Tom’s right fingers, caused them to flick forward.

  The steel knife, revolving handle over blade, chunked down in the middle of the handkerchief, stabbing through white cotton.

  “Okay! You did it!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Want to make the game even better?”

  Tom, holding the knife, wetting his lips, looking at that square handkerchief, nodded.

  “When you throw the knife this time, pretend you’re stabbing a lady’s breast.”

  “What?”

  Peter, still sitting behind Tom, rested his chin on Tom’s right shoulder. “Try it! It’s really fun!”

  “No, I don’t want to.”

  “Here. Watch me.” Peter stood up, walked over to the other side of the white handkerchief. Squatted down. Reached across the handkerchief, forcibly snatching the knife away from Tom’s fingers. Threw the knife down, violently. The blade stuck in, all the way down to the handle. He raised his big-nosed face, happy. “I stabbed her breast. I got the blade to slice right down the center of her nipple. Look at the blood!”

  Tom put his hands under his rear end. “I don’t want to play this game!”

  “Sissy!”

  “Too bad.”

  “Pussy.”

  “I’m not a pussy.”

  “Yes you are.” Peter slapped Tom across his nose.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey what?”

  “Don’t slap me!”

  “I didn’t slap you! The ghost did.”

  Tom pulled his face back. “What ghost?”

  “The ghost that lives in my attic. My mom doesn’t believe me, but it’s up there. He’s really angry. And violent. He sits on the attic floor and counts backwards.”

  “What happens when he gets to zero?”

  “I don’t know. He started with a really huge number. He hasn’t gotten to zero yet. Don’t never go up into my attic without me there to protect you.”

  “I can protect myself.”

  “Not from this ghost. I know him. You don’t.” Peter sprang across the white handkerchief. Slid his right forearm under Tom’s jaw, across his throat. Pulled him backwards, twisted him sideways, putting the taller boy’s face in the dirt, climbing his weight on top of Tom’s back. Peter jerked up his forearm, seeing the look of pain on Tom’s face. “You can’t protect yourself. Say unguent! Say unguent!”

  Tom, a year older, a head taller, bucked Peter off his back. Pinned Peter’s elbows against the forest floor. Scooted his ass up Peter’s stomach, chest, until his thighs were splayed under Peter’s jaw, his hands holding down Peter’s wrists.

  Peter, underneath Tom’s anger, scrunched his face. “Unguent! Unguent!”

  Tom, confused, bore his weight down harder. “I don’t know about that! Say uncle!”

  Peter’s face, pinned between Tom’s thighs, gave up. “Uncle!”

  •••

  Late afternoon, after school.

  Tom didn’t see Peter anywhere on the street, so after sitting outside on the curb to his own house for half an hour, he went inside, up to his room.

  He lifted his window overlooking the neighborhood’s street, in case he might hear Peter’s voice.

  Reached under his bed, pulled out a jar of peanut butter.

  Red tongue sticking out between his teeth, he unscrewed the blue plastic lid, set it down on the white carpet ne
xt to him. Reached inside the jar with his middle finger, moving the finger around the strong-smelling peanut butter until the top joint of his finger was thickly coated.

  Using his left hand, he clumsily twisted the top back on the jar, so it wouldn’t make a mess if it accidently fell over.

  Standing, eyes on his coated middle finger, he walked over to the closet.

  Pressed the front tip of his middle finger above the top door hinge of the white closet door, leaving a light brown smear.

  Put his finger in his mouth, sucking off the remainder of the peanut butter.

  He stood in his quiet, white-walled bedroom, taste of peanut butter in his mouth, staring at the streak of peanut butter above the closet door’s hinge.

  Through the opened window on the right, he could hear kids outside, returning to the neighborhood from after school activities, yelps and laughs rising. But none of them sounded like his new friend, Peter.

  After he stared at the smear of peanut butter above the top hinge for about half an hour, pale lines slid through the dark space between the door and the jamb, just below the hinge.

