Thing Bailiwick Page 5

  “Hounds,” the boy beside him answered.

  The old man nodded. “Si si, señor.”

  In the distance, a hound howled, a lonely cry that cut through the chilly gray day.

  He looked a sky the color of slate and adjusted the blanket, pulling it tighter about his shoulders. “The sun veils its beauty with clouds this day,” he said, looking back to the crows that were drilling him with beady black eyes. “There are many who think it is wise to veil beauty. The sun can blind if one looks with eyes too wide…as can beauty,” he said, looking to Cowboy who had picked up his hat and was inspecting it for ants. “I did once take a wife named Suravi. This means sun in English. My Sun did not think it wise to veil beauty. Does muster of peacocks hide feathers, she asked. Does exultation of larks keep songs hid inside? Does rabble of butterflies hide velvet wings?”

  “I once saw a butterfly sitting on a pile of dogshit,” the Tearman sneered.

  He nodded as he stroked his white beard. “Two objects in stark contrast. Tell me, smart one,” he directed to the boy beside him, “what word best describes a butterfly sitting on a pile of dogshit?”

  “Oh, oh!” The Tearman threw up a hand as if asking for permission. “Gross,” he answered, and then snickered.

  The boy furrowed his brow as he searched for the answer.

  “Two contrasting objects in juxt the right position to be shocking,” the teacher hinted.

  “Oh,” the boy blurted, “a juxtaposition.”

  “Excellent. Now spread your wings.”

  “Aww, how sweet,” Tearman crooned. “You hear that, Mireles? The teacher says you’re a butterfly.”

  The boy frowned. “Yeah, sitting on a pile of dogshit.”

  “Leap for the stars and bask in the warmth of true sunshine. A group of leopards is a leap. A group of crocodiles, a bask,” he informed. “They have tears like him.” He nodded to the hooded Tearman who had turned to watch Cowboy approaching. “I shiver to think of such tears. It makes my skin prickle.” He rubbed his arms beneath the blanket. “A group of sharks is called a shiver. A group of porcupines is called a…” He looked to the boy for the answer.

  The young boy thought for a few seconds. “Prickle?”

  The old man nodded.

  “Si si, señor,” they spoke in unison.

  “Hurry up and cut this bitch!” Cowboy huffed as he tromped back, his face inflamed. He plopped his hat back on his head. It was bent horribly out of shape.

  “I did once own a bitch named Nisha,” the old man recalled. “She was black as night and good company when the days were long. But…she gave chase to a squirrel and never returned. I looked for her every day, hoping she might come home, but she never did.”

  “That’s because she’s dead,” Muscleman sneered. “Just like you, old man.”

  “Hmmm. A group of squirrels is called a dray. A group of dogs is called a pack. So is a group of squirrelly rats,” he said, grinning up at the three men who had crowded close.

  “You hear that shit, José?” Cowboy whined. “Stick this prick!”

  Leaning close, the boy lifted the tip of the blade to the corner of the old man’s eye. “I’m tired of your little game, old man.”

  He turned away from the blade and shook his head. “No way, José. You will not shed a painted tear for me this day.”

  His three comrades whooped. “Ooooo,” they howled, “Gandhi says you’re chicken, José! Maybe he knows you!”

  “Shut up, weasels! He don’t know me! He don’t know shit!” The boy’s voice was shaking. So was the knife in his hand.

  Muscleman thrust out his chest. “Then prove it! Spill blood to be blood. Make your brothers proud.”

  “Hmm. Pride. What group is called a pride, José?”

  The boy’s lips were pressed thin as the edge of his blade. Despite the chilly morning, moisture was beading on his brow. “Lions!” he spat.

  “Very good. Pride is fine if kept here,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “But if it moves here,” he said, pointing to his forehead, “it can crowd out sense.”

  “Do it or I will!” Muscleman sneered.

