Bad Things (5 page)

Ricky whirled at his father's voice and saw his parents in their robes and slippers, standing at the bottom of the living room stairs. His dad's arms were crossed, but his mother stepped forward quickly.

“You're wet. You're both wet!”

Immediately Robin began to cry. “I fell,” he sobbed.

“Fell?” Mom scooped him up, mindless of his wet clothes and the leaves and dirt sticking to him. “From where? Are you all right, honey?”

He threw his arms around her neck and clung, his face buried against her shoulder, sobbing and heaving as he never had before. It was a show. Ricky cringed, wondering what would come next.

“I fell out of the tree,” he wailed. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—”

“Rick?” His father loomed over him. “What were you boys doing?” He looked him up and down, mouth set in a grim line.

“I—I—Robin went out the window and—” He silenced, knowing he shouldn't tell the truth because they wouldn't believe him.

“It's all my fault,” Robin bawled.

Amazed, Ricky stared at him.

“I was playing a trickertreat on Ricky.” His voice hitched dramatically over a series of whimpers. “I . . . I wanted to scare him. I lost my balance, and Ricky tried to save me.”

“There, there . . .” His mother turned slightly, and Ricky could see Robin's face over her shoulder.

His eyes were black as night, and his expression was gleeful and scary at the same time. The little-boy voice that issued from his mouth didn't match the way he looked. “Oh, Ricky, I'll always remember how you tried to save me.” His hand crept into his mother's hair, bringing a lock of it to his face. He smelled it, smiling. Then, to Ricky's horror, he stuck his tongue out and licked it. The smile broadened into a jack-o'-lantern grin, and all the while, Mom kept patting his back, unaware. Dad, not noticing, crossed to the open door and closed it.

“Ricky?” His mother said. “That was very brave of you to try to help your brother, especially when he played a bad trick on you.”

“I'll pay you back, I promise,” Robin said. Slowly he extended his tongue and licked the satiny robe his mother wore.

“It's okay,” Ricky said softly. “He bumped his head,” he added. “It's bleeding.”

Oh!” Mom pulled Robin away from her, as Ricky hoped she would, and examined his head. “Frank, do you think we should take him to the hospital?” She glanced at Ricky. “Go on up and get dry and go to bed, honey. Everything will be all right.”

He left his parents discussing Robin's bumped head as he trudged upstairs. At the top, he found Carmen staring down at the scene below. Silently she walked with him to his bedroom, then waited outside the door until he came out in fresh pajamas.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on, then.” She led him to her room around the corner, and they sat together on the little sofa bed she kept for when one of her sisters came to visit. “Okay, Ricky,” she told him. “Tell me. It will be our secret.”

He did as she asked, leaving nothing out because he knew she wouldn't just tell him he was crazy.

She asked, “So you think your brother's changed, Ricky?”

Confronted so bluntly, he had to stop and think. That was exactly what he thought. And he had proof because of the name:
Icky Ricky.

He swallowed his pride and told her about the name.

“Maybe you said it in your sleep, Ricky.” She regarded him solemnly. “Do you think you might have?”

More than anything in the world, he wanted to believe that what Carmen suggested was true. “Maybe,” he said, knowing he hadn't. Suddenly he realized he'd have to go back to his room soon and see his brother. That frightened him so much that his stomach hurt.

Carmen leaned over and kissed his cheek soundly. “It's late. Let's talk about it more tomorrow. You want to sleep here tonight, Ricky?” she asked, as if she knew what he was thinking.

He nodded gratefully.

 

Legs legs legs legs legs.
Balanced on his hands, he padded carefully down the staircase, his abbreviated body held up high so that it didn't thump much against the steps.
Legs legs legs legs legs.
Icky Ricky was cowering in Carmen's room, maybe sleeping, maybe not, and the parents were back in their room with the door closed.

Legs legs legs legs legs.
Despite the blood in his hair, he'd convinced them he was fine, so the mother had dried him and tucked him into bed. He liked that a lot, the feel of the rough towel on his skin, the feel of her hands, the smell of her hair, her skin, the minty scent of her breath.

He snickered, remembering how upset Ricky had been when he saw him lick Mom's hair. Poor Ricky, icky Ricky, crazy, crazy, sicky Ricky.

