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CHAPTER FIVE

  Recurring Nightmare

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  “I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Anna as she looked out of the library window. “Maybe there’s a low pressure system coming through or something.”

  The school’s library looked out onto the field that separated Ozark Hills High from its sister school, Widowsfield Elementary. There was a gym class playing soccer and Anna looked for her ex-boyfriend, Clint, who had broken up with her two weeks ago because he wanted to be single for a while. His bachelorhood lasted two days before he started dating the captain of the swim team, Clarissa Belmont.

  “Oh yeah, sure thing, Banana,” said Jamie. Anna despised that nickname. “You’re staring out the window at the football field because you’re a budding meteorologist and not because Clint’s out there. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “I’m serious, I’ve got a headache and my dad said that weather patterns can cause them.”

  Jamie gave a sideways glance away from her Social Studies book as she frowned. “Sure.”

  “Don’t be a bitch. I’m not stuck on Clint. He can go fuck himself for all I care.”

  Jamie folded the book cover’s inside flap, made from a brown paper bag from the grocery store, over her page and then closed the book. “Then what’s up? For real. You’ve been in the dumps since the dickhead dumped you. That’s not like you, Banana. You’re the most fun girl I’ve ever hung out with, but you’ve been a total downer lately.”

  Anna scribbled her black pen in one of the spots on her book cover that had previously been adorned with Clint’s initials enshrined in a heart. She’d blackened out the picture, and now the paper bag cover was dangerously thinned. She didn’t doubt that her pen marks had managed to cut through the cover to deface the textbook, but she continued to scribble the circles anyhow.

  “I’m not going to lie, I mean, I was pretty pissed at him, but it’s not like we haven’t done this before. You know? We’re always, like, breaking up and getting back together again. It’s sort of our thing. It’s like I have this need to be heartbroken or something.”

  “Then why do you keep going back to him?”

  Anna sighed and shook her head. She knew that Jaime hated Clint, and had since grade school. In fact, most of Anna’s friends disapproved of her relationship with the stoner. She was an Honor Roll Student, a member of the Mathletes, and all but guaranteed a scholarship to a major university. Clint, on the other hand, was the epitome of the ‘C’ student.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got a self-destructive personality or something.”

  “Yeah, ya’ think?”

  “Give me a break, Jamie.” Anna set her pen down and put her head on her book. She worried that the fresh pen ink would stain her forehead, so she moved the book aside and then set her head down on the cold table.

  “I’m just sick of you doing the same thing to yourself over and over. I’m sick of seeing you down like this.”

  “I told you, I’m not upset about Clint. Honestly. I’ve just got a really bad headache right now. I don’t know why.”

  “I think I’ve got some aspirin in my locker. I can get you some after school if you want.”

  Anna nodded with her head still on the table. “That’d be great, thanks. What time is it?”

  Jaime glanced back at the oversized clock above the library’s main desk. “Not quite a quarter past.”

  Anna groaned and then sat up with her arms draped over her head as she arched her back over the edge of the seat. “This day’s dragging on forever.”

  Jaime tapped her pencil on her book and looked like she was about to say something, but then decided not to. She set her chin on her hand and stared off at nothing.

  “What?” asked Anna. Jaime looked surprised, as if she didn’t know what Anna was asking about. “You were about to say something. What was it?”

  “It’s just that, well, I guess I just want to know why you do it. Why do you keep making the same mistake over and over again? You and Cunt, I mean Clit, I mean Clint,” She smirked at her own joke. “You guys are a bad match.”

  “I guess I just hope he’ll change; that the next time it’ll be different.”

  “You know what the definition of insanity is, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting something to change.”

  “Then call me crazy, I guess,” said Anna. “Maybe I’ll just take up drinking to calm me down.”

  Jaime rolled her eyes. “Alcohol’s not the solution.”

  “Chemically speaking, any alcoholic beverage is a solution since the alcohol is mixed up with other stuff.”

  “Well shit,” said Jaime as she started to scribble numbers onto her book’s cover. “Break out the Boone’s Farm then. Time to get the party started.” They both laughed before Jaime mocked her friend. “You’re such a nerd, ‘Chemically speaking, blah, blah, blah.’”

  “It’s true,” said Anna. “What are you writing?” She leaned over the table to look at Jaime’s book.

  Jaime looked down at her scrawling.

  3.141592653

  “Is that pi?”

