Jokers Club (8 page)

“Wait up, Oliver,” Lonny said, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

Oliver spun around and gave him a shove that sent him sprawling on his ass. “Don’t touch me!”

The whole left side of his face was puffed out and swollen. Three-quarters of the white of his eye was bright red. The look in both eyes was mad.

Dale didn’t dare speak.

“That son of a bitch is going to regret the day he was born.”

“Your father?” Dale questioned.

“Jason!” Oliver screamed. “He ratted us out! He squealed the whole story to his dad!”

The others looked at each other with shock on their faces. No one in the group had ever squealed before. Lonny got up from the ground.

“The little prick,” he said.

“I can’t believe it,” Woody said.

“Well, believe it,” Oliver bellowed.

“What are you going to do?” Dale asked.

“I’m gonna tear his friggin’ head off!” He started down the street. Dale thought about the praying mantis in the jar.

“He’s not home,” he said. Oliver stopped and turned around. “We looked for him before.”

Disappointment spread over his face. “Lucky for him,” Oliver said. “Damn lucky!”

“Now what?” Dale asked.

“It’ll give me time to think.” Oliver rubbed his fist in his hand. “We’ve got to fix him real good.”

The black and blue image of Oliver’s face stuck in Dale’s mind that night as he lay in bed. Dark, brooding colors. He thought about his own father’s reaction when he heard about how the clubhouse caught fire. Dale had remained secluded in his bedroom, dreading the moment when his father would arrive home from work. His sister enjoyed teasing him about how he was going to “get it when dad got home.” Maybe she was mad her work of art had gone up in flames.

Dale heard the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and the opening and closing of car and house doors. His stomach trembled as he lay on his bed, listening to the muffled voices of his parents, not able to make out any of the words spoken. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Dale nearly jumped off the bed when the door burst open. The look on his father’s face was something he had never seen before. It was like a stranger had stormed into his room. A mad man.

He began yelling and screaming and all Dale could do was cringe and shrug his shoulders, giving soft answers of “I don’t know” to the questions spewing from his father’s enraged face.

Dale tried to crack a smile, because whenever his father was upset with him over something, Dale would try to lighten the situation and his father always ended up smiling along and everything would be all right again.

But this time, he saw his father raise his hand and an open palm swept across his face, wiping the half-smile away.

He hit me.

Dale watched in shock as his father turned and left the room. His left cheek stung and he lifted his hand to feel the warm, tender skin.

That had never happened before. His father had never hit him. Never. That was something Oliver’s father did, not his own. His father couldn’t be like Oliver’s, could he?

A short time later, Dale crept quietly down the hallway and sat at the top of the staircase. From below, he could hear soft sobs. He wondered why his mother was crying, but then realized it was coming from his father.

His father was crying.

He could hear him tell his mother how ashamed he felt for hitting him. Dale’s stomach ached with guilt. Two firsts in one day: He had made his father hit him and made him cry. He wished he could take it all back, but it was too late. It was all his fault.

No.

It was Jason’s fault. He had caused this.

Now, lying in bed, the image of Oliver’s face with him, he thought of what Oliver had said and agreed.

We’ve got to fix him real good.

Pounding
. The pounding in my head won’t stop.

I opened my eyes and the room swirled around me. I squeezed them shut, waited a few seconds, tried opening them again. The room oscillated back and forth like a pendulum, then slowed to a stop. The shade was open in my room and I could see the sun was just coming up, bringing what little light there was to the new day.

Why was I up so early?

The pounding in my head. That’s what woke me up. But it wasn’t the kind of beating headache I’ve been having lately or the kind a hangover brings. The pounding felt like it was coming from elsewhere, as if something, somewhere, wanted to be let in. Or out. (
Don’t open it).

I realized I’d slept in my clothes, but had only vague recollections of even going to bed. My mouth and throat were dry, and I felt an urgent need for fresh air.

Vertigo hit me momentarily when I stood up. I paused, closing my eyes until it went away, then gingerly made my way to the window and with strained effort, raised the sash. I sucked the air in deeply. It was cool and quenching, as if I were sucking the moisture off the surface of the lake, and I decided I needed more.

Not bothering to change my clothes, I went quietly down the hall to the bathroom on our floor. I could feel the frigid tiles through the thin fabric of my socks as I stood before a white pedestal sink. I turned the brass lever with the “C” on it and filled the sink with cold water, rubbing it into my face and eyes, taking handfuls into my eager mouth, feeling it cascade down my throat and scrape away the dryness. I looked at myself in the mirror, tried to make some semblance out of my disheveled hair, but gave up. I brushed my teeth and gums furiously to get the alcohol-laden taste and odor out of my mouth, gargling with the frothy lather before spitting it into the sink.

I made my way down the stairs after slipping my sneakers on. My body still felt unstable. I held onto the rail for support.

The inn was quiet.

