Just Plain Weird

  Just Plain Weird

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2008 Tom Upton

  All characters in this book are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely co-incidental.

  Just

  Plain Weird

  I. ELIZA

  Raffles was probably right. It wasn’t human nature to leave things alone. It was normal for people to try to fix things that didn’t need to be fixed; or, infinitely worse, trying to fix things that were broken, because some things are meant to be broken-- and that is all there is to it. Raffles also said that half the time when you didn’t leave things alone it led to some kind of trouble. I wasn’t convinced of that, though, because if that were true, then it would seem you’d be hearing about trouble all the time-- unless, of course, most of the trouble in the world were kept hidden in closets, or something, and the public in general never finds out about it all.

  Raffles had always been acknowledged as the smartest kid in school, and when we let out of school last June, he announced that he wouldn’t be returning to public high school in the fall. He would be going to Thomas Edison Academy, which was a private school that accepted only very smart kids. It was a very hoity-toity institution. You had to be about as smart as Albert Einstein to get into the place (which left me out of the running from the get-go); also, it was very expensive, which led me to believe Raffles had got some kind of scholarship, since his parents were by no means rich.

  I couldn’t say exactly when Raffles became my best friend. I only knew it had nothing to do with me. It seemed as though he’d shown up at my house one day, and assumed the position of my best friend. I’d often think, Buddy, if I’m your best friend, you got problems. Still, throughout my middle school years I somehow managed to tolerate his presence while we did mainly normal things, although I believed Raffles was far from normal.

  We would spend endless hours each summer in the tree house my father built a few years ago. I hadn’t asked him for a tree house, but he’d built it out of some belief it was his parental duty. His job required him to go on the road for long periods of time, so guilt, too, might have been involved in his decision to build the tree house. It was a trade-off for all the times he wasn’t around, all designed to make him feel better, as though he had said to himself, “Sure, I’m not home as much as I’d like to be, but at least the kid has a tree house to play in, right?” For weeks I’d watched as he grunted and groaned, lugging lumber on his back up the ladder and into the tree. What I remembered most about him building the tree house was how he seemed to lose one of his tools every three or four minutes. That was the way it had always been with him; his tools seemed to vanish magically now and then, and he could never figure out how. Then, about two minutes after the tree house was finished, he magically vanished.

  Now, in the waning summer before I began high school, I was hunkered down in the tree house and doing some harmless spying on our new next-door neighbors. That was when Raffles came along, climbed up into the tree house with me, and began spewing his insights into human nature. It was at this time that I formed one of my own insights: it was strange how intelligent people, like Raffles, without being asked, freely spout off their insights and actually expect less intelligent people, like me, to be interested.

  “You’re not actually looking into their windows, are you?” he was now demanding.

  It was true I was spying on the house with my telescope, but in no way was I looking through their windows.

  “No, of course not,” I said, as if the thought was absurd, trying my best not even to look at him. In recent months, Raffles didn’t even look normal. He had grown so much. He was nearly six feet tall and weighed only about a hundred pounds. He had developed a creepy hunched way of walking, like an old man who had worked in a shoe store for many years.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually up here,” he said.

  “Why? What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s so unseemly-- that’s what wrong with it,” he said. I was sure he was sitting there, folded in the corner, with his arms wrapped round his knees.

  “We’ve been doing this for years,” I pointed out. “Now, all of a sudden, it’s unseemly.”

  “Yeah, it’s like you read in books-- you do read books?”

  “Sure, but they have to have pictures in them.”

  “When they say, ‘Then one day, everything changed…’” I can’t tell you how many books I’ve read that had that sentence, or something close to it. Well, buddy, for us, that one day was two months ago. That’s what makes what you’re doing unseemly.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “Is not,” he said, and I was certain his huge Adam’s apple bobbed in protest.

  “Just because things change, doesn’t make a person less curious.”

  “Curious about what? What’s so curious about your neighbors?”

  “They moved in nearly a month ago, and you never see anybody. Nobody going in or out, nothing. They never even leave their draperies open.”

  “Their draperies? Ohmigod, you are looking in their windows! You’re like a stalker or something,” he said as if alarmed.

  “How can I be looking into their windows, if their draperies are shut?”

  “That’s not the point,” he said. “You’re trying to look in their windows, and that’s just as bad as looking in their windows. It’s all in the intent.”

  “Raffles,” I said, exasperated. “Just shut up.”

  He was quiet then, but for only a moment.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said, finally. “These new neighbors wouldn’t happen to have a daughter?”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “Oh, it would make a huge difference. It would make what your doing perverted.”

  “Perverted?”

  “As though you were a peeping tom.”

  “Well, I haven’t been able to see anybody so far. What does that make me?”

  “I don’t know,” he said gravely. “But you ought to have your father tear this tree house down.”

  “Tear it down?” I said. “That’s not happening. I saw what he went through to put it up. You know, there should be a law against certain people handling power tools, and he’s one of them. Tear it down? I think not. I think this tree house will be here long after we move out.”

