We All Fall Down (21 page)

Out of breath, sweating now, aware of perspiration moistening her body, she arrived at the door. “Artie,” she called. “Are you in there?”

The door swung open, revealing Mickey Looney, grinning at her, but a grin she had never seen before on his face: cunning, triumphant, his eyes wide and gaping.

He held a rag in his hand. A peculiar smell emanated either from Mickey or the rag or the hidden shadows of the shed itself. He stepped toward her as she stepped backward, stumbled, almost fell. Mickey came closer, moving more swiftly than she had ever seen him move, menacing, grabbing her, the rag in her nostrils, the sweet, cloying smell overwhelming her. She flailed about, trying to escape Mickey’s grasp and that sickening rag over her face. Just before she slipped into blankness, as if sliding down a long dark chute, she heard Mickey’s gleeful voice saying:

“The Avenger strikes again.”

She woke up suddenly, flashing into wakefulness, and found herself tied by clothesline rope to a chair, a foul-tasting rag stuffed in her mouth, her lips sealed with some kind of adhesive tape, Struggling to move, she realized she was helpless, wrists bound to the arms of a sturdy, thronelike chair, her ankles tied to its legs. The gag in her mouth threw her into a panic, threatening her with either suffocation or choking to death. Trying to calm herself, she squirmed to see how tightly she was secured. The rope chafed her wrists, dug into the flesh of her ankles. Breathing through her nostrils, she inhaled the smell of decay.

The sun slanting through a crack in the roof faintly illuminated the shed in which she was held captive. The shed was cluttered with debris, rusting tools, boxes stuffed with old rags, newspapers piled up in tottering stacks. She hated to look too closely at her surroundings, afraid to see rats scurrying around the floor or spiders crawling up the walls.

The door swung open and a slash of sunlight burst against her eyeballs. A dark bulk filled the doorway, blocking the sudden brightness. When the door closed, she saw Mickey Looney through the sunspots that danced in her eyes.

Instinctively, she tried to talk but emitted only strange animal-like sounds, the effort gagging her, making her retch. Afraid to choke, she fell silent.

As Mickey waddled toward her, she blinked with surprise, as if seeing him for the first time. He was fat but not really fat. Bloated, really. Bulging stomach, bulging cheeks. No eyebrows, which made his eyes unusually large, as if they’d pop out of their sockets if somebody squeezed his head. He was bareheaded—and bald. She had never seen him without that old baseball cap. He grinned at her, coming closer, bending over and peering down, curiously, as if
she were a specimen in a laboratory or a strange animal in a zoo. The grin was not the old Mickey Looney grin but a leering evil grin, not the Mickey who mowed lawns and fed the birds.

Then the grin was gone and he was like the old Mickey Looney she knew, who patted kids on the head and tipped his cap to everybody.

“Are you all right, Jane?” His eyes studied her, roaming across her body. She tried to twist away from him but was helpless to move.

Once again, she tried to talk. Tried to say: Why are you doing this? But could only make weird sounds. And was still afraid of choking.

Still regarding her curiously, he said: “I can take that rag out of your mouth if you promise not to scream.” She nodded vigorously, “Even if you scream, nobody will hear you and it will make The Avenger mad.”

She remembered that he had mentioned The Avenger when he had slapped that terrible rag across her mouth and nose. Who was The Avenger?

Still nodding vigorously, the tried to make her eyes say what her mouth could not.

He tenderly pulled the adhesive bandage from her mouth, tugging at it gently. His gentleness encouraged her. Her mouth was finally free. She tried to spit out the taste of foulness. Her teeth ached.

“Why are you doing this, Mickey?” she sputtered at last. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me, Jane,” he said, stepping backward, hands on his hips, eyes still popped open. “It’s you. Something’s the matter with you.”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice rising, anger overcoming her fear of this crazy situation.

