The Alex Crow

“Yes,” Max said, “when I was thirteen. For fat camp.”

  “It looks like it worked out pretty good for you. What are you? Like a buck-ten, if that?” Larry said.

  Max exhaled through his nose. “Look, I have never been fat. My parents just wanted to get rid of me for a month or so, and I weigh a hundred and five, besides. The only reason I ever came here is ’cause my folks don’t have to pay for this shithole.”

  “Neither do mine,” Cobie Petersen said, raising his hand. And Cobie added, “I weigh one twenty-two, by the way, if we’re swapping personal statistics.”

  It was obvious to me that Cobie Petersen was unlike the other addicted boys at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys. Maybe, I thought, his parents worked at Alex Division or the Merrie-Seymour Research Group. I also had a feeling that if I was ever going to make a friend here—or anywhere—or actually start talking to someone, maybe I could talk to Cobie Petersen.

  And Larry went on, “Well, I don’t remember ever seeing you at fat camp.”

  I didn’t imagine Larry remembered much of anything from one session to the next at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys.

  Max said, “I was in Venus. The last year that cabin was used.”

  “You were one of the kids who got beat up all the time?” Larry said.

  “Whatever.”

  Cobie Petersen stretched out his leg and kicked Robin Sexton.

  “Hey, kid.” Cobie made his familiar take-that-shit-out-of-your-ears gesture to Robin.

  Robin Sexton looked worried. The last time Cobie wanted to engage in conversation with him didn’t go so well. Robin Sexton pulled out his plugs and said, “What do you want?”

  “How much do your parents pay to keep you in this place?”

  Robin said, “Five thousand dollars,” and put the toilet paper wads back in his ears.

  Cobie kicked the kid again.

  “I’m not through talking to you. How much do you weigh?”

  I was very grateful that Robin Sexton did not answer Cobie Petersen’s question, because I didn’t remember how much I weighed in American pounds, and I didn’t want to talk about it, besides. They weighed me one time at William E. Shuck High School, in my physical education class, which turned out to be something very cruel and barbaric that involved daily nudity and name-calling, kind of like a state-sponsored ongoing performance of Lord of the Flies. If pressed, I would just say I weighed whatever Max said—one hundred five. Max and I were identical in size anyway, which was just another reason Max disliked me—sometimes Mom would switch our socks and underwear when they came out of the laundry.

  Nobody likes having his socks and underwear swapped out for some other guy’s.

  Then Larry said, “All right, Teacher’s Pet, stop trying to change the subject. It’s your turn to tell a scary story.”

  Cobie raised his hand and asked, “Am I the official Teacher’s Pet of Jupiter, Larry?”

  Larry tossed two logs into the fire. “Sure. If that’s what you want to be. Teacher’s Pet. Now, do you have anything to tell us?”

  “I do,” Cobie said. “And this is a true story, too—like Max’s was. Not like your steaming mound of shit.”

  Larry said, “You want to take a walk over to Earth with me right now? Just us four, and maybe we’ll drag along Earbuds, too? We’ll see how many of us make it back.”

  “Just tell the story,” Max said.

  And Cobie Petersen said this: “Okay. Here goes: I have seen the Dumpling Man. He is real.”

  And in the same way that anyone who lived near Sunday, West Virginia, would know where South Fork Route went, we had also all heard the stories about the Dumpling Man.

  Here’s what I’d learned since coming to Sunday: Dumpling Run was the name of a creek that spilled down the mountains in a series of falls that created scattered deep pools where the local kids would fish and swim in summertime. Along either side of the creek were homes spaced apart from one another on large acreage covered with old-growth forests.

  And every home up Dumpling Run was owned by a family whose last name was either Peterson or Petersen. I might add, too, that the people who live up and down the banks of the creek known as Dumpling Run—families of Petersons and Petersens—pronounce the word Dumplin, unwavering in their conviction that the inclusion of the nasal G is a certain indication the speaker is either Canadian or homosexual.

