The Monster Variations (16 page)

“I’ll come over tomorrow and get it from you. Once my mom leaves for work. It only makes sense. Come on, take it. It only makes sense. Aren’t we in this thing together?”

With that, Reggie pressed the bag into James and
James took it and then Reggie smiled and nodded goodbye and broke away in the direction of his home, as if long aching to surpass James’s drowsy pace. James stood at the foot of his driveway, grasping the bag in one elevated hand, alone.

Trying not to look at the bag, he walked slowly around to the back door. The bag smelled of nothing aside from dirty laundry; James held it an arm’s length anyway. As he climbed the back stairs, the item inside the bag shifted. James shivered and goose bumps spilled from his sleeves, down his arms. He pressed open the squeaky door. The bag thunked against the doorframe. James grimaced and opened the door wider and suddenly the bag was inside, the Monster was inside his home, and the horror of it chased him to his bed, where he fell facedown into his pillow, wrapped clean sheets around his head, buried himself in a warm darkness, and then accidentally fell asleep.

* * *

His father held the bag by one hand. James could not yet react. It was not clear what time it was. James thought of what was inside the bag and then things went hot and awful and he felt like such a child, such a stupid, stupid child.

James and his father did not speak much anymore. The silence had begun the day James was caught lying about sleeping over at Reggie’s. Now that James had seen his father with Call-Me-Kay at the run-down motel,
he figured he knew how his dad had uncovered the truth. However, this suspicion remained unspoken and unproven—although he and his father lived in the same house and by necessity exchanged words, nothing but compulsory information passed between them. For the first time in his life, James heard nothing about the donut or the hole, and to his surprise he missed it. He ached to confront his father about Ms. Fielder so that things between them would return to normal, but before he could do that he felt he needed to gain his father’s trust, become a man on equal footing.

That was a fantasy now. James had brought something illicit into the house, something dead, and that was breaking a law so basic it had never been formally stated. Did the cat drag in dead mice? Of course she didn’t, and she was a dumb animal.

James felt a plummeting dread. How could he even begin to explain? His father would want to know what the thing was. James did not know. His father would want to know where it originated. James did not know. His father would want to know why he took it, why he wanted to bring it into their home. James felt like crying-he didn’t know, he couldn’t remember.

His father glanced at the bag in distaste and looked for a place to set it down. The floor was filled with boys’ things—sneakers, army men, a baseball glove, a busted flashlight.

“You broke the curfew,” said his father.

In his head, James begged for mercy.

His father looked away. “I’m not even angry about that. Boys do that. I get it. I’m not happy about it, but I get it, and it’s a conversation for another day.”

In fact, it was a conversation they’d had several times in the past—the rambunctious nature of boys, and how, if James was careful, it could safely extend all the way through college, no matter what James’s mother said. All that was required was discretion, and James had failed even in that. He had brought an awful thing into their home, and this action not only jeopardized the future but also made his father vulnerable to his mother’s rebuke.

James thought the time was right to speak. He chose his words, repeated them internally, and then tried them out: “I’m sorry.”

His father seemed unmoved. His face was newly shaven, red and overly smooth, and the day was so young there was not yet a single pen poised inside his ink-stained pocket. His father’s features pinched, and he rediscovered the bag in his hand. “I thought you had better judgment than this. Was your friend Reggie involved? He has an unkind influence on you, James, and I wish you could see that.”

James felt his mind racing. He almost shouted, “Yes! Yes! It was Reggie!” but something in his gut raced even faster and stronger. He found himself shaking his head, protecting his friend, no, no, no—Reggie had nothing to do with this. Words even escaped his lips: “It wasn’t Reggie.”

His father raised his fist as if he were lifting a dumbbell,
and looked at the lump that spun slowly from the draw straps.

“There’s the stealing. That’s one thing. I can’t believe you’d do something like that, not without your friend Reggie, but who knows, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve misjudged you. Maybe you’ve disappointed me even more than I realize.”

His father then did a terrible thing. He tossed the bag onto James’s bed. James felt the weight of the apple box flop against his shin.