  “Yeah. We were supposed to memorize ten digits of it for Mr. Trager for pi day.”

  Anna settled back in her chair and snickered. “Sure, for the test this morning. Why are you still writing it?”

  Jaime paused for just a moment. “I don’t know. There’s something calming about it. Is that crazy?”

  “A little bit, yeah.”

  Anna watched Jaime write the sequence over and over, oddly transfixed. Then Jaime wrote the final digit as a 4 instead of a 3 in one line. “You got that one wrong.”

  Jaime didn’t stop writing and didn’t look up. “There’s no such thing as a perfect circle. There’s chaos in all of it.” Jaime looked up at the ceiling and then at the window before she asked, “Do you hear that?”

  “What?” Anna thought her friend’s statement carried an undercurrent of malice. Then she looked down at her own book and saw that she was continuing to draw spirals in the spot where Clint’s initials used to be. Her marking had worn well past the paper cover and was digging into the book itself. She dropped the pen and it spun in a circle on the table as if the tip was tied down, with the other end rolling awkwardly around.

  Anna heard the chatter of teeth and put her hand over her lower jaw. The noise seemed to be coming from her own head, as if she were shivering but didn’t know it. Her jaw wasn’t moving, but the chatter continued.

  “It’s time,” said Jaime. “It’s starting over again.”

  “I know.” Anna stood up and walked to the window that looked out onto the field. She put her right hand on the glass, her fingers splayed wide, and savored the cold sensation. Dogs howled in the distance and Anna took her hand away, letting her fingertips linger for a moment.

  The chatter continued.

  “How many times have we done this?” asked Jaime.

  Anna knew exactly what she meant, but at the same moment didn’t understand at all. It was as if she had wandered into a dream where she was certain everything made sense, but could never have explained it if asked to. She watched Clint on the field and wondered if he would die immediately, or if they would let him live this time.

  “Too many to count,” said Anna. She looked at the large white clock on the wall above the center desk in the library.

  3:14

  Her hands were shaking.

  The chatter stopped.

  “What’s going on?” Jaime stood up, and her pencil stayed upright as if a ghost were holding it in place. They both stared at it and the pencil slowly tilted. It finally set down as if time around them was moving at a different pace than they were.

  “Anna?” said Jaime as she stared out the window. A thick fog was descending over the field, rolling across their view as if a wave of water had broken free and was about to wash away the students. It sparkled with green light and billowed over the lush grass. It was beautiful t
o watch as the puffs of fog spread across the horizon. The bright blue sky was eaten away, like vestiges of white paper succumbing to flame. “We’re lost.”

  Anna looked at her friend and nodded. “I know why.”

  Jaime rushed around the table to stand beside her. Anna felt dizzy and confused. “Why?” asked Jaime. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I forgot all of it, but now I understand.” Anna looked out the window and watched as the gym students were enveloped in the thick fog. “It’s like I heard him, or understood him, just for a minute.”

  “Heard who?”

  “The one the kids call The Skeleton Man. He hates the name. He thinks giving something a name is the first attempt to control it.”

  “What the hell is going on? Why do I feel like I’ve done this before? What’s happening?” asked Jaime.

  “He thinks we’re too old.” She put her hand back on the window and looked across the field at the Middle School that was quickly disappearing amid the haze. “He wants the children. He thinks we already know how to hate, and he only wants the innocent ones.”

  “Anna, you’re scaring me.”

  Anna watched the shapes in the fog advance. The silhouettes of children ran across the field from their school, and the barking of dogs grew louder. Soon, the soccer players were attacked and chaos erupted in the library. Teachers and students rushed to the window and time returned to normal as everyone panicked.

  Jaime moved closer to Anna and ignored the massacre outside. “Why are we doing it again? Why do I know what’s going to happen? I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “He checked on us this time,” said Anna.

  “What do you mean?”

  The librarian yelled for everyone to get away from the window after an explosion of green light shook the walls. One of the students, a sophomore boy whose name Anna never learned, was stuck inside of the window and couldn’t move away. His face had been pressed against the glass when the explosion occurred, and now his head was hanging halfway outside. The glass wasn’t broken, but the boy’s head was on the other side of it, as if he’d passed through a pane of water instead of glass. Anna saw the boy’s eyes search frantically around him before he tried to jerk back. The movement caused his skin, which was fused to the glass, to rip. Blood coursed down the window on both sides as the other students screamed.

