Bad Games (24 page)

When Joanne released her hold on the boys, they
did
have tears in their eyes, but the culprit was hardly suppressed feelings of loss.

When the sniffling died down, Joanne spoke first. “How are you boys feeling?” she asked.

Arty nodded and muttered, “Fine.”

Jim did likewise.

“I think we might have had a real breakthrough here today,” she said. “I would really like it if we could meet again. We can talk about anything you want. Anything at all. What do you say?”

Jim looked at Arty who said, “Okay.”

“This meant a lot to me, boys. I hope it did to you too.”

Arty and Jim walked slowly out of Miss Lynch’s office, heads down. As their distance accumulated, so did their speed. When they rounded the corner and saw a clear path towards the boys’ room they started to sprint, ultimately bursting through the bathroom door where they fell to their knees in hysterics.

They laughed at how “concerned” Miss Lynch was. They laughed at the mention of Dad ever returning (Arty shared the image he envisioned in the office and Jim nearly wet himself). And they damn near laughed their lungs out recalling how Arty pretended to grab Miss Lynch’s ass.

But mostly, they laughed at the absolute absurdity of it all. Why aren’t you sad boys? Why aren’t you doing poorly in class, sulking up and down the hallways, being antisocial? How about this, lady: why do you give a shit? Because we sure don’t.

The two boys were still snickering when they walked outside and into the school’s parking lot. When they saw the gray Toyota pull up, any and all laughter stopped. Their anchor was here. The one whose unconditional love and purity had given them—and would continue to give for many years to come—the necessary social skills needed to behave…normally.

They didn’t truly know it just then, but they sensed it. They sensed that their mother, their bedrock, would play that pivotal role in the development of their lives, and at that moment the love and devotion they felt for her was almost paralyzing.

Both boys climbed into the Toyota, kissed their mother a big hello, and told her how well things had gone. More than a little pleased, Maria Fannelli drove off thinking she had done some serious good for her beloved boys.

The bedroom door swung open. Arty entered first and pulled the TV cart to one side so that both parents were in plain sight.

A few things happened then as the two children entered the room:

Carrie looked at the condition of her parents and blinked a lot.

Caleb looked at his parents, and then immediately turned towards his older sister to gauge her reaction.

Arty and Jim stepped back and watched the scene with fervent anticipation.

Both Amy and Patrick looked at their children with desperate expressions that managed to transcend the comprehensible limitations of age, instantly resonating in both children with the explosion of a thousand nightmares.

Carrie burst forward towards her parents, Caleb close behind.

Jim and Arty shut the bedroom door behind them and began taking witness to the start of what they’d created. They witnessed the Lamberts struggle desperately against their binds in an attempt to hug their children. Witnessed the children sob and take turns hugging each restricted parent, their innocent faces wrought with fear.

And they witnessed it with a satisfaction few could ever know.

“Carrie?” Arty said. His gentle tone was a whisper among the hysterical cries. He called louder. “
Carrie?
”

The little girl was in her father’s lap, her arms tight around his neck. She turned her head towards Arty but did not look at him.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked. “Can you hop off your daddy for a minute so we can push him up against that wall over there?” He pointed to his left.

Carrie turned away from Arty and clung tighter to her father. Arty huffed in a deliberate manner, and stepped forward, grabbing Carrie under both arms and yanking her off her father. Carrie screamed and Patrick’s face ballooned with rage.

“Honestly, Carrie,” Arty said, still with the theatrics. “You really need to start pulling your weight around here.”

The little girl flailed and screeched in Arty’s arms as he handed her to Jim, who took hold of her in a tight embrace.

“Carrie?” Arty called again. “Carrie, please stop screaming.”

Carrie continued to flail and holler. Arty sighed, then drove his fist into Patrick’s face. Patrick grunted on impact, silencing Carrie like a switch. She stared at her father, and then at the man who had just hit him with a look of disbelief, as though Arty had just broken some kind of playground rule.

“How about that?” Arty said to Jim. “I think the kid gets it already.” He turned back to Patrick. “Thank your daughter, bud. She just saved you a few more shots.”

Arty gripped Patrick’s chair, and with a solid jerk, spun him a quarter turn and pushed him all the way back against the wall.

