Deadman's Castle Page 13

  I tried to imagine a tiny Angelo afraid of the boogeyman.

  “But Babau never got me,” he said. “So my mom started throwing in other stuff to scare me. Watch out for this; watch out for that.”

  She sounded just like Dad with his big cars and black cars and his men in dark glasses. But there was one difference between them. “My dad’s afraid too,” I said. “He’s not pretending.”

  “I know it,” said Angelo. “Your dad’s been running around saying that stuff so long that he actually believes it. He’s a psycho, Watson. Your dad’s a nutbar.”

  “What about the policeman in the kitchen?”

  “You dreamed him up.”

  “The Protectors?”

  “You ever seen them? Ever talked to them?”

  “Mom’s tears?”

  “If I was married to your dad, I’d be crying.”

  He had an explanation for everything. But I thought there was one question he could never answer. “So why did my dad come back?”

  “Who knows? He liked the neighborhood.” Angelo twirled his finger around Smasher’s ear. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “He’d only get mad,” I said. “He never tells me anything.”

  But what if Angelo was right, and all the years we’d spent running from place to place had been wasted? Could my dad really have made up the Lizard Man and the Protectors?

  “Hey, Watson,” said Angelo.

  “What?”

  “Maybe we knew each other in kindergarten.”

  “Did you go to the school by Deadman’s Castle?”

  “Yeah”

  “Then maybe we did.”

  THE SKINNY MAN

  Another week flew by and suddenly it was Friday. A girl named Hayden announced that she was planning a year-end party at her house. It would be on the last day of school, only two weeks away.

  Hayden was tall and pretty, and she always chewed bubble gum that smelled like watermelon. I didn’t know her very well, but it made me feel special that she gave me an invitation, along with everybody else.

  I tried to imagine what a party might be like. I thought about it over and over: music playing loudly, everybody crowded together. Sometimes I saw myself laughing and having fun, girls coming up one after the other to ask me to dance. But other times I was sure I’d end up standing alone against the wall, ignored by everybody.

  Zoe told me I had to go. “It’s going to be epic,” she said. “You gotta get new clothes.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Can you go today?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then go,” said Zoe. “Right after school. Use my credit.”

  “You’re not going with me?” I asked.

  “I’m not your mother,” she said. “I can’t dress you all the time.”

  I’d never crossed Jefferson by myself. I got a bit lost and ended up passing the house where I’d lived before. Seeing it gave me an idea, the sort of thing that would make Dad absolutely furious if he knew what I was up to. But I couldn’t imagine how it could do any harm, so I opened my backpack and took out a pen. On a scrap of paper ripped from a notebook, I wrote down the address and hurried along to the Salvation Army.

  Zoe’s mother wasn’t there. On the stool behind the counter sat a man with a bushy white beard that made him look like a garden gnome. He said, “May I help you?”

  “Just looking,” I told him, hoping Zoe’s mom would show up very soon.

  “Looking is free,” he said. “But if you break it you buy it.”

  As I walked through the store he watched me all the time, leaning this way and that, stretching his neck. When he couldn’t see me anymore he followed me down the aisles, tidying things that didn’t need to be tidied.

  I chose a pair of jeans and a nice shirt, then went straight to the directories that Zoe had shown me. They were arranged by year, going back nearly half a century. As the bearded man watched me, pretending that he wasn’t, I pulled out the volume for the year I’d started kindergarten.

  It stank of old attics and damp basements, a smell that tickled my nose and made the gnome sneeze.

  I could hear him muttering to himself. He sneezed again and wiped his nose with his fingers. In a louder voice he snapped at me. “Do you intend to buy that book?”

  “Can’t I just look?” I asked.

  “It’s not a library.”

  The gnome retreated to his place behind the cash register, then rearranged things on the counter to give himself a clear view of me and the books. I found the right address and, beside it, a name that didn’t sound familiar. But I hoped it was mine. I got out my pen and piece of paper and wrote it down, though there wasn’t a chance I’d ever forget that name. I wanted to turn it into something I could see and hold. To make it real.

  I left without the jeans and shirt. The bearded man refused to let me take them on Zoe’s credit. So I walked out with nothing more than the piece of paper. I held it clenched in my fist, and that night I lay in bed reading the name over and over until I fell asleep.

  The next day, Angelo and I hung out at the park on Dead End Road. We sat beside the river and threw sticks into the shrunken stream, racing them over the shallows. Mine kept snagging in the weeds, and I soon got tired of it.

  I rolled over on my stomach and picked through a patch of clover, looking for one with four leaves. I said, “You know that house across Jefferson?”

  “You mean where you lived when you were little?” asked Angelo.

  “Yeah.” I ran my fingers through the tiny plants. “I looked it up in a directory at the Salvation Army. I found out who lived there.”

  “Who?”

  I sat up again and hauled the piece of paper from my pocket. By then it was scrunched and dirty, and Angelo frowned as I unfolded it carefully. He snatched it away and looked at the name. Robert Weaver.

  “So you think this is your dad?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He grunted. “It’s possible.”

  “You really think so?”

  “You look like a Weaver.”

