Bad Games

43



“Of course they’re cookies!” Maria Fannelli said. “I couldn’t very well see my own grandchildren without filling their bellies full of cookies could I?”

Carrie looked up at Arty, a giggle close to breaking loose. Arty looked down and met the child’s gaze. He winked, then out of the side of his mouth whispered, “See what I mean?”



* * *



Jim stared at his cell phone, willing it to beep. He wanted things to start so badly. He could hear Arty, his mother, and the two children above him, moving around and chattering back and forth, his mother’s laughter echoing above all else. He wanted to be a part of it. Waiting and listening down in the dark was agonizing. Yes, it was a vital part of the game, and yes, the next time it would be Arty’s turn to do the laborious bits behind the curtain while he got to work center stage, but those thoughts gave little comfort. Now was all that mattered. And right now he was anxious and annoyed.

Jim walked over to Patrick and kicked him hard in the center of the back. When Patrick grunted and Amy whimpered for her husband, Jim said, “Sorry. I was just seeing if you guys were still awake.”



* * *



Once Arty was fairly confident his fictional brood had settled into the family room, he explained to his mother about the wound on his cheek (a silly accident he told her, nothing more), then took out his cell phone.

“Are you going to call Mommy and Daddy to see when they’re coming back to the party?” Carrie asked.

Maria looked at her son, her confusion evident. Arty smiled and walked towards the sofa. Caleb was at Maria’s feet munching on a cookie, and Arty ruffled his buzzed hair before leaning into the sofa, close enough to kiss his mother’s ear. He whispered, “It’s a little game we play, Ma. She’s just being silly.”

Maria looked over at Carrie, then back at her son. Her face held the same look of innocence and wonder as Carrie’s did, and Arty found it hard to stomach the ironic similarity between the two.

“Yes, honey,” Arty said. “I’m giving them a call now.” He looked at his mother and winked. Maria smiled and laughed. Caleb leaned his head all the way back into Maria’s lap and asked her what was funny. She responded by leaning forward, kissing Caleb’s forehead, and then offering up more cookies from the plate to her right. Caleb happily took another (the combo of more sugar and a four-year-old attention span kicking his query to the curb), and began to hum as he munched away, crumbs sprinkling the front of his shirt after each bite.



* * *



Jim’s cell phone beeped and his heart jumped. He flipped the small device open, casting a tiny green light in the black basement. The message read:



in family room. move now. be quick n quiet



Jim snapped the phone shut and jammed it into his pocket. He squatted down next to Patrick and said, “Okay, big man, you’re first.”



* * *



Carrie looked disappointed when Arty returned to the family room with his cell phone shut in hand.

“Why didn’t you let me talk to them?” she asked.

“They’re going to be here shortly, honey. They said they’ll talk to you then.”

Carrie still looked displeased. Maria patted the spot next to her on the sofa and said, “Carrie, come on over here and sit next to me.”

Carrie looked at Arty first: an uncertain look a child might give their parent before braving a swimming pool for the first time. Arty stood by the doorway of the family room; it gave him a reasonably clear view through the adjoining den and into the foyer that held the stairway. He was stood there for a reason, and Carrie’s look of uncertainty threatened a journey towards him.

“Go on,” he said as he nudged her over with a quick flick of his head. “Don’t be rude.”

Carrie took a big bite of her cookie then headed toward the sofa. Arty let go of the breath he was holding and smiled inside. Carrie flopped up onto the sofa seat causing Maria to bounce.

“Whoop!” Maria laughed. “Such a big girl my granddaughter is!” She wrapped her arm around Carrie, pulled her in and squeezed.

Carrie allowed the hug, but when she withdrew the little girl’s expression made Arty hold his breath again.

“Why do you do that?” Carrie asked.

“Do what?”

Arty’s voice was sharp and firm. “Carrie.”

Carrie ignored him. “Pretend to be my grandmother.”

Maria’s face was like a child’s again. “Pretend?” she said.

Arty, who had no intention of leaving his post by the family room door anytime soon, risked a quick walk over to the sofa and bent forward so he was eye level with Carrie. His eyes held a threat, but hers returned no fear; they were stubborn and unblinking. She simply turned her head back to Maria (if she wasn’t sitting on a sofa, Arty was certain the willful little brat would have turned her entire back to him) and continued.

“Yeah,” she continued. “You like to pretend you’re everyone’s grandmother.”

Maria put a hand to her chest. She then slid the hand upward, squeezing both lapels of her robe together, a habit of hers when she got confused, tightening up her armor to keep the bad out.

“I do?” she eventually asked. She looked at Arty with another expression he was all too familiar with:

Am I forgetting things again, Arthur?

Arty burned with rage. He wanted to break his own rules of the game and whack his palm across the side of Carrie’s defiant little face. He wanted to grab the little girl by her ear and tell her what he and his brother had planned for her and her family later this evening. He wanted to tell her so badly his stomach cramped and his head throbbed.

And then his own voice, like a hand on his shoulder, counseled him—as it always did.

This is a big part of the game, Arty. You need to harness this feeling. Bottle it up for now. Uncork it on the little bitch at the appropriate time. This is one of your many gifts. What makes you and Jim so special. What separates you from the rest of the rabble: the pathetic fools with grandiose delusions of malevolent superiority, who ultimately fall flat because they lack the control to truly excel. And you do excel, Arty. If you could leash your rage with those hillbillies at the bar, you can certainly do it with a six-year-old child. All part of the game, Arty…all part of the game.

The red in Arty’s skin drained away. His breathing steadied and the tight fist at his side slowly unclenched. He laughed hard and loud, and with a smile that was all teeth said, “She’s teasing you, Mom! The little stinker is always doing this kind of thing.”

Both Maria and Carrie stared at Arty, confused, but each for different reasons. Maria ultimately decided to shake off her confusion and return to giddy, albeit anxious, laughter. And to Arty’s delight, Carrie had lost interest in the practice of grilling fake grandma; she was soon crunching on another cookie, her eyes apathetically fluttering all over the room’s décor.

Confident the crisis had been thoroughly averted, Arty returned to his view by the family room door. Upon arrival, he immediately saw his brother Jim, carefully trudging up the stairs with the bound and gagged Patrick hoisted over his shoulder like a giant duffel bag. Arty became so excited he nearly pissed himself.