The Phantom Cabinet Page 6

  In fact, Benjy now seemed more confident than ever. His posture had improved remarkably, and the boy now demonstrated a hitherto unrevealed ability to converse with their female peers. He’d even gotten Missy Peterson’s home phone number, after pledging to assist with her research paper.

  Benjy launched from his swing, punctuating a lengthy jump with a cloud of disturbed sand particles. Emmett and Douglas followed suit, flying forward with reckless abandon.

  “That was fun,” enthused Emmett. “Let’s do it again.”

  As Emmett turned back toward the swing set, Benjy grabbed his shoulder in gentle restraint. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What’s your idea?” asked Douglas. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with that slide. You know how hot it gets at this time of year.”

  “That’s not it. It’s just that I’ve been thinking. We’ve spent like, what, a thousand hours swinging here over the years? In all that time, we never really explored the swing set’s possibilities.”

  “You want to loop it, don’t you?” Emmett asked incredulously.

  “Wrong. I’m thinking of something even cooler. Watch this.”

  Before an audience of two, Benjy reclaimed his swing and kicked his way skyward. The metal creaked with his efforts; soon he’d achieved an impressive arc. “Are you watching?” he called out.

  Hearing their confirmation, Benjy’s brow drew down, deeply focused. Swinging forward, he began to lean back, going from horizontal to almost completely upended. Emmett and Douglas gasped in tandem, but their friend’s acrobatics remained yet uncompleted. Holding onto the chains until the last possible moment, Benjy executed a sort of backflip off his swing, landing with bent knees, whooping with relief.

  Emmett engulfed Benjy in an impromptu bear hug, shouting, “What the heck was that? That was amazing!”

  Laughing, Benjy assured him that it was no big deal. “I’ll show you guys how it’s done.”

  And so he did. On stationary swings, Benjy instructed his two buddies on the stunt’s mechanics. “All you have to do is lean back and let the swing’s motion flip you over,” he explained. “Once you are high enough off the ground, you do something like a backwards somersault. I’ll do it again, so pay attention.”

  After Benjy completed another swing flip, Emmett was ready to give it a try. He screamed as he left his swing, ending up toppled onto his rump, undoubtedly enjoying the experience. On his next try, he landed solidly on his feet, celebrating success with a round of high fives.

  Students had wandered over from the lunch tables, intrigued by the spectacle. They milled just outside the playground area, conversing with excited gesticulations.

  Douglas, fighting cowardly inclinations, claimed a swing and began to rock himself upward. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, heard his friends cheering him on. The eyes of his classmates were upon him, and he realized that this was his chance to finally gain their respect.

  “It’ll be easy,” he assured himself.

  Leaning back, Douglas felt blood rush to his head, as his sweat-slickened palms struggled to maintain their grip. He was staring up at his feet now, and had no recourse but to attempt a backflip.

  As his rear end lifted off the seat, Douglas’ hands slipped. He found himself plummeting groundward, headfirst. His landing spot filled his vision now: a groove where countless feet had scraped sand to hard-packed dirt.

  Time slowed, as Douglas awaited his fate. He heard the crowd grow silent, anticipating inevitable tragedy. Perhaps they’d be kinder to him in death than they’d been in life, he mused. Wordlessly, he bid his father and friends farewell.

  But his goodbyes were premature. Somehow, the swing swooped in from behind, catching him in the abdomen. Instead of snapping his neck, Douglas belly-flopped onto a familiar rubber strip. As searing white pain split his middle, his lungs evacuated in one big whoosh.

  Screams of excitement erupted around him. Douglas was unable to move. Winded, he lay there sputtering, as Emmett and Benjy rushed to his side.

  “My God!” Emmett cried. “You almost died, Douglas!”

  “The swing saved your life!” Benjy chimed in. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  They helped him to the ground, where Douglas drew his knees to his chest. His vision was tear-blurred, turning his friends into abstract smears. He remained in that position until the bell sounded, then lurched his way to class.