  Everyone in Sunday knew the immortal gossip regarding the origin of those family names, too, but they were all unclear as to whether the original had been changed from “son” to “sen,” or the other way around, in order to legitimize what would otherwise have been an illegal marriage between half siblings or first cousins.

  Uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, and so on—it all gets a bit muddy when trying to figure out exactly who is related, and by what degree, as you go house to house visiting the Petersons and Petersens of Dumpling Run.

  But for as long as Max and I had been alive (the majority of which time we had spent on opposite sides of the planet), people from Dumpling Run and the occasional fisherman or hunter kept rekindling the frightening tale of the pale and monstrous creature who lived in the woods outside the town of Sunday, West Virginia: the Dumpling Man.

  So Cobie Petersen explained to Larry, our counselor, what the Dumpling Man was, and he threw in passing references to the killing of Tate Peterson’s prize sow and the mysterious disappearance of a four-year-old boy named Cleon Petersen, a cousin of Cobie’s whom nobody around Sunday—Cobie included—could actually verify ever having been acquainted with.

  “Those are all just crock-of-shit Bigfoot-Sasquatch stories cooked up by moonshiners to keep people out of the woods,” Larry said.

  I heard the word again.

  It was beginning to make sense now.

  “Maybe,” Cobie Petersen said. “But I know what I know. And I saw the fucker, just as plain as I’m looking at you right now.”

  Max’s jaw hung open slightly. He looked like he was about to drool. But an actual, firsthand sighting of the Dumpling Man was enough to terrify any kid who lived in Sunday.

  “When did this supposedly happen?” Larry asked.

  “It happened last fall. And it wasn’t supposedly, Larry. I was hunting coons,” Cobie began, “and I was alone except for my dog, Ezra. It was about one in the morning, I guess.”

  Let me say here, too, that not only was Sunday a kind of spiritual center for people who loved sauerkraut and firearms, nearly all the boys of a certain age hunted and killed things like deer, squirrels, rabbits, porcupines, bears, and raccoons—they called them coons—which were something like bloated and angry stripe-tailed rats that would eat just about anything. Usually, boys would start hunting on their own around age thirteen or fourteen. The coons were hunted for their fur, but also for food, something involving a great deal of preparation, including removal of the scent glands from the animal’s legs, and then brining the meat overnight to reduce the coon’s natural and pungent odors.

  And coon hunting only takes place at night, since the raccoon is a nocturnal animal. It was very convenient to the families in that part of West Virginia, too, because a boy could be out all night hunting coons to provide for his family, and still make it home in time to get to school.

  As strange as Jake and Natalie Burgess were, it was a great relief for me to know that our parents never encouraged Max and me—alone or as a brotherly team—to hunt coons for our supper, unlike the other boys who lived in the hills around Sunday.

  Max tapped Robin Sexton’s shoulder. “Hey? You ever hear of the Dumpling Man in Hershey, Pennsylvania?”

  Robin, who apparently could hear just fine, shook his head and said, “No. My daddy works in the chocolate offices, and I weigh ninety-four.”

  Cobie fired a dirty look at Robin Sexton, and continued, “That night, Ezra got on to a strong scent and took off splashing and yelping across
Dumpling Run and up through the trees on the other side. I couldn’t see where my dog was heading; could only hear his barking and tramping through the brush, but I ran after him and tried to stay up as close as I could, which put me pretty far back considering the number of legs Ezra has to run on, compared to the number of legs I’ve got.

  “Well, maybe a mile on the other side of Dumpling Run, Ezra held up at the bottom of a big chestnut oak, which meant he’d treed the coon we were after. It was terribly quiet and dark that night. There was no moon, so it was hard to see, but when I looked up in the branches of the chestnut oak, I saw something I will never forget as long as I live.”

  “The Dumpling Man?” Max asked.

  Cobie Petersen nodded slowly, the way a doctor would do when he’s telling you that you’ve only got two weeks left to live. “At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. I thought, if this is a coon, then it’s the biggest coon in the history of coon hunting. And even in the dark I could see the color was off—not the color of a regular coon hide. This thing looked more like the color of fresh boiled peanuts, all pale and golden.

