by Ray Garton
After scrubbing his face with a towel, he looked into the mirror and muttered hoarsely, "Just a dream. Thassall."
In the hall, he heard Karen stirring in the bedroom and hurried away before she came out.
* * * *
Karen had awakened suddenly, sat up and clutched her head in her hands, sick with guilt. She went over it all in her mind and could not believe what she had done. And she’d done it just across the street! Lifting her head slowly, she stared for a moment at the jewelry box on her dresser. That was where she'd hidden the tiny silver women Lorelle had give her. She thought of the way their legs were locked together, of what she and Lorelle had done.
It was still light outside, so she probably had time to fix a quick dinner. That's what she would do. Maybe she'd get take-out Chinese food – a favorite in their house – and treat them all like royalty, shower them with affection, pay each of them a lot of attention – more than she usually did, she was afraid. She felt groggy, as if she'd been drugged, and knew she could probably sleep a few more hours if she laid back down. But she couldn't do that. George would be home soon and the kids were probably hungry.
As she got out of bed, she saw the time on the digital clock: 10:41 A.M.
Karen slapped a hand over her mouth and groaned, "Oh, God." Her stomach turned and her throat felt thick, as if full of phlegm. She never slept that long, not without at least waking once to go to the bathroom, or something. She had never been a heavy sleeper.
Slipping on her panties and dress, she peeked out into the hall, saw no one, and went into the bathroom. The woman who stared at her from inside the mirror was frightening: greasy hair, pale, splotchy skin with dark bags beneath her eyes, and hands that looked veiny and aged.
Turning away from the mirror, Karen sat on the edge of the bathtub and closed a fist around a clump of her flat, spiky hair, thinking about it all again.
All the licking and sucking… all the wet noises they'd made…
The worst part was that no matter how hard Karen tried to be repulsed by the memory, it only excited her and made her want more.
An abrupt knock at the bathroom door made her jump.
"Mom?" Jen called.
Taking a deep breath, struggling to keep her voice steady, she answered, "What, honey?"
"Do we have any more cocoa? I can't find any."
"May-maybe not. I-I’ll come look in a minute. Okay?"
“‘Kay.” After a moment: "You feel better?"
"Yeah. Yuh-yeah, I think so."
"That's good." Her footsteps hurried down the hall.
Better than what? Karen thought. Had Jen sensed something wrong yesterday? Had she looked this bad yesterday?
Looking in the mirror again, she was certain she'd never looked worse.
She stood and ran a brush through her hair a few times, then stood at the bathroom door for several long seconds, wondering how she could bear to show herself in her own home.
* * * *
Robby felt better when he woke that morning, although he had not slept well. His dreams of Lorelle had been haunted by the dark, limping figure he'd seen out his window the night before.
He put on jeans and a shirt and went into the hall, where his mom was just coming out of the bathroom. She quickly looked away from him and rushed by before he could say good morning.
The house was unusually quiet. Even the television was playing at low volume. Jen was not in her usual place on the floor and instead of cartoons, a news show was on. The Carl's, Jr. bag was still on the coffee table and Dad was slumped in the recliner, scowling at the television.
"Morning, Dad."
"What?" He looked up at Robby with a long face, his eyes deep beneath eyebrows so mussed that they seemed made of tangled black wires.
"Just… good morning."
Dad turned back to the television without responding.
In the kitchen Mom was doing something at the counter, while Jen thumbed through a magazine and listened to her iPod at the breakfast table.
"Guess Dad's not in a great mood, huh?" Robby asked quietly as he sat down with her.
Removing the headphones, Jen rolled her eyes and said, "He's weird this morning." Tossing a glance at Mom, she whispered, "So's she. You think they're fighting?"
Robby remembered the sounds he'd heard in their room the night before. They hadn't been fighting then.
Something thunked to the kitchen floor and Robby turned to see his mom staring at the coffee can she'd dropped to the floor. Grounds were spilled at her feet in a pool. She said nothing, just stared at it, pressing her lips together tightly as if she were about to cry. Then she walked out.
Robby went over and picked up the can and set it on the counter as she came back in with a broom.
"I'll get it," she said, her voice unsteady, quavering. “Just leave it alone, okay? Just leave it alone."
Robby backed up to the table and watched her sweep up the mess. She didn't look at him or even acknowledge his presence.
Jen looked up at him and shrugged, as if to say, I don't know what's going on.
He didn't either, but something had made the whole house thick with tension and Robby did not like it. He started out of the kitchen and as he passed Mom, she breathed, "Sorry."
The tension in the Pritchard house that morning did not go away. The day stretched on silently, with the exception of the television and an occasional door closing. Or slamming. Robby did some homework and Jen went down the street to see the Crane twins. Karen made a big pot of potato soup, baked some banana nut bread and wrote a few emails. George worked on the broken lawnmower in the garage, cleaned out the fireplace and watched an old movie. They did the things they usually did on Saturdays, but there was no conversation, no laughter, not even any angry shouting. And those few words that were exchanged were done so without eye contact.
