Bad Games (13 page)

Patrick nodded slowly and now it was his turn to look at his drink. He played with the toothpick, spearing his olive multiple times, searching for levity. “Yeah. Still, it’ll make a pretty outlandish story to tell when we get home, won’t it?”

“Maybe in time we can find the humor in it, but at the moment I’m afraid I just don’t see it,” she said.

Patrick quickly shook his head. “No, I’m not saying it’s
funny
, baby, I’m just saying…it’s
over
now, so…”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “
So?
”

Patrick stopped torturing his olive, plucked it and ate it. “Forget it,” he said, chewing. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

And he didn’t. He wasn’t even sure he should have brought the whole thing up— the last thing he wanted to do was ruin their evening. It just seemed appropriate to mention for some reason, the way somebody asks for an update involving a terminally ill loved one. You know the news will be bad, but if it’s discussed more than ignored, perhaps it may ultimately lose a bit of its impact, become a therapeutic way of coping.

“It doesn’t bother you at all does it?” she asked.

Patrick first thought about Arty and the gas and Carrie’s doll. It was indeed bothersome, but confusing took more of a lead between the two. In fact, the more he thought about it now, the more he decided that
bizarre
had won the race. Bothersome and confusing had finished and earned their respected spot, but bizarre was indeed the clear winner.

The man who had crudely propositioned Amy in the supermarket before leaving the rice on the car was different. That was truly upsetting, but it was something that could have just as easily happened back home. As for that same man looking into their window while they made love? Yes. Of course that had initially angered him. Angered the hell out of him. He still wasn’t sure if Amy’s eyes had betrayed her or not, but the mere possibility that she’d truly seen what she claimed boiled his blood.

And finally there was the finger in the bait. That bothered him. It did. But the whole incident seemed so random, so unrelated to all the bizarre goings-on that had already transpired. Logic simply had no say on that one. So what choice was there but to ultimately laugh at the absurdity of it all?

“You don’t think it bothers me?” he said.

Amy shrugged. “It doesn’t seem to. At least not a whole lot.”

“I think it’s too surreal,” he said. “Everything that’s happened…it’s just so absurd. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not digesting it all yet. Call it a defense mechanism. Call me a stubborn dummy.”

Amy took another sip of her wine. She smiled at Patrick, weak and small, but there. “I know you want everything to be okay, baby,” she said. “You’re like Chevy Chase from the
Vacation
movies in your quest to showing your family a good time—nothing’s more important to you.”

Patrick smirked at her wit.

“And I’m willing to write off the whole weird experience with that Arty guy. But the other guy I just can’t let go of,” she said. “Even if I didn’t see him in our window; even if my eyes were playing tricks on me, the whole incident at the supermarket and in the parking lot with the rice is enough to stay with me for a bit.”

Will she mention the finger? Patrick wondered.

“And let’s not forget about the finger,” she said.

Patrick sipped his martini, kept his eyes down and chose silence. Amy reached across the table and took hold of his free hand. “Don’t get me wrong, baby—I’m enjoying myself tonight, I really am. But I wonder if we should even
be
here.”

“Out to dinner?”

“Crescent Lake.”

Patrick asked something he already knew. “Do you want to leave?”

She looked at her wine again. There was a small sip left that she swirled in her glass with two fingers on the base of the stem. “No,” she said. “I don’t. But don’t expect me to suddenly forget everything that’s happened. That finger
could
have been made of rubber, been a prank from a kid. And I
could
have been seeing things when I looked out the window and saw the supermarket guy last night. But it still doesn’t put my mind at ease, Patrick. You can’t expect otherwise.”

“I don’t. You know I don’t. And if I was in your shoes I’d feel exactly the same way.” He picked up her hand and kissed it.

She smiled, a stronger one this time, then gulped the remainder of her wine. “I think I need another.”

“Then another you shall have.”

Another good smile. “Why did we even start talking about all this crap again?”

Patrick shrugged. “Beats me. Small talk until the main course arrives?”

She pursed her lips. “Oh right—that conversation definitely qualified as small talk.”

