Chapter #13Screw with Patrick. by: Seuzz   "You should have a party."
You're bobbing lazily up to your chin in water in the Carlson's pool—in swim trunks this time—with the blazing afternoon sun beating down on you. Kristy, in a one-piece suit and sunglasses, floats alongside you in a pool chair, soaking up rays. "I was going to have one tonight, but plans changed," she says.
"What happened?"
"Kyle Lakewood couldn't make it. He was going fishing."
"You cancelled a party just cuz Kyle couldn't come?"
"Well, I wanted it to be ... like ... um ..."
"Oh, I see."
"What do you see?"
"Nothing." You grin.
"What."
"You mean it wouldn't be a real party if Kyle weren't there. Right?"
"Well ... Yeah. What's wrong with that?"
"Hey, I'm not arguing." You smile.
"Anyway, I just pushed it back by a week."
"Next Saturday, you mean?"
"Yeah.
You shake your head sadly. "I can't make next Saturday, Kristy. I'm going fishing."
She splashes water at you. "Don't be a doofus, Adam."
You laugh and roll onto your back and grab the edge of her pool chair to keep from floating away.
"I wouldn't expect you to show up anyway," she says. "You skip most of the parties."
"Do you blame me? Put me in a big group and I get lost. I like being the center of attention."
"I've noticed."
"But this is nicer anyway, isn't it? No group or center of attention. Just friends."
"Are you flirting with me, Adam Karter?"
"I flirt with everyone. I flirt with your brother."
"I've noticed."
You squint at her. There's something in her tone. Something useful.
"You're not just fucking with him, are you?" she continues. "Patrick's kind of vulnerable."
"Rick."
"That's what I mean. Where do you get off giving him a nickname?"
"Well, where's he supposed to get a nickname? Is he supposed to be a jerk and give himself one?"
"No—"
"Is he supposed to get one from you?"
"Well, I am his sister."
"What kind of a sad, miserable loser lets his big sister pick out his nickname?"
"Giving someone a nickname is kind of important, don't you think? It's like ... like an endearment."
"Kristy, I didn't ask him to go with me. I didn't give him my letterman jacket to wear."
"You don't have to. He's giving you stuff. People are talking."
"Then maybe I should tell them he tried to give you to me."
"What?" She's shocked.
"Yeah, he tried to set us up."
"When?"
"The other day, when I came over. He said 'You like Kristy, don't you?' And I said, 'Yeah, she's really cool'. And he said, 'She'd go with you if you asked her'."
She stares at you; you stare back innocently. Finally, she says "And what did you say?"
"Huh? Oh." You shrug and look away in embarrassment. "I said I'd ask you if I wanted to."
She tenses. There's an awkward silence before she swallows and asks, "Do you want to?"
"Do I want to go with you?" You laugh. "Why? So you can be the one giving me stuff?"
You looks alarmed and embarrassed and starts to stammer. You just laugh again and push away from her. "No, Kristy, you're right. He only brings me stuff like leftovers to eat. And that's weird enough. It's a bad idea to take things from people, even people you like—even people you're going with—and I'll tell him to stop. I'll tell him now."
He's just come out of the house with sandwiches, and he's buzzing enthusiastically about the video iPod he's arranging to buy for you.
"Yeah, about that," you say, pulling yourself out of the pool and picking up a sandwich. "You need to stop buying me stuff and giving me stuff and, well, stuff like that."
"What? Why?"
"Because— Damn, what's in this?" You've just taken a bite from the sandwich.
"Some basil chicken pesto that Magda made. Don't you like it?"
You stuff the rest of it your mouth and munch it lovingly while giving Kristy a dirty, dirty look. After you gulp it down, you lick your lips. "It's amazing. But that's another thing. You need to stop bringing me stuff. Like the food."
"But why? I like doing stuff ... for you."
You continue to look hard at Kristy. "Some people think it's weird."
He looks at you and looks at her. He flushes. You flash the thought 'Fucking Kristy' in his head.
"But what's wrong with it?" he shouts. "It's not like—" You give him a vision of your naked body. He turns bright red.
"I know. But people will be nasty and think what they want to think."
"You're the one who told me not to worry about what people think!"
You turn and give him a hurt but sympathetic look. "Do you worry about what I think?" He scowls. "Because I don't think there's anything weird about it. But I've got other people to think about, and they do worry. And I dunno, they might be right. So, there's that." He glares at the ground, biting his lip furiously. You look back at Kristy. "I'm often wrong about things, Patrick." You lightly accent the name—a delicious twist of the knife. "Don't forget that."