The parents talked and talked before falling asleep, and impatiently he'd waited until they'd been silent for a long time before leaving the bedroom. It wasn't much fun being alone, but he amused himself by looking through icky Ricky's dresser and toy chest until he knew it was safe to leave.

It was just as well he'd been left alone for a while, he decided. Because of the head bump, the memories buried in his brain had been a little fuzzy at first—the memories of the house, the parents, Carmen, and especially icky Ricky, but now they were flowing into place and he knew he'd be fine, no matter who he ran into.

Legs legs legs legs legs.
He hated Ricky for having the legs, but this body had some advantages. Though Robin's balance and grace were still a little messed up, they were improving rapidly and six steps from the ground floor, he let loose a whispery little laugh and flipped his body up above his head and finished his descent in handstand position. Delighted with his progress, he turned and quickly raced back up the stairs, then, still in a handstand, dashed down the hall, past his room and around the corner.

Legs legs legs legs legs.
He paused a moment, waiting until he discerned the soft sawing snore coming from Carmen's room, then, arms pumping, he dashed along the long hallway that led to the back stairs. His descent was perfect this time, and he made no sounds but for the soft pad-padding of his hands against the lovely grass-colored carpet and the rhythmic murmur of his breath and his muted giggles. At last he entered the kitchen and caught the perfume of ripening pears, the tang of orange peel, and the warm smell of the bread baked earlier that day.

He crossed to the refrigerator and, balanced on one hand, used the other to open the door. He pushed it wide so that the dim light from the interior could illuminate as much of the room as possible, then he began investigating the Kelvinator's contents.

“Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm-mmmm-mmmm, what's this, what's that?” Gleefully he opened a yellow Tupperwear container, and sniffed at the gelatinous brown lumps within. “Beef, beef, beefy beef,” he whispered, sticking his finger in the cold gravy. Delicately he sucked the finger clean. “Mmmm.” Lifting the bowl to his face, he dipped his tongue into the gravy and lapped up a morsel of beef. He chewed slowly, savoring the meaty flavor, memorizing the rich odor of flesh laced with onions, garlic, and bay, and the feel of its greasy, grainy texture. Before replacing the lid, he used his tongue to smooth the surface of the coagulated sauce.

Licking his lips, he replaced the container precisely where he'd found it before eagerly studying other items on the lowest shelf.

“Butter, butter, mmmm-mmmm butter!” He removed the cover, then ran the flat of his tongue over the yellow surface, careful not to leave any marks. He loved butter, the slick way it felt in his mouth, so rich, so . . . There was something more, but he didn't know what to call it.

So many tastes and smells and textures to examine and sample—
Said Simple Simon to the pieman, let me taste your wares, hairs, cares, dares.
The rhyme came to him, making him feel warm and tingly inside. He had a dab of catsup, a lick of sour cream, then an egg, consumed whole, crunchy shell and all. A drink of milk threatened to overflow his mouth and belly, so he spat the rest back into the carton.

Legs legs legs legs legs.
Logy and full, Robin ascended the kitchen staircase, tired, moving slowly, the bump on his head making him feel achy and irritated, not caring much if his body thumped the steps now and then. Even so, he paused in the bathroom to open the hamper and examine the dirty laundry. He withdrew a shirt and sniffed it carefully, memorizing the scent of the father's sweat, then exchanged it for a pair of feminine underwear. He studied item after item, with nose, mouth, and eyes, never tiring until he had examined every last piece of clothing. Finally he replaced everything in the hamper and returned to his bedroom. He climbed onto Ricky's empty bed, removed his pajama top and underpants, then rolled around on the sheets.

When he tired of the activity, he dressed and moved to Robin's bed by the window. With effort, he unlocked it and opened it as wide as it would go and perched on the ledge.

The rain had stopped and there was no wind. The silence choked his ears until he began grinding his teeth just to hear something. Soon he began humming to himself, wishing icky Ricky were here so he could listen to him breathe, wishing he were here so that he could have a little fun.

In the darkness he longed for a whole body, to have legs to run with and senses that could see the greenjacks and hear their songs. Most of all, he longed for revenge against Ricky, who had everything he so desired. For the new Robin Piper, the loneliness was overwhelming.

