Moonbog, page 9
“I’m telling you, he’d be safe,” Les said again. His voice was distant.
“You’re probably right, hon’, but why take chances?”
Robbie burst back into the kitchen, the keys held high above his head as though they were a trophy. “Let’s go,” he shouted. “I’ll back the car out.” He slammed the door shut behind him.
Sammy got up from the table and walked over to his mother. Looking up at her, he gave her a hug around the waist. “Thanks, Mom.”
Leah smiled. “You’re welcome. You just remember what I told you.”
“I know.” Sammy shifted his feet nervously, sensing another lecture coming on.
“And I don’t mean just about this person who . . . who hurt Billy Wilson,” Leah continued. “I mean about any stranger. Any stranger at all.”
“I know, Mom.” Sammy started backing toward the door. “You told me a hundred times.”
“And I’m telling you again. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t take rides with strangers. Especially that! If you need a ride, go to someone’s house and call home. We’ll come pick you up.”
“Uh-huh.” Sammy was at the door, but he knew that he couldn’t leave yet.
“Besides,” Leah added with a soft smile, “Robbie’ll be getting his license soon and he’ll be begging for an excuse to drive.” They heard the car start up and, taking his signal, Sammy ran outside.
Les, still standing there looking sullen, mumbled softly, “He don’t have to worry.” He cocked his head to the side. “He don’t have to worry unless he goes out by Old Man Logan’s way.”
“Les, you shouldn’t talk like that about Mr. Logan.”
Les shrugged. “Just speaking my mind. You’re so hepped up about Sammy not walking out on the goddamn street at high noon. I’m just saying that I think he just has to steer clear of Old Man Logan.”
“Mr. Logan’s a nice old man, just a bit . . . a bit lonely, that’s all. There’s no harm in him.”
“Maybe he’s too lonely,” Les said darkly. “Maybe he’s so lonely he likes to play with little boys—before he kills ‘em.”
“Les!”
“How come he ain’t never married, then?” Les asked. “Huh? Maybe he, you know, never liked girls.”
Leah decided that to respond would continue the direction of the conversation, so she turned back to her sink and began drying the dishes and placing them in the cupboard. After several seconds of nervous silence, Leah said, “You know, speaking of Mr. Logan, did you know that David was back in town?”
“Yeah,” Les answered. “A couple of the guys at the Sawmill were talking about him yesterday.”
“Are you planning on looking him up?” Leah asked, brightening.
“I dunno’. Maybe.”
“My goodness. You don’t sound very excited about seeing your best friend from high school.”
“That was a long time ago,” Les replied.
“But you were so close. I’d have thought you’d be anxious to see him after all these years. I bet it’d be fun to talk about old times. He’s staying out at the Pine Haven Motel. Why not give him a call?”
“Maybe.”
The sudden squeal of tires made them both look anxiously out the door as Robbie backed the car out of the garage at a more than adequate speed. The car jolted to a stop in the turn-around, then turned and pointed toward the street. The engine roared.
“What’ve we got there, another A.J. Foyt?”
“He’s just learning. Go easy on him,” Leah said mildly. Then, picking up their conversation, she said, “So why don’t you invite David over for supper some night. I’d like to see him again. And I’ve never met his wife.”
“That ain’t his wife,” Les said absently, as he walked over to the door and, leaning against the jamb, stared out at the car and its impatient driver. Robbie waved anxiously for his father to hurry.
“Not his wife?” Leah echoed.
“That’s what I said. It’s his girlfriend. Some hot-pants model from New York or something. A real hot number, by the looks of her.”
“And just how do you know the looks of her?” Leah asked sharply. She looked at Les nervously, but he kept his back to her.
“Just talk. Just talk at the Sawmill, that’s all,” he mumbled.
Leah took a dishtowel and, wiping her hands, walked over to Les. “But you didn’t answer my question, hon’. Why don’t you invite David and his girlfriend over for supper? Tuesday night would be OK. Any night this week, except Wednesday. I have to go over to Gloria’s on Wednesday.”