“I’ll tell you what upsets me more,” said his father, his voice rising. “That you believed in something this asinine. That we raised you—” He shut his mouth with a snap, looked for a moment as if he was doubting his words, then carried on in a tone less likely to wake James’s mother. “That we raised you with certain values and certain goals, and still you behave in a way that could throw it all away. You have embarrassed me, James. You’ve really let me down.”

This was the worst thing his father had ever said to him. James expected a flood of tears—they had certainly dropped from his eyes on lesser occasions—but for some reason the sobbing stayed caught in his chest. His nose felt full of snot. His hands were slimy with sweat. His neck was on fire.

“Take a look at it,” his father said, jabbing his chin at the bag. “Go ahead, have a look. You went through a lot of trouble to get your Monster, you might as well see what it got you.”

James dragged his eyes to the bag, and several moments passed before he realized what his father had said: he had called the Monster by its name. James looked at his father, so bewildered that he almost reached out. His father read his look and shrugged, and spoke to James slowly, like he was stupid.

“Of course I looked inside. And yes, I know what it is. Everyone knows what it is. Some kid out on Sycamore Lane with too much time on his hands. I tell you, it’s this damn curfew, it’s making you all stir-crazy.” His father sucked on his teeth for a moment. “It’s a prank, James. People make fun of it. It’s some ridiculous old hoax. That kid? You should feel bad for him. He’s not very smart, James. Not all kids are as smart as you. He’s not very smart and you took advantage of him and you should feel bad.”

James did feel bad, but not for those reasons. He looked at the bag, confused. What was it, then, that pressed its heavy weight against his shin?

Again his father read his mind and in an instant was leaning over the bed, opening the bag, and before James could scream or recoil, the apple box was yanked out and planted on the bed so hard the mattress shook. Particles of old, painted wood disintegrated into James’s covers. A margin of dirt and dust marked where the box edges struck down against the sheets, and James knew he would never get the stain out, not ever.

His father pointed a finger at the Monster. “A pony skull. How can you not see that’s a pony skull? And those
bones there? What do you think they are? They’re squirrel bones, tied together. You ever seen a dead squirrel on the road? These things here are called turkey feathers. James, those come from a turkey. Those—” Here he faltered, unable to immediately identify a delicate string of bones wired to one another. They looked to James like a human finger, and he thought of Willie’s missing arm, how it had disappeared, how none of the boys knew what had become of it.

His father peered at the thing, momentarily fascinated before disgust once more overtook his features. “I’m just grateful no one will find out about this, because, James, if you think your little world is difficult now? You have no idea, you really don’t. People would laugh and would hold it against you. Adults, teachers even. It’s wrong, but that’s what people do.”

James said it again, only this time he didn’t plan it, it just came out: “I’m sorry.”

His father grabbed the apple box in one hand and hastily crammed it back into the bag. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Tell that poor kid. We’re taking this right back to where you got it. Come on, before your mother wakes up.”

* * *

In fact it was still early morning, not even six. James did not know why his father was up so early—could it have been another odd-hour rendezvous with Reggie’s mom? Even if that was true, James’s numbness prevented
him from producing a reaction. The two of them climbed into the family van and rode in silence, the laundry bag quivering on the floor between them.

He lifted a listless finger and pointed the way down the trail. When they arrived at Tom’s house the morning was bright and clear. Tom was in the middle of the yard walking slowly toward them as they pulled to a stop, wiping his hands on his jeans and toeing aside a group of cats. Behind Tom, the barn doors were thrown wide on both ends, and in the field beyond the horses pondered the meager grass, their ribs visible even at a distance. The time had come for James to pick up the Monster and tell Tom what he had done.

James realized that this was the moment he had been waiting for, a way to prove he was a man worthy of his father’s respect. But now that the moment was here he didn’t want it. Stranger still, his father did not seem to want it either. There was regret in his dad’s expression. His face softened and he looked down at James as if he were still a little boy in need of protection, and under such a gaze James felt exactly that way, fragile and helpless.