  “Well, something has to be done, before you turn yourself into a mass murderer or somebody.”

  “Mass murderer!” I was appalled. “Now I’m turning into John Wayne Gacy?”

  “Yeah, that’s how it all starts, and then it evolves over the years. Next thing you know you’re biggest problem in life is wondering where to bury bodies. You know, come to think of it, I recall reading somewhere that John Wayne Gacy did have a tree house as a child, and he went off and spent hours in it every day until he was in his twenties.”

  “You did not. You’re just making that up.”

  “No, I swear, really,” he insisted.

  “Look, I’m not turning into a mass murderer. I just want to get a better look at her.”

  “Ah-hah!” he cried, triumphant. “So there is a girl involved!”

  “Yeah, all right,” I confessed, “You happy now?”

  “Well, what does she look like?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I didn’t get too good a look at her the day they moved in. She’s blond, sort of skinny. I didn’t get a good look at her face.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right,” he scoffed. “You’ve probably already seen her naked through the bathroom window, lathering up her body in the shower.”

  “I’m just trying to get a look at her face,” I said. “Is there anything wrong with that? If there’s some hot chick moved in next door to me, I’d like to know--
you know what I mean? I wouldn’t want to miss anything. Is there any law against that?”

  “Well-- I don’t know-- the cops might not respond to well to you looking through their windows with a telescope.”

  “Besides,” I said. “It’s not just her. I’m sort of curious about her mother, too.”

  “Oh, you have turned into a sick puppy, haven’t you?” he gasped.

  I finally looked at him, at his bloated eyes behind the thick lens of his glasses. He was looking at me with amazement and disgust.

  “Look, it’s all just too weird,” I said. I wondered why it was, why it had always been, that I could have no private thoughts when Raffles was around; in the end, no matter what I was thinking, I would have to tell him, and then have to explain to him why I was thinking whatever it was. “Well, see for yourself,” I said, and swung the telescope in his direction.”

  He eagerly grabbed it, got to his knees, and began peering down into the viewer.

  “What?” he asked after a moment. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Which is what I’ve been telling you,” I said. “I’ve been looking for weeks.”

  “For weeks? That’s become something of an obsession, hasn’t it?”

  “Just look,” I said. “See the driveway?”

  “Uh-hunh.”

  “See the cars?”

  “Uh-hunh.”

  “They haven’t moved since the day they moved in.”

  “So?”

  “So, they’re nice cars, right? Expensive cars, probably with big car payments every month. But I’ve yet to see anyone in the house go to work.”

  “Maybe they’re on vacation,” he suggested.

  “For a month?”

  “Some people get long vacations,” he said. “Or maybe they work at home, who knows? Maybe they’re independently wealthy.”

  “And they moved into this neighborhood?” I asked. “What?-- are they independently daffy, too?”

  “Well, there could be a lot of legitimate reasons why they’re not going to work for that long.”

  “Oh, and how about food?” I said. “I haven’t even seen anybody go out to buy groceries. How many reasons could there be for that?-- they’re all on a fast?”

  “You sure they’re even home?” he asked, his interest finally piquing.

  “They must be,” I said. “The cars are there. They didn’t just wander off someplace.”

  “Well, maybe they do their grocery shopping at night,” he said.

  “Uh-uh. My bedroom window is right over their driveway. If anyone started one of the cars, I’m sure it would wake me.” I was a really light sleeper.

  Raffles looked away from the telescope. He thought for a long while. “All right,” he said finally. “It seems strange. But there’s probably a reasonable explanation for all of it. You just haven’t figured out what it is.”

  “I just can’t see it.”

  “Well, there are three courses of action you can take,” he said, his methodical mind slipping into gear. “You can go on like this, which is rather stupid because you’ll just end up making yourself nuts. You can just forget the whole thing, which, given the fact that there might be a potential hottie involved, you’ll probably consider impossible. Or you can do the smart, practical thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just ring their doorbell, and give whoever answers the ole welcome to the neighborhood spiel.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “You’d rather spy on them?”

  I had to admit that there was a certain amount of pleasure to be derived from spying on the house; it probably would be even more pleasant if I ever saw anything.

  “Come on,” Raffles said, and started to move toward the ladder. “I’ll go with-- we’ll get to the bottom of things, and say hi.” He said it in that determined way, that way that always began something that ended up being embarrassing-- embarrassing usually for me.

  Although I fully realized what an awful idea it was, I followed him down the ladder. If I didn’t, he would have pestered me until I did follow him.

  It was a late afternoon in early August, and the air was hot and dry. By the time we made it to the front door of the house, beads of sweat were breaking out on my forehead, partly from the heat and partly out of sheer nervousness. I was not the most sociable person, and ringing the doorbell of a complete stranger to say hello was not the kind of thing I did easily.

