Читать книгу Angel of the Underground - David Andreas - Страница 9

CHAPTER II

Worried no one is eager to meet me, I ring the doorbell a second time. As I gear up to knock, a storm door opens. An old man in brown slacks and a blue checkered shirt glances outside. His eyes repeatedly blink as though he just woke up. When he finds me I pay him an apologetic smile.

The old man opens the screen door outward while saying, “Oh, good, you’re here! Come in out of that heat!” I step inside to the cool air, but Clara follows no closer than the second step. The old man says to her, “Would you like to come in for some lemonade?”

“Thanks, but no,” Clara replies, and hands him a manila envelope. “Call the numbers provided if you have any problems or questions about her.” Without saying so much as a goodbye or good luck to me, she walks away, adjusting her tight skirt. The old man closes both doors, shutting out everything I’m familiar with.

I set my suitcase down beside a sofa and clasp my hands over my stomach. My frenzied butterflies are disrupting my bladder. I don’t want to ruin the old man’s first impression of me by having to go to the bathroom, so I try to will the nerves down by taking deep breaths through my nose.

The old man smiles at me with perfectly white teeth, while his face crinkles upward toward a scalp full of brown spots. “Would you like a glass of lemonade?” he asks. “I’d hate to see it go to waste on a day like this.”

Running dry, I say, “I’d love some.”

“Great! Have a seat right over there and I’ll go get us some.” While he shuffles into a kitchen on bowed legs, I approach a wooden chair that’s resting near a green recliner. A small television tucked in a wooden entertainment center is showing a black-and-white documentary about a war. The volume is muted. On a shelf above the TV are an assortment of remote controls, framed pictures of strangers, and the receiver to a child’s monitor. The red light is glowing, but the speaker emits no sounds.

I sit on the edge of the chair facing a dining room. Beneath a frosted chandelier is a shiny oak table surrounded by five upholstered chairs. A matching hutch with glass doors is filled with china plates, crystal glasses, and wedding trinkets. A door at the far right of the room has a handwritten sign that reads, BEWARE!

The old man carries in a green plastic tray with a clear pitcher of iced lemonade on one side, and two stacked glasses on the other. His tongue worms out from his mouth as though leading the way. He places the tray on an end table while sliding back a lamp with a flowery shade. After separating the glasses, he lifts the pitcher with a considerable amount of strain and pours them both full. He hands me the first glass with a wobbly hand, and sits down in the recliner with the other glass. Upon landing, one of his hips pops and causes him to groan. He smiles through the pain, and when it’s clear he’s not injured I say, “This is a very nice house, sir.”

“Please, call me Nathan.” He toasts his glass to me and takes a delicate sip. I down three big swallows, which soothe my parched throat. Nathan watches me with gratification. “Looks like the weather has gotten to you.”

“Among other things.”

“Did you know we have a pool?”

Sister Alice had mentioned as much. She also brought up the two boys who were adopted into the family, and said their ages were close to mine. “Will the other kids mind sharing with me?”

He leans forward and sternly says, “If those two give you any problems, you come see me.”

I pat a hand over my crucifix charm to show him I’m protected and say, “I guarantee they won’t bring me down.”

Nathan laughs so abruptly his upper teeth shift off their brackets and project from his mouth. To pretend I don’t notice, I look over the wall décor, which mainly consists of a large painting of geese flying over a wooded stream at dawn. Strangely, there isn’t a single mark of religion anywhere. I don’t expect every house to live up to the group home’s standards, but most places I’ve visited at least have a cross here or there.

“You’re pretty secretive in your spiritual beliefs.”

Nathan bites his dentures back into place, hisses up drool, and says, “I’m afraid those days are long gone. We got rid of God years ago.” My stomach bursts into flames, incinerating my lemonade-coated butterflies. “I’m surprised no one told you.”

“A lot was left out in the rush.” I had assumed I would go from one Catholic house to another, but understood the importance of leaving an active crime scene regardless of anyone’s association with the Almighty. I loosen my grip on the lemonade glass, so I don’t end up with a handful of wet shards, and force a contented smile.

“You’ve nothing to worry about. We won’t get in the way of your practices, no matter how purposeless they may be.” Nathan reaches over to the end table for an orange pill box shaped like a seashell, and extracts a white capsule from inside. “As much as I hate to cut our conversation short, the doc’s got me on a tight schedule with these little ditties, and they tend to knock me out cold.” He takes the pill with his lemonade, rubs his larynx with an index finger to will the “ditty” down, and coarsely says, “Not that you wanted to keep an old man company all day.”

“Is the couple that found me home?”

“They’ll be back from work around seven.” He stands and pats my head. “Let me show you out back. The sooner you let those boys warm up to you the better.”

