Clown in the Moonlight (10 page)

Ricky's been in the ground for almost two years.
 
On the anniversary of his death someone tried to dig up his body but they were scared off by patrolling cops.
 
Somebody else tried to set fire to Aztakea Woods, but it poured that night.
 
They settled for carving a commandment in the gazebo bench.

SAY YOU LOVE RICKY.

I say, "I do."

T
he house squats along a poisoned canal, set back on some dying wetland that fades into the pines of the surrounding local community college to the north.
 
To the south is Pioneer State Mental Hospital, one of the few nuthatches on the island I haven't been locked up in yet.
 
Its fencing has been clipped and bent aside, its manicured lawns shredded.
 
It's become one of those areas where teenagers tear things up, rutting in the ravines, drinking six-packs on the grounds and hurling the empties at the highest windows they can reach, screaming at the sickos inside.
  

Grimm and I are in the same age bracket, about five years older than everyone else at the gathering.
 
I have a small thatch of white hair in front now that makes me a little extra sensitive around so many kids in their teens.
 
The last party I went to was Gwen's.
 
I still bear the scars.
 
The teeth marks still itch.
 

I stand in my leather jacket, white T-shirt, and black jeans, watching, waiting, checking the corners for Ricky.

"You okay, man?" Grimm asks.

"Yeah, sure."

"Why don't you get yourself a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"We got some weed too, if you want.
 
Good stuff.
 
A little coke is going around too, if that's your thing."

"It isn't, but thanks."
 

Grimm is shaggy-headed with thick glasses, morbidly obese, going maybe four hundred pounds, but he carries it pretty well like some fat guys do.
 
He makes quick, sharp moves, light on his feet.
 
He practically gambols around the place, making sure his friends and the coven members have everything they need.
 

"You came with Mercy, right?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Her and the other two, you known them long?"

"No, not long at all."

"I can tell."

"What do you mean?
 
How?"

He stares at me, openly puzzled but not hostile, the way most people get when you turn down their hospitality.
 

"You're not like them."

"What are they like?"

"You'll find out soon enough.
 
Just be careful."

I genuinely appreciate his concern.
 
I wonder if he really knows anything about them, or if word has just filtered down.
 
He keeps to himself, away from his wife's coven, away from anyone who doesn't share his interests.
 

He moves off to the kitchen and returns to the coven offering around drinks, chips and salsa.
 
They ignore him, even his wife, the White Queen, all of them talking about drawing down the moon and finding the proper spells and rituals to appeal to the earth goddess.
 

He changes the pornie anime tape again and puts in something else that seems to be just more of the same.
 
The kids perk up some and laugh as demons with forked dicks chase virgins with big moist eyes through the streets of Tokyo.
 

I drift.
 
I brush shoulders.
 
I smile at hot chicks and they sometimes smile back.
 
They sometimes withdraw as if I'm holding a meat cleaver.
 
I sit on a bottom stair and light a cigarette.
 
A punk with peach fuzz bums one off me.
 

The conversations are full of laughter and flirting.
 
Occasionally there's a hard edge, someone who's pissed and trying to contain himself.
 
It's always a nerd discussing comic books or sci-fi television shows.
 
The sharp corners of his rage wear off quickly.
 
He acquiesces.
 
Maybe one superhero isn't necessarily that much better than another.
 
Friends shake hands.
 
Friends sip beer.
 
Friends wallow in their latent homosexuality.

Mercy is seated on the couch, sandwiched between Jenx and Kip, three peas in the coven pod.
 
I don't know what their story was.
 
I don't much care.
 
Mercy catches my eye and waggles her fingers at me and makes a gesture that I took to mean she is nearly done listening to the White Queen discuss her ceremonies and great occult powers.
 

Grimm climbs across the crowd to his recliner, sits for five minutes, and then climbs out again to take me on a tour of the house.
 
He's distracted by me, curious about me, and possibly wary of me.
 
He wants me to take his warning about mercy and her friends seriously.
 
I'm thankful he's such a nice guy.
 

I follow him around while he shows me his gun collection, his comic book collection, and his action figure collection.
 
A lot of the toys are still in their packaging and he hands them to me beaming proudly, naming off Star Wars characters, superheroes, and robots out of classic science fiction movies.
 

Some of them I recognize from the days when my father used to take my mother and me to the drive-in.
 
Back then, he stewed in his own pain and regrets but it hadn't started to bleed out of him yet.
 
He was still holding on, he was still a pretty good husband and father.
 
He got excited by films and would sit hunched in the driver's seat, hugging a bowl of popcorn to him, the awkward metal speaker hanging on his half-rolled down window.
 
He would turn to me in the backseat and ask if I was having fun.
 
I'd nod.
 
My mother would feign interest in the movie and laugh when my father laughed.

I'm impressed by Grimm.
 
I'm impressed with anyone who can keep hold of something–anything–for so long, even if they are only toys.

"You sure I can't offer you anything?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

It annoys him a little.
 
He's a good host and doesn't like that I'm not partaking of the goodies as much as I should.
 