His face twisted with anger, Les spun around and faced Leah. “Because I could just about give two shits for David Logan, that’s why!” he shouted. Leah pulled back timidly. “If we was friends, that was a long time ago, and David Logan can go fuck, himself for all I care.” He pulled the door open violently. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
V
Leah stood in the doorway, watching the car pull away. She noticed that Robbie seemed to drive pretty well, although he was going a little bit too fast, she thought, when he got to the stop sign at the end of the road. She watched sadly, registering the fact that her oldest son was really growing up—he’d have his driving license soon.
A long, drawn-out sniffing sound made her turn around. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, his chin propped in his hands, was Georgie.
“How come they didn’t take me?” the five-year-old asked sadly. His eyes were watering up.
Leah scooched down and ruffled her son’s hair. “They’re just going down the street for a bit.”
“But I wanted to go,” Georgie said, letting a tear run down his cheek.
“There, there,” Leah cooed. “Tell you what. What say you and I split a popsicle?”
Georgie’s eyes brightened. Leah stood up and opened the freezer door. Pausing with her hand in the ice box, she asked, “Grape or orange?”
“Grape,” Georgie answered without hesitation. Then he added, “But why couldn’t I go?”
“Well. . . .” Leah began to peel the paper from the popsicle. “Robbie’s still learning how to drive. Your father’s going to teach him.” She broke the popsicle in half and handed one piece to Georgie. “Besides, I want you here with me. Be careful with that. Don’t get it on your shirt.”
“Is it because of that bad man?” Georgie asked as his tongue flicked out and lapped his popsicle.
Leah had to force her voice to keep steady. “Partly that, yes.”
Georgie nodded his head as though he understood fully. “But I haven’t been bad,” he said softly. “I know you haven’t.”
“Well, Billy Wilson must’ve been bad. That’s why the boogeyman got him, right Mom?” Georgie was licking his popsicle absentmindedly. His lips were stained bright purple.
“I don’t know, honey. I mean. . . .” Leah’s voice trailed away.
“But that’s what you told me,” Georgie insisted. “You said that if I wasn’t good, like if I didn’t come home from playing before dark or when you called or something, that the boogeyman would get me. Take me away.” Georgie’s eyes widened as he looked up at his mother. “And he’d eat me or something. Is that what happened to Billy Wilson? The boogeyman caught him and ate him? Is that it, Mom?”
Leah reached down and patted her son’s head. “Well. . . .”
“That’s what you said, Mom.”
“I know, I know that’s what I said. But Georgie, what I told you, you know, about the boogeyman, well, maybe what I said wasn’t exactly right.”
“You mean you lied to me?” Georgie asked, astonished. His eyes widened even further as he considered the possibility.
Leah forced a smile and continued haltingly. “No, hon’, I . . . I didn’t lie to you. It’s just that . . . that. . . .” She huffed with exasperation and, once again, thanked whoever made little children so precocious. She cleared her throat and tried to continue more firmly. “What happened to Billy Wilson was, well, it was a real person who did it. Someone who lives right in town or nearby.” She swallowed hard. “What I told you about the boogeyman was sort of made up. The boogeyman’s, well, he’s kinda’ like Santa Claus.”
Georgie’s face scrinched up. “You mean he lives at the North Pole?” he asked, his voice rising until it broke.
Leah couldn’t help but laugh. “No. Not that, hon’.” She ruffled his hair. “The boogeyman is sort of like a spirit . . . not a real person.” The look of confusion that spread across her son’s face told her that she was just confusing him.
Suddenly, though, his face brightened. “Ohh. You mean, like, the boogeyman is like a ghost or something. Something to scare people with, is that it?”
“Yes. That’s it,” Leah said, grateful that she had gotten herself off the hook.
“And Billy Wilson didn’t get caught by the boogeyman, right? He was hurt by a mean real person, right?”
“That’s right,” Leah said as she stood up. She was surprised when she saw that her popsicle had melted; her hand was covered with a sticky, purple mass, and she hadn’t even noticed it. Nervously, she licked at what remained on the stick, then washed her hands clean.
“Go upstairs and get your baseball. We’ll go outside and play a little catch,” Leah said, as she dried her hands on the dishtowel.