I put my glass down on the tray and follow Nathan into a kitchen that’s carpeted beneath a corner table but tiled everywhere else. He opens a wooden door that leads out to a garage, where gardening and lawn equipment are strewn near a back wall. A workbench is littered with tools, pipes, and multicolored wires. Two BMX bikes lie on the oil spotted concrete.

A screened storm door on our right leads to the backyard, where I can hear the sounds of a baseball slapping into separate gloves. I think to get mine, but don’t want to make Nathan wait on my account. Not with his tight schedule and all.

I step outside onto a concrete patio that holds a picnic table, matching benches, and a charcoal grill. To my far right is an above ground pool coupled with an unpainted wooden deck. The surrounding lawn has more crabgrass than regular grass, widespread brown patches, and a ton of anthills. Further back, beyond a long two-post fence, the boys are throwing a baseball back and forth. One boy stands in front of a wire-enclosed garden, the other a homemade swing set where four wooden benches hang on heavy chains.

I march through the damp heat, passing a white aluminum shed with crooked green doors, and make eye contact with the boy in front of the garden. He’s bony and has dark circles beneath his eyes. I smile at him, but he rolls his eyes away and seems to snarl. I alter my direction toward the other boy, who looks slightly older and has a fuller figure. After catching a fastball that pops into his glove, he notices me and offers a thin smile, though his eyes remain cheerless. I can’t tell if he’s nervous to meet me or agitated that I’m interrupting them, but when I stop at the fence he says in a friendly tone, “Robin, right?”

“That’s me,” I reply. “Sorry, but I forgot your names.”

“I’m Dennis. That’s Jeremy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jeremy says, “now go back inside and fuck yourself! This isn’t a good month to be seen with any of you zealots from that death trap!”

Though I’ve had plenty of practice in school dealing with kids not wanting anything to do with me, thanks to my religious background and outdated dresses, Jeremy’s words and their heated tone anger me to the core. The Granthams are supposed to offer compassionate safety, not mindless banter from bullies.

Dennis taps his mitt on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to a word he says. He doesn’t like anybody who isn’t him.”

“I brought my own glove,” I say. “Can I play?”

“Are you any good?”

I hold out my hand for the ball. Dennis drops it into my palm. I crawl through the fence posts and, after a quick windup, throw heat at Jeremy. In trying too hard to show off my speed, the ball sinks and hits the dirt. Jeremy could have taken a step forward to keep me from looking like a fool, but he lets the ball skip past him and roll against the garden. He issues a demeaning snort and says, “Who taught you how to throw? An altar boy with a sore bunghole?”

“Her velocity’s up there,” Dennis says.

“Big deal! She could have queefed with better location.”

Nobody on ESPN ever used such a term to describe a pitch, but since it came from Jeremy, I figure it’s best to ignore what he means.

Dennis steps in front of me, as if to purposely block my view of his adoptive brother. “Did you see your room yet? Barry made me paint it. Not that I minded.”

“Not yet,” I reply.

He takes off his glove, looks back at Jeremy who’s facing us in a pitching stance, and tells him, “I’m showing her to her room. If that ball comes near us, you’ll eat it.”

Jeremy readjusts himself and darts the ball directly into the garden, snapping a wooden post that had been supporting green tomatoes. Unfazed, Dennis heads toward the house as though he’s seen this type of behavior before.

I follow Dennis through the kitchen and into the dining room, where my suitcase is leaning against the door with the warning sign. Nathan, who’s snoring in his chair, must have placed it there before conking out. Though I was expecting Dennis to show me to a room upstairs, once he opens the door and flips on a light switch, I curiously follow him down a flight of twelve wooden steps. At the bottom is a finished basement where circular lights are embedded in a ceiling of sheet rock. The floor has light blue carpeting, the walls are paneled, and the odor is a blend of fresh paint, stale air, and mildew.

Across the hall from two closed doors is an open room that Dennis presents to me with open hands. I peek inside with gratification. The area is small but perfectly suitable for a short stay. The furnishings are white, the walls pink, and the carpet matches the hallway. There’s nothing in the way of décor, but I don’t mind because I don’t plan on staying long enough to embellish the space.

“If you need anything,” Dennis says, “I’m not far.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “The paint looks great, by the way.” He turns red while going to his room.

I set my suitcase on the bed and retrieve my crucifix; a foot long, wooden cross that supports a silver Jesus. I kneel before a rectangular window that has no curtain, and recite three “Our Fathers” for the orphans who perished and would no longer face new experiences, no matter how uncomfortable or uncertain they might be.

