A Pair of Aces, Page 3

  And this beating she gave him, it wasn't a beating he thought he deserved, having merely tried to point out that if she was going to stand around with a ping-pong eye, she might want to wear sunshades or some such thing, a pirate patch maybe. This suggestion had resulted in a sudden explosion that led to a legendary ass-whipping, that, a year later, was still referred to in quiet whispers, lest the Wandering Eye Girl, as she was known, get wind of it, and take to beating someone else's ass to the point of near terminal embarrassment.

  It made no difference that six months after the fact it was discovered she wasn't retarded at all, just contrary, and that a doctor had fixed her eye and her impetigo had cleared up and her parents had moved her to another school, where rumor was she had gained weight, looked good, made excellent grades, and kept tabs on the old school and things that were said there by a horde of hidden informants.

  Leroy thought this was all doubtful, but still, he was careful in what he said, least any reference to the former Wandering Eye Girl might in fact inform some hidden stool-pigeon and lead to her return for an even more brutal whipping and the final cap on his embarrassment, that even now resulted in his being called all kinds of names other than queer, fag and four-eyes, among them Retard Punching Bag and Ass-Whipped Fellow.

  Therefore, the idea of a new brother who would attend the same school and might be willing to fight him was nervously unappealing. That's all he needed. Was a new addition to the list of all those who could whip his ass, which already included just about everybody.

  What he thought he might do was jump the little bastard and beat him down right up front, therefore dispelling any future notions Draighton might have of pugilistic superiority. Of course, there was always the possibility of the turn-about. That he, instead of Draighton might in fact be the one who came out on the short end of the stick, even if he did spring a surprise attack and get in the first few licks.

  And there was another thought. Though he had yet to meet Draighton, the name itself implied to Leroy that the boy might be a biter. Those old style hillbilly names often designated just that, though the fact that Draighton was a Boy Scout might temper his savagery a bit. They were supposed to be good citizens, though the truth was a couple boys he knew in the Scouts were great fans of the circle jerk, and found their camp outs perfect for such shenanigans. Bottom line was, it was hard to fight a biter. He knew, because this brought back an equally disturbing memory, one right there side by side with him having taken a severe trouncing from a thought-to-be retarded, wandering eye girl, and that was when he was nine he had tried to bully his seven year old cousin Wiley, who, in spite of generally wearing a sheen of dirt encrusted snot, proved to have the mind and tenacity of a pit bull. He bit. Leroy still had the scars. At least that little bastard went to a different school.

  So it was with major trepidation that Leroy awaited the arrival of his new brother, Draighton.

  Draighton came on a cloudy day when there was a threat and smell of rain and a severe push of wind. Leroy had been forced to take a bath and clean behind his ears and wear church clothes, and he thought this was ridiculous, dressing up for some kid with a goofy name and no parents. But he had to do it, least his mother break out the fly swatter, and when the moment came, he stood with her on the front porch, waiting. His mother was as nervous as if she were anticipating final judgment, moving from one foot to the other and talking as if words might be a shield against the weather, which, along with the rain and wind, was turning as cool as a well-digger's ass.

  He watched as his dad's Chevy pulled up at the curve and his father got out, and a moment later the door on the far side opened and a boy knee high to a midget climbed out, proving that there were was no truth to the rumor that the Boy Scouts had height requirements, a factoid laid on him by the local Scout Master when he sought to join up. He'd have to look into that, this height business. He was beginning to think, for some reason or another, the Scoutmaster had lied to him.

  The boy wore leg braces over his pants, carried a little bag by a handle and walked as if he were in a Nazi military parade, kicking one leg out front to be followed by another kick, and another and another. Leroy half-expected Draighton to give a stiff-armed salute.

  Draighton didn't have a whole lot else going for him either. He had what was called a bowl haircut and his hair was the color of a fresh turd and his head was big and he wore thicker glasses than Leroy and his face looked as if it beaconed to receive flies and custard pies.

  In spite of this, Leroy's mother came down off the porch and practically darted out to Draighton, grabbed his head as if she might make a free throw, and gave him a kiss on the forehead, said, "Aren't you just the sweetest-looking thing."

  Leroy was astonished at such a bald-faced lie, as he felt Draighton might be best used to scare crows in a corn patch, provided you could teach him to stand on a stool and a phone book.

  "This here is Draighton," the father said, as if he suspected Leroy or his mother might be anticipating someone else. Leroy came down the steps and went over and stuck out his hand the way he had been taught to do, and the boy took it, his little hand lay like a damp mitten in the palm of Leroy's paw. Leroy had a sudden charge of excitement. He was bigger than this boy in both height and hands, and probably equipment. The idea of having someone around might not be so bad, especially if he was superior to in size. It seemed unlikely that with those leg braces Draighton would have any chance of beating him up, or even chasing him down. A series of ideas ran through Leroy's head, some of them involving trip-wires, all of them ending with him in some mode of triumph, Draighton lying on his back, struggling to flip over like a toppled cockroach.

  The first thing Leroy did was lay down the rules.

