Shed Read online

  5.

  Everett brought one of the lawn chairs from the yard down with him and his bottle of liquor. He went back upstairs for a tub of ice and a six pack of his beer that he’d been cooling off all afternoon in the refrigerator. He went back upstairs for the last time to grab the black and white TV set from the living room. He ran an extension cord from an outlet near the kitchen table down the stairs to the TV, probably in similar fashion to Mr. Parson’s trouble light last summer in his uncle’s basement.

  I watched all of this through the crack between the cellar door and the jamb. Daddy had built this cellar shortly after Mama and he bought the house. It had one of those metal gate latches on the outside of the door to make it easy to open and close with one hand. Simon had unscrewed the latch bracket and placed it, instead, on the inside of the cellar door so that I could close it tightly but get out if I needed to. The door, when closed, was flush against the outside cellar walls; no one could get in unless I popped the latch.

  Everett set up his chair over by the workbench opposite the old iron furnace and the water heater which stood roughly in the centre of the whole space. He balanced the TV on a stack of metal scraps, like the ones Simon had used to construct his plug for the sump corridor last summer. There was plenty of them, a huge pile of junk and scraps stacked up against the south wall of the basement behind the furnace, facing the door of Simon’s bedroom.

  It was that pile of shadows that hid Simon now. He had crept down there, mouthing a ‘shhh’ with his finger against his lips in the direction of the cellar after Everett had gone to get the bottle of Black from the liquor cabinet. And there he sat, quiet and patient, just like always.

  I sat in that cold space for an extremely long time, listening to the announcer and the crowds from the little black and white set. It was the second game of the World Series, the Dodgers against the Yankees. Game one had been taken by the Yanks and Everett had laughed the night before at the supper table about how that had happened. Just a lucky break, he told Simon and me, just luck that the Yanks won against Lasorda’s L.A. team. Everett was originally from Los Angeles, had grown up there, and thought his team could do no wrong. Me and Simon, we knew better, New York had signed Reggie Jackson this season and he’d helped bring home the pennant from a game against Kansas City. We just knew our man, Reggie, was going to land the series, too. Just knew it.

  By the time the game had reached the fourth inning, Everett was flying high. The Dodgers were winning and he’d downed nearly half the bottle of Crown Royal. It must have been before nine still, because he left the basement then and returned a while later with a pan of chicken from Harvey’s.

  His hunger had likely gotten the better of him because Mama hadn’t been there to make him his supper. She was still at the Walsh’s. When he returned he didn’t really give any thought to us or where we might be. I don’t think he much cared, to be honest, and I wasn’t all that surprised or upset. I had an empty stomach since lunch and that was just fine. Everett sat there on the lawn chair, with its nylon straps sagging under his weight. In the dim light between the furnace and the workbench, with the brightness of the set flashing across his ponch, his pale complexion, and the brick wall behind him, he chewed on chicken bones and strips of fat from the cardboard and tin tray on his lap. He alternated between swigs of a beer and a shot of that Johnny Walker nestled between his legs and resting on the metal frame of his chair. He was hunched forward this early on, still watching with intensity. He let out the odd whoop or Goddamn right when his L.A. Dodgers got a double or kept a man on base.

  It was getting close now. I was careful not to make any noise. I just sat there, on the cold floor of the cellar, a crack of dim light across my face, watching my step-daddy drink and eat. He began looking tired. His outbursts and comments at the umpire and the players had stopped. His mood was now sullen and disconnected. He sat back in the lawn chair, his head sagging a little. The day out in the sun, combined with all the alcohol and the lengthy game was almost too much for him I think. I hoped that he wouldn’t decide to go to bed and skip the end. I was sure that it wasn’t too likely—he was a die-hard fan and would want to rub it into Simon when the Dodgers wiped the floor with the Yanks. I wondered what was going through his mind then. Did he know what was to go on down here? In the darkness, I looked across the basement to that pile of wood and metal scraps where Simon sat crouched, hidden from Everett. I wished that I could see his face and know what he was thinking. Was he scared? Would it all go like he had planned?

  Some time later, I heard the back screen door creak open and bang shut. It startled me so much I nearly fell backwards into the cellar bin on which I now sat precariously balancing, leaning forward with my face at the crack of the door. Footfalls traced up the three steps from the back landing and into the kitchen. They waited there. Everett was surprised too. He had fallen asleep with the bottle between his legs and his head lolling back in the chair. When the door banged shut he nearly fell off the chair toppling the bottle to the floor. He was suddenly awake and his bleary eyes looked around to try and focus on something.

  The game had ended with cheers from that little set and the L.A. team had indeed taken the win. Some nights I still wake up with the thought in my mind that Reggie Jackson helped us out on that one, didn’t do his magic so that the Yankees would lose and Everett would stay and watch the end. Maybe Burt Hooton’s knuckle curve was superior to every batter the Yanks threw at him that night for a reason. And maybe, I thought childishly, maybe that reason was Simon and me.

  Announcers were doing the game wrap-up, interviewing Burt, asking him what sort of charmed night he was having, and asking Jackson how come his own game seemed off. The tinny voices emanated from the set into the hollow cavern of the basement.