“Don’t yell—don’t scream. If you scream, I’ll have to
do to you what I did to Vaughn Masterson and my grandfather.” He put his hand to his mouth, and giggled. “Of course, I’m going to do that to you anyway but not right away.…”

She did not have to ask him what he had done to Vaughn Somebody-or-other or his grandfather. She could easily guess from the look on his face, the matter-of-fact way he spoke. More chilling than ghoulish laughter.

“Why, Mickey? Why?” she asked again. No other question mattered at the moment. If he answered that question, she would know the answer to all questions.

“Because you were with him,” he said, petulant, a child suddenly.

“With who?”

“With your boyfriend.”

“Buddy? Buddy Walker?”

“Is that his name? I don’t know his name but you were with him. You were holding hands with him. And …” Now he frowned, a strand of spittle at the corner of his mouth. “You kissed him. You put your tongue in his mouth …” Spitting on the floor now, as if to rid himself of something vile and foul-tasting.

“You’re angry with me because I have a boyfriend and kissed him?” she asked, astonished.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re pretty and you should have a boyfriend.”

“Because I kissed him?” Trying to recall his exact words. “Because I touched his tongue with my tongue …”

“That wasn’t nice,” he said. “But if you wanted to do it, you could do it …”

“Then why are you so angry?”

“Because it’s him!” Loud, shouting, stamping his foot, his jowls moving like Jell-O in a bowl.

Struggling against the ropes, ignoring the painful chafing her struggle caused, she raised her own voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her anger buoyed her, gave her hope and confidence. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You shouldn’t swear, Jane,” he said. “Nice girls don’t swear.” Shaking his head sadly. “But you’re not a nice girl anymore, are you? You were with him so you can’t be nice …”

She sagged in the chair, as much as the ropes allowed. She could smell her own perspiration, her hair was damp, a lock fallen across one eye. She blew air out of the corner of her mouth.

Mickey reached out, pushed the lock of hair away.

“Him,” he whispered, face close to hers now. The word imbued with all the hate one small syllable could convey. “Him, Jane. Your boyfriend. One of
them
. One of them in your house that night. I saw them, saw
him
, wrecking your house. I was at the window and watched them. They didn’t see me but I saw them, all right And he was one of them.”

Buddy? In her house?

“They were like animals,” he said, drawing away, speaking quickly now, his eyes bulging even wider. “Breaking everything. Running through your house, screaming and laughing. Like animals.”

Shaking her head, she heard herself saying: “No, no, no.” Denying what this crazy person was saying.

“I saw Karen come in and they grabbed her.” Then whispering: “The lights went out …”

A final gasping “No,” a harrowing scream of a word torn from her throat in a spasm of denial.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he said, leaping in the air, dancing, his lumbering body shaking the floorboards, “And the
other day you held his hand and I saw you. You looked at him like you loved him. In that video store, you put your lips on his lips and put your tongue in his mouth.” The dance over, breathing heavily, standing before her, rivulets of sweat pouring down his cheeks. “That’s why I have to do what I have to do, Jane. I am The Avenger and I must avenge your house.…”

The nausea engulfed her stomach so suddenly that she gasped in surprise as the vomit erupted from her mouth, burning her throat with acid, gushing through her lips in a sickening torrent. Her body responded painfully, her stomach stretched beyond its limits because she could not move, could not bend forward to ease the flow of vomit and for an eternal moment, the vomit blocked her throat and she coughed, choking, panic rushing through her, until it gushed forth again, spewing out of her mouth, spilling on her blouse, her skirt, splashing to the floor.

Mickey Looney leaped out of the way but flecks of vomit, pink and orange, splashed on his trousers and he cried out, “Oh, oh,” again and again, “Oh, oh.” Then stood fascinated, watching her retch.

Wrists and ankles stinging with rope burns, stomach heaving, the taste of foulness in her mouth, the smell of her own vomit filling her nostrils, Jane sank into an abysmal despair that made the nausea and the stench of vomit pale by comparison. Buddy a trasher? One of them? Her Buddy? Whom she’d love with a love that was bigger than her own life. Buddy who had kissed her and caressed her, held her breasts so tenderly.

