Bad Games

61



Arty looked at his mother in disbelief. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Maria Fannelli returned a bizarre look. “Mom? I don’t have any children, young man. And I’ll say it again: if that little boy is this woman’s son, then—”

“Mom, stop it.”

Maria frowned and snorted. “You can call me ‘mom’ all you like, but I can assure you; you’re not my son, mister. I’m unable to have children.”

Arty started breathing heavily. “Mom, you’re having one of your spells. You’re confused. It’s me, Arthur. And I am your son. You have two sons actually. James and Arthur.”

“One of my spells?”

Arty felt his face grow hot. He looked at Amy, furious that she was witnessing this. His mother had gotten worse this past year, no question. But she had never forgotten Arty and Jim before. Never.

“Yes, Mom, you have spells; you forget things.”

Maria shifted in her recliner, the knife still to her throat. “That’s absurd. Where’s Sam? I want to see my husband.”

Arty looked at Amy again. Her expression was one of interest. She could have easily gloated at Arty’s growing frustration over his mother’s dementia, but instead she seemed more curious than anything. This angered him all the same. He did not want his mother’s ailment to be the subject of her intrigue. He did not want her here at all. Arty could feel his uncanny ability to remain calm in the face of adversity waning.

“Sam—my father—is dead, Mom. He passed away a long time ago.”

Maria went to sit up, but Amy pulled her back down and kept the knife tight to her throat. “Don’t move,” she said.

Maria tried to turn and make eye contact with Amy, but Amy would not allow it; she gripped the woman’s shoulder and pressed it back into the recliner, pinning her.

“What is happening?!” Maria yelled. Her face came alive with panic. “Where is my husband?! Who are you people?!”

“Mom, stop it!”

“I am not your mother! I don’t have any children!”

“Mom, you’re confused! You’re sick and you get confused!”

“Where is Sam? I want my husband! SAM!!!”

“Your husband is dead, Mom. He died over twenty years ago. You have a sickness that makes you forget thing—”

“No!”

“I’m your son. My name is Arthur, and I’m your son.”

Maria Fannelli closed her eyes as if shutting out the world, refuting such wild claims.

“Mom, please…” Arty’s voice finally cracked. His anchor had forgotten him.

“Tough break, Arthur,” Amy said. “It sounds like she may need some medical attention…”

“Mom…”

“…and she’s not going to get it like this. Now—you let my family go, and I’ll let your mother go. After that, you can get her all the help she needs.”

Arty hung his head. The gun arm fell to his side. His grip on Caleb’s neck and shoulders, however, remained—a queer means of support perhaps.

His mother had forgotten him. In time her memory would likely return, but how soon until it happened again? And what if it never returned?

Amy had mocked him just now by calling him Arthur. She was enjoying this. She was reveling in his worst nightmare. This was not right. He was the one who gave the nightmares. He and Jim. Not her. Not anyone.

It was all coming apart. Jim was hurt badly, and his mother had forgotten him. His beloved anchor had told him she had no children. He couldn’t bear it. His stomach burned. That bitch was mocking him, loving his nightmare. Something had to be done.

His mother would only get worse.

(mocking him)

She’ll only get worse.

(mocking his pain)

Worse…

Arty lifted his head, his face stone. “She doesn’t need medical attention,” he said. “I’m going to take care of her just as I’ve always done.” Arty raised the gun, pointed it at his mother’s chest. “My mother will be with me until the day she dies.”

He fired.