I wondered if anyone else was up. As I reached the bottom of the steps, I noticed the basket of apples by the check-in counter and went over to it. I grabbed one, shining it on my shirt front and bit deeply, anticipating its moistness. Instead of a sharp snap, my teeth sunk into something soft and mushy. I pulled away the apple, staring into its brown interior. Rotten. I took the small piece out of my mouth, looked in vain for a garbage pail, and then stuck it in my front pants pocket. I heard footsteps and quickly returned the apple to the basket, bite-side down.

Bob Wolfe came out of the dining room door followed by the scent of fresh brewed coffee. The look on his face was surprise, either because I was up so early, or I looked worse than I thought.

“One of your friends is asleep on the porch swing,” he said, his tone bitter. “Could you wake him?”

It wasn’t really a question.

I grunted or nodded, maybe both, then headed for the door. When I stepped onto the porch, the air felt more invigorating than before. I looked at the porch swing and saw Dale sitting in it, head leaning back. At his feet lay the bottle we had been drinking, tipped on its side, a dark patch beside it where a puddle had formed and soaked into the floorboards.

I snuck up behind him carefully, trying not to make a sound. I gave the back of the swing a shove.

“Wake up you drunken loser!”

I moved around to the front.

The swing moved back and forth with a rusty creaking squeak.

Dale’s eyes met mine.

I looked at the bottle by his feet, at the wet patch beside it. The patch was red.

I lifted my eyes and couldn’t take them off the cut that ran from the top of Dale’s chest, down to his belly. The soaked red clothing was ripped open. The jagged edge of the skin formed a long, deep crevasse. Pink muscle and innards showed through.

His eyes never left mine.

The porch swing continued to sway slowly back and forth, the chains it was suspended from crying out softly in rhythm:
creak … creak … creak.

Something thick bubbled up from the base of my throat, maybe vomit, struggling as it rose ‘till it reached the surface and erupted from my mouth as, not puke, but a scream.

*   *   *

I sat on the front lawn in one of the white metal patio chairs, my back to the front porch of the inn and the horror resting on it. I stared out at the calm of the lake beyond, two completely polar scenes. Mr. Wolfe had heard my scream, as did everyone else in the inn, and they took up various positions around the porch, keeping a reasonable distance from the body as we all awaited the arrival of the authorities. Nobody came near me at my front lawn outpost, as if they were afraid.

I didn’t dare look behind me. I had seen the horror and now I just wanted to stare at the serenity of the lake. It reminded me of summer vacations during high school when I would hang out a lot at Meg’s house on the west side of town. Her front lawn had a beautiful view of the water, and we would sometimes sit in wooden Adirondack chairs soaking up the sun. Usually I would give her one of my stories to read, and we would sit quietly, feeling the breeze float up while I waited with enthusiastic anticipation for her to finish and give me her critique. I was always a little nervous about what she would think. I wanted her to like my writing.

I remembered one time, when she read a tale I had crafted about an abandoned well at an old Wiccan’s farmhouse and a trio of boys who summon a demon that crawls up from its depths. She smiled, she always smiled when she finished, and her milky brown eyes glowed.

“It’s different,” she said at last.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It’s good, don’t get me wrong. I like it.”

“But …” I hung on her words in anticipation.

“It’s not like your usual stuff.”

“Hmm,” I said, pondering. “How so?”

She fanned herself with the pages, thinking, and I was sure she was trying to find a delicate way of putting it. That’s Meg, never wanting to say something bad, always looking for the good angle.

“The ending is pretty creepy,” she continued, “and gave me chills, even here in the bright daylight. I guess,” she shrugged her shoulders and tossed her wavy brown hair, “it’s just not as gruesome as you usually write.”

I looked at her in silence, thinking it over.

I remembered the story I wrote about the fishermen in the lake, trying to catch what turns out to be a prehistoric fish. I got pretty graphic with that one, with dismembered limbs and blood-churned waters and the jaws of the lake creature chomping on the helpless fishermen. Yeah, that one was a bit gory.

At some point the gore seemed to lose its bite. Maybe it was because of that one summer when I came face-to-face with true horror. That had been real and diminished all the grotesque blood-drenched images my mind had conjured up. The Joker in that attic room in my mind had helped me conjure up those visions. He seemed to relish the most absurd demented tortures any soul could bear and laughed as I wrote them down.

When I entered through the door into that attic room, the Joker was the one really in charge. He knew. He guided me, helping me wade through the tide of blood.

“That’s what they want,” he’d say. “They want blood. Deep red blood.” And he would grin, his teeth shining, and I would write.

But once I had seen real horror, I realized the Joker’s tapestry of terror was not nearly as unsettling as what deeper, darker things could scare the human mind. For a while I couldn’t even write at all, thought maybe I’d never be able to again. But the Joker was always there to help me and eventually I was able to get back to it. But things were different now. Maybe it disappointed my muse, maybe the Joker understood, but I tried to write my stories with a truer sense of what was really frightening.

“Maybe I’ve matured,” I finally said, looking at Meg. “Don’t need to always go for the guts.”

She leaned over and pressed her soft lips against my cheek.

“Well, it’s subtle, I like it. I think it’s great progress.” She leaned back in her chair smiling and I just marveled at how adorable she was and how lucky I was to have her.

