Christmas Trees & Monkeys (2 page)

Jacob whispered. “Don’t worry. You can still get in. The latch won’t lock. Just turn it and lift.”

Patrick swallowed, wondering again what he was trying to prove. That the son of the town’s Baptist preacher wasn’t just another wimpy Jesus-lover? That a wimpy Jesus-lover can die as easily as anyone? His father would kill him if he found out. Beat his devil-possessed son to death with one of those massive bibles he preached from. Not for the first time, Patrick decided to get up and leave. Tell Jacob and Kenny to find someone else to jerk around with this stupid dare.

Someone with more guts. He sighed quietly and waited.

The old man stood by the large oven doors, tinkering with a faucet then various switches. He looked to Patrick like a mad scientist from an old black and white movie.

Jacob was moving way too much. He said, “OK. Get ready, Bible Boy.”

“
Don’t call me that.”

“
Once he fires this sucker up, he’ll leave the room while it gets cranking. I’ve seen it a hundred times. He’ll be gone for five minutes. Maybe more.”

The old man flipped a switch. The darkness beyond the doors exploded in a brilliant flash of light. Patrick closed his eyes. A minute later Jacob slapped him on the back. “OK, he’s out. Let’s go.”

The casket was closed. Behind the windows in the furnace doors, fire danced like a thousand burning fingers. Kenny, who had said nothing since they left on their bikes from Jacob’s house, moved his heavy frame into the square of light. He slid a piece of aluminum along the edge of the window. Something clicked. He lifted the sash and propped it open with the jimmy.

Patrick looked at Jacob. “You never did this.”

Jacob glared back at him. “Damn right, I have. Twice. Don’t chicken out on me now, or everyone’s gonna hear about it.”

“
I’m not chickening out. I just don’t think you ever did it.” Laying face-down on the grass, Patrick shimmied backwards. His legs dangled over nothing for a moment, then his toes touched the concrete floor. The faces of Jacob and Kenny hung ghostlike in the window. Darkness beyond them. Patrick let go of the sill.

The room smelled like the science lab at school. Chemicals, Bunsen burners. Looking around, there wasn’t much to see besides a desk, four folding chairs, and the coffin. He’d better get this over with before the old man came back and pushed it into the oven with him inside. Patrick thought of being trapped, burned alive with the corpse of Mister Benchman. He walked toward the coffin.

The latch turned easily. Patrick lifted the upper lid. The head of Mister Benchman did not turn towards him with an evil grimace, as he’d half-expected. The sunken face was covered in too much makeup. The storekeeper didn’t look right. Where was the smile? Whenever Patrick and his father came into Selver’s Variety the man always had a smile.

The platform was metal mesh wrapped around rollers. He gave the coffin a shove to make sure it wouldn’t roll against the furnace doors. It didn’t. It sat low to the floor. Patrick had no problem climbing up alongside. He remembered the last time he saw this man alive. When his father had gone back to the cooler for a forgotten jug of milk, Mister Benchman handed Patrick a Three Musketeers candy bar. The boy immediately had shoved the treat deep into his windbreaker’s pocket, prayed his father hadn’t seen it. Candy was forbidden in their world; both Patrick and Mister Benchman knew that. The storekeeper simply smiled as usual, never letting on to this dark new secret as the preacher returned with the milk. That was one month ago, and Patrick only garnered enough courage to eat the damned Three Musketeers three days ago. That was the day he heard Mister Benchman was dead.

He worked his left leg into the coffin, wincing in reaction to the stiff, papery feel of the man’s leg. There was no way he’d get in there without touching the guy.

“
Hurry up, you idiot.” Jacob’s head poked into the room. “He’ll be back in three minutes.” Patrick wondered how Jacob was keeping such precise time, since none of them wore a watch.

“
You just make sure you throw the pebble when a minute’s up.”

“
Two minutes.”

“
One minute. I’m not getting caught by that old guy.”

“
Whatever! Just do it.”