Georgie turned to go, but just at the doorway, he paused and looked back at her. His eyes were still wistful looking. “I still wish Dad had taken me with him,” he said before going.
Leah smiled and listened to the slap-slap of his sneakers as he ran upstairs to his room. She turned and looked out the window, letting her breath out with a long, shuddering sigh. She was suddenly, painfully aware that the stories she had told Georgie to frighten him into obedience were suddenly turning on her and frightening her. Their town really did have a boogeyman.
When she heard Georgie’s approaching steps, she turned, straightened her shoulders, and hoped to God that he wouldn’t see the lines of doubt and fear she knew were creasing her forehead.
VI
“I got you! I got you!” Sammy shouted as he jabbed both forefingers at Jeffy and made a rattling, machine-gun sound in his throat. Jeffy hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him, and rolled over behind a screen of yew bushes that marked the end of his backyard. He hurt his knee, but he didn’t care; it added to the realism—he could pretend it was a wound.
“Just a flesh wound, you lousy Commie!” he yelled, concealed behind the thick-needled shrubbery.
“I blew your head off,” Sammy yelled, running toward the yew zig-zagging and using the trees for cover.
Jeffy suddenly stood up, leveled both fingers at Sammy, and let go a wild spray of bullets. Sammy dove for cover this time, but he kept his head up and saw Jeffy dash down the path that led to the Bog. “Hey—” he started to yell, but stopped when he saw Jeffy’s blue windbreaker disappear in the foliage.
“You missed me, you lousy Commie,” Jeffy called, sounding far away.
Sammy paused, not quite as much into the war game as he had been. He looked over his shoulder at the sun, now low in the sky. The faint chirr of crickets and the peeping of frogs in the Bog were the only sounds he heard. The sudden absence of Jeffy made the late afternoon seem lonely, almost scary. Swallowing hard, Sammy got up from his crouch and trotted after his friend along the path. “I’ll get you,” he yelled, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. It amazed him; it almost seemed like magic the way Jeffy had disappeared. Like those Indians in the movies who just melt into the trees whenever the settlers chase them. Sammy slowed his pace after he had gone a short way along the path. The path was well-worn. They often played here and closer to the Bog, even though both of their mothers had told them a hundred times not to. And at least it wasn’t his fault; Jeffy had been the first one to go toward the Bog— he was just following.
Suddenly, Jeffy popped up from behind a large, lichen-covered boulder and let fly a hail of bullets. It was right where he had expected him to be, Sammy told himself as he spun in his tracks, grabbing at his shoulder. He fell down behind a thick blueberry bush and remained silent, except for his labored breathing. In the safety of his cover, Sammy admitted to himself that he had really been caught off guard. As he crouched, preparing to go after Jeffy, he promised himself he’d be more careful from now on.
Sammy walked slowly up to the boulder. There was a chance Jeffy was still there, hiding, waiting to jump out at him. Pressing his face against the cool stone, Sammy slowly edged his way around. When he got to the back, there was no one. Jeffy had gone.
Quickly, Sammy turned, his guns ready. Knowing Jeffy, he could pop out from anywhere. Sammy calmly scanned the darkening woods, but this time he didn’t think that maybe they should call in the game and go back to Jeffy’s house; the war was serious now.
Sammy heard a snapping of twigs off to his left. He swung around into a crouch, fingers ready to blast away when he saw something.
Nothing.
As usual.
Leave it to Jeffy to think of throwing a rock off into the woods to distract him. Sammy waited, tensed, his ears filled with the rising sound of the peepers and the blood hammering in his ears.
“Come on and get me, you lousy Commie!” Jeffy shouted. His voice sounded far away, and it made Sammy wonder briefly what had made that sound off to his left. It sounded like Jeffy was way down the path toward the Bog. But, then again, when you were hunting Jeffy, you could never be sure—he sure had a lot of tricks.
“Come ‘n get me, or I’ll get you, you lousy, stinking Commie!” Jeffy’s voice sounded even fainter now.
“You ain’t got a prayer,” he screamed, and then dashed down the path in the direction of his friend.
