Bad Man

  Deidra didn’t notice. She seemed to be facing the hallway, still whispering. The bed creaked again as she stood up. She’d started humming. Ben watched her feet as they moved around the room, moved to Eric’s shelves. It was only then that Ben noticed that his feet were extended past the edge of the bed. Gritting his teeth, Ben tried to tuck his legs in, but he couldn’t. He placed his hand on the back of his bad leg and forced it to bend, rolling his face into the carpet, hoping that it might muffle any whimper that escaped his lips. The floor smelled dirty.

  He moved his head and watched Deidra sit on the ground. Through the narrow opening, he could see only her legs and hands, and what she held.

  The ribbon danced as Deidra gently shook the box. She placed it on the floor, unknotted the ribbon, then unwrapped the box without ripping the paper. From the box, she withdrew a toy robot and set it on the carpet, catching it when it nearly toppled. Still humming, she stood, walked to the shelf, and then sat down again with a new package.

  Ben knew that he had lost the opportunity to leave the room. So he watched. He watched his stepmother first shake, then unwrap another gift, and then another, always setting the paper to the side before arranging the present in a very particular way: like it had a place it was supposed to go. Like this all had a way it was supposed to go.

  A small box rattled as she shook it. Again, Deidra hummed her song and freed another gift, this time into the palm of her hand. She poked at whatever it was and then dumped it onto the carpet. Deidra sat there for a moment, then stood. As she turned back toward the shelf, she kicked the pile she had made, sending something skipping against the carpet until it landed right in front of Ben’s face.

  It was a tooth.

  The next box Deidra brought down was bigger, heavy enough that she grunted as she lowered it to the ground. With the same gentle motions, the woman removed the ribbons and paper. Grunting again, Deidra reached into the large box and heaved the gift out.

  Ben tried to scream but he couldn’t, tried to get up but couldn’t do that either. Even when he shut his eyes he could still see the limbless torso. Ashen and thin, it lay on the carpet just below the pile of teeth.

  The metal bedframe rang out as Ben smacked his head against it.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  But Deidra didn’t hear or didn’t care. There were dozens of packages in the room. The night was still very young.

  The next gift didn’t have a box, and the wrapping was poor—poor enough that Ben could see the fingers sticking out of one end. Despite that, Deidra still took her time unwrapping it. She placed it next to the torso, paused, adjusted it slightly, and then stood.

  On and on she hummed and sat and stood and retrieved and unwrapped and arranged. On and on Ben watched her perfect her project, still screaming, still shouting, still silent. He watched her build a boy.

  The smell was overwhelming. Ben thought he could taste it, the sloughing skin, the wet bones. The rot of all things.

  Eric’s head wobbled as Deidra set it down. It didn’t look like Eric, but of course it had to be. Its mouth was a pit. Blank eyes that now saw nothing. With her fingers on its chin, Deidra turned the head and dropped the small teeth into the endless black mouth.

  “Smile big for me, sweetie,” she said.

  What if it moved? What if it spoke?

  Ben could hardly even adjust his head now. He could hardly move at all.

  “What’s wrong with your smile, baby?” Deidra asked. “What happened to my beautiful boy? Something’s missing,” she snarled.

  Deidra’s hand thudded on the floor at the edge of the bed, then shot underneath it. Her fingers scraped and clawed at the carpet, raking for the tooth. Her breath became heavier and heavier as her hand moved closer to Ben’s face. Her fingers shimmered even in this dark place, damp with what used to be her son.

  “Something’s missing,” she hissed again. “Something’s gone!”

  Ben’s ears rang. His mouth was dry. He panted and tried to swallow as he stared at the glowing neon stars above. He was still in Eric’s bed. I’m awake. Over and over he repeated the thought until he believed it. Because although he was free from the dream, its feeling wouldn’t leave him. Uneasily, he turned his head toward the door, knowing that Deidra would be standing there, staring with rage and disbelief. But there was no one, only the empty doorway.