Patrick sat on the edge and put his other foot inside the coffin. He looked up.

“
Show me the pebble.”

Jacob was about to say something, thought better of it, then reached into his pants’ pocket. He held the pebble between two fingers. Patrick turned away from the window, trying not to look disappointed.

The coffin was uncomfortable. Under the frills and satin sheet was nothing more than the wooden bottom. No cushions, no soft down bedding. Patrick pushed his way over the curls of the sheets. His eyes blinked away sweat.

“
Close the lid.” From the window, Jacob’s voice sounded breathy, like he’d been running. “Close it. Close it.”

Patrick slowly reached over the dead man and grabbed the inside of the lid. The move brought his face too close to Mister Benchman. Vomit wormed its way into the boy’s throat. He closed the lid as fast as he could, turned his head away and threw up. It splattered across his shoulder. The acidic smell filled the cramped interior, intensified by the increasing heat of the oven. In the coffin’s complete blackness, facing away from the wooden figure beside him, Patrick felt an urge to cry.

Instead, he counted. One. Two. Three. His tongue tasted sour, as if he’d drunk a glass of bad milk. This mental image sent more vomit against the coffin’s wall. Patrick spit out a chunk of something caught in his cheek.
Don’t think about anything
, he thought.
Just wait for the pebble.

The sound of the basement door opening was muffled from inside his tomb, but Patrick knew instantly that he had lost. The old man was back.

* * *

Moments earlier, Jacob watched Patrick lean over the dead man and close the lid. He tried to swallow, but his mouth couldn’t work up any spit. Once the coffin was closed, Jacob shifted his position until he lay belly-down on the grass. He had to. The erection in his jeans made crouching too uncomfortable. Since a few months after his twelfth birthday, this had become a new twist in his life. This time, it was not received with the terror and embarrassment he’d suffer in the middle of Miss Monroe’s Social Studies class. This time it felt right. Jacob’s stomach tightened at the thought of Patrick laying alone with the corpse, and the fact that he had no intention of tossing the pebble. He stared at the flames licking each other behind the furnace windows. His arousal intensified.

“
Come on, man,” Kenny said, leaning back on his haunches. “This is just too sick. Throw the rock so we can get the hell out of here.”

For as long as the two boys were old enough to cross the street, they had been each other’s only friend. This may have been because they were the only kids their age on that end of Washington Street. More likely it was because their mutual obsession with all things macabre alienated them from the rest of their classmates. Last Thursday, Kenny brought Patrick into their fold. Now, he couldn’t help thinking that Jacob concocted this scheme just to scare away the threat Patrick presented to their long-standing twosome.

Jacob continued his vigil and waved away his friend’s suggestion. Kenny grabbed his arm. “Throw it, you piss-head.”

At that moment the door to the small room swung open.

In a reaction more instinctive than calculated, Jacob slapped at the metal bar. He caught the window at the last moment, closing it silently. His eyes never left the old man. Carefully, like an animal backing away from a threat, he slithered in the grass until he was out of the window’s light.

Kenny whispered, “Oh, my God.” He was on his feet, pacing behind Jacob. “Oh, my God oh my God oh my -”

“
Will you shut up?” Jacob’s hiss froze Kenny’s hysteria for the moment. The boy looked down, eyebrows raised in a silent plea.

In reply Jacob whispered, “We do nothing.” He scrambled onto his knees. “Just stay put and see if he leaves again.”

Kenny shook his head, but did not move.

* * *

Benson Laraby shuffled past the coffin. In his peripheral vision he tried to see if the Kinsley boy was still at the window. He had seen someone up there earlier. He knew damned well who it was.
Sick idiot kid
, he thought. This was the third time he’d spied the boy watching him. He turned to face the window. Nothing but darkness beyond. He sighed. The boy was probably still there but, as before, the old man decided to leave him to his devices rather than call Robert Kinsley and get him in trouble. Last thing he wanted was a bunch of broken windows to deal with later.