  Jaime and Anna ignored the bloody scene; they’d seen it countless times before. Jaime pulled Anna between two book shelves, away from the screaming mass, to speak in private. “What do you mean he checked on us?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t explain how I know. I’m not sure what’s going on. I just, for a minute, I could hear him in my head. I knew his thoughts. He’s looking for a girl he lost. She was an innocent, and he needs her to help him stop this from happening again.”

  “I don’t understand any of that,” said Jaime.

  “I don’t either, but I know he’s going to keep doing this over and over until he finds her.”

  “Then what?” asked Jaime.

  “I don’t know. For some reason he thinks that if he has her, then he can make this perfect.” She drew a circle in the air with the tip of her finger. “He’ll complete the circle. Until then we’ll keep dying. This will keep happening over and over.”

  “Why do I know about it this time?” asked Jaime. “I can remember all the other times this happened, and I never felt this way before.”

  They both stared through the books on the shelves at the chaos in the library. Students were crying as the teachers tried to overturn tables to keep the creatures in the fog from breaking through the glass. Anna knew it was useless. In minutes, the window would shatter and the demonic, twisted children would rush in. They were the children that The Skeleton Man gave up on. They became his soldiers, and their hatred mutated their fragile bodies into demonic, dog-like creatures.

  She could hear their paws scratching at the windows.

  “He searched us this time,” said Anna. “He let us know him because he wants to find the one he lost. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how old she is now. If he can find her, then he can start this all over in a way that he’s never done before. He let us know him the way the children do because he wants to find the girl he lost.”

  “I know her name,” said Jaime.

  Anna held her friend’s hand as they continued to look through the books. “I do too.”

  Jaime said it, “Alma Harper.”

  The glass broke.

  Jaime and Anna embraced as they waited for their inevitable death. Then it would begin anew, slightly different from the times before, and they would forget the prying mind of The Skeleton Man as he continued to try to complete the circle.

  16 Years Later

  March 10th, 2012

  Alma was in her classroom and an oversized, ornate harp was beside her desk. The instrument’s strings were black and thicker than they should’ve been.

  “Miss Harper?” asked one of her students.

  “Yes, Dave, what is it?”

  Dave had his head on his desk and his arms draped at his sides. He didn’t lift his head as he spoke. “Are you pretty?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Alma.

  Claire Powell, a popular, pretty girl that sat at the front of the class, raised her hand and wiggled her fingers in the air. She didn’t wait for Alma to give her permission before she spoke. “He wants to know if you’re ugly.”

  “What sort of question is that?” Alma’s heart raced and she felt as if she’d been transported back to high school where social standing was a constant concern. She desperately wanted to be one of the pretty girls, but she wasn’t. Llama Harper is what the kids used to call her and she never understood why. They used to cut out pictures of Llamas and tape them to her locker. It was the sort of careless bullying that provided short-lived amusement for the aggressors, and a lifetime of heartache and doubt for the victim.

  “Your mouth is bleeding,” said Dave, his head still down.

  Alma put her hand over her mouth and felt wetness. She inspected her palm and discovered a smear of dark red blood. The children laughed as she searched in her drawer for a handkerchief, but there was nothing but pens inside the desk. She rifled through the hundreds of pens in search of anything that could clean her blood, but there was nothing to be found. The children continued to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” said Alma as she gave up her search. When she closed the drawer, it rattled as if there had been change inside.

  The bell rang and frightened Alma. Her mouth was in pain now and the clanging of the bell seemed to aggravate her mysterious wound. The children sprang from their seats, gathered their things, and rushed for the door. They laughed as they passed Alma, furthering her embarrassment.

  Alma went to the counter at the rear of the room where there were paper towels and a sink. There were craft supplies littering the area from the art class that used this room part of the time and Alma shoved the bottles of glue and glitter away. She cupped her hands to collect the cold water and splashed it on her face. The blood and water swirled around the stainless steel drain, but didn’t seem to go down. It just kept spinning as the colors blended. Glitter, glue, and paint mixed with the blood and water to create a hypnotic spiral that wouldn’t dissipate.

  Alma took a few paper towels from beside the sink and put them into her mouth to search for the source of the blood. She felt her shoes sticking to the floor and wondered if the glue had spilled on her feet. Her attention flitted between concerns as the spilled glitter and glue dripped from the edge of the counter.

