Wait Until Twilight (13 page)

I
GET HOME AND PUT MY BIKE AWAY
before hopping in my car. Sitting there behind the wheel, thinking to myself, the memory of the day at school seems so absurd when I weigh it against that night at Mrs. Greenan’s, about the babies and that greasy bastard, my own feelings…it’s this double life, and one end is a whole lot heavier than the other. But I don’t know any other way to live. I don’t know what to do. Why do I even think about going back there? To help the lady and the babies? I don’t care about her, and I want those things to disappear. But at the same time I want to know…I need to know what’s happening to them. I start the car, and within twenty minutes I’m parking in front of the house. Dusty and his brother are out in their front yard playing around with mud when I pull up to Mrs. Greenan’s house. The lawn has been mown and the hedges around the house neatly trimmed since the last time.

“Hey! You came back!” yells Dusty.

“No thanks to you, Judas,” I say.

“It all happened too fast. I didn’t have time.”

“Forget about it,” I say, and start going in.

“Where’re you going?” he asks. He just stays put as I go up to the porch. I can hear his big brother calling him back to their front yard, back home. Before I knock I can see a figure behind the screen door and my hackles rise and my adrenaline revs up. But it’s only Mrs. Greenan. “Samuel, come on in.” She leads me through the foyer into the living room. The house is well lit, all the drapes are open, letting in light, and everything’s tidy like the very first time I came to visit. There’re even some fresh flowers in a vase on the coffee table.

“I just wanted to apologize again for the way I acted that day,” I say.

“It’s okay, Samuel. When Margaret told me about your momma dying at such an early age, I thought, That poor boy. And you came back to apologize. Nobody’s ever done that. I felt bad the moment you left. How about some sweet tea?”

“No thanks, ma’am. I just wanted to see how those babies were doing. Is there any way I could take a peek?”

“Sure, you could. They’re taking a nap upstairs, so be quiet.”

“Don’t worry, I know how to be quiet.”

I follow her up those stairs, and I put my hand on the cold smooth banisters. We get to the room, the same room where I almost became a murderer and was almost murdered at the same time. But just like the living room, it’s clean and tidy now. The hardwood floor has been picked up and the stench had been replaced with pine. The three babies are huddled together, eyes closed and breathing steadily on the well-made bed. They almost look normal like that, sleeping together. Almost human. Was the other night even real? How could this be? I nod my head to Mrs. Greenan, and we walk back down.

“Sure you don’t want some tea or cookies? They’re homemade.”

“Actually I just wanted to see them one time,” I say.

Then from the kitchen a cold voice says, “We got a guest in the house?”

“Sure do, Daryl. It’s Samuel. Samuel Polk, that boy I told you about.”

It’s those heavy boots walking out of the kitchen. He’s wearing the greasy-looking blue baseball cap over that longish dark hair. I get a good look at that cap for the first time. It’s one of those old Braves baseball caps from back in the seventies and eighties, with the ‘a’ in little letters, worn by the likes of Dale Murphy and Hank Aaron. I don’t know whether I should run, warn Mrs. Greenan, or call the cops.

“I was really sorry to hear about your mother,” he says with a toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth. He holds out his hand. “It must have been such a shock at such an early age.” I look at his hand and see the old cut wounds on his forearm. “Don’t mind that, that’s from huntin’ skunk.” He smiles a big yellow-toothed smile.

I see Mrs. Greenan looking at me and then at my hand. So I take his hand and shake it. He squeezes it real hard with that smile on his face. I have to hold down a scream, his grip is so damn hard. Then he lets go with a friendly nod. “Sure you don’t want some cookies?” he asks. “They’re homemade.”

“Who are you?” My voice breaks as I ask.

“Daryl? Daryl’s my son,” she says with a laugh. “He helps me with my little miracles.”

“Yup. What with looking after those little miracles, working at the sewage plant, huntin’, and singin’ in my rock band, I barely even got time to eat.”

“I just wanted to see your little ones to make sure they were all right. That’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t they be all right?” asks Daryl.

“Had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“Bad dream? Don’t be stupid,” says Daryl. “Ha-ha-ha! He came over here because of a bad dream. He’s a strange one, isn’t he?”

“He sure is,” said Mrs. Greenan. “You sure have a lot of bad dreams.” She turns to Daryl. “Why, I found him having one on our steps not long ago.”

“Really? Why didn’t you tell me?” With fists clenched, he steps up to Mrs. Greenan, who takes a step back.

“I did! I did!” she pleads. “Just the other day.”

“That’s right, you did,” he says.

“I’ll be going now,” I say, and head for the front door as fast as I can.

“You come back now when you’re ready for some tea and cookies.”

“How many times you gonna ask him about those goddamn cookies? Can’t you see he don’t want any?”