  He turned the paper over and saw the other names I’d written on the back. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I was trying to remember my first name,” I said.

  He read them aloud. “Thor? Kodiak? Rocky?” Then he laughed. “I don’t see you as a Rocky.”

  “Then what do you think?” I asked.

  “Percy,” he said. “No. Willy. I bet you were Wee Willy Weaver.”

  I snatched the scrap of paper and shoved it into my pocket.

  Angelo snapped a stick in two and threw half of it into the river. “You going to show that to your dad?” he asked.

  “No way.” I threw the other half of the stick beside his. “But I was thinking…What if you go up to my mom and say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Weaver.’ See what she does.”

  “That’s the dumbest idea I ever heard,” said Angelo.

  “Maybe I’ll try it,” I said. Then my stick ran aground, and Angelo said, “Let’s do something else.”

  AN INNOCENT CHICKEN

  Angelo’s uncle Paolo died and his mother had to fly to Toronto for the funeral. He came home with me the next Friday, planning to stay two nights.

  Mom said, “I’m sorry your uncle died.” But Angelo only shrugged and said, “I don’t even know him. He calls at Christmas and talks to Ma in Italian. He forgets my name.”

  That Saturday was kind of gray and miserable. Angelo and I didn’t feel like going out, so we just lay around in the living room after breakfast, watching one of Bumble’s DVDs with her and Hideous George.

  Dad came in with his second cup of coffee. “So how do you boys plan to spend the day?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There’s nothing to do around here.”

  “Nothing to do?” He was trying to act like we were all best friends, the Three Amigos. “Well, what would you be doing if you were at Angelo’s house?”

  “Playing video games,” I
told him.

  “Oh.”

  It wasn’t like he was mad at me for that. He sounded more disappointed.

  “You could read books,” he said.

  “Yeah, Dad, thanks,” I said.

  You can only watch so much of Thomas the Tank Engine before you feel kind of sick. Especially if you’ve seen it a dozen times before. So Angelo and I went out and messed around till the middle of the afternoon.

  When we got back to my room we found a box placed on my bed. Alfred Chicken, it said in big yellow letters. Inside was a gaming system that thrilled me at first, until I saw what it was: an ancient Game Boy with a screen the size of a Post-it note.

  Angelo laughed when he saw it. “Where do you think your dad found that?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “At Fun and Games, I guess.” It might have been sitting on a shelf for years, unopened.

  Angelo read the blurbs on the box as I put in the batteries and plugged in the game. “‘An innocent chicken. In a startling world,’” he said. “Hey, it has sound effects.”

  The screen was gray and black. I took one look and tossed the thing back on the bed. “Thanks for nothing, Dad,” I said.

  “Hey, c’mon,” said Angelo. “Let’s try it out.”

  “Why? You wanna be an innocent chicken in a startling world?”

  “Not really,” he said. “But your dad went out and bought that to make you happy.”

  “Or to spy on me with it.”

  “See? You’re as crazy as he is.” Angelo dropped the empty box on my bed. “Start it up.”

  The game had different levels, but every one was pretty much the same. You had to peck balloons and gather diamonds as you tried to get a pot of jam from Mr. Peckles. There was hideous music and sound effects that never changed. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  For an hour we passed the machine back and forth. Then Dad knocked on the door and came in.

  I thought he’d be angry to find Smasher on the bed. But he barely glanced toward her. As soon as he saw us playing the game his face lit up. “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dad.” And I actually meant it. “Thanks.”

  His smile blurred into his old look of worry. “I wasn’t sure if it was the right choice,” he said. “I don’t know much about video games.”

  “You wanna try, Mr. Watson?” asked Angelo.

  “Yeah, Dad.” I held the Game Boy toward him.

  Back came the smile. “Thank you, but no,” Dad said. “I came up to say we’re going out, your mother and I. We’ve decided to see a movie at the Bijou. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “We might not be back before dark.”

  I knew what that meant. “So Amy’s coming over,” I said.

  “No, no.” Dad held up his hands like he was stopping traffic. “It’s only two hours. Your mother thinks you boys will be fine on your own. I just wanted to ask if you’ll look after Bumble.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You’ll keep her in sight at all times?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  He left, and as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Angelo asked, “Who’s Amy?”

  “Never mind,” I told him.

  But he’d already guessed. “She’s your babysitter, isn’t she?”

  “Shut up, Bonito.”

  He laughed. “I bet your folks get a sitter every time they go out.”

  “They never go out,” I told him.

  “Never? Come on.”

  “Well, almost,” I said.

  “You know why they didn’t call a sitter?”

  “ ’Cause you’re here?” I imagined we were thinking the same thing, that Angelo would be my sitter. But he shook his head.

  “No,” he told me. “It’s because they’re not really going anywhere. They’ll drive a little way down the street, then stop and watch the house.”

  “Why?”

  “To test you.”

  “We’re looking after Bumble,” I said. “Where are we going to go?”

  “We could take her down to the river. Out to the park,” said Angelo, waving his hands in each direction. “It doesn’t matter. They want to see if you open the curtains or something. It’s a test, Watson. Maybe they’ll knock on the door and see if you open it without asking who’s there.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Dad might do something like that. But not Mom.”