Patrick laughed and kissed her hand again. The waiter came by and cleared their salad plates and Patrick used the opportunity to drain the rest of his drink as well.

“Would you folks care for another round?” the waiter asked.

“Yes please,” Patrick said.

When the waiter brought their next round, Amy said, “So is the plan to keep drinking until we forget about everything?”

Patrick raised his glass. “Works for me.”

Arty and Jim squatted in the backyard of the cabin they’d selected, their bodies cloaked by the surrounding black the woods provided. The cabin was close to the Lambert’s, making it an ideal transitional spot for them to prepare.

“Could be on a timer,” Jim whispered, motioning to the lit windows of the transition cabin.

“Doubt it,” Arty said.

They shuffled side by side, to the left of the cabin. There was a car in the driveway. Arty pointed to it. “Somebody’s home.”

On the ride home, Patrick said, “Such a great meal. Lorraine and Norm have discovered a little gem in that spot.”

Amy leaned back against the headrest and sighed. “It was good wasn’t it?”

“Very. Duck was amazing.”

“Better than Nicola’s back home?”

“Pretty damn close.”

Amy curled to one side, closed her eyes but asked, “So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean do you want to head back or do you want to go somewhere for a drink?”

“I thought you might ask that.” Patrick released the sneaky smile he’d been fighting since leaving the restaurant. “Your wonderfully thoughtful husband happens to have a bottle of Cristal chilling comfortably at the cabin as we speak.”

Amy opened her eyes. “What?”

“Oh yes. Your man can be quite the devious fellow.”

Amy leaned to her left and planted a big one on the side of Patrick’s mouth. “I
love
Cristal,” she said.

“I know you do.”

“What about our little moon-lit stroll around the lake?” she asked.

“We can do that after.”

“After what?”

“After the champagne and…”

Amy looked at her husband with an accusatory, albeit playful eye. “The champagne
and…?
”

“Well, honey, if the champagne happens to puts you in a certain mood, then I can’t be held responsible for that, can I?”

Amy laughed. “You are absolutely shameless.”

Patrick shrugged. “Cozy cabin in the woods? Cristal waiting for us? Kids occupied with good friends? Call me the world’s biggest perv if you must, but I’m just lookin’ to engage in some hardcore lovin’ with my sexy wife as often as humanly possible.”

“Big perv…” And then, leaning to her left once more, she pressed her lips to his ear, kissed and licked the lobe. Whispered, “
But you’re forgiven.
”

Patrick stomped the accelerator.

Lois Blocker had just finished packing away the kitchen. Her husband Maury was making the rounds throughout the cabin’s interior to ensure nothing would be left behind when they left for the winter. Unlike many other residents who were often gone after Labor Day, the couple enjoyed the bracing months of October and November at Crescent Lake. This year, however, the Blockers were leaving early. And for good reason: their children had surprised them with a trip to the Virgin Islands. Just the two of them. Late autumn at the lake was indeed an enjoyable tradition, but sipping margaritas on a sandy white beach in St. Croix sounded pretty darn good too.

“You sure you want to leave tonight?” Lois asked when Maury joined her in the kitchen.

Maury pushed his rimless glasses further up onto his nose and brushed a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Are you forgetting the sandy paradise that awaits us?”

“I mean
tonight
—this late.”

“I’ve already switched the heat and water off, sweetheart. Might as well just get going.”

“But it’s dark now. I don’t like you driving at night.”

He stood behind her at the sink and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Would
you
rather drive?” he smiled, reaching around and tapping her glasses, far thicker than his.

She turned and faced him. “Wise guy. I’d rather
neither
of us drove.”

He brushed a strand of salt and pepper hair out her face. “I want to get home; I’d like to get settled in and unpacked before we start having to
re
-pack for St. Croix.”

She patted him on the butt. “You know darn well that we’ll both be in bed as soon as we get home. There’s nothing that can’t wait until morning.”

“But if we leave in the morning we won’t be home until noon.”

“Oh and I suppose that means our whole day will be shot?” She kissed him. “Come on, honey, you can leave the water off; just switch the heat back on and we can have a good night’s sleep, start bright and early tomorrow.”