But now I had seen real horror once again, right there behind me on that porch swing. Meg had it all wrong; the Joker was right. There was nothing subtle about horror. It was gruesome and grotesque and Dale’s blood soaked the wood of the swing and the floorboards beneath and you could see the ragged tearing of his flesh and the innards through the opening in his abdomen.

No, nothing subtle about that. That was horror.

And no matter how much I stared out at the beauty of the lake, I couldn’t ignore it. Not when the wail of the sirens approached to remind of what was going on behind me. I had to turn around and face it. There was no other choice.

*   *   *

Police Chief Hooper hadn’t changed at all. He was just as fat and ugly as I remembered. We all stood at one end of the porch: Lonny, Oliver, Martin and myself. I looked at the faces around me. They were all pale, and I imagined my own to be the same. Nobody spoke.

A little further away from us stood Bob Wolfe, Sandy the chambermaid, Professor Bonz and the woman guest. They too were silent.

In the middle of the porch were Hooper and several other police officers, all standing around the swing. With them was a medical examiner looking over the body. One of the police officers was taking pictures from a variety of angles.

Dale remained seated, unaware of everything going on around him. Like the rest of us, he too was silent, would always be. It was crazy. He couldn’t be dead. I was sitting there right beside him on that swing just hours ago. And now he was still there. But he wasn’t ever going to get off of it. Not on his own. Dead. Murdered. It was all a dream. No more spooning peanut butter from jars snatched from our mothers’ kitchens. No more racing through the ravine during a game of Relievo. If I could just shake his body hard enough to wake him.

The officer with the camera continued taking pictures. I wanted to grab the camera from him and smash it into his face. Didn’t he realize Dale didn’t want to be photographed?

His eyes were open. That freaked me out the most. He looked right at me. How could he not see me? How could he not know what was going on now?

The doctor took a step back from the body. He looked at Chief Hooper.

“Notice the ragged edges of the skin along the wound?”

The chief nodded.

“Most likely a knife with a serrated edge. Judging from the size and depth of the opening, a rather large blade I’d say.”

“Maybe a hunting knife?” the chief questioned.

“Could be.”

The cop with the camera kept shooting.

“It doesn’t look like he put up any struggle,” the doctor continued. “No defensive wounds on the hands.”

He did look peaceful, I thought.

“Could it be,” the chief said, “that the killer came up behind him?”

The examiner nodded. “Possible.” He rubbed his chin. “Most likely they wouldn’t have gotten much blood on themselves that way.”

“No,” I said.

All heads turned toward me.

“The killer wasn’t behind him. He would have been in front. Dale saw the killer. You can see it in his eyes.”

His eyes
were
looking at something. They weren’t just vacant eyes. Even in death they held something.

The chief glared angrily at me. He conferred with the examiner some more in an inaudible conversation. Then he signaled for the ambulance attendants, who had been patiently standing nearby, to proceed with their end of the business.

I watched as they callously laid Dale’s body out on the outspread plastic bag. I couldn’t take my eyes away. I realized this would be the last time I would see Dale. I wanted to reach out to him, tell him I wouldn’t forget him.

One of the attendants pressed his eyelids closed.

No, I thought. Don’t shut out his world. Don’t close off his last look.

But I realized he could look no more.

I turned my head when they began to zip up the plastic bag. I did not want to see that, but the metallic sound ripped through my body like an icy blade.

After the ambulance pulled out, I opened my eyes and looked at the others. Martin’s head hung down, exposing more of his bare scalp; Lonny’s hands kept twitching as his fingers continuously moved to his head to adjust his hairpiece. It didn’t help.

Even Oliver seemed shaky. He kept exhaling deep breaths.

I listened as Hooper questioned Professor Bonz and the two women. They had all gone to bed early they told him, the professor accentuating his need to rise early to get onto the lake for his studies and expressing frustration at this current interruption.

I remembered seeing the female guest going upstairs to her room while we were still in the den. I also remembered the chambermaid, Sandy, coming down from Oliver’s room. What did she consider early? How long had I sat out on the porch with Dale? How late was it when I went up to my room? Nothing was clear to me.

Hooper thanked them and let them go about their business. Then he turned his attention to us.

As he crossed the porch approaching us, the floorboards emitting a strained creak with each step, he removed from his front pocket a plastic bag and pulled out of it a hunk of pepperoni. He bit off a huge chunk, gnawing it as he replaced the remainder in his pocket. He tugged on his belt when he stopped in front of our group.

The way he glared reminded me of the many times he would approach us as kids and accuse us of some mischievous activity. Like the time Oliver caught a duck with a fishing net and we put it in Hooper’s car. The next morning, the bird flew out as soon as Hooper opened his door. But it had left behind a gooey mess all over the car’s seats.

He had stared at us then in hopes one of our members would finally crack and admit our guilt. But no one ever did. Except that one time Jason Nightingale squealed.

“I knew you were all back in town.” He glanced from one to another.

Nobody said anything.