Body of Immorality (20 page)

I looked at Ricky. It pained me to acknowledge the traitor.

“Rick,” I said, patiently. “I didn’t even
do
anything!”

“Yeah, but don’t you think…Aren’t you
worried?
You still have a chance to get out of here. Maybe after midnight, Jeremy? You can slip away. I’ll help you. They know you’re every move! They’re not going to forget this!”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, too, Mozart? Did
they
put you up to this?”

A shocked expression crossed his face.

“No!” he said. “I’m just scared for you. I don’t know what they’re gonna
do!
I don’t want to see anything bad happen, man! I don’t want to see anything
worse,
you know?”

Sure, I knew. Ricky wanted me out of town for his
own
sake. I was making him look bad. He was starting to get the same treatment because he was my only friend. ‘Please, Jeremy, I love you so much. Don’t make me cry!’

I thought I was going to throw up.

“You country-western cow-poker,” I said. “Get out of my house!”

He almost had me convinced. He looked like he
was
gonna start crying.

By this time, I’d lost my job at the Circle K. The irony.

The final piece of the puzzle slipped into place when they found Ricky’s body
behind
the Circle K. His throat was slashed from ear to ear.

I didn’t need the morning’s paper to know about this, of course. What was with these newspaper broadcasts anyway? They were newspapers from the future or something. They ran stories the day the incident happened. It was there on the front page the next day:
Local Music Major Found Slain.

My only friend was dead.

And with that, I sit. I wait. I can hear the clock ticking above the shelf in the kitchen. The door is locked. I should’ve hammered plywood over the windows.

Should I have taken Ricky’s advice? Should I have packed a light bag and scurried, like a rat, into the dark? Like a spineless, frightened rat?

No. I can’t do that. I have to see this through, though. Did I know it would come to this? Have I been waiting for it without knowing?

The clock continues to
tick-tick-tick
in the kitchen. My fingers itch.

Just a young man, trying to see the world, waiting to make his mark in the universe. I came here to get an education. I wrote a stupid story, and some guy got killed because of it, and now the whole, stupid town wants me dead!

What luck!

Is that the sound of militiamen, a trumpet sounding?

Snow crunches to the beat of their prancing tread. Waves of heat from their torches make my face sweat. Shadows of pitchforks, scythes, shotguns, knives, dance with the flames, eager to find me. Every one of them wants a go. Every one will initial a slow, agonizing pain to my misery, the deal they made since last they saw me.

But it’s America, right? You can hide, or you can stand and fight! Defense is best. You do not charge when it’s one against a thousand. You take your position like a patriot. You smile, letting them know you’re not afraid. You make the best, most dramatic exit you can. You never let them forget who you are!

My
station of defense is the living room closet. The door is closed. In the dark, I hide under coats and snow shoes. Surprise surprise!

I grabbed the only butcher knife I own and another six-inch cooking knife. Each hand is poised and ready, anxious to pounce. I’ve done this before. It’s lifelong, not a second death, some kind of new beginning. The semi would work. That would’ve been the thing to do! Watch out! HONK! HONK! I’m coming!

University Place? I thought and giggled. I shake my head. Knowing Raintree never knew a thing when I started the big rig rolling! The collision of two oncoming vehicles! Wheels of the eighteen wheeler against the wheels of that rust-bucket Ford! What chance did he have? You should have
seen
the impact!

The semi had been parked along the side of the road. It’s not hard sneaking up on a tired driver. Smash him right along the temple, watch him go limp, and put the truck in drive. My grandfather taught me how to drive the big rigs. We’ve been a fortunate family.

The screech of Arnold Raintree’s breaking tires, locking against the road as I plowed down on him! Man,
what
a sound! A shower of metal, huge, spinning, rubber wheels bouncing out in all directions, like a Bugs Bunny cartoon! Splatters of red on the windshield! Pretty thing, really!

Sometimes you have to
create
the inspiration to get the story right. You go for truth. Red, like an obedient dog, was my support and confidante. You don’t get friends like that from a box of Cracker-Jacks.

The thing about murder is commitment to excellence.