  “So I’m not going to lie, I was terrified, thinking that maybe me and Ezra had treed a mountain lion, and I was about to get my neck broke. I was shaking so bad I could barely hold on to my rifle, and my knees were knocking together. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a flashlight, so I could see what I was aiming at up in the tree, and all the while Ezra was howling like he was going to lose his mind. So in all the panic—the crazy yelping of my dog, my shaking fear—I was certain we were both about to die. Even though I was right underneath the thing in the tree, I was trembling so bad I knew I wasn’t going to be able to shoot him. And then—flash!—I turned my light onto the thing. And there I saw it—the Dumpling Man himself.”

  Like an expert storyteller, Cobie Petersen stopped at this point so we could all imagine how the situation developed.

  “What did he look like?” Max said.

  Cobie Petersen shook his head again. “Like nothing I’d ever seen. My light caught his eyes. They were as big around as half-dollars, the color of dried pine sap, and sunk deep in his face. The Dumpling Man stared at me, and his teeth were showing like he was trying to make one of those guilty-dog smiles where your dog knows he did something bad, but it looked more like a painful expression to me. And he was crouched down on the branch, the way a bird would perch, so I can’t say for certain how tall he was. But I saw he had hands like a person’s, except his fingers all had long black claws, like a bear’s, and he was all covered with fine golden fur—but it wasn’t so much fur as hair, because I could plainly see the pinkness of his skin under it—and on the top of his head, there were two horns that curled back, just like a billy goat’s—or, depending on how you see things—just like Satan’s himself.”

  Max, caught up in the story of the Dumpling Man, inhaled deeply and said, “What happened after you put the light on him?”

  “Well, I decided I was going to shoot him. I knew I was standing there, face-to-face with this terrible monster, the Dumpling Man, and I thought people would be so grateful if I could bring him down once and for all.”

  Max, who’d never really demonstrated to me that he had much of a conscience, said, “Wouldn’t killing the Dumpling Man be murder? I mean, the Dumpling Man is a man, right?”

  Cobie looked disappointed. “If you mean, was he a male, well, his balls were hanging about seven feet above my head. But the Dumpling Man isn’t a man. He’s a monster, straight from the depths of hell, and I didn’t give a moment of doubt to killing him after I saw those eyes, his teeth and claws, and demon horns. The problem was, between holding my flashlight and aiming my gun, on top of how shaky I was, I couldn’t actually get a clean sight on him for a shot. So when I raised my rifle and got ready to squeeze off a round, the Dumpling Man hissed at me. He said something to me!”

  “No!” Max said, “What did he say?”

  Then Cobie Petersen made his voice into a sinister rasp and said, “He said this: ‘You don’t have the guts to kill me, Cobie Petersen.’”

  “He knew your name?” Max was horrified.

  “I was shaking so bad I didn’t realize my finger couldn’t even find the trigger. Then the Dumpling Man pooed.”

  “He pooed?” Max said.

  Cobie Petersen nodded. “Yep. He pooed. All over me and Ezra.”

  “Did you shoot him for pooing on you?” Max asked.

  “I didn’t get a chance. I was so shocked after getting pooed on by the Dumpling Man, I thought I was going to lose my mind. Then the Dumpling Man jumped down from his branch and dug one of his claws into my shoulder. I dropped my gun when he knocked me back over my dog, and then he took off into the woods.”

  “Dude. The Dumpling Man pooed on you and then he clawed you?” Max asked.

  “Yes.” Cobie said, “I didn’t realize I was hurt at first. I just lay there, looking up into the black sky, wondering if I was alive or dead and whether or not I’d ever get all that poo off me and Ezra.”

  “Bullshit if I can’t see a scar,” Larry said.

  “I still have the scars from the Dumpling Man’s claws,” Cobie affirmed.

  “Prove it,” Larry said.

  “Care to make a bet on it, Larry?”

  “What’s the wager, Teacher’s Pet?”

  Cobie Petersen considered his terms for a moment, and then raised his hand and said, “If I prove there’s a claw mark from Dumpling Man in my shoulder, then you and me are going to trade beds for the next six weeks, Larry. If I’m lying, I’ll move over to the bed Bucky Littlejohn peed in last night.”