The internal temperature looked good. Laraby released the safety and pulled down hard on the old lever. The twin doors to the oven screeched open. In seconds the basement room was thick with heat.

* * *

Patrick took short, silent breaths. He listened to the old man’s footsteps. All but forgotten was the stench and feel of the vomit. Two opposing voices in his head fought for control. One screamed “Open the lid! Open it and climb out the window. He’ll see you but might not recognize you! You’ll be safe….”

The other voice was calm, a soothing unperturbed whisper. “Don’t move,” it said. “Just stay calm and wait to see what happens. The last thing you want is for Jacob to see you running like a little girl. The old man’ll recognize you; don’t kid yourself. Then what will your father say?”

This last voice is what Patrick obeyed.

Something shifted beside him. He turned his head in the darkness. With terrifying clarity he realized the only other thing in the coffin was Mister Benchman.

* * *

When Kenny pushed past his friend, Jacob grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him down. In the boy’s ear he whispered, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“
The old man’s gonna burn him, we have -”

Jacob covered Kenny’s mouth with his hand. “You’re right,” he said, looking occasionally through the window. “Little Patrick’s going to burn. The doors are open. The old man’s going to pull another lever and the coffin’ll slide in and the doors will slam shut.” He smiled and wiped at a string of spit with his free hand. “There’s nothing we can do now but watch him die.”

Kenny shifted sideways, sending Jacob rolling in front of the window. “You’re nuts, man. I’m not letting him die!”

Jacob saw the old man move to put the casket between him and the furnace. The burning in his belly was now an inferno. Kenny crawled towards the window. Jacob jumped on top of him. Kenny dragged himself along the ground. He was seconds away from ruining everything. With both hands Jacob lifted the biggest rock within reach and crashed it onto the back of the other boy’s head. Kenny grunted only once. His left arm twitched, as if trying to shake off a bug, then stopped. He lay, unmoving, just outside the square of yellow light.

Something dark turned in Jacob’s stomach. He ignored it, knowing that Kenny would start bawling at any moment. He looked through the window and hoped he hadn’t missed anything. He watched with renewed excitement as the old man pulled the final release, sending the casket rolling along the conveyor and into the oven.

* * *

For one joyous moment Patrick thought the old man was gone. The footsteps faded behind his head, towards the door. Was he gone? The oven doors must have been opened. The roaring of the furnace muffled most of the outside sounds. He wished he could be sure.

The calm voice returned. “Stay where you are. Don’t blow it now.”

“
Patrick, run!” The other voice, still heard only within his head, sounded different, not his own. It sounded like Mister Benchman. Still half-turned in the darkness towards the body, Patrick pushed himself against the vomit-covered wall. He heard the sound again, the rustling of polyester, cloth rubbing against itself. The coffin shook. Patrick had the sensation of riding on a roller coaster.

The howl of the furnace raced around him. The old man hadn’t left. He just rolled them in. Suddenly, it seemed too late to do anything. If he opened the lid, he’d be burned alive. Patrick’s mind spun in a chaotic jumble of thoughts. If he didn’t do something now he’d burn anyway. What would his father say? He closed his eyes, panicked sobs fighting for release. “Don’t make a sound,” the calm voice said. “Shhhh.”

The unmistakable screech of the closing doors. Now he was going to die. Again the sound of rustling beside him. Something grabbed his leg. An arm fell across his chest. Patrick opened his eyes, expecting to see the old man pulling him out. All he saw was darkness. Fingers closed tighter around his leg. Patrick screamed as he’d never screamed before.

* * *

The oven doors slammed shut. Immediately the shape of the coffin was lost beyond the windows, wrapped in a savage blanket of fire as the gas jets opened completely. Laraby maintained his grip the release lever. That was a scream he heard; it had to be. There was no longer any sound but the roar of the furnace. He looked around, up to the window. At that moment three thoughts crystallized in his mind: he
had
heard someone, the Kinsley kid was at the window earlier, and now he was gone. The old man looked at the oven door, back at the window.