He then glanced over at Caleb. The boy was curled into a ball on his mother’s lap, his head tucked into her chest.

“How you doing over there, champ?” he asked.

The boy didn’t budge.

Jim chuckled. “He looks like a fucking hedgehog doesn’t he?”

Arty didn’t respond to his brother. He was focused on Caleb. “
Hellooooo?
Caaaaaaaleb?
”

The boy flinched upon hearing his name, but only burrowed harder into his mother’s chest. Amy hollered until her eyes bulged. Her words were more decipherable through the gag now. Patrick’s too. They had grown wet and thinner from the constant saliva and tears, and Amy’s hateful words were gargled but clear. “
Leave hin aloe you huckin hastard!
”

Arty put a hand to his chest as though insulted. He looked over at Jim. “She thinks we mean to harm the lad.” He returned to Amy and shook his head. “We’re here to
entertain
the children, Amy. Not hurt. Never hurt.”

Arty left the room. When he reappeared moments later he was carrying a green pillowcase filled with items that appeared heavy enough to stretch the material.

“Hey, Caleb,” Arty said. “Look what
I’ve
got.” Arty reached into the pillowcase and withdrew a flat rock the size of an egg. “What do you think? You think this is a good one? How many skips do you think I can get with this?”

Caleb’s head popped up from his mother’s chest and he looked at Arty with one eye. Arty stepped forward and held the rock in front of Caleb’s face. Caleb jerked his head away as though the rock might bite him.

“He doesn’t get it,” Jim said from the corner.

Arty sighed. “I know. I guess
I’ll
have to do the first one.”

Arty tossed the rock gently into the air then caught it. He weighed it up and down in his palm, puckered his lips and frowned as if determining its value. “You know, I think this
is
a good one,” he said.

Arty gripped the flat rock between his thumb and index finger, positioned his arm to the side. “Caleb, are you watching? Are you watching?” He smiled. “Because you’re going next, champ.”

Arty whipped the rock at Patrick, catching him square in the chest. There was a hollow thud on impact. Patrick’s head dipped as he let out a strained gasp.

Jim laughed.

“How many skips did I get on that one, Jim?” Arty asked.

“I’d say about three good ones,” he said. Jim looked down at Carrie and asked, “What do you think, sweetie? Is three about right?”

Carrie didn’t respond. She wasn’t ignoring him; she was in shock.

“What’s
her
deal?” Arty asked.

Jim shrugged, still keeping a good grip on her. “Taking a personal moment I guess.”

Arty nodded. “Fair enough. Her time will come.” He spun. “
Caleb!
” The boy jumped. “Come on, buddy, I’m waiting on
you
.”

Caleb began shaking, his whole body vibrating on his mother’s torso. Amy’s sobs of frustration changed to venomous snorts of spit and obscenities.

Arty walked calmly over to her and flicked her hard on the forehead. There was a
thock!
sound, and Amy winced from the blow. “Act like a lady,” Arty said.

Patrick growled behind him and Jim laughed again.

Arty reached into the sack and grabbed a second rock. “I’m gonna do it without you, Caleb. Here I go…I’m going…I’m gonna do it without you…”

Caleb’s reaction didn’t change. Arty shook his head. He flung the second rock and cracked Patrick in the forehead this time, a flesh-colored egg appearing instantly. Caleb didn’t see it, but screamed into his mother when he heard the smack of the rock on his father’s skull.

Arty looked at the boy and shrugged innocently. “I thought you liked this shit, Caleb.” He turned to Jim. “What gives?”

“They’re just not getting it.”

“No shit. I mean come on, little man, who would you rather have throwing these things, you or
me
?” Arty walked next to Patrick. “Because I can keep doing it if you want, but I think your old man might prefer less of an arm.” Arty dug his thumb into the egg on Patrick’s head. Amy cursed and hollered as Patrick groaned in pain.

Caleb stayed rooted to his mother. Arty threw up his hands. “He’s never gonna get it.”

“Maybe we need to change the rules a bit?” Jim asked.

“How’s that?”

Jim threw Carrie into Arty. He caught her and felt her dead weight against him; there wasn’t even the smallest attempt at a struggle.