I’m already out of there: down the porch, across the front yard. I’m walking fast. The screen door slams, and I turn around. Daryl comes running down.

“Stop!” I yell with my hands out.

“I knew you’d come.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Samuel Polk, I didn’t tell nobody.”

“Tell what?”

“Come on, don’t bullshit me. You’re a natural-born murderer.”

“No way. You were forcing me,” I say.

“I didn’t make you do nothin’. You did it on your own. Now get in the fucking car.” He opens his car door and pushes me in. “I know you ain’t gonna lie about not doing it because, Samuel, you couldn’t live with a lie like that.”
God, this guy terrifies me.
I get the feeling he could do something insane and terrible at any moment.
Why me? And how the hell could he be the son of Mrs. Greenan? She’s so nice.

He starts the Charger and speeds out of the neighborhood, squealing his tires. I should have never let him get me in the car.
Think, stupid.
But it’s too late. “Don’t be a faggot, Samuel Polk! Man up! You are what you are.”

“Did you hit your mom?”

He punches me in the arm with a fist that feels like a baseball bat. “That dummy. She’s a terrible mom. Not smart enough. Sometimes I wonder how I was born out of that thing. Look what done come out of her. Either them babies or me is wrong for this world. It’s either me or them, Samuel. It sure as hell ain’t me,” he says, and pulls over onto the side of the road. “Here,” he says. “Put this over ya.” He takes out the stinking burlap bag.

“Why?”

“It’s for your own protection,” he says, bringing his hunting knife from the back of his pants. I take the bag and pull it over my head all the way down to my arms and chest. In the darkened amber haze I can feel the car get back on the road.

“You drove by that day when I was studying on the porch steps,” I say.

“Yup. And I saw you at the fair, too. You’re crazy, you know that? Climbing up that thing like that. Remember this?” He screams, “‘Go, you fucking monkey!’ That was me. And then falling back like that, whew. I knew you were insane then. I knew you were capable of anything.”

“So you were following me?”

“Who’s following who, you stupid shit?” He pushes my head down hard to my knees. “Duck your head down.” I hear more traffic for a while, which means we were going into town. He pulls into somewhere and then drives around some and finally stops. It’s quiet
here and there’s a new bad smell, like garbage coming in through the stench of the bag. Then he jerks me out of the driver’s side with him and starts leading me toward some unknown destination. I’m walking on hard earth and grass and bushes and brambles, and I can hear birds calling and the faint rustle of branches. I can see shadows and faint light through the crosshatch of the bag.

“How much longer?” I say. He doesn’t answer and pushes me on. Time passes and we’re walking and I’m sweating bullets under that bag. Then I hear animals scurrying about, getting louder and louder until they’re up close. A door creaks open, and I’m pushed inside a room with a wooden floor. He finally pulls the bag from over me, bringing in a fresh batch of cool air. I’m in a dirty little shed about the size of my bedroom, furnished with a small military cot and a worktable covered with dried blood and tools. The walls are covered with little skulls and animal hides: squirrel, opossum, cat, dog, skunk, and more, but I can’t tell all of them. There’s the one door and a few smudged windows, through which I see woods.

“It’s my huntin’ shed,” he says, and slams the knife down in the table, making it stick straight up. “Sit down.” I sit down on the cot, and he goes out. I look for a way out, maybe I can make a bum’s rush for the door or knife, but he’s already coming right back in holding a wooden pine box the size of a small television. He places the box in front of me. A raccoon’s head struggles to free itself at the top of the box, where there’s a hole cut in it. The box is composed of two parts that are locked together at the base of the hole, trapping the head. Daryl hands me a hammer. “This is practice for a runt like you.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Ha. You’ll kill a kid but not a raccoon?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Because I stopped you, you murderer.” He pulls up his britches by the legs and bends his knees like he’s in the middle of a huddle.
“Now watch how it’s done.” He cocks the hammer back, and as he brings it down I look away.

“Ahhhh!” I yell, but it can’t cover the whacking sound the hammer makes on the raccoon’s head.

“It screams just like a baby!” he says. “Look at it!”

“Hell no!”

I feel the hammer come down on my back. “Ahhh!” I raise my arms to protect myself. He kicks me a few times and goes back to finishing off the raccoon, which has stopped screaming.

“It’s over, faggot! You can look now.”

I keep my head turned with my hands over my face.

“Look, goddamnit.” He grabs me and turns me around, jerking my hands away. There’s just the bloody hole at the top of the box. “See, if you do it right, and you beat the head to a pulp, it just slips through the hole and it’s already in its casket. I made a bigger one for when we do those demon freaks. But the same thing. Wait.” He slips out of the door and I make a break for it, but he’s right there waiting for me. He punches me right in the solar plexus and pushes me down. “I said, Wait.”