  The old man looked to a sky the color of slate. “Do you see the many vultures that circle overhead?” he asked the boy. “That is called a kettle. My Sun owned a kettle. It was very big, very fine for lentil soup. Lentil soup is quite tasty with curry leaves and garlic. Association is a good learning tool, but…you know this, don’t you, José?” He nodded and folded his hands in his lap, looking past the men to the pond and the trees beyond. “For sixty years she stirred lentil soup in her kettle, stirring round and round, round and round…like vultures fly.”

  “The vultures must smell death,” Muscleman hissed. “And looky here, old man, a rattlesnake.” Striking swiftly, his arm shot out to puncture the old man’s throat with a tiny blade.

  The boy gasped.

  They heard them before they saw them, an angry buzzing that escalated as the dark cloud descended. The men stumbled backward and turned to run. They didn’t get far.

  The boy sat frozen as the churning storm of bees enveloped his fleeing friends. He watched them stumble around in circles, swatting like lunatics and shrilling like girls.

  “Swarm,” the old man sighed.

  The boy turned to the old man. His hands were still folded neatly in his lap, but blood had stained his white beard and was flowing down the front of the blanket.

  The crows cawed in unison and took to flight, making a beeline toward the three men. Their swatting became more frantic, and then they were gone, lost in a black sea of flapping fury. The caws of the crows were deafening, drowning out the screeching men.

  A lone figure crawled from the bowels of bedlam. His face was bloody. It was Cowboy. His hat was gone. So were his eyes.

  The boy shot to his feet, his arms hanging limp as he watched his comrade struggle to his feet and commence to lurch blindly forward, his arms outstretched before him.

  The cawing cloud cleared, the crows taking to the treetops. Tearman was screaming, writhing on his back, clutching at his face. He no longer wore sunglasses. He no longer needed them. Muscleman lie face down, his tattooed arms thrown over his head. But his bulging muscles had done nothing to save his eyes.

  With the clearing of the crows, both men staggered to their feet to join Cowboy in stumbling aimlessly in circles.

  Slowly, the dazed boy took his seat again. “See how they run,” he whispered.

  “It is too late for the three blind mice,” the old man said, motioning to the three staggering stooges. “Not too late for you, mi amigo. I am willing to close my eyes if it means that yours will open.”

  He swayed slightly, listing left, before righting himself. “A group of buzzards is called a wake. Are you awake?” he asked, giving him a sideways glance.

  He sighed and pulled the blanket tighter, not seeming to notice the blood that stained his hands. “I have been to many wakes, three my own daughters, two my sons, one…my Sun. But I will not brood…as chickens. I do not ask for pitying…as doves. Cast eyes to the sky…as falcons. Hear the exultation of larks. We all must lie in our bed of oysters.”

  “No way, José,” the boy moaned as a pride of lions bounded from the woods. Streaking past, they pounced on Cowboy, throwing him to the ground and cutting his cries short.

  Still screeching, Tearman went barreling blindly into the pond. The water tripped him up and he fell to flounder on his belly. The surface erupted as a crocodile shot from the dark depths, a huge beast, its jaws gaping. It snatched him by the head, pulling him to deeper waters where it began to roll. Other crocodiles moved in and thrashing ensued as the bask battled over the meager meal. One swam away with a stolen snack. It was an arm.

  Cowboy was being consumed as well. The pride had settled in a circle about him and were feasting from his belly.

  Muscleman began to howl. He was pivoting in a circle, his arms outstretched, his face bloodied. He was surrounded by coiled snakes. One struck
at his leg and he kicked it away with a howl of pain. He dropped to his knees, and another snake struck, its fangs sinking into his arm.

  “Rattlesnake,” the old man spoke.

  The boy nodded numbly. “Nest.”

  “Yes. Also rhumba.”

  “Rhumba,” the boy repeated.

  “Do you know what is called a group of jellyfish?”

  The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head weakly.

  “A smack.”

  The blow snapped the boy’s head around and rocked him backward, the connecting of palm to cheek ringing loud in his ears.