The weapon was not mine, but one I found in Mrs. Higglesby’s kitchen drawer. I know. Plastic gloves masking every fingerprint, I entered like a cat, made it into her kitchen,
one-two-three
. Like the truck. Easy. ‘Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,’ like it never even happened, you know? Sometimes murder, besides fun, is built from furor. It’s a different kind of smile, a different thrill! As if I were going to
forget!

Pressing her head against the wall, Mrs. Higglesby was still trying to accept what was happening to her. I punched the knife repeatedly into her ribcage. I said softly into her ear, as the life went out of her, “Whispering is for soft assurances. You just tell me when you’ve had enough.”

Red was a good coach, urging me on, a benefactor with quiet, calm regard, arms folded across his chest, nodding, watching my every move.

“You’ve learned a lot, sunny-boy,” he said.

“Red, I didn’t know they let you out. It’s good to see you!”

“This is a special occasion. Better than your birthday! You think I’d miss it?”

I hurried through the woods and toward Ricky’s house because I knew he passed the Circle K on his way home. You should’ve seen the look in his eyes! You mean, they were
right?
his eyes said, talking about the town.

“You bet your ass they were right,” I told him.

I didn’t give him a chance to reply. I just wanted him to know. I pulled his hair back and drew the knife—with precision madness—across the length of his throat.

Red clapped behind me like my number one fan, hopping up and down, absolutely fucking delighted.

(There you go again, dad! This town. They just make me so goddamn mad!)

Shadows dance, whisking flames bobbing under the closet door. It must be coming from the window because they haven’t broken the door down yet. Maybe they were having one final meeting as they walked back into the woods that day. Proud, coffee drinking wranglers, making a final decision.

It’s the lack of understanding that kills me, never questioning the fact, maybe it
wasn’t
me…

They’re at the door! The knob clicks back and forth. Who knows what they’re going to do to the place?

“I hear ya! I hear ya!” I shout. “I’m coming!”

Shotgun blasts?

“Say, Red? When they open the door, I’m not gonna waste a second. I’m gonna launch into the air with both knives swinging, giving them everything I
got!”

“Spoken like a true apprentice!”

The knob on the closet turns. Someone pulls the door wide. Light from the torches spreads over me, revealing my eyes buried in coats and winter boots. A smile spreads across my face like a demented clown. Rage fuels my every thought!

I spring, the coats and boots falling off me. I bury blades into warm, soft flesh, pulling the knives out one by one and back into the sonsabitches as I reel, screaming the whole time. My fists are steel, pin-wheeling blades, drawing blood. I’m feeling proud of myself, ecstatic, excited! Glory rings in my ears! I’m moving at lightening speed, blurring fast through images of people screaming, hollering, shouting at one another as I take a few of them with me!

“How does that warm metal feel? Didn’t know people bled so much, did ya?”

Images fade. I hear several shotgun blasts

Red? Hey? Whoa a second there, cowboy!

Are you still there?

Pinwheels stop. Something about the city...

I sigh with the sadness of it, knowing I’ll miss it. I shake my head. I should’ve never come here.

I don’t think they ever had a college here to begin with now that I think about it. I mean, it’s a po-dunk town, after all. Why would they have a college?

Yeah, dad. Yeah. I know…get off my back, will ya. Christ!

Goddam...I hate these small fucking towns.

Disfigured Companion

The longer Reginald McDonald thought about his situation, the more he was going to have to take drastic measures. If Mary couldn’t see what
he
did, then it was time for change. Leaving her would be too easy. That was part of the problem.

Reginald hadn’t been married long, only three years, but it was long enough for him to understand it wasn’t going to work. Not anymore. Not with the way things were. All the signs were there. They’d grown apart after three years, whether
she
believed it or not. That was the other problem. Mary didn’t
want
to believe they were better off without each other. They’d talked about it, but she still loved him, claimed he had something special inside. It made Reginald sick when she said things like that. If he could get her—in some way—to despise him, she’d have no choice but to agree and leave.

He should’ve never gotten married. That was the problem
with
marriage. Reginald supposed it was the
idea
of marriage that drew people to it: the fantasy, the love. Once the vows were taken, however, it was a completely different story.
Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Anything you say, dear.
Reginald thought the word ‘dear’ was a substitute for ‘mother.’ He might as well be living at home still. “What are you, my fuckin’ mother?” he said to Mary.