  He heard his peers gossiping about him, too awed for their characteristic negativity. Emily Mortimer, a bespectacled brunette with an overbite, even hugged him outside the classroom door. “It was a miracle,” she whispered in his ear. “A genuine miracle. The swing shouldn’t have been there, you know, but your guardian angel reached down and protected you.”

  Throughout the post-lunch lesson, his abdominal pain worsened. When class finally let out, upon lifting his shirt for Benjy’s inspection, Douglas found his body bisected by a thick red welt. It would be weeks before the enflamed epidermis returned to normal.

  ««—»»

  Douglas’ voice shattered the silence of his lonely home. “Frank!” he called “Was that you who saved me today? Frank! Frank!”

  Circumnavigating through every unoccupied room, Douglas continued to call his friend’s name. His stomach ached, but the discomfort reminded him that he was still alive. Douglas felt sure that he had some paranormal presence to thank for his rescue—that more than mere chance had maneuvered the swing beneath him—and Commander Frank Gordon remained the likeliest suspect. But the astronaut remained absent, and Douglas’ entreaties fell on no ears but his own.

  Confused and exhausted, Douglas returned to the living room, to collapse onto the sofa. He powered on the television. As he lingered, waiting to see what lay beyond the commercial break, the room’s temperature began to drop. The little hairs on his arms and back neck rose; his teeth yearned to chatter. Invisible hands reached beneath his armpits, pulling Douglas to his feet.

  Not content to see the boy merely standing, the visitor hefted him upward. Watching his feet leave the floor, visions of his earlier plummet manifested within his mind’s eye.

  “Frank? Whoever you are, this isn’t funny. C’mon, put me down.”

  He continued to rise until his head met the ceiling. There, the silent visitor rotated Douglas’ body, leaving him staring down at a beige tile landscape. Only then did his abductor speak.

  Her voice was horrible, a crawling cadence that burrowed into Douglas’ brain and made his skull throb. “Why do you call for that man, child?” she asked, from just beside Douglas’ right earlobe. “He took no part in your rescue. Save your appreciation for the day’s true savior. Turn your gratitude toward me.”

  “Who…who are you?” Douglas choked out. His query was met by hideous gurgling mirth, the sound of a gore-clogged blender.

  “What do you want?” he tried next.

  “I want you to live, boy, at least for the moment. In that way, I may be your dearest friend. Who else took the steps necessary to arrest your descent? Emmett and Benjy, your so-called friends, would have left you scrabbling in the dirt with a broken neck. Only I truly care about you.”

  “Aw, you’re just another ghost tryin’ to scare me. Why should I believe you?”

  “Ghost? I’m no mere ghost. Ghosts are just psychic projections reclaiming old forms, stubborn souls resisting spirit dissolution. No, Douglas, I am so much more than that.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I’m an amalgamation of sorts, a montage built from mangled masses. I’m made up of what the spirit foam cannot absorb, what remains after certain souls have been reprocessed into new beings. In your case, I’ve chosen the role of caretaker.”

  “Why?” Douglas asked, hearing a key turn in the entranceway lock.

  In lieu of an answer, his abductor gently lowered Douglas to the floor. Quickly, the temperature returned to normal. Just before his father entered the room, Douglas had the impression of a f
eatureless white mask coolly appraising him. He blinked and it vanished, as if it had never really been there.

  ««—»»

  Smiling broadly, Carter glided into the house. He’d spent his day rebuilding an Escondido home’s air conditioner: a buzzing monstrosity more fit for a landfill. But the home’s designated housewife had kept him company all the while, wearing only a bathrobe over skimpy lingerie. Her gentle flirtations still echoed through his mind. The way she’d sashayed before him, bending over to point out a stuttering air vent, this he could not forget. Nor would he ever desire to.

  Entering the living room, he found Douglas sporting a frightened expression. While the boy frequently looked disturbed, stretching back for as long as Carter could remember, this time the man couldn’t ignore it. “Buck up, Douglas my lad,” he said cheerfully. “We’re going out for dinner tonight.”

  “Dinner? We’ve never gone out for dinner. Are you feeling alright, Dad?” The boy’s fear had given way to suspicion, but Carter continued undaunted.