  She felt stinging pain from one of her lower incisors. The tooth wiggled at the slightest provocation. Alma took the paper towel out of her mouth and started to press at the back of the tooth with her tongue. It bent forward until it brushed against the inside of her lip.

  The tooth wiggled back and forth as she prodded it. Blood continued to pour out of her mouth as she gripped the tooth between her thumb and
index finger. It took no effort to dislodge the incisor and she rinsed it off before inspecting it. The tooth looked normal and healthy, white with lengthy roots.

  “Alma?” Blair Drexler, the head of the PTA, was at the door.

  Alma swiftly hid the tooth in her front pocket and then rinsed more blood from her face. The water still swirled in the sink, refusing to go down the drain. She didn’t turn to greet Blair and focused on the mess.

  “Hi Blair,” said Alma as she struggled to clean herself.

  “Is everything okay?” Blair’s high heels clicked on the tile as she walked toward Alma. Blair was an upper class housewife, always adorned with jewelry that was worth more than a month of Alma’s pay.

  “Fine, fine, I’m fine,” said Alma as she tried to hide what had happened. She wiped the counter and tossed the bloody paper towel into the trash. Her blood smeared, as if it were made of oil. The glue and glitter were gone now, as if her blood had soaked it up.

  Blair was at Alma’s back. “We’re all waiting for you.”

  Alma didn’t turn, fearing that blood still stained her chin.

  “Waiting for me? Why?”

  “It’s time for your party. We can’t do this without you.”

  Alma shook her head and got more paper towels to clean up with. “No, I’m not going. I can’t. Sorry, but I’m just too busy right now.”

  “It’s your party.” Blair put her hand on Alma’s shoulder.

  Someone started to play the harp, which startled Alma. She glanced over to see the principal, Mrs. White, seated beside the massive golden instrument, strumming the black strings. The instrument seemed warped now, as if it had been slowly melting behind her back.

  “Don’t disappoint us,” said Mrs. White. She plucked the strings and the sound they emitted was unnaturally low. Each note seemed to fade in and out as if Alma was moving closer to the source and then away again, over and over.

  “Okay,” said Alma. “I just need a little time. Maybe, like, ten minutes? Would that be okay?”

  Blair looked perturbed, but nodded before walking away. Mrs. White got up from the seat beside the harp and met Blair at the door. Her hands were bloody, and Alma noticed that the instrument’s strings were dripping wet now.

  “We’ll see you in the auditorium,” said Blair.

  Mrs. White looked at Alma before she left the room. The principal’s teeth were chattering as she smiled and left.

  Alma breathed a sigh of relief after they were gone and turned back to the sink. She set her hands on the counter and leaned forward. The water had finally disappeared, but the sink’s drain catch was missing, leaving only a black hole at the bottom now. Alma leaned further forward to peer into the hole when she felt something fall past her open lips.

  Another tooth clinked against the porcelain sink and spun around the basin. She tried to catch it, but the tooth fell into the hole before she could stop it.

  Alma clapped her hand over her mouth as she felt another tooth begin to slip out of her gums. She whimpered as she searched her mouth with her tongue. The metallic taste of blood overwhelmed her as more teeth sprang free. The blood gagged her, and she wretched. She had no choice but to open her mouth, but she didn’t want her teeth to fall into the drain. Alma stepped back and watched as blood and teeth fell from her mouth and hit the tile floor as if she were vomiting a macabre meal. She staggered to one of the student’s desks and fell into the seat. Blood covered her blouse and one of her teeth was stuck between her sock and loafer. There was glitter in the blood on her hands.

  Students laughed from the room’s entrance. She looked over to see a crowd of children at the door.

  “Get out of here!” She screamed at them. Blood and spittle trickled from her toothless gums.

  They pointed and laughed.

  A tall man stood behind them, shrouded by what appeared to be smoke in the hallway. She couldn’t see any details about him except his wide, smiling mouth. His teeth chattered as the children bellowed with laughter.

  Alma opened her eyes.

  Her pillow was wet from sweat and she pushed it aside as she sat up. It was still dark outside and she put her hand over her mouth to reassure herself that it was just a dream. This was a familiar occurrence. She’d suffered from the recurring dream of her teeth falling out for nearly as long as she could remember. The circumstances of the dream often changed, but the setting was usually the same. It almost always happened in a school, with children laughing at her as the tall man in the shadows watched it all unfold. No one ever helped her.