While putting away what little clothes I have in a closet with a mirrored inner door, I find a blue bikini hanging on a plastic hanger with the price tag still attached. I hold it up to myself while facing my reflection, and though I’m not sure if I could ever wear something so skimpy in front of two boys, I’m happy to have been given a welcome present. Any calm I feel is cut short when someone pounds on my door in rapid succession, causing my heart to leap into my throat. I spin around and find Jeremy showing me his middle fingers. “I heard you prissy religious freaks like Slayer,” he says. “Well, today’s your lucky day!”

After he slams his bedroom door shut, a radio goes on full blast. What he plays sounds like an orchestration from Hell. The fury of squealing guitars and rapid drumbeats are only outmatched by a despondent singer who ultimately shouts, “GOD HATES US ALL!” I close my door, which cuts out everything but the pummeling bass.

With nobody familiar to keep me company, and exhausted from hardly sleeping last night, I lie on the bed and try taking a nap. Between the sun reflecting off the window’s white lacquer surface, and a mind that won’t stop reminding me that the killer has not been apprehended, I can’t come close to falling under. To pass time, I read through my Bible for stories of patience, of which there are plenty. Abraham was made to wait years before God would grant him a promised child; Joseph waited a lengthy amount of time for God to make him leader of his people; and Simeon was not allowed to die until he witnessed the birth of the Messiah. By comparison, catching the murderer is something I shouldn’t expect the police to do anytime soon.

Around six o’clock, a loud knock sounds on my door. Before I can invite anyone in, Barry opens it up and leans inside. He’s wearing black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a navy blue vest with a King Kullen name tag. In a voice loud enough to compete with Jeremy’s still-blaring music he says, “If this noise becomes a problem, you let me know!”

As irritating as I find Jeremy’s musical taste, I don’t want to get him in trouble, so I tilt my head toward a shrugging shoulder and say, “I’ll be all right.”

“You like pizza?”

“I do.”

“Then come on up. We got pepperoni!” Barry pushes himself off the door frame and excitedly hurries away. I hope for his sake he slows down before reaching the stairs, as it’s well known people his size are destined for early heart attacks.

In the dining room, Nathan is siting at one head of the table and staring groggily at a glass of lemonade. When he notices me, he pulls out the seat closest to himself and pats the cushion. I sit next to him and ask, “How was your nap?”

“I had the most wonderful dream,” he replies, inspecting his wrinkled hands. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I haven’t felt that young in years.” When I motion to ask what he means, Barry carries in two pizza boxes from the kitchen. Lori follows with a stack of plates and napkins. When she catches me looking at her, her lips stretch into an artificial smile and her eyes dart away.

Barry sets the boxes down, opens the top one, and starts digging out a slice with his bare fingers. My stomach sours. Sister Alice always uses a spatula, even after she washes her hands. Barry drops the slice onto a plate and slides it down to me. I guide it to Nathan, since the patriarch deserves to eat first. Nathan leans in toward me and says, “Should the doctor ask, this never happened.” He pays me a wink, so I pay him one back.

Barry passes another plate to me, licks sauce off two of his fingers, and pries out a slice for Lori. Her curled upper lip suggests she has no intentions of eating anything violated by her own husband’s spit. After piling up three slices on his plate, Barry sits next to me with his legs so far apart his left knee presses against my right thigh. “Mangia!” he says.

Before anyone can take their first bite, I couple my hands in prayer, bow my head, and say aloud, “Bless us O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

I look up to six bewildered eyes. Nobody says anything, which makes me wonder if I’ve offended them by speaking of things Nathan referred to as purposeless. In the midst of their overlong silence, Nathan finally says, “Eat up,” which eases some discomfort.

Barry folds his slice down the middle and bites off half. He chews like the Brahman bull I once saw eating hay at the Bald Hill Fair. I pick up my slice and nibble on the tip. I have a knack for getting sauce on my shirts, and don’t want to look like a slob during our first gathering. Luckily, Barry starts talking to me, which takes away the pressure from having to eat. “The nun mentioned you two are baseball fans,” he says.

“We sure are,” I reply.

“If you play your cards right, I’ll let you watch the game with me after dinner.”

“That sounds great. They’re playing the Marlins and their ace is starting.”

Barry laughs so hard he has to spit out a soggy wad of dough to catch his breath. Lori looks away in disgust. “Why in the world would I want to watch those losers? Around here, young lady, we follow the Yankees.”

I swallow hard to keep the pizza bite from running back up my throat. Sister Alice and I have spent the bulk of the past three summers watching baseball, but our favorite team is the Mets. She made it perfectly clear that the Yankees organization is in league with Lucifer to have been permitted so much steroid and salary abuse throughout the past few decades. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit run down. I’d like to call Sister Alice, and then see about going to bed.”

Lori snickers. Barry turns red while his head descends into his chins. I’ve obviously hurt his feelings for refusing his invitation in front of others, but I feel worse realizing the Mets pregame show is about to begin. Sister Alice and I would be putting the kids in their pajamas and reading them their bedtime stories. Afterward, we’d make popcorn and chocolate milk and settle in just in time for the first pitch.

