Bad Games

28



Patrick and Amy were barely down the length of their driveway when Lorraine called to them from next door.

“Shit,” Patrick whispered.

“Told you,” Amy whispered back.

“You guys back so soon?” Patrick called over to her.

The couple met Lorraine halfway, on the strip of lawn between the two cabins.

“Norman decided to take the kids for ice cream after the film. The parlor is a bit out of the way, so you two still have a good deal of time left to yourselves.” Lorraine winked at them.

“Perfect,” Amy said. “We were just about to take a moon-lit walk around the lake.”

“Romantic stuff, ya know?” Patrick said.

Amy elbowed him. Lorraine smiled and looked up at the sky. “Well you couldn’t have picked a better night for it. It’s a beautiful one.”

Amy looked up with her.

Patrick asked about the kids and Norman again. “So wait, what happened? Did Norm come back and drop you off before heading back out with the kids?”

Lorraine nodded. “I was getting tired. Glad I’m a grandmother now and can give them back at the end of the night. I forgot how exhausting it can be.”

Amy gripped her husband’s forearm with both hands and began dragging him away from Lorraine. “Hence the reason we treasure every minute.”

Patrick pretended he was being dragged harder than he actually was and gave Lorraine a silly look. “I guess that means we’re going. Thanks again Lorraine, we’ll be back soon.”

Lorraine laughed and headed back inside.



* * *



They had just finished their stroll around the lake.

“I don’t see Norm’s car in the driveway yet,” Patrick said, squinting towards the Mitchell’s cabin. “We can do another lap if you want.”

“Oh, so you’re liking this now, are you?” Amy asked.

Patrick looked out onto the lake before answering. The smooth black surface of the lake reflected hypnotic patterns of moonlight that held his gaze like a shiny pendulum.

While the serenity of the cabin and its remote surroundings were the primary motives for their sojourn west, Patrick only just realized, to his own surprise, that it was his wife’s suggestion of observing the lake at night that proved to be the most tranquil and soothing element of the entire vacation thus far.

“Yeah,” he sighed. He pulled her close and looked out onto the lake again. “It really is beautiful.” A shimmer of moonlight reflected off the lake and caressed the contours of Patrick’s face as though it appreciated the compliment.

Amy rubbed his chest. “I’ve got such a big, sensitive man.”

“Sensitive but tough, right?”

“Oh of course, baby—the toughest.”

“Good. Because I can be macho too you know. I can belch or fart or punch an animal if you want.”

“Please don’t.” She pulled away and took hold of his arm to start lap number two.

They strolled a good twenty yards more, periodically glancing left at the lit cabins before shifting their gaze east to become entranced once more by the lake’s reflection of the moon.

“Beautiful night for a walk,” a male voice said to their left.

They stopped. Patrick smiled and said, “Sure is.”

Amy squinted and leaned forward towards the voice. When her eyes settled she recoiled as if a bug had flown in her face. She spun into Patrick.

“It’s him,” she said.

Patrick looked down at his wife, then up at the wooden porch from where the man had greeted them. The porch was roughly ten feet away, three small stairs leading up to it. The man who had addressed them was leaning against a banister and periodically flicking a metal wind chime that hung just above and in front of his face. The man’s head was shaved and he was leering, not smiling, at the couple.

“Who?” Patrick asked.

“Him from the store. From Giant. From the f*cking window in our bedroom!”

Patrick stared at his wife in disbelief. The man flicked the wind chime again, the ding lifting Patrick’s head towards him once more. He spoke to Amy but kept his eyes on the man on the porch. “What? Are you sure?”

Amy held on to Patrick’s hand with a death-grip and stepped forward, her husband’s arm like a rope while scaling down a mountain. She squinted again. The man with the shaved took a step forward, took a bow, and blew her a kiss.

Motherf*cker.

Patrick ripped his arm away from Amy and charged the porch, only to stop instantly on the first step. The man had drawn a gun, Patrick’s head the target. Patrick stood frozen in mid-stride, like a child playing a game of Red light, Green light.