  Sitting up, Ben ran his hands over his face, then dried them on his shirt. He looked around the room at the colorful gifts tucked into the shadows against the wall. Standing, he limped toward the darkest corner. There really were dozens of them. Maybe it wasn’t so strange. There was no grave to go visit.

  Ben picked up a small box wrapped in newspaper. It was light. The ends of the ribbons that crossed it were curled like a pig’s tail. He wanted to shake it. It felt like he actually might. What would he hear? he wondered. His hand began to tremble. Ben put the box back on the shelf.

  25

  “Talk about a sendoff,” Marty said, cutting into the plastic that enveloped one of the pallets.

  “This is like double,” Ben moaned.

  “Wish Palmer would fire me,” Frank muttered.

  “We gotta make a bale,” Marty said.

  “It ain’t that full,” Frank objected.

  “It’s gonna be by the end of all this shit.” Marty gestured to the roomful of towering pallets. “And you haven’t vanished like goddamn black Batman yet—”

  “I ain’t gonna leave. It’s Ben’s last night.”

  “Oh, well, gee whiz. In that case…”

  They set about downstacking the pallets. Ordinarily, they might have hauled them out of Receiving, but given their size and the fact that customers were still milling around the store, they thought better of it. Along with the usual stock, there were dozens of boxes of mashed potatoes, gravy, cornbread, and green beans.

  “Got any Christmas dinner plans, Frank? Your daddy cookin again?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah, boy,” Frank answered, smiling. “Gonna bring this girl I been talking to.”

  “Yeah, boy,” Marty mocked. “You mean that girl you chased through the parking lot? How long is your table that it can fit you two and that restraining order?”

  “Don’t be butthurt at me just because you’re having Campbell’s soup.”

  Marty huffed.

  “You doin anything for real, Marty?” Ben asked.

  “Supper of some kind, I reckon.”

  “You got any family comin in?”

  “I hope not. They’re liable to be mighty disappointed.”

  “So just Tim and Aaron and your momma?”

  “Yup, the whole stupid gang.”

  Ben lifted some boxes from the towering pallet. “And that’s everyone?”

  “Yup,” Marty said after a beat. “What’re you, my fuckin biographer?”

  Marty looked at Ben in annoyance. It was hard to tell if Ben had really seen it, but for just an instant he thought there’d been something else.

  They didn’t take any breaks. There just wasn’t time. Despite his limp, Ben moved almost as quickly as Marty, or at least he tried. Even Frank was hustling, his glasses streaked and spotted from constant adjustment. It was never stated, but it seemed like each one of them was determined to finish the truck before the store opened, before Bill Palmer waddled inside, before Ben clocked out for the last time.

  And they were going to. Stacking the cardboard next to the baler, they’d focused on throwing the truck. They were almost done with still a couple hours left before dawn.

  When Ben walked into the back room with Marty, he saw Frank forcefully sliding his last piece of cardboard box into the overfilled baler. Frank saw them but tried to pretend that he hadn’t, and he moved away from the machine.

  “Nope!” Marty shouted. “Nope, nope, nope. You’re livin the dream tonight, pal. You wa
nted to wait until the most fucked-up truck of all time—”

  “I didn’t know it was gonna be this bad!”

  “And yet, it is! You can take a picture of both the bales we’re gonna have to make, buddy. Show ’em to that girl.”

  Frank lowered the gate, forcing it past the cardboard that jutted out of the mouth of the baler. He squatted and lifted his legs, hanging from the handle like he was on a jungle gym, until the frame locked into place. While Ben slid over an empty wooden pallet, Marty grabbed six of the eighth-inch metal wires and the long iron rod.

  Ben pushed the green button on the panel that controlled the press, and the high-frequency groans of the slow piston disturbed the air. The thick metal slab descended, and the dry cardboard creaked and popped as its shape changed under the enormous pressure. When it stopped, Marty spun the lock-wheel to open the steel door, exposing the crushed cardboard and clogged tracks.

  Marty went to work with the iron rod immediately, slamming it through the tracks like a small battering ram to clear a tunnel between the cardboard and the frame of the baler.