Late in the afternoon, Dylan called and asked Robby if he wanted to go to the mall. Anxious to get out of the house, Robby grabbed his coat and went outside to meet Dylan. He assumed they were going to walk – the Mt. Shasta Mall wasn’t far away – but instead, Mrs. Garry pulled up in her car and Dylan waved from the backseat.
A light rain was falling and Robby stuffed his hands into his coat pockets as he hurried to the other side of the car. As he got in, he spotted Lorelle walking down her drive flanked by Sodom and Gomorrah, each on a leash. He turned away quickly, as if he hadn't noticed her.
Dylan watched her as they drove away, turning around in the seat to look out the back window. With a low whistle, he whispered, "God, they're gorgeous." Then, chuckling: "The dogs're pretty nice, too."
Robby ignored him and looked out his window as they turned onto Mistletoe and something caught his eye. A tan Ford Escort was parked on the other side of the street. A man wearing a hat sat behind the wheel, elbow propped against the closed window, his face in his gloved hand. His eyes met with Robby's and he sat up suddenly, pulling his hand away, and -
– through the rain-speckled glass, Robby saw the man's mangled face, his down turned eye, the rictus curl of the left side of his mouth as it grinned halfway up his face.
The man watched Robby as they rode by and Robby spun around, clutching the back of the seat.
The Escort started up and pulled away from the shoulder, making a U-turn in the street.
"My God," Robby breathed.
"What?" Dylan asked, glancing behind them. "Someone you know?"
Robby stammered a moment, then fell silent. What could he say? That was the man with the melting face and the steel hand that my sister saw last night. It wouldn't sound good.
But the man was definitely following them.
"Something wrong, Robby?" Mrs. Garry asked.
He tried to relax in the seat and think of a response, but he was too upset – too frightened – to string words into a sentence, so he just mustered a weak smile, said, "No," and resisted the urge to look back again.
Dylan was talking to him about something, but his voice sounde
d far away and his words were garbled. Robby stared at the back of Mrs. Garry's head as Dylan rattled on.
They turned right on Churn Creek Road. The windshield wipers sounded like a soggy heartbeat as they swept from right to left and back again and – Robby looked over his shoulder.
The Escort was still behind them.
Robby's hands began to shake in his lap and he considered asking Mrs. Garry to take him back home -
– I could say I forgot something I had to do, or that I'm expecting a long distance call, or -
– but they were already on Hilltop Drive and Mrs. Garry turned on the blinker, ready to turn into the Sears parking lot just ahead.
“I've got some shopping to do,” she said as she looked for a parking space. “You boys do whatever you want in the mall. Dylan, I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to leave.”
"Okay, Mom," Dylan said.
She pulled into a space, killed the engine, and they got out of the car.
Robby looked around for the Escort but didn’t see it.
"What's the matter?" Dylan asked. "You look like you're lost."
"Oh. Nothing. Let's go."
Still looking over his shoulder every few seconds, Robby followed Dylan into the mall.
I'm tired, that's all, he thought. I haven't been sleeping well and it's made me jumpy. Paranoid. That's all.
Inside the mall, they went to Hot Topic first and looked around for a while. Dylan whispered jokes about the overweight goth girl operating the register as they browsed the merchandise. As the left the store, Robby looked to his left at the glass doors through which they’d entered.
The man stood on the sidewalk outside, leaning on his cane as he stared in through the glass.
"Holy shit," Robby whispered, spinning around so his back was toward the window.
"What?"
"C'mon, we've gotta go.”
"What the hell's wrong with you?"
"That man is following me."
"What man?"
"That – “
He was gone.
"You're still sick, aren't you?" Dylan asked, frowning. "You got a fever?"
Robby didn't reply. He just stared at the glass doors as his heart thundered against his ribs.
"I'm gonna go look at the pictures of the half naked women in the Victoria’s Secret window." Dylan left him standing alone.
Robby turned away from the entrance and stared absently into the display window in front of Hot Topic. He tried to tell himself it was ridiculous to be so frightened by a total stranger. Just because his face was disfigured did not mean he was some kind of mad slasher, and it certainly didn't mean he was the same man Lorelle had reported to the police last night.
Maybe I am sick, he thought, touching his forehead for signs of a high temperature.
"Please listen to me and don't run away."
Robby gasped as he spun around to face the man who had appeared suddenly behind him.
"I don't want to hurt you. Just warn you. You have to listen to me." The brim of his fedora was low and his head was tipped forward so Robby couldn’t get a good look at his face.
“Who are you?"
"Doesn't matter. All you need to know is that you're in danger. Your whole family is in danger. In fact, your entire neigh – “
Feeling a sudden jolt of anger, Robby growled, "Look, man, I don't have to listen to you, okay? I don't know who you are, but if you don't stay out of my neighborhood and away from my sister, I'll have you thrown in – “
The man lifted his head and faced him directly.
Robby's words disappeared in a gulp.
The left side of the man's mouth had been cut all the way up to his cheekbone, which appeared to have caved in, as if it had been split then sewn back together. The scar that remained had dragged the outer corner of his left eye downward and puckered his cheek like a colorless raisin.
"Look at me," the man whispered. "Look at me. Do you want this to happen to you? To your family?"
Feeling queasy, Robby backed up until he bumped into the window.