  “Listen, Son. I’ve kept you locked away for far too long. A boy your age should be out experiencing the world, not just having play dates with your buddies.”

  “Geez, Dad, we’re just friends. We’re not dating. Why would you say that?”

  “Just an expression, my boy. What I’m trying to say is that I was wrong to make you a prisoner of my fears. Something terrible happened between your mother and me over a decade ago, and I’ve let it rule my life for way too long. Worse, I’ve let it rule yours. I’ve cheated you of a proper childhood, and that ends tonight. Grab your coat; we’re going out.”

  Douglas cocked his head rightward, wary of his father’s change of heart. Carter realized that they’d never really spoken of Martha, that he’d artlessly deflected all previous inquiries. Before the boy was much older, they’d have to have a serious heart-to-heart.

  “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. My stomach hurts. I fell on a swing today.”

  “Quit your griping. Can’t you see that I’m reaching out to you here?”

  Douglas opened his mouth to make another excuse. Then he glimpsed something in Carter’s eyes, a curious mixture of desperation and optimism, and promptly changed his tune.

  “Okay, I’ll put on a jacket.”

  “Now we’re talkin’. I’ll be in the car waiting.”

  Minutes later, they were on the road, taking the 78 West to I-5 South. Over the course their journey, Douglas spoke but once, inquiring as to their destination.

  “We’re heading into Carlsbad. I’m taking you a restaurant that I last visited just before you were born. It’s called Claim Jumper.”

  Douglas nodded noncommittally, eyes focused on passing scenery.

  There’s a certain shade of silence that arises during nocturnal drives, an insidious mechanism that shifts the whole world sepulchral. Carter did his best to obliterate this grim phenomenon with lively conversation, but his son remained sullen and unresponsive.

  The man felt his fragile cheer state slipping, as old fears and insecurities resurfaced. Ever since his wife’s insanity fit, Carter had drifted through life like an anachronism, a man out of time. To combat this horrible lassitude, he clung to his newfound optimism like a former junkie clings to religion. He turned the radio on, switching stations in rapid succession, but every tune sounded like a death psalm. Eventually, he let silence return.

  Just before the Palomar Airport Road exit, Carter glimpsed a figure in his headlights: a scrawny boy, surely no older than ten, clad only in a pair of frayed jean shorts. The boy regarded the approaching vehicle with wide saucer-like eyes, mouth agape. There was no time to swerve.

  The Pathfinder passed through the boy with nary a thump, and Douglas spoke not of the apparition. Soon, they were pulling into Claim Jumper’s parking lot, Carter’s enthusiasm now quite depleted.

  The restaurant evoked hunting lodge memories, with finished wood walls and a giant fireplace in the waiting area. A large mounted buffalo head glared down manically. They waited to be seated, the restaurant being surprisingly full for a school night.

  After getting a table and ordering, the father and son sat quietly, sipping soda as they awaited their food’s arrival. Sounds of inebriation and screaming children swarmed them from all sides, but the pair hardly noticed. It was only when their plates were settled before them that the two grew animate, the irresistible scent of seared meat drawing them from lethargy.

  Carter cut into his country fried steak with precision, savoring its perfect blend of beef and gravy. Douglas ate with no less enthusiasm. He attacked his hamburger and fry mountain with a competitive eater’s fervor, chin slick with errant sauces. For dessert, they split a Chocolate Motherlode Cake.

  On the drive home, Douglas finally mentioned his swing set ordeal. Carter’s concern gave way to wonder, as he peered at the red band encompassing much of the boy’s midsection.

  Comfortably engorged, the duo spoke lightly of current events, and even made tentative plans for an August Disneyland outing. By the time they rolled onto their driveway, their familial bonds were considerably strengthened.

  ««—»»

  A week later, Clark Clemson and Milo Black stood atop a hill of ice plant, less than half a mile from Campanula Elementary. A tall fence of white stucco stood before them, behind which backyards lurked. With nothing better to do, they took turns lifting each other high enough to peer into these yards.