  Everett had been sitting in that chair so long that his movement nearly caught me off guard. After rubbing his eyes and focusing for a second on the flashes from the post-game he got up from his chair to go find his wife and undoubtedly see why the hell she’d been out so damn long. The next set of noises came in quick succession. If I’d messed up what I was about to do it would have ruined the whole plan. I tugged at the two sets of wire I’d been clutching for at least two hours. My hand had grown a sweaty cramp as I held on to them, trying to make sure I’d be ready when I needed to be. One wire was connected to the sump motor under the stairs. It ran under the wall of the cellar to the space in Simon’s closet. The other ran up through kitchen floor boards above my head to the breaker box in the kitchen. I pressed the ends of the two wires together just as Simon had shown me, wary to keep the plastic insulation between my fingers and the bare parts of the wire. Almost instantly that noisy motor sputtered to life on the other side of the cellar wall and the sump well began to make echoed splish-splash noises as it had done on so many other nights.

  As Everett came towards the stairway next to the cellar I pulled my head out of the crack of light so he wouldn’t notice me there. He’d never realize the door to the cellar was open, not in this amount of light. And he wouldn’t notice the missing gate latch either. At least I hoped he wouldn’t. The moment the grinding sump motor began its work, I saw him look in the direction of Simon’s bedroom doorway where the pinstriped baseball drape hung. He sort of grunted. He was visibly tired. I saw his eyelids were heavy and he surely was ready to go up to bed. The next noise I heard was that of the footsteps above me; they traced a hasty route back to the landing where the door to the basement stairs was. I heard the thump of the end of Everett’s extension cord hit the wood of the top step, followed by the door slamming shut. The black and white TV set facing away from me was instantly off and it made no more flickering light and no more noise. Next was the sound of the swivel lock that so many times had been turned on Simon as he lay on his mattress down here.

  “What the hell. . .” Everett’s confusion was only going to get worse. He began climbing the stairs, and I could here his rings and his knuckles against the handrail on the wall the sta
irwell shared with the cellar. When he got to the top he pushed against the door but it would not open. “Goddammit,” he swore at the door. “Hon, is that you?” He was met with silence. “Is that you? I’m down here, you know! What in the hell are you doing?” Again, silence. There was a pause as he undoubtedly thought about who it could have been that had locked the door. He began pounding on the door with his fists. Loud, noisy pounds amid the silence. “You goddamned lil bastards. You open this door right now! You hear me?”

  Still, there was no voice from upstairs. There was a long pause and then I heard the squeak of a kitchen chair pulled from the table across the floor towards the back door followed by the brief sound of its legs scuffling against wood. “What the hell?” he muttered under his breath again. “Simon, I’m gonna kick your ass from here to the mainland if you don’t come and open this door!” He hollered again. “I’m gonna take your lil brother out back and tan his hide too. You think that last time was bad, Rupe, this one’s gonna be worse!”

  I could picture Everett’s face as he strained against the locked door to the upstairs. His anger was growing and the alcohol coursing in his veins was driving him to an inevitable explosion. If there had been enough light to see, I bet he’d have been red-faced with the arteries on his neck standing out. And there’d be little drops of spittle flying from his mouth as he yelled.

  After another brief silence, during which he undoubtedly thought that we boys would smarten up and unlock the basement door, he finally banged against it with his body weight. It shuddered, but the kitchen chair now propped under the handle and against the floor boards was enough to hold it. Good solid construction. It held Simon on numerous nights when he banged against it, bawling and terrified, it would surely hold his drunken stepfather with a chair behind it.

  The sump motor continued to pump away. Earlier Simon and I had removed the pump’s hose from its regular housing in the foundation where it ran out to a place behind the house to drain. We placed the end of it, instead, pointing into the cellar bin where I now sat perched holding the wires together. The cellar bin was lined with a large sheet of industrial plastic which was allowing the bin to fill up quickly; the water splashed against my body a little. Simon warned me how careful I had to be not to let the live wire in my left hand anywhere near that tub of water. If I did, I’d be fried. The realization of that mesmerized me and I was turned to stone. I sat there listening to the engine rumble away and the water pour into the cellar.

  When the hose finally stopped bringing water into the cellar bin, the motor switched off and I let the wires go. I tucked the live wire from the breaker box into the rafters as I stood on the edge of the narrow bin wall and let the other go somewhere under the shelves stacked with corn, tomatoes and beets.

  It was silent again. Still, calm. Everett began pounding his fists on the door some more, honestly believing that it was his wife up there or one of his sons and they would come to their senses and unlock the door.

  “That ain’t Mama up there, Everett.” I heard Simon’s voice from across the basement and, with my heart beating in my throat so hard I thought Everett would surely hear it, I tried to convince myself to look back through that doorway crack. This was it. Simon had made his presence known. We were locked down here with Everett and that was it. Everett had downed several beers, and half a bottle of hard liquor; If he wanted to take a strip out of Simon now, he was in prime shape for it. And this time, Simon wouldn’t heal up.