I lie on the ground for a while trying to catch my breath. Outside I can hear him manhandling another animal. How can this be happening? I wonder while looking at the blood staining the wooden floors and walls. Then he comes back in with the box and a cat head meowing and squirming about at the top.

“Here, get up.” He grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me up, sitting me on the cot. “Now do like I did. Spread your legs and bend your knees. The power comes from your legs.” He slaps his thighs. “Got it?” He puts the hammer in my hands, which I let drop to the floor. He walks over to the table and gets the knife. Then he starts cutting himself on the arms like last time.

“Good!” I say. “More. Cut more. You sick bastard!” He grabs
my arm, pulls back the sleeve, and makes a cut in my arm. “Ahh, stop!”

“Hit it! Just like you would if it were one of those little monsters.”

“Why? It didn’t do anything to anyone.”

“No one does anything to anyone. Doesn’t mean they can’t die. There’s no God. We’re all flesh and blood.” He slaps both his arms. “That’s all there is, then we die! Just like your mother.”

I shake my head.

“No? If there was a God, you think he’d let your momma die like that? While you’re still a boy who needs his momma? You think he’d put her and you through that kind of pain? Can’t you see? It’s all nothing. We can do what we want. It don’t mean nothing! We’re free! Now hit.”

“Wait! Give me a minute.” He cuts my arm again. “Ahhhh, shit! Okay, okay! I’ll do it!” I’m crying now, staring at him. I want to kill him, but he’s got the knife.

“What are you waiting for? Do it.”

“You do it!”

“Hell, you already got blood on your hands. You’ve got a destiny to follow.”

“What?”

“You killed your momma.”

“Who told you that?” I say. Using his free hand he pinches the crap out of my side. “Ahhh!”

“You murdered her,” he says. “It was your fault.”

“Shut up.” He puts the blade up to my neck. “You want me to do it?” I say.

“No shit, Sherlock fucking Holmes! C’mon, killer!”

“Okay, watch this, you son of a bitch!”

I take the hammer and turn away from him so I’m between him
and the box. I start hitting as hard as I can just below the cat’s head, where the lock connecting the two pieces of the box is. I strike again and again. Sparks fly, and wood begins to splinter at the metal hinges. I want to destroy it all.

“Yeah! That’s more like it!” he says over my shoulder. “Aim better, idgit! You’re too damn low!”

The entire front of the box collapses, and the box splits open and out from where it connected on the hinges in the back. The cat scampers out.

“You goddamn idgit!” Daryl gets low, trying to catch the cat, and when he does I smack him straight on top of his head with the hammer. It sounds like a thud. “Ohhh!” He brings his hands to his head. Then I hammer on the hand holding the knife. “Goddamn!” he screams. The knife clatters to the floor. I grab it and start backing to the door. “You little bastard! Do you know who I am?” he screams, holding his wrist. In response, I throw the hammer at his face then run out through the door. Outside there’s a clearing in the middle of the woods bordered by a chain-link fence coming down one side. I start running through the clearing of dirt and weeds and see a light trail through the woods. My hooded walk here seemed almost straight on, so it would make sense that it would be there. I take one look back as Daryl comes staggering out of the door. The shed looks homemade, with a slanted tin roof and gray rotted wood built against the side of a dirt ridge. Beside the shed are a few cages, some empty and some containing an assortment of small animals, another raccoon and a rabbit…I don’t look long. Daryl’s coming. I start down the path as fast as I can run, not looking back even once. Running full speed, I get to the end of the path in what seems like a few minutes.
God, I hope that cat got away, too
. At the end of the trail I find Daryl’s car parked beside three industrial-size trash bins. It’s the small parking lot behind the Kmart. I walk quickly past the big
grated doors where the distribution trucks back in to make their deliveries. I slip the knife in the back of my pants. It’s cold on my lower back and ass. I take off my shoes and then my socks, which I use to wipe the blood and then tie around the cuts on my forearm. Luckily the socks are blue, which makes it hard to spot the blood. They just look darker. After I put my shoes back on I run around to the front. The traveling fair is long gone, and the dull Kmart parking lot looks the lonelier for it. The afternoon shoppers are out, some with kids, some pushing red shopping carts coming in and out of those automatic glass doors that go
whoosh
when I go in. I walk down the air-conditioned aisles of neatly shelved products to the back, where I find a water fountain and bathroom. I call Melody and tell her my car’s in the garage and I got a ride out to Kmart, where I’m now stranded. I try to sound normal, but it’s real hard. It’s like I’m standing outside of my body watching myself talk. I feel like I’m stammering and stuttering, but she seems to understand all right.