  Alma looked at the red LED display on the alarm clock beside her bed.

  3:14

  “Fuck you,” said Alma as she reached out for the clock. She lifted it and paused a moment to calm herself. Her instinct was to throw it across the room, but that seemed childish. Instead, she decided just to pull the cord hard enough to unplug it, but when she tried the clock slipped from her hands and bounced off the edge of the bed to the floor. It landed with the time face up, blaring the reminder of her mother’s insanity in bold, red light.

  She groaned in embarrassment, thankful that no one was around to see her pathetic attempt to pull the plug. Alma lay back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling as she recalled the details of yet another of her recurring dreams about her teeth.

  Alma stared at the ceiling, which was now illuminated by the red light of the clock on the floor. She was waiting for the color to flash, a sign that the time had changed. It would feel like a minor victory to wait for the minute to pass before putting the clock back on the nightstand. It was a ludicrous thought, and one she wouldn’t like to admit to anyone, but it felt sane to her. Perhaps it was a symptom of OCD, but her mother’s obsession with the date of Alma’s brother’s disappearance had turned into a curse.

  The red light flickered on the ceiling.

  Alma excitedly rolled to the side of the bed and stared down to see if the minute had passed yet. She felt like a child at Christmas, peeking down the stairs at her pile of presents.

  3:14

  “Mother fucker!” She threw the covers off and got out of bed. This time she would make sure the damn thing came out of the wall.

  The number had defeated her, and she was furious. She would later say that her manic behavior was because of her lack of sleep and bad dreams, but in truth her battle with the ever-present number was all-encompassing at times. Alma gripped the clock in one hand while grabbing the cord with the other. She pulled it hard enough that the nightstand fell over as the cord whipped away from the wall. The kitchen knife that she’d placed beside the clock bounced on the carpet.

  The clock’s number faded away, but that didn’t sate her. Alma threw the clock against the wall and it exploded into bits of plastic and pieces of electronics. She yelped as the shards flew back at her.

  She started to chuckle at her own insanity as she stared at the remnants of her alarm clock on the white carpet. Her awakening from the dream had left her in a fragile state, and her thoughts didn’t make sense to her anymore. As bizarre as it sounded, she’d been afraid that the number 314 would be angry when she broke the clock. She was worried it would try to hurt her.

  How ridiculous.

  Someone pounded on the front door.

  The sound terrified Alma. She cried out in surprise and then clapped her hands over her mouth. The door to her bedroom was open and the hallway led straight out to the front door.

  The person outside pounded harder.

  Alma looked for her phone, but it was in her purse on the counter beside the front door. She never bothered to get a landline, and instead used her cell phone for everything. Now she regretted that decision as she stared at her purse on the counter, just feet from the front door.

  “Alma, open the door,” said a stranger. “Or I’ll break it down.”

  She needed her phone, or better yet a weapon. A kitchen knife would do. She looked around for the knife that she’d left on the nightstand, but it had bounced away some
where in the room and she couldn’t find it.

  “All right, I’m going to break it down,” said the stranger.

  “Stay out! Get away from here!” Alma knew she had to act. She ran down the hall and into the kitchen just as the stranger kicked the door. It rattled on its hinges and Alma screamed in shock. She tried to grab her purse, but then decided it was too late to try and call the police. The purse spun on the counter as she abandoned it in search of a knife. Her phone, wallet, keys, and Rachel’s business card spread out over the counter as the front door rattled again.

  “Alma,” said the stranger. “Stay back. I’m coming in!”

  “Who the hell?” Her hands were shaking as she pulled a knife from the butcher’s block. “Who are you? Stop it! What are you doing?”

  The trim around the deadbolt splintered and the door flung open. Alma was on the other side of the breakfast counter with the knife held out in front of her as a tall, thick man clad in a winter coat and stocking cap came bounding haphazardly in. He stumbled forward and lost his balance before cursing as he fell to his knees.

  Alma wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to get the upper hand. She ran around the counter as the man crouched with his hand on one of the bar stools. He started to ask, “Are you okay?”

  Alma was quick to fight, and heard his question after already starting to kick. Her strike faltered when she realized he wasn’t threatening her, but her foot still collided with his face. The chubby intruder fell backward onto his butt and clasped his nose with one hand and held out the other to tell her to stop.