  Those were daring terms by any standards.

  The four boys of Jupiter stared at our counselor, waiting to see if he had the guts to take Cobie Petersen’s bet.

  Cobie Petersen got to his feet and began to pull his T-shirt up over his head.

  “Hold on there,” Larry said. “I didn’t agree to the bet.”

  Cobie stood between the fire and Larry, his shirt halfway up over his enamel-white belly.

  “You believe me, Larry? Do you believe in the Dumpling Man?”

  Larry shook his head. “I just don’t want to bet, is all. I’m not giving up my bed for nothing.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s as good as saying you believe my story,” Cobie Petersen said.

  There was no possible way for Larry to win, and all the boys of Jupiter knew it.

  Cobie pulled his shirt down, and Max protested, “Wait! I want to see it! Show us!”

  So Cobie Petersen lifted his shirt up over his head and took it off. Then he leaned toward the firelight so we could all see the imperfect pink grooves—four clawed marks in front of his shoulder, and the deeper scar of a powerful thumb claw in the back.

  And Max said, “That’s probably the scariest story I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  FRANCIS MACINNES IN THE CEMETERY

  Tick tick tick went the kitchen timers strapped to the melting man’s ears.

  Tick tick tick.

  “You should take those things off your head, Leonard. You look like a fool, and they don’t work, besides.” Joseph Stalin said, “You can still hear me.”

  The melting man had tried everything he could think of to stop Joseph Stalin from telling him what to do.

  “You’re unwrapping the bandages. You’re unwrapping the bandages. Oh my! Your hair is falling out!” 3-60 narrated.

  “Shut up!” Joseph Stalin said.

  “Shut up!” the melting man said.

  Leonard Fountain blew a gust through his Hohner harmonica. It didn’t work.

  “Listen to me. Your van is broken down,” Joseph Stalin told him.

  “It is?” Leonard Fountain—the melting man—asked.

  “No! You have to pretend you’ve broken down,” Joseph Stalin explained.

  “How
can I do that?” the melting man asked.

  “Pull over to the side up there. Then get out and raise the hood. People will think you’re broken down.”

  “That’s pretty smart.” The melting man said, “But why do I want people to think I’ve broken down?”

  “So someone will stop and try to help. I need you to steal a cell phone,” Joseph Stalin explained.

  “But I have a cell phone.”

  “You’re pulling over. Now you’re slowing down,” 3-60 said.

  “Can’t you shut her up?” Joseph Stalin said.

  “I can’t make 3-60 stop talking,” the melting man said.

  “You are applying the parking brake. You are turning the ignition to off,” 3-60 said.

  “Why do I need another cell phone?”

  Joseph Stalin said, “Because you’re going to make a switch with it. For the masterpiece.”

  “Oh! That makes sense,” the melting man said.

  “You are opening the driver-side door,” 3-60 said.

  There are a lot of cemeteries in Arkansas.

  Leonard Fountain had pulled off the road beside a place called Holland Cemetery. It was spacious and green, with neatly manicured paths and perfectly spaced oaks that shaded the row upon row of gray headstones.

  “Get the gun from the back of the van.”

  The melting man wanted to do exactly what Joseph Stalin had told him to do. After all, he thought it made sense; it was a good idea. Besides, the melting man was insane, so he didn’t have much in the way of choices.

  He walked along the gravel shoulder of the road to the rear of the van. The melting man was tired and hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

  He opened the rear of the van. Inside was a mess of strewn clothing, plastic grocery sacks, and empty beer cans. There was a white plastic five-gallon bucket with a lid covering it. This was Leonard Fountain’s toilet when he spent nights sleeping in the van. Leonard Fountain’s plastic-bucket toilet was getting full.

  The melting man’s masterpiece, the very big bomb, was covered beneath two horse blankets Leonard Fountain stole from a ranch in Oklahoma. The melting man slept in a mass of ragged sheets and bed linens in the part of the cargo area that overhung the cab—the space the U-Haul company referred to as “Mom’s Attic.”