Authors: Ryan C. Thomas
Scraps & Chum (8 page)
A tiny woman in jeans and a yellow blouse opened the door and stood blocking the entrance. Her hair was frosted three different colors. A mug of coffee was in her hand.
“
We ain
’
t open yet. And you rugrats can
’
t get a haircut without your parents anyway.
”
Nicky spoke up.
“
Please, we just need to know about the boy with the eyepatch.
”
“
What the hell you talking about? I
’
m cleaning up. Come back later.
”
“
No,
”
Nicky said, placing his foot between the door and the jamb.
“
Look what he did to my arm.
”
“
Jesus, kid. You should go to the hospital.
”
“
The boy with the eyepatch did it. I don
’
t know what
’
s going on, but it
’
s getting worse. Who is he?
”
“
Eyepatch?
”
“
Listen
,
lady,
”
Greg said, growing frustrated and
unafraid to show it,
“
if we don
’
t find this kid, Nicky is gonna end up an amputee.
”
Nicky
’
s eyes bulged; he hadn
’
t even though of that.
“
No, you listen, kid, I don
’
t give out client information.
”
Threats were not Nicky
’
s strong s
uit, but he decided to play the
card anyway.
“
If you don
’
t tell me I
’
ll cut my own hair and tell my m
om you did it.
”
The hairdresser sipped her coffee. Age and fatigue were visible on her face, and perhaps it was sheer apathy, but she chose not to argue.
“
Nice try, kid. Even a bad cut by me is a good cut.”
“Please, lady. Look at my arm. Please. At least if we know what the kid was touching we can tell the doctor.”
She sighed, puckered her lips as she took in Nicky’s arm. “
Sheeeit. All right, yeah, the kid with the eyepatch. I don
’
t know his name. His mother comes here about every six months to get a cut. You know, funny you should bring her up, she usually gets the same cut, but this time she got it cut shorter and had me dye it blonde. Not a good look for her, believe me. She don
’
t
talk, you know. I try to ask her things, what she
’
s been up to, how her kid is, that kind of stuff, but she don
’
t talk. Keeps her kid in the car, never brings him in. He sits back there with a comic book but I figure, hell, he looks well fed, seems happy. I don
’
t know. I saw her grab him yesterday, so I guess he got out. I think she
’
s embarrassed by him, the whole missing eye thing. Strange that she went blonde, you know. I don
’
t know what else to tell you.
”
“
Where do they live?
”
Nicky asked.
“
Look,
”
the woman said,
“
I give you this woman
’
s address and you cause her problems, and she sues me or something, I
’
m gonna find you. I see you down here at the candy store so
I know you
’
re from around here—
”
“
We won
’
t tell,
”
Nicky said.
“
Please. My arm is going numb.
”
“
Hang on.
”
She disappeared inside, returned a minute later.
“
Lucky for you I have a mailing list she signed up for. For coupons and stuff.
She lives up on Roseland Drive. It
’
s by the supermarket. Name
’
s Tara French
”
She handed Nicky a Post-it with an address.
“
Now get out of here. And go see a doctor.
”
The door slammed shut.
***
Roseland was a cul de sac two blocks away from the market, full of ranch style homes with big lawns and two car garages. On the front lawn of one house some children were kicking a soccer ball
—
though none of them was the boy with the eyepatch.
Winded from the ride, the three boys dropped their bikes on the sidewalk and walk
ed up to the front door of Tara
French
’
s house, across from where the children were playing. Nicky blew on his arm; the sun was making it itch again.
“
I hope that brat answers so I can pop him,
”
Greg said.
Nicky rang the doorbell. No one answered. They rang again. Nothing.
“
They moved,
”
came a voice from the street. The boys spun around and found a small girl standing at the edge of the lawn holding the soccer ball.
“
They moved last night,
”
she said.
“
I watched them from my window. They were making all this noise I couldn
’
t sleep. They had big bags and suitcases. What
’
s wrong with your arm? It
’
s all gross. Are you moving in there?
”
Across the street, the girl
’
s mother popped her head out the front door and called her back.
“
Gotta go,
”
the girl said, and ran across the street, back to her yard where she threw the ball at one of the other small children. The little girl
’
s mother glared at Nicky and his buddies, waiting to see if they were up to no good.
“
She
’
s spying on us,
”
Willy said,
“
let
’
s warp outta here.
”
“
Shut up, Willy,
”
Greg replied.
“
Look at Nicky
’
s arm. It
’
s almost down to his hand.
”
The black scab was spreading down Nicky
’
s forearm, reaching toward his wrist, as well as spreading around the back of his bicep up toward his neck. He bent it and winced as the scab split in the crook of his elbow, releasing yellow pus and blood.
“
That is fucking-A disgusting,
”
Greg said.
Nicky studied the window next to the door.
“
Maybe we can get in here.
”
“
What for?
”
“
To find out where they moved to.
”
Thunk!
The sound came from inside.
Greg plastered his face to the window and peered between the gap in the curtains.
“
Holy shit. Something is in there.
”
“
Lemme see.
”
All three boys squinted through the window. Inside, a fully furnished living room was bathed in shadow, and through an archway off to one side a kitchen table was just visible. A foot stuck out from under it, twitched for a moment and then went still again.
“
Quick,
”
Nicky said,
“
around back. Someone
’
s in the kitchen.
”
Willy started to debate but Greg grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him around the back of the house. Once there, Nicky tried the back door, which swung open with a fart-like creak. Willy shook his head in silent protest, his breathing heavy, but Greg glared at him and pointed at Nicky
’
s arm and that was that. Filled with trepidation, the boys entered.
The kitchen was dark, the shades drawn. Against one wall a green refrigerator hummed, a drawing done in crayon hanging on it with a magnet. Dishes were scattered on the floor, trash was overflowing from a large white garbage can, the scent of rotting meat hung heavy in the air, flies buzzed everywhere.
“
Man, it stinks like crud in here,
”
Greg said, holding his nose.
Willy
’
s hand went to his mouth as he slowly backed up against the door.
“
The table. Look
,
”
he said.
Under the table, a black mound rolled about. Like cheap balled-up saran wrap, it slowly unfolded and grew larger into something humanoid. Just like what came out of the boy
’
s eye in my dream, Nicky thought. As they watched in horror, it opened its eyes and reached a hand out toward them—-a black hand, crusted and covered in yellow pus and blood. It spoke:
“
Go
’
way.
”
It was a man, or man-shaped anyway, no longer doubled over but clearly in pain, propped up against the baseboard.