  “Hey! Hold up, Alma. I’m a friend of Paul’s.”

  “What?” Alma held the knife with both hands, unwilling to believe the stranger and ready to kill him if he dared try anything.

  “I’m a friend of Paul’s. I’m Jack, well actually Hank, but everyone calls me Jack, it’s short for Jacker. Which is a nickname I got in high school because I liked computers, which is probably more than you needed to know. Point is, I’m a friend. Jesus H. Christ, girl, you nearly took my head off.” He spoke frantically, as if frightened or nervous.

  “What are you doing here?” Alma was suddenly embarrassed, not by the fact that she’d attacked an innocent stranger, but because she was only wearing a long t-shirt and underwear. She pulled the t-shirt down further to cover herself as she backed around the breakfast counter from the stranger.

  “Paul needed some sleep.” Jacker inspected his hand after holding his nose, seeming to expect blood. He sniffled and then rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. He was a rotund guy, tall and boyish looking. His whiskers were scant, but he seemed to be trying to grow a beard anyhow. He wore small, round glasses that would’ve been more suited for a German scientist than a man like him. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to the door and his cheeks were turning red, which gave him a cherub appearance. Curly black hair escaped his stocking cap, pointing out in all directions.

  “Sleep?” asked Alma. She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  Jacker pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “He’s down in my van, getting some shut eye and I came up here to keep an eye on you. Well, I mean, not actually keep an eye on you; not spying or anything. I’m not a peeping tom, or my nickname would’ve been Tommy.” He chuckled, but Alma didn’t reciprocate and he continued to try and explain. “All right, I’m striking out here. You’re obviously okay, and I obviously, well, I over-reacted a little.” He motioned at the broken door. His mannerisms were frantic, as if he’d taken caffeine pills to stay awake.

  Alma nodded and stared at him with wide eyes. “Yeah, ya think?”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Why are you here? Why is Paul sleeping in a van in the parking lot?”

  Jacker was baffled and he scratched at his sparse, scraggly whiskers. “He said we had to keep guard; didn’t say why. He just said to keep an eye out for creepy old guys around the complex, and to listen for you to scream for help or something. So that’s why, well, yeah,” he motioned at the door. “That’s why that just happened.” He rubbed his nose again.

  Alma finally relaxed and put the kitchen knife back into the butcher’s block. “For crying out loud, you scared the living crap out of me.”

  “Well, you paid me back with a swift kick to the nose.” Jacker wiggled his nose back and forth and then snickered.

  “Sorry, but you kind of deserved it,” said Alma, but her harshness softened. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Jack. “Although, swear to God, I think you got your pinkie toe like straight up in there.” They both laughed and Jacker continued, “Seriously, I think you scratched my brain. When I pay for your door I’ll make sure to throw in a couple extra bucks for you to get a pedicure.”

  Alma laughed, but then pointed at him as if in warning. “Watch it, mister. I don’t know you well enough to put up with jokes about my feet.”

  Jacker put up his hands in defeat and then walked to door to inspect it.

  “Everything okay down there?” asked the widow that lived upstairs as she peered down from the stairwell. Alma walked around the breakfast counter and past Jacker so that she could see Mrs. Peterson. The old woman was in her slippers and a pink robe. She was crouched near the top of the stairs and was bent down just far enough to peer into Alma’s apartment. “Should I call the cops?”

  “No, Mrs. P., everything’s okay. I’m fine. Just a silly misunderstanding.”

  Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker warily. She was a fragile, spindly old woman, but was fiercely protective of Alma. The two of them often had long conversations in the stairwell, and Mrs. Peterson was always concerned about Alma’s love-life. It was as if the old woman was trying to keep Alma from ending up alone in an apartment, just like she was.

  “You’ve got men beating down your door in the middle of the night?”

  “He’s a friend of Paul’s,” said Alma.

  “Oh, Paul,” said Mrs. Peterson with a hopeful inflection. “Are you two back together? I always liked Paul. He’d be handsome if he cut his hair.”

  “He did,” said Jacker as he took off his cap and ran his hand over his own hair. “He shaved it bald.”

  Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker and grimaced, unwilling to communicate with the stranger that had just broken down Alma’s door. “Alma, you just yell if you need me. Okay? I’ll have my phone ready.”

  “Okay, will do,” said Alma as she waved. “Thanks, Mrs. P.”

  “I’ve got your back, sweetie,” said the old woman as she went back up the stairs.