When dinner comes to a close, I excuse myself into the kitchen and call the group home from a wall phone near the fridge. It’s been too long since I’ve heard Sister Alice’s voice, but I’ll have to wait longer as I’m met with our answering machine. I’d like to think she’s watching the Mets with the volume too high, but I’m afraid she’s sitting by herself after another joyless day, wondering what she did wrong, and how all this could have happened when her pieties should have kept the devil out of our sanctuary. To hopefully lessen her pains, I leave a quick message letting her know I’m doing okay and I’m thinking about her.

I head downstairs with the intention of sleeping out the rest of the day, even though it’s barely nine o’clock, but I haven’t been alone in darkness since the children were taken. Sister Alice let us bunk in her room at night, and visiting patrons from our church community were always around during the day. With nobody here to distract me from the pain, I cry harder than I have since the first child was claimed. When a gentle knock sounds on my door, I wipe away tears and tell whomever it is to come in. The door opens a crack, letting in a beam of hallway light. “Were you sleeping?” Dennis asks.

“Not even close,” I reply.

“Do you like horror movies?”

“Does Casper count?”

“If you’re in Huggies. I’m putting one on for you if you’re up for it.” In need of a diversion, and eager to make friends of strangers, I swing my feet off the bed, hop up, and follow Dennis to his room. I abruptly stop in his doorway when noticing his decorations with quiet repulsion. The walls are cloaked with posters and magazine pages of horror movie villains and victims. Toys of madmen and monsters stand on anything with a flat surface. Five shelving units hold dozens of movies, all of which have titles that insinuate death and torment. Plus, there’s no place for me to sit. Jeremy has the bed, Dennis claims a soft computer chair, and the floor is covered with dirty clothes.

Jeremy, outstretching his arms and legs to take up every inch of the mattress, says to me, “Take your holy ass to the carpet!” Dennis moves aside a pile of clothes with his foot, revealing a circular patch of carpeting.

I sit on my knees and say, “What are we watching?”

“Considering what you’ve been through,” Dennis replies, “I’ll start you off with something tame.” He hands me the DVD box for Child’s Play 2, where a living doll is holding a gigantic pair of scissors over the spring neck of a frightened jack-in-the-box. Though I’m in no mood to view anything immoral, I don’t want to turn him down and appear as though I don’t appreciate his offer, so I prepare myself for another new experience and sit Indian style against the foot of the bed.

At the beginning of Child’s Play 2, a boy named Andy is taken in by a couple that cares for foster kids. Not long in, Chucky, a three-foot doll possessed by the spirit of a serial killer, hunts Andy down for whatever they squabbled over in the first film. Unfortunately, nobody believes that a doll could cause so many problems, so Andy is left to fend for himself. I feel relief that my first day in a new home is going better than Andy’s.

Though I’m not accustomed to R-rated movies, Child’s Play 2 does offer warnings of violent mayhem, mainly through changes in music, which allow me to cover my eyes. Between the slits in my fingers I catch glimpses of an electrocution, a suffocation, and Chucky beating a school teacher to death with a yardstick. I make a sign of the cross after each murder, even though I can easily tell each death is staged. People don’t get blown through windows because of small doses of electricity, a doll could never muster enough strength to suffocate anyone with a plastic bag, and no yardstick I ever held could pulverize a human without breaking.

Dennis and Jeremy don’t seem to care about the implausibilities. They laugh during the murders and find amusement in watching people die. Jeremy, taking disrespect of the victims further, taunts the characters in their agony. He even cries out in rage during the finale, when Andy gets the best of Chucky by blowing him up.

When the film ends, I sit up on my knees, which brings relief to my stinging feet, and lean sideways against the bed. “That wasn’t exactly scary,” I say.

“The first one was,” Dennis replies, “but there’s only so much tension you can wring out of plastic.”

“Are there others? Seems a stretch to think Chucky could come back without a head.”

“Only one way to find out. Are you up for Part Three?” Though watching humans die before their time doesn’t thrill me, I’d rather deal with a killer doll than the cold darkness of my unfamiliar room.

When the boys call it a night, I have no choice but to go to bed and face my feelings alone. Whenever thoughts of death creep into my mind, I overshadow them with lighter memories of the deceased, such as the time Brian yelled at a chair because he dropped his toy when bumping into it; or the time Kim came home from preschool covered in paint because she preferred her shirt to canvas; or the time Chris insisted on dressing himself and came out of his room with his bumblebee underwear outside his pants. I can’t say these thoughts make me happy, but they somehow lessen the horror of their deaths and allow exhaustion to catch up to me.