“Now, listen to me. You have to listen. You're all in danger. You know something's wrong. Deep down, I think you know. Don't you?"
Robby looked to his right and saw Dylan a few stores down standing at the Victoria’s Secret window. He willed Dylan to turn to him, to see the man with the cane, but Dylan didn’t move.
"She's evil," the man said quietly, moving a step closer.
Robby looked at him again. The man’s face made him wince. He couldn’t look at him for long. He turned his head toward Dylan again and tried to call his name, but his throat was full of sand and he only made a senseless, whispery sound. His hands tingled, as if freezing cold, and he waggled his fingers spastically as the man moved a step closer, almost touching him now.
Robby turned toward Dylan again. He still stood at the window, oblivious.
He whispered, "You know she's evil, don't you?"
Robby forced himself to peel his body away from the window and turn left. He threw himself forward, away from the man, nearly tripping over his own feet on his way to the exit. But he could not keep himself from glancing back over his shoulder.
The man stood facing him but did not pursue him.
"You'll see," he said, just loud enough for Robby to hear him. "She never sleeps. There's no time. Too many souls to eat."
Robby broke into a run as he faced front, darting around the people in front of him, dodging those walking toward him. A few people stared for a moment as he passed, then went back to the business of shopping.
All Robby wanted was to go home.
The cold drizzle felt good on his face. He kept running into the parking lot, then slowed to a stop and turned around.
The strange man was nowhere in sight.
Robby went to Mrs. Garry’s car and waited in the rain, keeping a watchful eye out for the man.
"Where'd you go?" Dylan asked as he and his mother came out of the mall and approached the car almost half an hour later.
Robby shrugged. "Outside. I just… lost interest to the mall. That’s all."
By the time he got home, Robby wanted to get drunk. He wondered if his parents were busy enough not to notice him breaking into their booze.
Dad was stretched out in the recliner in the living room, dividing his attention between a magazine and an old movie on television.
"Hey, Dad."
He nodded without looking up.
"Where's Mom?"
"Across the street."
"Huh?"
"She went over to Lor – Miss Dupree's house.”
Robby muttered, "Oh. Yeah." Then he hurried into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and took several big, long gulps of vodka from the bottle.
Chapter 9
Saturday Night
Karen went to bed at ten-thirty, but lay awake for over two hours thinking about what she'd done that afternoon. Once, she'd gotten up to take from her jewelry box the tiny piece of silver Lorelle had given her. She'd looked at it for several minutes, fondled it, then put it away and returned to bed.
Now that it was over, she hated herself for it, but at the time she'd felt like a junkie in need of a fix. The house had been so quiet, so tense, and all she'd wanted was to feel better.
As she'd tried hard to keep herself busy in the uneasy silence, Karen could not stop remembering how good Lorelle had made her feel Friday afternoon. She remembered the orgasms, one after another, first touching her like feathers, then hitting like trains. She'd never known she could be made to feel that way, that she could achieve such intense and physically rocking pleasure.
When she first started baking the banana nut bread, she told herself it was for the kids because they loved it so much, but deep down inside herself where she seldom looked, she knew it was for another reason. It was an excuse to go over to Lorelle's.
And she had. She'd allowed it to happen again.
Now she lay in bed hating herself for it. But she didn't hate her
self as much as she had the first time. And this time, she found herself hating George just a little for never making her feel that way.
Karen wondered as she lay in bed gently touching herself if she would hate herself even less the next time. She left her hand between her legs but feigned sleep when George came in, hoping he wouldn't speak to her.
* * * *
Seconds after George had settled beneath the covers, Monroe jumped up onto the bed, purring and prodding the covers between George and Karen for a comfortable place to curl up.
George tolerated the cat the rest of the day in the rest of the house, but he'd told Karen countless times that Monroe was to be shut out of the bedroom when they turned in for the night.
It had been a long, bad day, cold – inside the house as well as out – and irritating. He knew part of the reason was the guilt, shame and confusion he felt about what had happened in their bedroom the night before. But he didn't know what was wrong with Karen. He'd hoped she would try to snap him out of it and cheer him up as she usually did when he was feeling low. But she'd hardly even spoken to him and that irritated him. Then she'd gone over to Lorelle's for a couple of hours and that made him nervous. What if Lorelle was the kiss and tell type?
Guess what your husband did to me last night… on your bedroom floor… while you were asleep.
After a while he realized that was ridiculous. Lorelle lived across the street from them, for Christ's sake. It wasn't likely she was going to shit where she ate. But when Karen returned, she'd been even colder and more distant, and that only made him feel crankier.
The cat on the bed was the last straw.
Usually, George swept Monroe up and put him out in the hall. Not this time.
He jerked his foot from under the covers, and kicked the cat off the bed. Monroe yowled as he became airborne and his claws tore at the carpet when he landed. Karen sat bolt upright in bed as George chased Monroe around the room, finally cornering him under the bed. Mindless of the scratches he would no doubt sustain, George groped under the bed as Monroe hissed and spat, finally closing his fist on a clump of fur and dragging the squawling cat out, carrying him by his fur to the door and throwing him hard into the hall.