He looks up, angry and surprised, and again looks over at Kristy. Then leaps to his feet and stalks into the house.
Kristy's face is scarlet. "You fucking asshole, Adam." You slip into the pool and swim over to her. She tries to get off the chair, to get away, but you grab her wrist and restrain her.
"I did what you wanted me to do, Kristy."
"And put all the blame on me, I noticed!"
"You wanted me to take all the blame, even though it was your idea? I didn't want to do it, and you should have said something if you wanted me to be a total dick about it with him."
"You said you thought what he was doing was a bad idea."
"It's bad if you care what other people think. If it were just him and me? I'd let him do whatever makes him happy."
"So why didn't you just tell me to fuck off and mind my own business, if you're happy with it?"
"Because I want to make you happy too. You're more important to me than he is." You push back from her. "But, fuck, I screwed it up as usual, I see. I try making everyone happy and wind up pissing them off at me." You swim back to the side of the pool and pull yourself out. Kristy watches as you dry yourself. "Seriously, Kristy," you say as you fold up the towel. "I couldn't make the party on Saturday anyway. I've got relatives from out of town I'm supposed to see—and, actually, we are supposed to go camping or something that will have fish involved. I'm telling you now because I don't want you to think I'm skipping it because this has soured stuff between us. I mean, it hasn't, has it?" She stares in the other direction and says nothing. "I'll see you Monday," you say, and slip on your cheap flip-flops and pad away.
You are feeling more pleased with yourself than you have in days.
* * * * *
You could have stayed longer to smooth things over better with Kristy, but a sudden flood of thoughts and emotions from your mother had alerted you to a very interesting development at your house: Your father, whom you haven't seen in years, has just shown up.
You pedal as quickly back home as you can, but you're not sure you'll make it in time. Your mother wants to get him out and away from the house. You hit her—hard—with the thought "Adam will want to see him; Adam is on his way home" and are surprised to see that this only increases her determination to get rid of him: for all her hatred of him, she cannot bear to think of what you might do to him. Amazing. She actually still has some feelings of tenderness for the man. Only another battery of thoughts—"Adam will be angry if you let him go; Adam will hurt you if he doesn't see his father"—causes her to relent.
There's a strange car in front of the trailer, an old, dusty, beat-up Buick. You walk around it and eye it appraisingly. Then it's up the steps and into the house, where you do a pretended double-take at the strange man at the table.
He looks awful. Of course, he is in his mid-fifties, and has never taken good care of himself. The greasy hair, still yellow and thick, but now streaked with heavy shocks of grey, is pulled back from a lined face folded into heavy wrinkles. Bags hang from his eyes, and he's missing a few more yellowed teeth. His chin and cheeks and neck are much lighter in shade than the rest of his face, which suggests he has only just shaved a beard off. But he's still reasonably trim under his heavy but dirty blue denim shirt. He smiles brightly, even fondly, at you.
"There he is! Oh my God, Laura, why haven't you been sending me pictures?" he cries. "He's so grown up, and handsome!" Tears actually spring into his eyes. "Jesus, but he looks just like I did at his age."
That's like a punch in the face, but you keep your expression straight. Your mother's terrified eyes are darting between you and your father, and she's hugging herself tightly. You gaze at your dad with open mouth, then look at your mom in pretended astonishment. "You didn't tell me—! Dad!"
You throw your arms around him and bury your face in his neck. He freezes—you can tell he wasn't expecting this, that he was expecting something much more hostile. He pats you uncertainly on the back. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" you shout, pulling away and blinking back tears.
"I didn't know I was coming myself," he says. He can't hide his astonishment at your pleasure at seeing him. Your eyes shine brightly as you look at him joyfully, then you hug him again and hold him much longer. He is more prepared now and hugs you tightly in turn.
"How long are you going to stay?" you ask when you pull away.
"Well ... I don't know, honestly. Your mother—" he looks at her nervously. "Your mother isn't exactly being welcoming."
"Mom!"
She starts guiltily. "What's he going to eat?"
Your face falls. "Mom's between jobs, so we're a little short of money."
It's not pleasant news, but he covers his disappointment. "Oh, I don't eat much. Never have. And I've got a few dollars saved back I can contribute." He generously pulls a couple of twenties from his wallet and drops them on the table.