  Angelo had to think for a while. I could imagine little gears whirring in his head, calculating an answer. “I know,” he said when it came to him. “Your dad will find a reason to leave your mom alone at the movies. Then he’ll come back and watch the house.”

  An hour later, after an early supper, we were all standing at the door. Even Smasher was there, wagging her tiny tail. But Bumble clung to Mom’s legs and pleaded with her not to leave. Mom kept saying, “Bumblebee, please,” and “Sweetie, it’s all right,” until Dad finally pulled them apart and got Mom into the minivan. Poor Bumble stood crying as Dad backed down the driveway.

  He made it almost to the street before he stopped. His window opened; he leaned out and yelled at us. “Go back inside now. Make sure the doors are locked. Keep the curtains drawn.”

  I gave him a wave to show that I’d heard; then we sealed ourselves into the house. I put the chain on its slider; I threw the dead bolt, and Bumble wept beside me, holding tightly to her grumpy.

  There was only one way to cheer her up that never failed. I said, “Who wants ice cream?”

  “Sure!” said Angelo.

  Mom’s telemarketing stuff was still spread out on the kitchen table, so I pushed it into a pile and stacked the spy phone on top. Angelo sat on one side, Bumble on the other, and I opened the freezer to get the ice cream. Smasher stood right at my feet, staring up, shuffling sideways to keep from being stepped on.

  Behind me, Bumble said, “You better not do that,” and I looked around to see Angelo fiddling with the phone. I said, “Yeah, don’t do that. It’s my mom’s.”

  “I’m not going to hurt it,” said Angelo. He put on the headset. “Is this that phone that doesn’t have a number?”

  I’d forgotten that I’d told him that, why I couldn’t call my folks from his house. “Yes,” I said.

  “It can’t be traced?”

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  His fingers hovered over the buttons. “You ever make prank calls?”

  I’d never even thought of doing that. The spy phone was something never to be touched.

  Angelo turned to my sister. “Hey, Bumble,” he said. “You want to watch a video while you eat your ice cream?”

  “I’m not allowed,” said Bumble.

  “Oh, this one time will be all right,” he said. “Don’t you think so, Igor?”

  It was obvious that he wanted her out of the room. I didn’t know why, but I went along with it and got Bumble settled in front of the TV with a little bowl of ice cream and a Pokémon video. Smasher lay right in front of her, and they started sharing the ice scream spoon for spoon.

  The Pokémon shrieked, and my sister giggled, and I went back to the kitchen.

  Angelo said, “Take off your sock.”

  I said, “What?”

  “I want to call that phone number.”

  This did not seem to me like a good idea. “No,” I said.

  “Why not?” said Angelo. “No one’s going to know.”

  “But—”

  “Relax, Watson. What do you think’s going to happen?”

  I had no answer for that. In all the years I had carried the number around I had never thought of calling it.

  “It’s probably some stupid number to a phone booth somewhere,” said Angelo.

  When I didn’t do what he wanted, Angelo got mad. His eyes went to slits; his voice hardened. “Are you scared?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then let’s do it.”

  I felt like I had no choice. I took off my sock, pulled out the money. Angelo dialed the number.


  Through the tiny speaker in the headset came the ringing of a telephone. I pictured black helicopters suddenly thrumming overhead, Navy Seals sliding down ropes, men in body armor bursting through the door with machine guns.

  Ring.

  A man answered right away, his voice deep and growly.

  He said, “Talk to me.”

  I stared at Angelo; he stared at me. Then he pressed the button to end the call and dropped the headset. He even unplugged the phone from the wall, yanking hard on the cord. “Who was that?” he said.

  It was the creepiest thing I’d ever heard.

  WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TELL A SECRET

  There was no way we were going to sit and watch Pokémon with Bumble. So we dragged her up to my room and played Alfred Chicken as she rolled on the bed with Smasher. We pecked the stupid balloons and tried not to think about our phone call.

  My room was unbearably hot. But Angelo had made the window slide so easily that it wouldn’t stay open on its own. So I propped it up with one of my schoolbooks and the cardboard box from Alfred Chicken. Bumble lay on my bed to look out at the backyard, through curtains that flapped open and shut in the warm breeze from the river. Outside, it was getting dark. But the room pulsed with the glow of the video screen.

  It was my turn with the game when Bumble suddenly shouted, “Igor, look!”

  “Wait a minute,” I told her.

  But she shrieked even louder. “There’s someone across the river.”

  Angelo got onto the bed. He pulled the curtains aside and leaned on the windowsill. “Hey, she’s right,” he said. “There is someone out there.”

  My chicken bounced on a spring and flapped its stubby wings. It landed on a snail that was scuttling across the screen. Beep-beep-beeeep. My game ended.

  Angelo was kneeling on the bed with his arms stretched across the window. Both Smasher and Bumble peered around him.

  The sun had just set. On the far side of the river, a light was moving through the forest. It turned and bobbed, flared and faded, sometimes bursting into a sudden glare as it reflected off the water.

  The Protectors, I thought. They were coming already. I said, “I knew we shouldn’t have made that call.”