“We all have monsters,” his father whispered. He reached over, picked up the laundry bag, stepped from the van, and began walking toward Tom. They met halfway across the yard.

James strained to watch without drawing attention to himself. He had to resist crying out in relief. He was off the hook! He wouldn’t have to face Tom and meet those
sad, crooked eyes. The pressure lifted and he breathed deeply, exhilarated, but then deeply repentant, too. As he watched his father’s lips move, James swore to himself he would apologize when his dad returned to the van. He would make oaths about good behavior, he would ground himself, he would be a good boy for the rest of the summer—no, the rest of the year, all the way through Christmas. Reggie
was
a bad influence, clearly that was true, and James suddenly missed Willie Van Allen, an innocent kid who existed on a plane far removed from this one of guilt and shame. He would spend more time with Willie, work harder on his schoolwork, position himself to become the ideal college candidate, and this perpetual sickness he felt over disobeying his folks would finally dissipate. James felt optimistic, good about his father, about himself. Things would be all right. Things would be as they used to.

He watched his father hold out the bag and saw Tom raise both hands, palms out, before diverting his eyes and taking a step away, shrugging in disinterest. James’s father held the bag a moment longer. Tom would not look at it—he stared out at the horses. Finally, James’s father set the bag on the ground, said a parting word, and walked slowly back to the van.

His father slammed the door and started the engine. He looked tired and old, and occupied with matters too complicated for a little boy. James’s promises, as earnest as they were, never reached his lips. The van wheeled
around the yard. As they drove away, James hid his face and in the rearview mirror saw Tom look down at the laundry bag, which lay a motionless lump in the dirt. And right before a car filled with teenagers rumbled past, obscuring his senses with dust and smoke and music, James was pretty sure he saw Tom drop to one knee and smile.

R
eggie stood alone.

Seen up close, the baseball diamond was not as impressive as he had hoped. The bases were authentic, but flat and discolored. There was a mound but it was low and off-center, and if there was a pitcher’s rubber it was lost beneath the dirt. There were no baselines at all; this realization was the harshest. He had imagined straight white lines of infinite distance, so sharply drawn not a single spot of powder broke rank.

Reggie hitched up the duffel bag on his shoulder. He moved with purposeful inelegance, scuffing his toes
through the dirt and kicking up dry clouds, spitting and not watching where it landed. He slouched to home plate and threw down his bag with a thump, and did not look to see where the bats rolled, how many balls escaped and lost themselves in the backstop weeds. He coughed—an unnecessary sound that announced his presence as well as his disregard for those who might hear it—and wiped his palms across his shirt. He felt the heat of his armpits dampen the wispy hair that grew there.

He grabbed a bat and weighed it in his arms. He experimented with a few half-swings, not knowing what he was looking for but nevertheless enjoying the search, and then tossed it aside and picked up another. Yes, this one would do.

He palmed a ball and tossed it into the air and immediately lost it in the sunset glare. But he was a boy, he’d done this a million times before, and though blind he swung with assurance and felt the satisfying jolt of bat striking ball, and heard the distant thuds of it skipping across the infield and whisking through outfield grass.

His ears, trained on the junkball diamond, calculated the thuds. This field was larger. Good, it should be. For five years, from a distance, he’d watched the impossibly tall and impossibly talented high school boys play here on weeknights and weekends—sometimes even during regular school hours, which amazed Reggie to no end—the offhand poise of their every catch and throw somehow more startling than that of the televised pros.

Today the field was vacant. Too hot, Reggie figured,
sweat sliding down his eyelids. No matter, he was here to play. Maybe the teenagers would show up later, in twos and threes, smoking and laughing and hanging all over each other, and then they’d discover him, some twelve-year-old kid who played like he was born in a dugout.

Reggie turned around and reached into his bag for another ball. He found none and looked to the backdrop weeds, yet resisted getting on his knees to search for the balls surely hiding within. Instead he pulled his cap farther down on his head, and charged across the field, bat in hand. He’d find the ball he just hit, and smack it back across the field. The simplicity of the idea appealed to him.