Mickey was dancing around again, a dance of desperation now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. He found another rag and began to wipe her face, her chin, dabbing at her chest, his hand lingering on her breast.

“Now can you see what I have to do?” he said, leaping away from her, his face flushed, avoiding her eyes.

She did not ask what he had to do, still stunned by what he had said about Buddy, trying to deny the truth of his accusation. Mickey gazed at her breasts and looked away again. Would he rape her?

“I have to remove you from the world, Jane.”

The thought of Buddy fled as she realized what he was saying. “You mean—kill me?” she said, aghast, the terrible words blazing in the air. She was immediately sorry that she had said the words, as if speaking them made them real.

“That’s the only way, Jane. I have to do it …”

Her mind raced, seeking arguments,
anything
to stave him off. “Why me, Mickey?” Needing to stall, play for time. Had to use everything at her disposal. Including Buddy, guilty or not. “Why not my boyfriend? He was one of the trashers you said. I didn’t trash my house—he did.” Felt like a traitor to Buddy now, even if he
did
trash her house. Yet, a small part of her denying that Mickey would actually kill her or Buddy.

“Oh, I’m going to do it to him, too,” he said. “To all of them. The Avenger must seek his revenge. I am eleven years old and must avenge your house.”

Had she heard correctly? Had she missed a beat?

“What did you say?”

Speaking distinctly, emphasizing every syllable, he said: “I am eleven years old and I am The Avenger and I must avenge your house.…”

“But you’re not eleven years old. You’re Mickey Stallings and you’re not The Avenger.” Whoever The Avenger was. Some comic-book hero he was confused about?

“Oh, I’m eleven all right,” he said, smiling, docile,
childlike now. “Whenever I’m on the job as The Avenger, I’m always eleven years old.”

Keep him talking, and don’t think about Buddy.

“Why are you eleven, Mickey?” she asked, wanting to spit the residue of foulness out of her mouth but forcing herself to swallow. “What happened to you that makes you eleven again?” Shots in the dark, shooting out words without knowing the target of those words.

“Vaughn Masterson,” he declared, triumph in his voice. “That was my best time. The best time of my life. Know what it feels like to remove someone like Vaughn Masterson from the world, Jane? A bully who was mean to other kids? It was beautiful, Jane. But then my gramps got suspicious of me. He began to ask me questions and I became eleven again so that I could remove
him
from the world. Became eleven like with Vaughn Masterson.” He smiled at her, pride in the smile, as if he had revealed to her the pride of his life, the sum of his accomplishments. “Poor Mickey Stallings had to grow up and get big and his mother died and he remembers all the things his mother told him and the songs she sang. But Mickey Stallings can still be eleven.” He raised his eyes to the sagging wooden ceiling. “Eleven and The Avenger.” He looked down at her and Mickey Stallings was gone. The old Mickey who had repaired broken faucets and planted tomatoes and who tipped his hat to everyone.

From somewhere in the folds of his flesh around his waist, he drew a knife. A kitchen knife but a big one. The kind turkeys are sliced with. A blade that gleamed even in the dimness of this godforsaken shed.

Stall, she commanded herself. She was dealing with a madman and had to stall him off. She also knew she had nothing to lose. Her world had already ended, in a way. With the knowledge that Buddy had trashed her house. All
doubts gone. He had sought her out and trashed her. With his kisses and his caresses. She saw clearly now why he had avoided her house and the hospital. Why he drank. Buddy, Buddy, she thought, and he was part of the stench of vomit that surrounded her, part of Mickey Looney and what he was doing to her, what he planned to do to her. But stall. Forget everything else, forget Buddy and Karen and everything else. She had to survive, get away, escape.

“The only person I ever loved was my mother,” Mickey said, holding the knife in both hands as if it was an offering to Jane. “I loved my mother but I liked you, Jane.”