  Alma tried to close the door, but it drifted open now that the trim was broken. “That’s not good.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jacker as he sheepishly shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

  “It’s okay,” said Alma. She’d already started to like the giant oaf. He was sweet, like an awkward little brother, and she felt sorry for him despite having no reason to. “Come on in and have a seat. Want a beer?”

  “You just said the magic word.”

  “What’s that? Beer?”

  Jack snapped his finger and pointed at her as he nodded. “Bingo. You don’t turn into a ton of fun like me by turning down free beer.”

  “Considering how much it’s going to cost you to fix my door, I’d hardly call the beer free.” Alma went to the refrigerator to get him a Milk Stout.

  Jacker sighed as he looked at the damage he’d caused. “Gosh, I’m real sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Alma. “I’m just joking with you. I’ll make Paul pay for it.”

  “Shoot, he doesn’t have any money. Not after getting canned.” Jacker plopped onto the center of the sofa with his long arms stretched to either side along the backboard. He looked comfortable, as if the seat was a familiar spot for him despite never having sat there before.

  “Paul got fired?”

  Jacker’s posture stiffened and he grimaced. “I guess I should learn when to keep my mouth
shut. I thought you knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

  “It’s a long story, and one I’ve got no business telling.”

  Alma got a glass out of the cupboard to pour Jack’s beer into.

  “I don’t need a glass,” said Jack.

  Alma sneered. “Yes you do. This is a good beer, and it tastes better in a glass. How long have you and Paul been friends?” She asked because of Jacker’s unfamiliarity with Paul’s preferred way of drinking beer.

  “About six months. I met him at the shop under his place.”

  Alma handed the beer to Jacker and suddenly remembered that she was only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “Hold that thought,” said Alma. “I’m going to go get some pants on. I want to hear why Paul got fired.”

  Jacker spoke loud enough for her to hear as she retreated down the hall to her bedroom. “I’m not going to tell you. I don’t care how much delicious beer you give me.”

  “Yes you will,” said Alma as she got to her bedroom. “I can be pretty persuasive.” She started to walk over to her dresser, but stepped on the kitchen knife that had been on her nightstand. The sharp blade sliced into the arch of her foot. She gripped the edge of the bed and cursed as she lifted her foot to inspect the damage. “Fuck!” She screamed in anger and pain.

  “You all right?” asked Jacker from the other room. “Is this for real, or are you screwing with me?”

  Alma cursed some more and tried to hop to the hallway as her foot bled. The wound gushed and droplets of blood quickly started to fall to the floor. “Mother fucker.”

  “Okay, it’s for real?” asked Jacker. “I’m coming in there. Okay? Don’t be naked or anything.”

  Alma met him at the door. She propped herself up with one hand on the threshold and the other holding her foot aloft. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the blood. His face turned white and his jaw drooped.

  “I stepped on something. Can you get me a towel?”

  “Oh,” he said in a whimper. He was wavering and put his hand on his head.

  “Quick,” said Alma. “I’m bleeding all over the carpet.”

  He snapped out of his momentary daze and nodded. “Okay, sure. Towel. Sure thing.” He spun in a circle in search of the bathroom, which happened to be right next to him on the left. “In here, right? Yeah, of course it is.” He retrieved a towel and then offered it with his arm extended out of the doorway, hiding his face from her.

  Alma hopped forward and swiped the white towel away from him. She wrapped her foot and waited for Jacker to come out of the small bathroom so that she could go in. He stayed hidden in there.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Me?” he asked. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

  “I need to go in there.”

  “Oh, sure. Okay.” He hurried out of the bathroom with his hand held against the side of his face, shielding his view of her.

  She glanced down at herself, worried that her odd position, with her leg lifted so high, revealed more of herself than she realized. “What’s wrong?”

  “I got up too fast. I’m woozy. I’m not great with blood.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Alma as she hopped toward the bathroom. “I thought my underwear was ripped or something.”

  “No, no,” said Jacker. His voice was weak, as if he’d grown tired all of the sudden. “I just have a bad habit of…” He stopped talking and started to lean against the wall.

  “Jacker?”

  He slumped and then collapsed in Alma’s direction. She cried out and hopped to the side as the titanic man crashed down, out cold.

  “God damn it, Paul,” she cursed her ex-boyfriend for his choice of stalwart bodyguards.