  “What’s wrong with you, Mireles?” Muscleman growled. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”

  The boy looked to the three men who stood before him; Carlos in his cowboy hat, Ramon in his sunglasses, Raz in his silly undershirt. Their faces were not bloody and their sockets still held eyeballs, and all looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. He brought his hand down from his cheek, his eyes darting around the clearing to the pond and the bordering trees. No pride, no bask, no rhumba. No problemo.

  The crows cawed their raucous call and blue-black wings flapped in unison as they took off to roost high in the bare treetops. In the distance, a hound howled.

  The boy looked at the knife in Raz’s hand. It was smeared with blood. He looked to the old man who had collapsed back against the bench. He studied the wrinkled face—the dark brown skin, the snow-white brows, the ancient eyes now glazed and empty—really seeing him for the first time. He was a great man, the greatest man he had ever known. “Teacher?”

  He knew there would be no answer. Still, he thought he heard a soft hum drifting in on the chilly breeze.

  “I’m awake, Teacher.”

  “Come on, Mireles!” Ramon urged. “Leave the piece of shit!”

  “Go away,” he whispered, then repeated it when they only stood gaping. Finally, he screamed it at the top of his lungs. The crows scattered from the treetops as he screamed it again and again.

  And so the three blind mice turned tail, scampering down the trail and out of sight.

  The boy screamed at them long after they were gone. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, until his breaths were coming in choked gasps. He beat at his thighs with balled fists, and wept until he was weak and trembling and could weep no more.

  Standing on numb legs, he gazed upon the frail, crumpled form. “Mine are open now, Teacher,” he whispered, and, reaching out, gently closed his lids.

  Throwing his arms wide and his head back, he looked to a sky the color of slate.

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  Curveballs

  (Thing in the Closet)

  “I’s real glad to hear you found your ballsac, James.”

  James returned his teacup to the matching saucer with a clinking clatter. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, I’s real sad to hear bout that dog attack. I knows you an your nanna was close.”

  James moved aside his cup and saucer as she slid the plate of cookies in front of him. “Oh, why, thank you, Mama Johnson. You’re very kind.”

  He watched her as she shuffled back to the stove. She was wearing a white apron over her housedress. She’d been baking. Her sweater was yellow. It matched her house slippers.

  His eyes wandered about the room, taking in the familiar flowered wallpaper, the linoleum floor peeling up around the edges, the sheer curtains over the sink lifting in the breeze of the small oscillating heater, the mahogany china cabinet, its shelves stacked with fine china and delicate teacups. The table he sat at matched the cabinet. It held a centerpiece—a glass vase with a bouquet of flowers. They were beautiful, but they were also plastic. Even so, they had fresh water. Though it was only himself and Mama Johnson this fine afternoon, the table was set for four. It always was. One never knew when company might show up unannounced.

  He looked down to the plate she’d set before him. It held three cookies. Picking one up, he took a generous bite and chewed gingerly, rolling the buttery taste around on his tongue. Oatmeal. Delicious. They always were.

  As on every visit, his eyes drifted to the far window in the living room, the window he’d been peeping in the first time he’d laid eyes on Mama Johnson. And, as usual, his mind drifted as well, back to that night ten years in the past, a night that seemed like yesterday…

  “Uh huh, she in there,” he whispered, his breath sending out a cloud of mist where he was crouched in the bushes. He resisted the urge to wipe away the icy frost from the glass. Though he probably could. Could probably squeegee every window in the dump and she wouldn’t notice. Could probably whistle a tune while he was doin’ it, too, and she wouldn’t hear shit. Still, you couldn’t be too careful. Not in this here game. He could see what he had to see, anyways. And right through them curtains too. What kind of shithead put up thin-ass curtains you could see right through?

  Beside him, Tyrone grunted and tugged at his black skullcap, yanking it down even further over his ears. James thought about reminding the fool that Mama Johnson was about a hundred years old. Probably had cataracts thick as bricks. If they stood in front of the window doin’ jumpin’ jacks, she probably wouldn’t see.