Everyone else is chowing down, liquoring up, snorting, smoking, toking, fooling around.
 
His concentration coils around me.
  

So I ask about the little Japanese teenie-boppers being sexually mishandled by mutants and monsters and he perks right back up.
 

"The Japanese know what it's all about," Grimm tells me.
 
"They understand that if you indulge in fantasy, you ease the psychic and carnal constraints on yourself.
 
The more you're repressed and censored, like we are here in the US, the greater the pressure builds until you're acting out your most violent fantasies.
 
You do the evil or perverse deed instead of just watching them in cartoons."

He waits for my assent.
 
I nod and give it to him.

He strokes his shaggy beard down into a tight, sharp point.
 
"It's why televangelists who are always preaching out against sex are the biggest deviants of all.
 
They're forever being caught in truck stop bathrooms with tranny hookers and double handfuls of booze and stroke mags.
 
What everybody else figures out at twelve these preachers can only obsess about until their brains and nuts overheat."

It seems to make about as much sense for the way things are heading as anything else, so I just wag my chin in agreement with him.
 

"There's something about you, man," he says.

"What?"

"I don't know.
 
You just...you just..."

"You want me to leave."

"No, not at all.
 
But I have a feeling about you.
 
You know how there's people you're drawn to?
 
That you want to be friends with?
 
Or enemies with?
 
For no reason you can understand?
 
That's how I am with you."
 
He smiles and chuckles uncomfortably.
 
"Maybe this weed is making me paranoid or something.
 
Usually doesn't happen, but...this night.
 
It's a weird night, what they're planning to do."

"The coven?"

"Yeah, they got some kind of ritual that's going to start later.
 
I don't get it all.
 
But my wife.
 
She can do it, you know."

"Do what?"

"Whatever she puts her mind to.
 
Love spells, blessings, remove curses and change your bad luck.
 
She takes pride in showing people the way."

"The way toward what?"

"The way.
 
The right way.
 
The way of positivity.
 
Mercy and her friends, she welcomed them into her coven so she could...rehabilitate them."

"Do you think that's possible?"

"Yes.
 
My wife is powerful.
 
She's helped people toward the right-hand path before."

"Mercy, Jenx, and Kip call themselves the New Knights of the Black Circle," I tell him.
 
"Do you know that name?"

"No.
 
Should I?"

I would ask him about Ricky, but everyone knows Ricky's name.
 
He's become a cultural icon since his suicide.
 
Parents use him as an example for why heavy metal music can kill.
 
Sociologists publish volume after volume on his case history, proving the power of peer pressure and how kids can keep an awful secret from the authorities so long as they share it among themselves.
 
Teens emulate him, they dedicate songs to him over the radio.
 
Not just heavy metal demonic bullshit, but love ballads.
 
Girls weep for him.
 
They romanticize murder and suicide and insanity.
 
They wear T-shirts proclaiming RICKY LIVES FOREVER.
 
I know it's the truth.

I nod again.
 
I don't know what else to do.
 
I wonder why a man married to a woman who could bless you and change your bad luck would need a case full of guns, but I guess that had more to do with throwing parties with pounds of coke on hand than white magic.

"Is that what the coven's in there doing?" I ask.
 
"Changing people's luck?
 
Sending out positive energy to grace everybody?"

"Not yet.
 
Maybe tonight.
 
I'm not part of the coven, I don't partake in the rituals.
 
But sometimes evil forces try to disturb the white magic, and I'm on hand to make sure that doesn't happen."

"Are those evil forces susceptible to a snub .38 or a 12-gauge?"

"Most things are," he says, and hits me with a leer.

Most things aren't, but there's no point in arguing.
 
He moves back to his recliner and talks to the nerds and I wander around the party a little more.
 

From another room I gaze over the tops of heads and watch the gathered coven.
 
They're a goofy looking bunch circling the White Queen, making little signs and gestures, spelling words in the air, waving holy plants about.
 
I catch the scent of holly and mint.
 

They hold hands and chant some kind of prayer or charm, and then the White Queen, all three hundred pounds of her, hugs each of the other members in turn.
 
She blesses them.
 
She points them toward positivity and love.
 

Mercy makes a beeline for me.
 
She slides up close again.
 
She has no understanding of personal space and makes sure she rubs against me, hard and sexual, pressing her chest to mine, her lips only three inches away from mine when she speaks.
 
She rubs the back of her knuckles against the side of my face, a gentle, soft, meaningless demonstration that makes me want to shut my eyes and let out a quiet groan.

I have been lonely these last two years.
 
Without Linda, without Gwen, without Ricky.
 
I stand before my mother's grave in my solitude and desolation and ask her for advice and guidance.
 
Sometimes I hear her voice, and sometimes I don't.

"We're going to perform a ceremony tonight," Mercy says.
 
She knows how ridiculous it sounds coming from her, and she can't keep a girlish giggle from fluttering free.
 
I know it's the laugh she lets loose when she thinks of garroting boys with the razor wire wreathed in her hair.