  "Reckon you can put your stuff over there in that corner, long as you keep it organized and don't get it mixed with my goods or use any of my stuff, except maybe some of the crayons, if you ask."

  "Thank you," Draighton said.

  "All right, don't mention it. I was taught to be kind. But it's important you know whose turf is whose turf, lest we come to a misunderstanding."

  "That's very nice of you."

  "Just want you to know how things are. We'll share the bed, but I get the side I want, and if you fart, then you hit the floor with a pillow and a blanket. I get the bathroom first, if I want, and I get the towels first."

  "Won't I have my own towel?"

  "Doubt it. We don't do the towels that much. My mother says it saves on soap and water bills if you just dry with the same towel for awhile, and you'll be using whatever one I finish with, I reckon."

  "All right then."

  "Your legs hurt?"

  "They do. I had some kind of problem with them, and with my spine. Doctor says I might outgrow it."

  "Don't count on it. Doctors and mothers and such like to give you the good side, so you'll have hope and won't kill yourself or some such thing. I was you, I'd just plan on being a cripple. You could maybe get a wheel chair when you grow up. Get a job, licking stamps and envelopes and such. They got some chairs now that are pretty good. There's a kid I see now and then, a waterhead, and he's got one of them chairs. You could maybe do that. He sells pencils. It ain't heavy work and it ain't rich work, but it's work, and thing is, you don't have to have no education to get it."

  "I like to think optimistically."

  "See where that's gotten you. You're old man killed your mama with a razor then cut his own throat, and if you had been in town, instead of off with the Boy Sprouts, you would have been cut up too. He might have even taken them braces and sold them before he done himself in. You never know what kind of plan a crazy might have. And I ought to tell you, don't get too comfortable, you might not be around here long. My guess is the welfare will come get you. You might have to live in one of those big rooms with a bunch of cots. Just preparing you on how things are."

  Draighton broke into tears and clanged out of the room, down the hall to the bathroom.

  Leroy grinned,
took a deep breath and tossed out on the bed.

  Life was good.

  Thing amazed Leroy was that the cripple seemed to like him. Draighton followed him around, and Leroy could hear him banging about behind him, as if everywhere he went there was nearby a dreadful machinery break down. It gave Leroy the creeps. If he sped up, Draighton sped up, and if Leroy looked back Draighton might be in the distance, but he would be coming as if on a mission, his face determined, his legs swinging out wide, tossing him onward.

  At school he saw him in the halls, and Draighton never failed to acknowledge him by calling Leroy's name and waving. He seemed truly excited that he was Leroy's brother, and told others this was the case, though Leroy always said he was a homeless kid they were helping out. Considering Leroy had no status to begin with, having a miniature cripple for a brother was not beneficial, and tossed him into a rank just below the retards and the booger eaters who lined up outside during lunch hour to dessert on the contents of their nose in plain sight, relishing their bottom rung position as if it were an award.

  The Draighton Connection made it so he was the butt of jokes that he wished were intended for Draighton. But no, he, as if by osmosis, collected Draighton's insults. "Hey, Four-eyes, you and your Mom have to oil your brother much." Or, "Have you thought about selling him for scrap?" Or, worse yet, "When you suck his dick, do the braces cut you?"

  It was less than stimulating, and Leroy felt that it was only fair that some of this meanness directed at him should blow back on the source material.

  About a month went by. Insults didn't seem to bother Draighton. He rode those out like a pilot in a hurricane plane. But there finally came a vulnerable day. It was the day they all went to the house where Draighton's father had killed the kid's mother and then himself.

  The plan belonged to a therapist Draighton was seeing. The therapist felt enough time had passed that it would be a good idea for Draighton to confront where it had all happened. Leroy had heard his Mom and Dad talking at the bottom of the stairs one night, while Draighton was snoozing in bed. He had come out on the landing and hid up there to listen. They were discussing Draighton's condition, how fragile he was, and Leroy's father was against something or another, though Leroy was uncertain what.

  "That fella hasn't ever been out of that goddamn office, except maybe to hang around the University or such," Leroy heard his father say. "What the hell does he know about the feelings of a little boy? Common sense should tell you that doing something like that ain't a good idea, even if it came with money and added six inches to that little kid's dick. Though I reckon in that case he'd have to have some lifts built into his shoes."

  "Darling," Leroy's mother said, "you shouldn't talk like that."

  "Maybe not, but I'm telling you, it ain't a good idea."

  "He's the doctor."

  "Yeah, well, I think we should actually talk to someone who's studied medicine, not a bunch of hooey."

  "He has degrees. Certificates."

  "Yeah, so does the tire man at Wal-Marts, and my goddamn tire came off. Remember that?"

  Few days later, Leroy figured it out when Draighton was taken for a private discussion in the kitchen. Leroy leaned against the wall near the doorway and listened. They were going to take Draighton back to his old home, to look around, to make peace with its existence and what had happened there. That's what he heard his mother say. "Make peace with its existence." Leroy thought, well, it ain't the house cut the little kid's mother's throat, so what's the beef there?

  It was all obvious now, Leroy's father didn't want Draighton going back to the house where his parents died, and it was the therapist's suggestions they were debating that night, but, in the end, Mother and the therapist prevailed. Leroy thought. Therapist and mothers, they can be so dumb.