  A big-ass red flower caught his eye. It was poking out the bush they was hiding behind, right beside Tyrone’s head. It was plastic. Just one of hundreds. Shit, thousands. They was everywhere—scattered in the bushes, shoved in the ground along the walk, around every tree; red, blue, yellow, white, pink, purple, every color, every kind. There was even fake shit up in the trees. Way up in the highest branches, too. He pictured ole Mama Johnson shimmying up in the dead of night, her skinny-ass thighs hugging the tree trunk and plastic flowers clenched between her gums.

  A shiver passed through him. It was cold as all out shit.

  She wasn’t climbing no trees this night, noways. She was in an old rocker and giving the thing a good workout too. Back and forth, back and forth, her feet coming off the floor like a little kid. Not like an old granny should, nice and proper-like. If she wasn’t careful, she would go right on over backwards, and it would serve her right too, the old fool.

  And she was busy with something in her lap—a ball of yarn and two long needles. Knitting shit. Maybe she wasn’t shimmying up no trees, but she was a busy little crone all the same.

  He scratched at his chin, wondering what the hell a crone was.

  He ducked lower when her head popped up. But she was looking at the television. Somethin’ done got her attention enough to stop her crazy rocking. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes popped wide, and she threw back her head, howling at the ceiling and slapping at a knee.

  James squinted at the television. It was a big mother. Big and old, all wood with legs and shit. An antique, like everything else in the dump. Probably weighed three hundred damn pounds. Even through the fogged glass, he could see there wasn’t nothin’ on that screen to laugh at. Shit, there wasn’t nothin’ there at all. Nothin’ but snow and a few squiggly-ass lines.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, ducking his head below the sill. “I still say we’s wastin’ our time,” he muttered, rubbing his hands briskly on his thighs. “This crazy old bat ain’t got nothin’ worth shit!”

  “You shittin’ me, man!” Tyrone whined, his breath sending out a cloud. “This crazy bitch probly gots fifty G’s stashed under her fuckin’ mattress. You seen that dope watch she wears? Them’s real diamonds, homey!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He hadn’t seen the watch. Not with his own eyes, noways. But he’d heard about it. An old granny didn’t have no use for no watch like that. And if she was fool enough to go wearin’ it out where anyone could see, then she was asking to get her dumb dome depredated. This was the hood, not fucking Beverly Hills. And what the fuck was depredated?

  He ran a hand under his nose and sniffled. “Let’s do this shit then, before I freeze my fuckin’ ass off.”

  With one last glance toward the street, he popped through the bushes to rap lightly on the door, then slid a hand
into his jacket pocket to stroke the cold metal of the small thirty-eight. It felt good tucked away there. Right at home. Yeah, it was small, but it packed a punch. Not that he would need it though. This here game was a guaranteed shutout. Ole Mama Johnson lived alone and her neighbors was just as ancient as she was. Probably all sawing logs before the sun went down. Old farts probably wouldn’t hear nothin’ if he stood by their heads and sang the fucking Star-Spangled Banner in their hearing aids. Hell, he could probably play it on a big-ass trumpet. Still, one had to be careful. Even if she was a hundred years old, Mama Johnson still had the home advantage. She might have a swing or two left in her. Them big-ass knitting needles looked like they could do some mortal damage.

  His brow furrowed. Mortal damage? They looked like they could take out a fucking eyeball, was what he meant.

  He glanced over to Tyrone who was shifting from side to side, looking ready to bust his seams. “Chill, man,” he grumbled under his breath.

  “Fuck you, nigger,” Tyrone snapped as he ducked, swatting at a moth, just one of many flitting around the yellow lightbulb above their heads.

  James caught sight of one about the size of a small bird clinging to the porch ceiling in the far right corner, its wings spread wide. “Fucking behemoth,” he mumbled to himself, and was immediately confused by his own words.