“Whoa, easy there, stud,” the man with the shaved head said. “You’ve got an awfully mean look in your eyes. I’d hate to have to shoot them out.”

Patrick remained still. Amy’s heavy breathing could be heard behind his back. The man with the gun shifted his head to the left and looked past Patrick, towards the heavy breathing.

“Hey, lover,” the man said to Amy. “I take it you remember me then?”

Amy said nothing. She had chosen, like her husband, to stay frozen and silent while the gun was still up and pointed in their direction.

“Of course you do,” the man continued. “I mean a woman who gets that worked up over a few harmless words in a supermarket isn’t likely to forget so easily.” The man kept the gun up, turned his head and wiped his mouth on his shoulder. He’d started to salivate. “But if you ask me, that was nothing to how worked up you were last night when this stud right here was pumpin’ away between those sexy little legs of yours.”

Patrick clenched his jaw. His body was twitching now, begging to let his common sense disappear so he could rush forward at all costs. The man with the shaved head cocked the gun’s trigger, his leer becoming a laugh.

“Am I pissin’ you off, big man? Is it pissin’ you off that I saw your slutty little wife riding your pole, her beautiful titties bouncing up and down like—” He moaned. “—like two scoops of f*ck yeah?” He wiped his mouth again, continued leering. “Because I know it would piss me off. I mean if some guy hit on my woman in a supermarket, then returned later that night to watch her get f*cked? Jeeeesus would I be pissed.”

Patrick, slow and deliberate, took two steps backwards and stood upright. He paused, then chanced a few more steps until he was beside his wife. He maneuvered Amy behind him to shield her.

“Well maybe you’re not so pissed after all,” the man said after Patrick backed off. “Me? I would have ran up on this porch and taught me a lesson.”

The words were out of Patrick’s mouth before he could snatch them back. “Put that gun down and I’ll show you how pissed off I am.”

The man with the shaved head held the gun up to his face, gave it a curious look and said, “What? This? Is this the reason you won’t grow a pair and come on up to defend your wife’s honor?”

Patrick said nothing.

“You’re thinking I’d shoot you if you came up here?” the man continued. “I couldn’t shoot you, pal. I could never hurt anyone. Just isn’t in me.”

The man walked towards a wicker table in the center of the porch and set the gun down. “There.” He splayed empty hands. “All gone.”

The man then turned those open hands into fists and put them up in a classic 19th century boxing stance, one fist behind the other, chin ludicrously high. “Come on then, stud. Let’s do a bit of fisticuffs, yeah?” He made small circles with his fists as though ready for the opening bell. “Come on, you don’t want your wife to think you’re a p-ssy, do ya? Because no matter what they might tell you, it’s always the knight-in-shining-armor shit that gets ’em wet. You see, a woman will make love to a pacifist…” He smirked. “But she’ll f*ck a knight.”

Patrick twitched again.

The man exaggerated his stance, raised his fists high. “So what’s it gonna be, stud? You gonna be the knight or the p-ssy?”

Patrick started forward.

Amy lunged after her husband, grabbed his arm with both hands. “No!” She fronted Patrick and placed both hands on his chest. “No, Patrick, he’ll grab the gun as soon as you go up there. He’s the p-ssy!” She turned and faced the man, one hand still on her husband’s chest. “YOU’RE the p-ssy!” She turned back to Patrick. “We’ll call the police. We’ll go home right now and call the police.” Back over her shoulder again at the man, “WE’RE CALLING THE POLICE!”

The screen door to the cabin opened, a metallic bang declaring it shut once the porch’s newest occupant appeared. He was a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a welt on his cheek. He was holding a doll. “What the hell is going on out here?” the man asked. “Can’t a guy play with his doll in peace?”

Patrick’s mouth fell open.

Amy leaned forward and squinted. “Is that…?”

“Arty,” Patrick whispered.

Arty held up Josie the doll. He made one of the plastic arms wave at the stunned couple. “Howdy, Penn State fans.”