As he raced along the path, Sammy again started to think that they were wrong going so far from the house and so near to the Bog. He shuddered when he thought about the quicksand his mother said was in the Bog and would suck him down. Sort of like drowning in oatmeal.
The further he went, the more he remembered some of the stories his mother had told him about the Bog. The wild animals, the ghosts, the boogeyman. . . . When he had been Georgie’s age, he had believed those stories; now that he was twelve, he . . . well, he half-believed them.
The sun was gone now. The path was becoming indistinct. The night sounds of the Bog swelled louder and louder. Sammy felt a sudden, closed-in, spooky feeling. Abruptly, he stopped in the middle of the path, stood up straight, and listened intently for some sound beneath the sounds of the Bog that would tell him where his friend was. He still had his fingers stuck out like guns, but Sammy had forgotten the game entirely. A sudden, dull plop off to his left made him jump; but he quickly decided that it had been a frog jumping into the water and tried to push away his growing fear.
Sammy moved forward cautiously, wondering wildly whether or not he should chance calling Jeffy’s name. Shadows were deepening, and the sounds of the Bog grew almost intolerably loud. Sammy found his feet hurrying along the path, almost against his will, as he kept his eyes trained on the surrounding woods for any sign of Jeffy. It’d be just like him to jump out at him and scare the shit out of him. Sammy tried to convince himself that he was ready for the surprise and wouldn’t be startled.
To his right, the land sloped gently upward, rising to a boulder-strewn field. Beyond the hill, Sammy knew, there was a line of barbed wire fence that marked the end of the Judkins farmland. To his left, the trees and scrub brush thickened, making an almost impenetrable barrier. The winding maze of paths that threaded the Bog were well-known to him, but Sammy was wise enough not to walk them once it started getting dark. He paused again, considering which way to go. Then he heard another twig break underfoot.
He looked at the wooded area intently, expecting to see Jeffy reveal himself from his hiding place, but as Sammy’s eyes focused on the dimly lit path in front of him, he saw something that made him take a quick gulp of air. There, directly in front of him in the spongy earth, was a clear, well-marked print of a boot.
It wasn’t Jeffy’s footprint, of that he was sure. The bootprint was definitely a man’s. As he stared in silent horror at the footprint, his fear intensified. The mark was fresh; it’s depression was still filling with water. Fear clamped his chest as he watched the muddy water swirl in the clearly marked ridges and grooves of mud. Whoever had made it had just passed by!
Letting out a low whimper, Sammy spun on his heel and started to run back along the path. He half expected to run smack-dab into the massive figure—whoever had made that footprint—who would suddenly materialize from the deepening evening gloom. He gritted his teeth and tightened his fists as he ran, wildly pumping his arms like pistons.
He tried to convince himself that whoever had made that footprint must have been going in the other direction, that there was no way he could be in front of him now as he raced away from the Bog, back to Jeffy’s house.
Jeffy! he thought. Oh God! Jeffy’s still down there somewhere! What if—what !f—Oh God!
His heart was hammering. The night sounds of the Bog were lost in the whistling of the wind in his ears as he sped along the path. He sloshed through the wet muck, careless now of trying to keep clean and dry. All he wanted now was to get out of the Bog. And he prayed more earnestly than he had ever prayed before that when he got to Jeffy’s house, he would discover that somehow Jeffy had doubled back on him and was waiting for him to get back. Boy, would they laugh about all this once it was over!
Sammy did his best to dodge the branches of trees and brush, but it was now so dark that it was almost impossible, running this fast, not to feel the stinging lashes on his face and hands. Suddenly, his foot sunk deeply in some mud. The suction pulled his sneaker off and held his foot just long enough to send him sprawling onto the ground. An out-cropping rock scraped along his cheek and made it bleed, but he didn’t notice.
On his hands and knees, he crawled back to the small mud-sink and stuck his hand in blindly, fishing for his sneaker. His eyes darted wildly about, watching for whoever had made that footprint as he stirred the thick mud. His cheek was stinging from the cut and he wiped at it with the back of his hand, but the dark color that stained his skin was mud, he thought, not blood.