  “Great fucking idea, Frank,” Marty grunted. “Fucking A-plus planning.”

  Ben and Frank winced almost imperceptibly each time he’d clear the end of one of the metal gullies, but Marty had done this enough times that he knew the rhythm, and there was little risk of him splitting his knuckles on the metal frame.

  When the tracks were cleared, Marty and Frank ran the wires, and then Marty tied them.

  “Look at this shit,” Marty said, gesturing to the metal knot and its limited slack. “This thing’s gonna be a monster.”

  Ben wouldn’t miss this place. Not one bit. But he’d miss Frank and Marty. In spite of everything, he knew he would.

  “Alright, let ’er rip,” Marty said.

  Ben pushed and held the faded green button to restart the pneumatic press. As it raised, the small platform below moved with it, and the re-formed cardboard monolith groaned as it flexed against the metal wires and began its slow ninety-degree pivot.

  This machine Ben would also not miss. Old and stubborn, it seemed to have that effect on everyone who met it. Decades’ worth of frustration and resentment were tattooed on the giant’s chipping skin, undoubtedly directed squarely at the beast itself. SHITBOX, one read. FUCK YOU! said another. Well, maybe that one was for Bill Palmer.

  And that wasn’t all that strange, really. Because there was one for Ben too.

  As the enormous brick was slowly heaved out of the baler, it began pushing the pallet away from the machine. Ben couldn’t hear it sliding.

  “Goddamnit!” Marty ran to anchor the pallet with his foot, as if he were trying to stop a soccer ball.

  “Stop, Ben!” Frank yelled.

  “If it rocks back, we’ll never get it out of there!” Marty said. “Just stop when I say.”

  “Fuck that. Ben, shut it off!”

  But Ben just stared—stared at the special message just for him: four curves and a line, a child dancing before a grinning moon. There it was, right there on the machine.

  The protests from the bale rose an octave, and the cardboard bubbled past and engulfed the wire like clay through a chain-link fence. But the cardboard block wasn’t moving.

  “C’mon, you bitch,” Marty grunted.

  Ben thought the graffiti must be new. It had to be. But it wasn’t. This hadn’t been drawn onto the machine. The way it felt under Ben’s fingertips, the lines had been carved all the way down to the metal, back and forth, like a broken Spirograph. There was rust. It was old.

  Marty stepped onto the pallet and began shoving the block like it was a stingy vending machine. He fought against and rocked with the whining cardboard bale until their movements were longer and smoother.

  “Okay, stop,” Marty shouted.

  The platform continued to rise slowly as Ben held the button, the bottom of the bale pivoting up the back of the machine.

  “Stop!” Marty repeated. “Ben!”

  Even as Marty shouted, Ben thought he saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. “Guys…” Ben said.

  The heavy brick teetered on its edge, and Marty jumped off the pallet to get out of its way. But he didn’t move fast enough. A sound like a gunshot echoed loudly off the walls. One of the six wires wagged in the air like an upside-down pendulum, the end jagged and twisted.

  “Fuck!” Frank screamed as he rushed out from the side of the baler. “Oh shit!”

  Ben stood frozen with his hand still faintly pressed against the control button, his eyes fixed on the image carved into the baler. He should have been looking up. When his mind finally returned, he saw the swaying cable. It didn’t look like he expected it to.

  “Ben!” yelled Frank.

  It was the wrong color.

  “Jesus, Ben! Help me goddamnit!”

  It was too red.

  26

  Ben closed his eyes tightly, and when he opened them again, he was already moving toward Frank, who was crouched on the floor.

  Crouched down over Marty.

  Marty’s chest heaved erratically. His eyes were wide and rolled wildly in his skull like two ball compasses. He had his hands pressed against his neck like he was trying to choke himself, and Ben could see blood seeping out between his fingers like a breaking dam. Frank floated his hands above Marty’s throat frantically and indecisively while blood pooled next to Marty’s head and soaked into the knees of Frank’s pants.

  “Help him!” Frank cried. “Fucking help him, man!”