  Once, nearly two months prior, the two friends had glimpsed a topless woman tanning poolside. She’d been old enough to be one of their mothers, but her breasts had been sizable enough to set their minds racing. The rush of blood they’d experienced then stood as an invigorating puberty prelude, and each hoped to glimpse more forbidden flesh.

  Unfortunately, the woman’s back patio stood empty, her pool full of fugitive leaves. It seemed that they’d never again view her large areolas, which her hands had rubbed to apply sunscreen, oblivious to their stares.

  Clark was about to suggest that they vacate the area, when he saw a cat approaching along the fence top. It was a calico, with white, black and orange fur forming abstract patterns along its torso. The cat appraised them with cool emerald eyes, closing the distance with gentle grace.

  “Here kitty kitty,” cooed Clark, arms outstretched to grasp the feline. It stepped right into his palms, purring as Clark brought the creature to his chest.

  “What are you doing?” asked Milo. He was highly allergic to cats, and its proximity set his nose to twitching. His eyes began to itch, tears blurring his vision. “You’re not a cat lover, are you?”

  Clark speared Milo with a look, reminding him who the alpha male was. Then the bully’s eyes returned to the cat. “I’m no cat lover, dickhead. But this is no ordinary feline. In fact, I’d like to introduce you to Supercat. Say hello to Supercat, Milo.”

  Wishing to avoid his compatriot’s wrath, Milo took one of the feline’s paws and gave it a brief pump. “Nice to meet you,” he said self-consciously, his deep tan verging toward crimson.

  “I bet you’re wondering how this kitty earned the title Supercat, aren’t you?”

  Milo nodded his assent, and Clark continued. “Well, my little buddy can’t shoot heat rays from his eyes, and he certainly can’t outrun a locomotive. But in just a moment, you will believe that a cat can fly.”

  Clark held the cat out at arm’s length. The feline had just enough time to let out a plaintive mew before he let it fall, a descent leading to a worn Doc Martens boot. Grunting, Clark dropkicked the feline over the side of the hill, where it fell nearly twenty feet before landing paws up in the branches of a walnut tree.

  The cat batted empty sky for a moment, before righting itself and leaping down to the grass. It streaked across the street as a fur flash, passing from sight.

  “Supercat!” Clark cried triumphantly, pumping his fists in the air.

  “Supercat,” Milo chimed in.

  Clark began
to cavort around the hilltop, bending his knees and swinging his arms before his thighs in a sort of makeshift jig. Eventually, he slipped on some ice plant and fell upon his backside, laughing hysterically. “Damn, we’ve got to find another cat and do that again,” he declared.

  A slow sarcastic clap drifted up from below. “Nice work, guys!” an unseen spectator yelled.

  Stepping into view came a husky ginger. “It’s that Benjy kid,” announced Milo. “I wonder what he wants.”

  “He’s probably looking for his ghost-lovin’ boyfriend.”

  “Hang on, guys!” Benjy shouted. “I’m coming up!”

  They watched Benjy charge his way up the slope, slipping twice on ice plant, grabbing vegetation to prevent a tumble. When he reached them, the boy was panting profusely, his face enflamed.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but we’re not your friends,” growled Clark, as Benjy struggled to regain his breath.

  The newcomer held a finger beside his face, indicating that he had something to say. When his gasps finally died down, he said it: “Some climb, isn’t it? But I’m glad that I found you guys. I’ve been looking for you ever since school let out.”

  Clark moved closer, absentmindedly pounding a fist into his open palm. “Why’s that, dipshit? Are you looking for an ass beatin’ or something?”

  Anxious to stay in Clark’s good graces, Milo rushed Benjy, tackling him to the ground. Wrestling the boy into submission, Milo almost rolled them both back down the hill. “Hey, Clark,” he said. “Wanna see if this fat queer flies as far as the cat?”

  Clark chuckled audibly. “Sounds like a plan. Lift him up and we’ll heave him down together.”

  Benjy betrayed no fear, making Milo uneasy as he pulled the boy to standing. Then, in a flash of movement that belied his girth, Benjy shook off his persecutor’s grip and retrieved an object from his front pocket. Pulling it from a leather sheath, Benjy let the item catch sunlight, causing both bullies to take frightened steps backward.