 

Tonight the refrigerator held clusters of purple Concord grapes to stuff into his mouth, and he did, cramming it so full that he could barely close his jaws over them. Next, oh joy, a covered dish of olives, black finger food, salty and iron-tasting, reminding him of blood. The olives made him crave meat, and he had to reach as high as he could to grab the white butcher paper containing a mountain of hamburger. He opened it and nibbled the raw meat delicately, savoring each taste. Then, before rewrapping it up so carefully that no one would suspect it had been touched, he ran his smoothing tongue over the rest of the mound, leaving his saliva on what his family would eat.

He never grew tired of touching other people's things, of leaving something of himself upon them, so they would unknowingly consume his bodily secretions, or wear them against their bodies. It was one of many pleasures that helped him deal with his anger at Ricky for the legs and eyes denied him.

Eating was another, but now his stomach was full, so he shut the refrigerator and padded to the kitchen door, swung onto the stool next to it, and silently undid the lock and chain, ready for another sort of indulgence.

A moment later, he was in the backyard, hidden in the darkness of a new moon. He breathed in the night air, feeling the summer darkness surround him, the cool wind like water on his face. A hint of eucalyptus lay under the soft sweetness of the citrus trees, the gardenias and jasmine, and beneath that, a cold-water smell and the bubbling of a waterfall. He glanced at the half acre of orange and lemon trees, at the path leading toward the cottage where Grandfather Piper had lived. It had been locked and dark for nearly two years, but now that Carmen and Hector were getting married, it was being cleaned out and fixed up so that they could live in it. The parents had hired Hector full time to act as gardener and handyman.

Robin was pleased about the marriage, because that meant the bitch wouldn't be hovering around icky Ricky at night like she did now.

The cold-water smell grew stronger, and he turned toward it, smiling in the dark. “Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi,” he called wishfully. The new moon held little power, and he neither expected any answers nor received them, but ever since he'd discovered that very occasionally he could hear the greenjacks' song, he was compelled to try. He treasured the times he had sensed the presence of the jacks. It was a salve for his loneliness.

Legs legs legs legs legs.
Hatred for icky Ricky, with his long legs and special senses, washed over him. He'd get the cowardly little shit eventually, get him good. He could get him anytime with a pillow over the face or a conk on the head, especially after Carmen moved out, but what he really wanted was to get him on Halloween, to give him a trickertreat he'd never forget.

Robin waited until later, when they were in their beds, to tell old Icky he was going to make sure he never lived through another Halloween. Ricky didn't say anything, just jumped up and hightailed it for his precious Carmen's room.

But Robin meant what he said. This Halloween he'd do the big trickertreat, or if something went wrong, the next. He could wait a long, long time.

Sniggering, he started down the path that led from the backyard, down through the long, narrow side yard, with its thick border of oleanders and liquid amber trees, and finally to the front corner of the house. The front was even bigger than the back, covering three acres, and so surrounded with willows, elms, pines, and filled with fruit trees, flowers, ferns, and exotic broad-leafed tropicals, that you couldn't even see the street, Via Matanza, beyond them.

The yard that icky Ricky so hated was a park crisscrossed with brick and stone paths that were constantly overgrown by the grass and bushes, no matter how often Hector pruned or mowed. To Robin the place was a paradise, the plant life an announcement that the greenjacks were present. Again he took in the scents, the blend of aromas from the plants and the trees and the koi pond, the wonderful koi pond, a hundred feet distant.

Ignoring the light-lined brick path that led to the pool, Robin moved across the yard, enjoying the thick dampness of the lawn beneath his hands. He paused, reveling in the spongy coolness, and noted how his nails dug into the moist earth, snickering when he detected the cold wriggling sliminess of a night crawler as it passed between his fingers.

Reaching the flagstones that surrounded the koi pond, he crossed them—hard, cold, interesting. The pond itself had originally been a kidney-shaped built-in swimming pool, so it was huge and deep. But many years ago, Grandfather Piper, who hated to swim, had painted it dark blue, put the rocky rustic edge on it, and built the tall stony waterfall right over the tall diving platform. And then he had filled it with fish and water lilies.