  Seeking in all directions, the lines lengthened on his side of the door, finally pulling through the dark vertical space a pale round head.

  The spider stood perpendicular to the door below the hinge. Defying gravity. Just when it seemed the spider would remain motionless forever, the eight legs ambulated upwards, head swinging left, right.

  When the front two legs stepped upwards into the peanut butter, the joints of the spindly legs bent their three knees outwards, round head lowering.

  Tom watched the eight eyes, glossy dark like caviar, roll in their orbs, registering the smell. The front of the round head dipped into the smear. Tiny maw sliding sideways, feathering up the peanut butter.

  He left it alone while it ate. His dad told him, never pet a dog while it’s eating. Even a dog that likes you.

  When the round head finally lifted from the smear, not much of the smear consumed, the maw still working sideways, Tom reached a slow finger forward, whorled top pad touching lightly atop the spider’s head.

  The eight legs lowered, multiple knees bending, as if to get out from under the petting, but the spider stayed put.

  “Did you have an interesting day today, Maxwell?”

  After rubbing his fingerprint across the coarse fur of the spider’s head, Tom left it alone.

  The spider sucked itself back through the dark vertical space of the jamb, disappearing.

  Tom lay down on his stomach by the side of his bed. Reached under the bed, into that private world, pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil.

  Drew four squares on a clean sheet of paper.

  In the first square he drew wavy lines going down. His mom’s hair.

  In the second square he drew wavy lines going across. His mom’s smell.

  In the third square he drew crossed lines. His mom’s kisses.

  In the fourth square he drew parallel lines. His mom hugging him.

  Tom’s dad shouted up the stairs. “Tom, you have a visitor.”

  I do? Tom thought it probably wasn’t his mom, and when he came down the stairs he saw it wasn’t, but it was his friend Peter, so that was good.

  “Peter’s mom and me are going out to Paisano’s. You boys can order pizza. I left some money by the phone.”

  After his dad and Mrs Morris left, Peter at the wide picture window at the front of the house, watching the car shrink down the block, Peter brought Tom back to the kitchen. “We should wrestle to see who gets to call.”

  Tom was surprised. “You can call.”

  “Nah. We have to wrestle. Unless you’re chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken!”

  “Yes you are. Want to wrestle to prove you aren’t?”

  Tom shrugged.

  “But this time, you get down on your hands and knees. I’m going to get behind you, on top of you.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Sure it is! You’re older than me, and taller. Unless you really are a chicken.”

  Tom got down on the kitchen floor on his hands and knees. Pete climbed on top of him, sliding his strong forearm under Tom’s jaw, using his other hand to grab Tom’s right wrist, twist it behind his back. “Ready?”

  Tom, blinking, nodded.

  Peter tightened his forearm across Tom’s throat. Twisted Tom’s wrist higher up his spine.

  Tom collapsed to the kitchen floor tiles, in front of the stainless steel dishwasher. Cried out in pain.

  Peter pressed his muscled forearm even closer against the older boy’s throat. “Say uncle! Say uncle!”

  Tom teared up. “Uncle! Uncle!”

  “Who’s stronger? Who? You or me?”

  Tom, splayed on his stomach across the tiles, helpless, Peter’s bullying weight on top of him, hurting him, blinked rapidly. “You are! You’re stronger!”

  •••

  They were over Peter’s house. His mom was out.

  Peter led Tom into the dining room where he and his dad had beef stroganoff last week. As Tom watched, Peter moved a dining room chair over to the hutch. Stood on top of the chair’s seat, its plush cushion causing him to wave his arms sideways, like a tightrope walker. Once he was balanced, he reached up over the top of the tall mahogany hutch. Brought down a beautiful-looking bottle with a pale brown liquid sloshing inside. He jumped off the seat.

  Walked over to Tom with the bottle, looking up at him, smirking. “Know what this is?”

  “Is that beer?”

  Peter snorted. “It’s whiskey. You ever drink whiskey before?”

  Tom took a step back. “I don’t think so.”