  A low gurgling noise rode the river of blood out of Marty’s mouth, and he kicked and scraped his feet against the concrete floor as if he were trying to get away from what was happening, from what had already happened.

  Ben took off his overshirt and shoved it into Frank’s hands.

  “We need to call an ambulance,” Frank said, his voice unsteady.

  “I know. Where’s the first aid kit?”

  “Huh?”

  “The first aid kit! Where’s it at?” Ben bellowed.

  “I…I think it’s somewhere upstairs. I don’t know.”

  Ben took Frank’s hands and guided them to press the shirt against Marty’s throat. Marty’s face was white, like all its color was collecting on the floor beneath him.

  Ben ran for the double doors, turning around midstep but not stopping. “Talk to him, man! Don’t let him fall asleep!”

  Just before barreling through the double doors, Ben noticed a fire alarm affixed to the wall. His heart sped up, and he ran to it, plunging his fingers into the recess and violently ripping down the metal tab.

  Nothing.

  No! No! No! his mind roared.

  Heaving the doors open, he screamed for help. Then he remembered they were all alone.

  Ben burst back into Receiving. Marty was still moving, though less and less. Frank’s face was twisted in fear. “Did you call someone? He needs help!”

  The metal steps thundered under Ben’s uneven steps. He tried to skip a stair and almost lost his footing. He ran along the narrow walkway. He knew which doors would be locked, but he still tried. One by one he tried them all.

  And one by one he found them locked or cluttered with seemingly everything but what he needed. Crates of paper. Displays.

  C’mon!

  Ben ran farther down the curving hallway. Sweat poured down his face and back, and his breath stuck in his dry throat. There was a stabbing pain in his side. Ben pressed his palms against his knees and stole more time than he knew he should. If he could just get his breathing to slow, maybe his heart would too. He concentrated on that as he glared at the end of the hallway. There was only one door in this area. No one had called for help yet. Frank needed bandages. Gauze. What a waste of time.

  Slowly, Ben groped his way along the wall. There was no keyhole in the handle
, and Ben’s stomach tingled when he twisted the doorknob and felt it move. But it wouldn’t open. He hurled his large body against the door again and again, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Frank was calling for him, though his voice was muffled and weak by the time it traveled from downstairs to Ben’s ears.

  Ben’s eyes and nose were wet. He kicked the door hard—hard enough that it seemed to give just a hair, but that might have been his leg buckling. Ben moved back down the corridor.

  Back among the other rooms, he picked a door at what felt like random and kicked it, striking the doorknob, which punched right through the cheap wood. Ben tumbled inside.

  There was a phone on the desk. Ben lunged for it and pounded in 911. He spoke quickly. Too quickly. He repeated himself and then did it again, despite not being prompted. He rifled frantically through all the drawers of Palmer’s desk, throwing papers onto the floor. The phone said that an ambulance was en route and to stay on the line. He hung up. Turning toward the filing cabinet in the corner, he shot a quick glance over the old TV monitors and out the window of the crow’s nest, hoping he might see red lights flashing through the glass, but it was way too soon for that.

  It’s okay, his mind pleaded. He’ll be okay.

  The top two drawers of the filing cabinet were locked together and would hardly move at all, despite how hard Ben pulled. But the bottom drawer would.

  Ben wrenched it open and plunged his hands into the clutter. “Fuck,” he spat as his hands scrambled over things he didn’t need. Paperwork. Videotapes. A half-empty bag of chips. Ben cursed again. Tears pricked at his eyes. “C’mon, goddamnit!” He almost couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the plastic box.

  “Yes!” Ben screamed, snatching the first aid kit. He hurled the wrecked door free from his path and ran—ran faster than he had ever run—ignoring everything his leg was telling him. The sound of his footsteps clattered with an uneven rhythm, echoing off the narrow walls of the corridor. Free from the chambered hallway, he looked over the railing.

  Marty wasn’t moving anymore. His feet weren’t kicking. His arms lay limp and useless on his still chest. Frank still knelt behind his head, leaning over Marty.