At the water's edge, Robin halted, lowering himself onto his stomach to lie between the colored lights on the cold stone so that he could stare at the water, smell it, and dangle his fingers in it to attract the fish.

“Boy kois, toy kois, fishies, fishies, fishies!” He wiggled his fingers and they came, the fishies, gold and red and bronze and black, kissing his fingers, looking for food. Finally his favorite arrived, the huge white one that everyone called the Professor. It had black circles around its eyes that looked like spectacles. He waited for it to mouth his fingers, then deftly he snatched the fish up in both hands and lifted it from the water.

“Hi, fishie, fishie!”

The koi barely wriggled in his powerful grip, and he fancied that it studied him as intently as he did it. Gently he kissed the creature, and found it cold and wet but full of life. Its odor was of algae and dark, cool water. It gasped, needing to breathe, suffocating on air, and quickly Robin ran his tongue over the creature's scaly side, tasting salt and stagnant water. “ 'Bye, fish, go, fish,” he whispered, and thrust it into the water, watching until the sleek white shape disappeared into the bubbles of the waterfall on the far side of the pond.

He loved the fishes. On warm nights he'd slip into the water and swim with them. The thought made him remember Ricky, locked away up in their room, and he turned and gazed up at the bedroom window. The light was out, but he thought he saw the curtain move behind the glass. Hoping he was watching, Robin waved, then pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it behind him. A moment later, his shorts—the mother made them for him with a little fly and no leg holes—and underpants lay beside it. He waved again, loving the way the air felt against his skin.

Ribbet.
At the sound of the frog, he flipped himself silently upright.
Ribbet.
Near, he thought.
Ribbet.
Near and nearer. Another frog answered, in a deeper voice, from somewhere near the waterfall. Still another joined in and another, and soon the air was full of
ribbets
and
robbets,
croaking music high and low and in between. Pleased, he listened to the symphony, and when it was at its peak, he rose on his hands and lifted all the way to his fingers, his version of tippy-toes. Fingers aching with effort, he moved silently around the pond to the rocky waterfall, watching for a frog. Despite the Malibu lights, it was difficult to spot even one, for they sought out the shadows.

The invisible singers continued their melody as Robin settled his body next to the waterfall. He waited, listening, and while he did, he glanced up at the house and saw the bedroom light come on. Icky Ricky was up for sure. Grinning, he thought his scaredy-cat brother probably had to go pee, because he always had to turn on the light before he could even get out of bed.

Ribbet ribbet.
Something moved in the darkness, and suddenly, right in front of him, he saw the dark shape of a large amphibian. It hopped even closer, and Robin grabbed it, squeezing hard to keep it from slipping out of his grasp.

The other singers fell silent.

He touched the frog. smelled it and tasted it, then spat at the bitterness. Then he worked its legs, pumping them up and down, up and down, fascinated.
Legs legs legs legs legs.
He petted it, stuck his fingers in its mouth, and looked up and smiled when he saw Ricky's silhouette in the bedroom window. Probably Ricky couldn't see him right now, but he could certainly remedy that.

Sticking the frog's legs in his mouth, ignoring the bitter, moldy flavor, he clamped his teeth down on them so that, no matter how hard it kicked, it couldn't get away. He rose on his hands, moved around to the back of the waterfall, and nimbly climbed to the top.

Settling his body on the smooth stone just above the water spout, he waved at his brother. Icky Ricky saw him, but didn't wave back. That was fine by Robin.

Legs legs legs legs legs.
He took the frog from his mouth, wiping his lips and spitting, then held it up for Ricky to see, one little foot in each hand.

“Legs legs legs legs legs,” he whispered, holding the frog up above his head. Slowly he began to pull the legs apart. The frog made a sound, a funny little froggy-scream. Then, after a long moment, its skin made a ripping sound and the creature came apart. Blood spattered like raindrops across Robin's face and into his open mouth. “Legs legs legs legs legs,” he said, tossing the dismembered halves into the pond.

He lifted himself up on his hands. “Icky Ricky, icky Ricky, come out and play,” he called, his voice melding with the waterfall and the night breeze. “Come out and swim with me.” Laughing, he propelled himself over the waterfall, into the pond, surprising the fishies, and washing frog's blood from his skin.
Legs legs legs legs legs.