He groaned.

She kissed him again. “Perhaps I’ll make tonight worth your while.”

He pulled his head away and feigned shock. “Lois Blocker! Act your age.”

She giggled. “This is the new millennium, dear husband. Sixty-five is the new forty, you know.”

He smiled. “I am indeed a lucky man.”

“I’ll tell you what; you go switch the heat back on. I’ll be in the bedroom to see if I can’t…set the mood.” She winked.

“Believe me, you’ve already set it.”

She patted his butt again. “Go on. I’ll be waiting.”

“Did I say I wanted to leave
tonight
? I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”

Lois had initially intended on attacking her husband the second he walked through their bedroom door. She was wearing the silk nightgown she knew he loved so much and had been giddy with anticipation. But he was taking longer than expected. She now sat on the corner of the bed, her legs crossed, palm bracing her chin. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. He’d been gone twenty minutes. Switching the heat back on should have taken no more than five, ten tops.

“Maury?”

No answer.

She stood, walked to the door, called his name again.

Nothing.

Had he taken a spill in the cellar? She was worried now. She pinched the lapels of her gown together and went to the closet to get her slippers. When she turned around Maury was at the door.

“There you are. I was getting worried.”

Maury was pale.

“Maury?”

Maury flew forward into the room, falling to his knees. Lois cried out. A man with a shaved head appeared in the doorway. He was holding a gun.

“Hi,” the man said.

The clink of the champagne glasses was an hour ago. A near-empty bottle of Cristal sat in a small puddle of its own condensation on the kitchen counter. Patrick and Amy were taking their time getting dressed in the bedroom. Actually, Patrick was; Amy was keen on dressing and going for that moon-lit walk.

“I’m gonna put on some sweats,” Amy said. She went to roll out of bed and Patrick hooked her at the waist and pulled her back.

“Not yet,” he said, his lips going up and down her bare back and shoulders. “Just a little longer.”

Amy wiggled free and hopped out of bed, her naked body casting a dim, but enticing profile in the moonlight.

“Jesus, baby,” Patrick said, “if you want to get out this bedroom, I suggest you dress quickly.”

She laughed and hiked up a pair of blue sweatpants followed by a gray sweatshirt. “Think I’ll be warm enough in this?”

“If you wear a jacket.”

“Duh.”

He threw a pillow at her. She caught it and dropped it to the floor. “Now you’re pillow-less. Get up.”

He slapped his hands over his face and moaned.

“God you’re worse than Carrie on a school day. My sneakers are in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.
Get up
.”

Patrick groaned and got to his feet. He scanned the perimeter of the bedroom for discarded clothing that would suffice for a second round; the idea of rifling through drawers for new attire with champagne and recent sex still sapping brain cells was far too daunting.

“What should I wear?” he yelled into the kitchen. “Should I just throw on what I wore at the Mitchell’s last night?”

“No.”

“It was just jeans and a button-down.”

“No.”

He sighed and slumped down onto the corner of the bed. “Is the path around the lake muddy?”

“Huh?”

“
Muddy
. Are we gonna get dirty or something?”

“Patrick, just find something else to wear please.”

He rolled his eyes at no one, stood again, trudged towards the dresser. He tugged the middle drawer open. “Dog shit?” he called.

“
What?
”

“Think there’ll be dog shit?”

Amy re-appeared in the bedroom an inch taller, her sneakers snug to her feet. “How the hell should I know?”

“Well I’m sure Oscar isn’t the only dog around here,” he said.

“Well let’s just hope the people around here have enough decency to clean up after their pets. Besides, if you just look where you’re stepping you’ll be fine.”

“It’s dark out,” he said as he pulled on his own pair of sweats.

“The lake will have decent lighting from the surrounding cabins. I’m sure you’ll be able to detect the odd pile of poo if we happen to stumble across it.”

Patrick yanked down a blue sweatshirt, then ran a hand back and forth through his hair—a futile attempt at keeping his cowlicks from behaving after the earlier assault with hair gel. “Yeah, well, if I
do
step in some I’m gonna scoop it up with a stick and chase you around the lake with it.”