“Make sure you take the garbage out, sweetheart.”

‘Sweetheart,’ too, was supposed to make him an obedient, groveling child. Who did Mary think she was, a drill sergeant?

Marriage didn’t have benefits, not for Reggy. He couldn’t be himself anymore. Mary treated him like a child. He was tired of it. Marriage had given Mary the right to order Reginald around whenever she wanted, and all Reggy got out of it was less sex and more chores. Was it worth it to walk around with his tail between his legs, nodding at everything she said?
Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Just as soon as I build this castle for you, dear, take out the garbage, and finish writing your name in cursive across the sky, dear. Let me slay a few dragons first, too, while I’m at it. Hold on, I have to hurry across this burning bridge! We’re being attacked by aliens!

He’d used several cruel approaches already, trying to get Mary to despise him, but every plan had backfired. Coming home drunk had been his first attempt. She didn’t believe in drinking, but when he’d come staggering through the door all Mary did was frown.

“Is this what you want to do now, Reggy? Start drinking?”

“
You’re goddamn right it is!”
he lashed out like a demon. He wavered tipsy in the doorway, face flushed with alcohol, black sweaty hair hanging in his dark eyes. “
You don’t like it, you can go live with your goddamn mother!”

All Mary did was shrug. “Just as long as you don’t leave the beer bottles lying around, Reggy. I don’t want to clean up after you.”

At first, he thought this was all he had to do: leave the bottles lying around for her to pick-up. But it grew tiresome, and he wasn’t really a drinking man anyway. His own messes and waking up with a hangover were enough to make him realize he’d have to take a different approach.

He could cheat on her, maybe. If she came home and found him in bed with another woman, that would make her move out, wouldn’t it? Reginald didn’t have it in his heart to be unfaithful, despite his other cruelties. He wasn’t made that way. He’d never cheated on a girl in his life. At times, he would insult Mary, tell her she was fat, a crybaby, and then watch her weep. It gave him satisfaction to know he could make her cry.

You can be a brutal bastard at times,
he thought.

Part of him was
glad
she was crying, knowing he could damage her that way. Sometimes, he couldn’t stand being in the same room with her. He had to find a way to keep himself from seeing her. He needed to be alone. He hated her. Being an ass was his way of reminding Mary they needed a divorce.

But he had something now. An idea, something that would get her to leave, and there would be no doubt about his plan. Obviously, getting drunk and cursing wouldn’t do it. Cheating wasn’t in his blood, and he wasn’t going to move out of his
own
house. He’d built his own business from the ground up. The business had paid for the house.

Mary had always told him how handsome he was, how attracted she was to him, so Reginald thought if he cut off one of his appendages, she’d think him a hideous monster, and she’d have no choice but to leave.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea inspired him. In fact, he was convinced his idea could not fail. If he disfigured his body, she’d have no choice but to leave. How could she stay with someone who couldn’t walk, who hobbled around like a circus freak, or put their clothes on with one arm? And besides, it was only a hand maybe, a foot. He could live without it. It would be worth it, wouldn’t it? To have Mary gone?

The thought made him smile.

Anything was worth it. If it got Mary to leave, it
would
be worth it.

So, you’ll hobble a little,
he thought, giggling.
Who cares? People live without appendages.

True, people lived without appendages. They lived without wives as well. If he did this carefully, he’d have her out of the house by the end of the week, a month at the latest. That was his plan.

The house at Cascade Lake would be his to enjoy alone, the way he’d been wanting things for a long time.

*

Their marriage and their love for each other had been simple. They’d met at a party between friends. The physical attraction was there, and as the night wore on, they’d talked on countless subjects. Everyone else at the party seemed to disappear, locked in the shadows. Reginald and Mary talked throughout the night and into the next day. After Mary gave him her phone number, they began seeing each other regularly: movies, dinner (Mary liked cartoons, Walt Disney movies. He should’ve known then. He hated Walt Disney movies). They took long walks together. It was perfectly romantic. Eventually, marriage seemed the next step.