It was now Jim’s turn to leave the room. He returned with three knives—two in one hand, one in the other. Each knife was twelve inches long and sharp enough to shave with.

Jim handed the knives to Arty, and Arty handed Carrie back to Jim.

Arty held the knives up for all to see. “You want me to use
these
?” he asked.

“Sure beats a rock,” Jim said.

Arty touched the point of the blade and pricked his index finger. A drop of blood grew on the tip. He watched the drop grow bigger until it dripped a red line down to his palm. He licked the red line up to the tip of his finger, sucked then smacked his lips on the wound and said, “Sure does.”

The recent substitution to the game—the knives—caused a spastic uproar from Amy. Her garbled swearing increased despite her four-year-old son on her chest.

Patrick’s reaction to the knives was different. It appeared a sort of heroic defiance, almost willing his captors to throw them; his chest was out and his head was upright.

Amy wanted to scold her husband’s bravado. She understood his behavior (oh how she understood), but she feared it would only incite their antagonists. Or worse yet, make their sick game more enjoyable.

But she knew her husband. She knew he was a big teddy bear. But she also knew he had a breaking point. And that point had been broken a long fucking time ago. His rage was now bubbling beneath the lid, periodically hissing as it touched the burner beneath. She just prayed his wrath still clung to common sense. That dying with your boots on was not the goal now—salvation was.

“Alright,” Arty said. “I’m gonna give this a try. Last chance, Caleb!”

No response.

“Fine.”

Arty whistled the first knife towards Patrick. Amy watched right up until the last second before impact, shutting her eyes tight before the knife had a chance to find its home. She only opened them when she heard the knife pierce the drywall behind her husband.

He had missed.

“Shit,” Arty said.

“It’s alright, bro,” Jim said. “You’ve got two more.” Jim glanced at Amy, winked and said, “Don’t worry; he’s good at this. Could have been in the fucking circus.”

Arty looked at the two knives in his hands, then at Caleb glued to Amy’s chest. “I want the kid to watch this,” he said.

Jim pushed Carrie into a corner and told her to sit. She did as she was told and fell into a catatonic slump, sucking her thumb and staring at nothing.

Jim then stepped forward and ripped Caleb from Amy’s chest. Amy shrieked and fought so hard the chair fell over, her head and shoulder colliding hard with the wooden floor. The impact did not deter her tirade as she continued to scream and fight.

Both brothers laughed at the overturned chair as Jim hoisted Caleb up and into his arms. The boy was the opposite of Carrie’s dead weight; he was a tightly wound ball trying to retreat into himself. Both he and his sister had shut down. It was as simple as that. Their young minds just couldn’t process the horrific goings-on that were happening around them, and their only available coping mechanism was to switch off.

So when Jim felt the boy’s rigid weight in his arms, turned and fixed on Carrie’s blank stare in the corner, he fronted his brother and said, “These kids are going to be useless, man.”

Arty was not so easily deterred. “Bullshit.” He gripped knife number two in one hand, and peeled Caleb’s head back from his brother’s shoulder with the other, placing the blade directly in front of the boy’s face. “You’re going to
watch
, Caleb. You were too stupid to play, so now you’re going to
watch.
”

Arty spun and whipped knife number two at Patrick. The knife stuck deep within the drywall next to Patrick’s head, missing again.

“Shit! I hit him
both
fucking times
with the rocks!” Arty said.

“Relax,” Jim said, hoisting Caleb up. “You’re getting too wound up.”

Amy was still turned over on her side, but she could see clearly. She knew that last knife would be thrown with serious intent, and she prayed with every drop of blood pulsating throughout her body that it too would miss. But what would follow after? The knives could easily be plucked from the wall for a second round, or…

Arty steadied his breathing, gripped the remaining knife’s handle tight in his right hand, aimed it directly at Patrick’s chest, threw it hard enough to rock his own balance.

And the knife buried itself deep into the drywall to Patrick’s right.

Amy started to laugh. From her upturned, uncomfortable position, she laughed uncontrollably into her gag, and if her arms were free you can bet your sweet ass she would have pointed and mocked while doing so. Dying with one’s boots on? Hadn’t she been the one who silently hoped Patrick would abandon such bravado? So why was she laughing? Was she going crazy?