  Peter unscrewed the top. “Whiskey makes you grow up faster. Turns you into a man.” His big nose sniffed the opening. “It tastes really bad, but it cleans your brain.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever have really bad thoughts? Whiskey gets rid of them.”

  “How does it do that?”

  “You said you really like birds, right? Well, if a bird is attacked, by a dog or a person, all it has to do is fly up in the air. A dog can’t fly. Neither can a person. Whiskey is filled with tiny little birds. You can’t see them, but if you drink some whiskey, all those tiny little birds fly up into your head.” Peter tilted the bottle up, took a swig. Made a lip-bulging face. His voice was hoarse. “You try.”

  Peter accepted the weight of the glass bottle. Sniffed the rim. “It smells like gasoline.”

  “That’s to keep pussies away. Drink it.”

  Tom held the bottle out to Peter. “I don’t want to.”

  Peter got angry. “Drink it!”

  Tom closed one eye, looking down into the glass top of the bottle, down past the interior glass spirals of the neck, at the ocean of swaying pale brown liquid within.

  “You can’t see the birds.”

  Tom took a swig. Smacked his lips loudly, twisting his face away.

  “Drink some more!”

  “I don’t like it, Peter!”

  Peter rolled his broad shoulders. Reached up and rubbed Tom’s crew cut. “Well, then go home, little baby. Oh, and by the way. We’re no longer friends.”

  Tom took a second sip. Felt the warmth in his mouth, then in his stomach. Kept sipping until Peter said it was okay for him to stop.

  Peter carried the bottle by its neck into the kitchen, over to the sink. Turned on the spigot, filling the bottle with enough water until it was back up to its original level.

  Put it back up on top of the mahogany hutch.

  He grinned at Tom. “We’re free! My mom’s not home.”

  Tom smiled. “Yeah, I like that. Being free.”

  “We can do anything we want.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Peter slipped his hand between the buttons of Tom’s shirt, laying his palm on Tom’s bare stomach. “Want to go up to the attic?”

  Tom’s eyes tracked down, feeling the warmth of Peter’s palm over his belly b
utton. “Why would we want to do that?”

  “I’ll introduce you to the ghost.”

  Peter opened a green door on the second floor hallway. Brown steps leading up, not like a staircase, but like a ladder that tilts back.

  They climbed the rungs, Tom behind Peter.

  Once they stood up in the attic, its timbered expanse, small windows and dust, Peter slapped Tom on his chest. “We’re free, right?”

  “Yeah! Damn right!”

  “So what’s the first thing free men do?”

  Tom tried to think.

  Peter walked up to Tom’s chest, making the older boy step backwards. “We take off our pants!”

  “What?”

  “Fucking A! We’re free!”

  Peter, holding Tom’s eyes, kicked off his sneakers. Reaching down, yanked off his white socks. Undid his belt. Unzipped his zipper. Pulled down his blue jeans, bending forward. Lifted them off his feet.

  His legs were more muscular than Tom’s, and hairier.

  “Now you.”

  Tom opened his mouth.

  “No. Now you. Do it. Because I told you to do it.”

  Tom sat on the brown attic floor, staring up at Peter’s white briefs as he took off his sneakers and black socks, smoothed his pants down his legs, exposing his red and black checked boxer shorts.

  He stood up, looking at Peter.

  Peter laughed, pointing at Tom’s legs. “Your thighs are blushing!”

  Tom looked down at his red-splotched thighs. “No they’re not!”

  “See how cold it feels up here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “See the ghost in that corner?” Peter pointed toward the distant corner of the attic, God light slanting through the small windows, dust motes floating.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Are you just retarded?”

  “I told you not to say that!”

  “You honestly don’t see the ghost right there in that corner?”

  “Well, yeah, maybe I see something.”

  “And you feel how cold it is?”

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  “The ghost hangs upside down from the attic rafters by his toenails. His arms stretch all the way down through the floorboards, into the bedrooms below. His hands have two thumbs each, and they can pass through your pajamas onto your body.”