  The day was wet and cold and the clouds were full of shadows. The therapist, a skinny man who wore glasses and had a complexion problem, and gave Leroy some idea of how he might look when grown, sat with them in the car, in the backseat between Draighton and himself. Leroy's mother sat on the front passenger side, and his father, grumbling all the while about this and that, drove. Leroy was glad to be along. He was supposedly there for Draighton's support, which he thought was funny. He was sort of hoping Draighton would have some kind of episode, break down in tears, or maybe just flip out and have to be hauled off in a straight jacket, live out the rest of his time in a padded room.

  The house wasn't what Leroy expected. It was just a house. Nothing creepy about it. No spider webs hanging from gables, and no weed-grown yard. Someone had kept it mowed and it was a brightly painted house, the only purple house on the block. The only thing bleak about it were that the flower beds were empty of blooms this time of year and the sky seemed to sit down on the roof of the house like massive wads of cotton that had been stained with sin.

  The inside of the house was no less deflating. It too was as common as hand soap. There wasn't any blood and nothing was knocked over and there wasn't a chalk line on the floor. Not even a yellow ribbon with POLICE: DO NOT CROSS had greeted them at the door.

  Nothing was unusual about the house in any way. The therapist, said, "Now, you weren't here when it happened, Draighton—"

  "And that's the point," Leroy's father said. "He wasn't here. He's not dealing with anything. This is just not necessary and there ain't no way it's good for him."

  "It's okay," Draighton said. "I want to see."

  The therapist pursed his lips, as if to say: Told you.

  "Now, according to the police," the therapist said, "part of what happened took place in the back bedroom."

  Draighton nodded, as if this was only logical.

  They went past the couch and opened the door and went into the room, and finally something was strange enough to have made the trip worthwhile. The walls were painted black. The windows were marked up solid black, and the instruments that had turned them that way lay on the floor under the window sills. Dozens of black markers. The bed had been turned over and was thrown up against the wall, and the closet door was thrown open revealing clothes hanging on a rod. The carpet in the bedroom smelled, and in one spot it was heavily stained and the stain had made the carpet in that area stiff as a wire brush.

  "Here," said the therapist, pointing a finger at the carpet, "is where your mother was found, Draighton."

  "This is just goddamn cruel," said the father. "It's okay, Draighton. You can go if you want."

  Draighton shook his head. "No, sir. I don't want to go."

  "I don't know Jimmy would have wanted this," said the father.

  "Obviously, the father was confused," said the therapist. "He wouldn't have known what he wanted. Or, rather, what he wanted wasn't all that good."

  "You know what I mean," said the father, standing up tall, pushing out his chest.

  The therapist stepped back.

  Leroy's father sighed, crossed his arms and looked defeated. The mother looked about the room carefully, as if more murderers or victims might be propped up in the corners.

  "I think we'll go outside," the father said, and he and his wife went. They were in such a huff, they forgot Leroy standing there, actually enjoying himself.

  Wow, Leroy thought. A murder. Cut from ear to ear. Wow.

  "The room wasn't black when I went to camp," Draighton said.

  "He must have finished a day or so before the murders," the therapist said. "No one knows why he made the room black, why he blacked out the windows. It's even possible he did it after the murder. No one knows."

  "Is this where daddy killed himself?" Draighton asked.

  The therapist shook his head.

  "No. When he finished here, he went out this way."

  Leroy and Draighton followed the therapist into the living room, then down the short hall that led through the kitchen, and to the door that led to the enclosed garage. The went down the short steps into the garage. The therapist asked where the light was, and Draighton turned it on. The car was still in
the garage, sitting there like a great bomb waiting to be loaded. The place smelled really bad.

  "He died here," the therapist said, and he pointed to a little storage door inside the garage.

  "He went inside there, sat down on a stool, and cut his throat."

  Leroy thought, wow, this therapist is great. If Draighton isn't fucked up now, he's sure gonna be.

  Draighton stiff-legged over and opened the door to the closet quickly, as if he might do it so fast he would travel back in time and rescue his father from his final moments. When the door was open, Leroy leaned over Draighton and looked in.

  The stool was still there and the place smelled of blood. When Draighton flicked the little closet light on, roaches darted away in a clicking rush. For a moment, in one corner, where shadows seemed to remain in spite of the light, it seemed to Leroy, at least for an instant, that the roaches gathered together and rose up into a tall, broad shape, then fell apart and scuttled away into…Well, he didn't know where they went. It had all happened in the blink of an eye. The floor and walls seemed tight together, didn't seem to provide any means of retreat, even for a roach. But, nonetheless they were gone and the corner no longer seemed to be shadowy. Leroy felt cold, as if water from an iceberg had been suddenly flushed down his back , and his testicles sought high ground, tightening up like string-drawn bags of tobacco.

  Leroy looked back at the therapist, who was standing back in the garage, having paused to light a cigarette. Leroy had a feeling the therapist loved all this, and maybe hoped Draighton would seize up or go the other extreme, into a hissy fit.