  I finally brought my eyes back to the cellar doorway where I could see a good portion of the basement. There Simon stood, having come out of his hiding place in the shadows behind the furnace. He’d peeled off his shirt and his shorts, his socks and his shoes. He stood there in the puddle of dim light from the bare bulb that hung over his head to his right. His body was pale, even in that light and he looked not only naked, but helpless and alone. I finally realized how truly frightening all of this was: my brother locked down here with Everett, truly in a maddened state of mind, with liquor in his blood and a foul stench of anger in his body.

  Everett came down the stairs, slowly. I saw him appear at the foot of them in the farthest corner of my vision with his fists clenched by his sides. His body was bent, crooked, the realization that his step-boy was standing there on the cold cement floor in his skivvies behind his eyes.

  “Now, we seem to have ourselves a little ‘situation’.” He seethed. “You been down here all this time, boy?” He asked him. Even from this angle I could see his brow wrinkled in confusion and distemper. “What the hell is your brother doin’ up there? Doesn’t he know I’m gonna whip him for this?” He looked Simon up and down, realizing that he was nearly naked. In his hand, Simon held a small wire torch sparker, and Everett squinted in the dark to see what it was. “What were you doin? Jackin’ off to my magazines over there behind the furnace. Why ain’t you got yer clothes on?” He laughed then and he held out his hands in an expression of helplessness, as though he was commenting to the world at large. “Jeezus H. Christ, my boy’s a goddamned perv— down here jerkin’ off in the basement with his pop’s skin rags...” He looked back at Simon again who was standing stone-faced and silent. “Where’s yer lil brother, boy, ‘se back there too?” He laughed then,

  “Rupe? Put yer peter back in yer shorts and come on out here—-”

  “I ain’t yer boy,” Simon interrupted him. His voice was shaking.

  “You...ain’t...my boy?” His face was strained with comprehension and growing frustration.

  “What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout?” His mind was fuzzy from the booze, from his fatigue. He straightened up, put his hands on his hips to put his sore back at ease, and lolled his head back on his neck. It was as though this all was distant from Everett, not even enough to conjure a faint glimmer of care.

  “That’s right, Everett. I ain’t never been yer boy.”

  Then Everett got downright angry. He took several steps forward, closing the gap between them. “What did you call me?”

  Simon waited. He looked to me like he was getting up the guts to say what came next.

  “You ain’t my Daddy. My Daddy’s gone. Dead. He ain’t never coming back but he was good to us. Good to Mama. You ain’t never been good to her. I ain’t never gonna call you ‘daddy’.”

  Everett was a little slow on the uptake before this, but he seemed in tip-top shape again. He bolted at Simon after he spoke these words. It was a quick movement, concise and straight, surprising considering the alcohol he’d consumed and the long drawn out way he was speaking.

  “Goddamn little—-”

  “Mr. Parson!” Simon called out suddenly towards the upstairs, surprising me, even though I had known it was to happen. In that instant the whole basement fell into darkness. Mr. Parson, standing in the kitchen above, had thrown the main circuit breaker, plunging the entire house into a state of powerlessness. Simon must have moved out of the way of the man’s lunge because I heard a crash as someone hit a pile of junk. The odd pieces clanged against each other and against the floor. Some of them whirled and spun and finally came to rest and then it was utterly silent. I couldn’t even hear footsteps, Everett’s socks or Simon’s bare feet brushing against the concrete. Nothing at all except the sound of my own hard panting.

  6.

  After Mr. Parson had caught us trying to steal the bottle of Johnny Walker from behind his counter at the hardware store, Simon had told him the entire situation. I wasn’t surprised, really. Mr. Parson, after all, had told us all about his dead uncle Samuel, how he was found nearly in the nude, clutching at his living room carpet with bloody legs dangling into his basement. The man’s dogs had completely disappeared in a house where there were no open windows, no open doors, and no signs of forced entry. It had been a mystery to Mr. Parson and the wave of black skittering creatures he’d witnessed didn’t come close to explaining the reason why Simon and I were there to get the bottle of liquor from him.

  When Parson told us of Samuel, it seemed
to be like a beacon on the dark horizon for us. I only hoped that Simon would feel the same. He did and old Parson, perhaps in a strange way, felt obligated to help us. In an interesting turn of irony, we needed his help anyway. Simon’s plan didn’t quite work without a third person and so this seemed like it was our only hope.

  When Simon had said, “We need your help so Everett won’t hurt us anymore. So he won’t kill us,” Parson was understandably shocked. How could it have been this bad? This bad without anyone really knowing about it? And as Simon told him the details of the last few years, of how Everett took out his frustrations on him and on Mama, of how we could rarely even buy groceries anymore because of Everett’s tight purse strings, he became even more disturbed. He also confirmed what Mr. Parson had seen in the basement of his uncle’s house last summer when that hissing noise filtered up from behind the stairs. The man sat in silence on his empty crate when Simon was done, wiping his brow with the hanky that was already damp with sweat. He looked like he was going over in his mind how all of this could have gotten so out of hand, how any of it could have happened in the first place. He cupped his hand to his mouth, “I’m sorry, boys. I’m so sorry.”