  Raffles started to stab at the doorbell with his long bony finger. It was obvious to me that no one would answer, and that we ought to leave, but he was relentless. I thought the way he was ringing the bell was rather rude, and if anybody did answer the door, they would probably be mad.

  Then there came a faint stirring sound from the other side of the door. It sounded like the timid rustling of somebody trying to figure out whether or not they should open the door. Or maybe they had a small dog they were trying to shoo away from the door so that they could open it. Finally the door, hinges squeaking slightly, swung open, and a man was looking at us in a searching way, as if he couldn’t comprehend a single reason why we ought to be at his front door. He was a most ordinary-looking man; in fact, if you were trying to design a person of commonplace looks, you couldn’t have done a better job of it than nature had already done to him. He was pretty old, maybe in his fifties, and getting somewhat overweight. His dark hair was thinning and his waist was thickening. He wore black-rimmed glasses on a face that had no features that were especially memorable-- or even vaguely interesting, for that matter. He didn’t have a large, honking nose, but neither was it small. He jaw was neither strong nor weak, but enjoyed some anonymous territory in between. His eyes were not beady, or broadly set, and appeared a dull medium brown. The strangest thing about him was that he was wearing gray suit-- hardly something you’d expect somebody to lounge around the house in-- also, eerily remindful of Ward Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver.

  He stood there in the doorway, looking from Raffles to me and then back to Raffles again, patiently waiting for one of us to explain our appearance on his front porch. His entire manner as he stood there was of a person who never in his lifetime had ever had a visitor.

  “Say something,” Raffles whispered out of the corner of his mouth at me. It was just like him to lead me into a situation I’d never wanted to get into to begin with, and once in that situation, expect me to take the bull by the horns.

  “We were just--” I struggled to say something that wouldn’t sound too stupid-- “Well, we were just wanting to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  The man considered this explanation, for what seemed an oddly long period of time. It was a simple explanation, after all, and yet he mulled it over as if it were the unified field theory. In the end, he seemed to relax into a sociable manner.

  “We moved in almost a month ago,” he said, letting the statement linger in the air so that I wasn’t certain whether he was expecting an explanation why it’d taken us nearly a month to welcome him to the neighborhood.

  The encounter reached a very uncomfortable juncture, and I promised myself to ring Raffles’ neck later.

  Finally, the man, who told us his name was Laughton, invited us in for something to drink.

  Wonderful, I thought, sliding deeper into a situation I never wanted to get into to start with. All Raffles’ previous statements about mass murderers and stalkers began suddenly to flood my mind. Given the oddity of the man’s behavior so far, the guy could have been a mass murderer. Well, you never knew. Maybe that was his method of operation: move into a neighborhood, and then never go anywhere, so that curious people finally came over to see what was what, and then they’d fall into his sinister trap, end up decapitated, chopped into various pieces, and buried in window boxes throughout the community. It could happen.

  He led us into the living room of the house, which was large and airy. It was pleasantly cool, which struck me as strange, because-- as far as I could tell, anyway-- the air conditioning didn’t seem to b
e running. The room itself was sparsely furnished, just a sofa, a coffee table, a television, an end table on which stood a plain-looking brass lamp that might have been antique or just designed to look antique. The furniture itself, however, was definitely cheezy. He motioned for us to sit on the sofa, but never offered to turn on the television, before he disappeared into another room. He returned a short time later with two glasses of lemonade.

  As he handed us the glasses, I couldn’t help thinking, Poison. Sure, poison-- either that or something to knock us out so that he might have his vile way with us-- whatever that was. I just couldn’t stop thinking along these lines, thanks to Raffles.

  It turned out to be, though, the best lemonade I’d ever tasted. Lemonade would never be the same for me after that day. I couldn’t pinpoint what made the taste of that lemonade so much better than other lemonades I’d had in my life-- after all, how many ways are there of making lemonade?-- but I could tell it was homemade.

  “So you boys live-- where?” he asked.

  I explained I lived next door, and that Raffles was over visiting me.

  “Yeah,” Raffles chimed in, at long last. “We were noticing that you don’t seem to go out much.”

  The man considered this. “Well, I am retired,” he said dully. “But you may be entirely right. I really don’t go out that much. I guess I’m a born homebody. I have my hobbies to keep me busy, though,” he added, a bit ominously, I thought.

  “Retired?” Raffles said. “But you’re too young, aren’t you?”

  The man chuckled, not above accepting a little flattery.

  “I’ve been very fortunate,” he said.

  “Stock market?” Raffles asked.

  “Patents, actually. I invent things.”

  “Anything we might have heard about?”

  “I doubt it. My inventions are of a highly-- technical nature-- hardly something that would be widely known.”

  While he and Raffles spoke, I stared at the floor, noting that rather than having carpeting or bare hardwoods floors, the floor was instead covered with dark brown marble tiles. I’d never seen a living room floor finished that way; it looked very expensive-- especially considering the furniture in the room was so chintzy-- and not a little slippery.