"Well, I'd say that settles it," you say brightly.
"Wonderful!" your dad exclaims in turn. "How about you and me have a beer to celebrate, eh, Cody? I figure you're old enough now."
Your smile doesn't shift a millimeter. "It's 'Adam,' Dad."
His own smile flickers just the tiniest bit. "I always told your mother I wanted my boy named Cody."
You're still grinning widely. "You do have a boy named Cody, Dad. In Montana, even."
A bit of color has begun to show at his temple. "Well, you look more like a Cody than he does. That hair of yours!"
"I cut it myself."
You see a tickle of sweat behind his eyes. Your mom has picked up on it, too—maybe a sympathetic vibration from the goo you lodged in her head.
"We don't have any beer, Curt. Adam's got me drying out."
He looks at her in surprise, then back at you. "Well, he is a man, then, isn't he? Did what I always begged you to do but never could, eh?"
"We can offer you tap water, Dad."
"Healthy stuff, that!" he says, but he's not good enough—as he probably once was—to hide his disappointment.
You fill a glass and hold it close to your chest and let a thin stream of goo fall into it, where it quickly blends in.
He looks at the glass with ill-disguised distaste when you hand it to him, then raises it in a toast. "God bless us, every one, as the man said," he says, and drinks it down in one long draught.
"Oh, He does, Dad. Really. You've no idea."
He sits there uncomfortably for a few minutes, smacking his lips—and then you're smacking his lips for him—and then he gets a bit of a glassy-eyed appearance and turns to your mom. "So, what do you and Co— and Adam do with yourselves in the evenings these days?"
"Mostly we take turns reading books of the Bible to each other," she snaps. Then she flinches. For a moment she forgot herself and spoke to him as she'd like, before remembering your presence.
"What Mom means is that we keep each other company. Conversation may be a lost art in other homes, but she and me prefer to keep the old traditions alive." Your father smiles uncomprehendingly.
"But we can skip that tonight," you continue. "The two of you must have so much catching up to do." Your voice takes on a tender and pleading wonder. "We haven't seen you in so long, Dad. No letters, no phone calls. You must be ravenous for each other's company. Mom has a sharp tongue, but I know she's missed you. I can't give her all that she needs, you know." Your dad looks at her tentatively, cautiously, but speculatively. The color has drained entirely from her face. "I'll just hide in the back," you say. "You won't even know where I am." You skip down the hall and into your bedroom, where you close the door and throw yourself on the bed.
At the table, your mother quails as you shove one command—harsh and without possibility of appeal—after another into her mind. Then you're looking at her from your father's eyes. You stand up and lean over her and kiss her deeply. She doesn't react, but she doesn't dare push you away. Then you pull her up with your father's hands and guide her into the bedroom, where you lay her down and undress her, and then pull his clothes off of him. He's flaccid—he can barely get any feeling in his penis—but you lay on top of her anyway and gnaw at her neck and her shoulders and her drooping bosom with his mouth until your father's penis swells with some small volume. Then you guide it into her—she's parched and dry—and work away while making grunting noises. It seems to take forever until a slight throbbing tells you his husk has spent itself as completely as it can. Then you fall him onto his back and make snorting noises until you've caught his breath for him.
Call it a harsh but necessary preview of coming attractions: This will be you in thirty years unless you do something about it.
You dribble down into his subconscious, and he falls asleep, dreaming—you worked him harder than he's used to being worked in bed these days. Then you pad out of your own room and into the kitchen for a little post-coital snack.
You feel your mother's mind before she's even out of the bedroom: fury and horror unbounded. But you've no need to fear, so you don't even turn around until you hear her voice.
"You—!" Then she catches herself.
"Say what you like, mother," you reply calmly. "I deserve it. I really do."
She just trembles. "Did you make him do it too?"
"Please, mother. He's a man. We have needs. I only let him take what he'd want but couldn't ask for. You saw his face earlier. What else could I give the poor man to show how pleased we are he's back?"
"Is he back? Are you going to make him get a job at least?"
"I'll leave that up to you, mother. You're a member of the pack, remember? You get a vote."
She looks at you closely, warily. She hesitates. Then she says "I want him gone."
"As you wish." You smile fondly at her. "I really am sorry. I had other ideas for him, but I'll do this for you, as recompense for just now." You kiss her on the cheek. "He won't even stay the night."
"What will you do?"
"I can't be certain," you lie, "but I think my father has been living in someone's very small and very spartan guest room since we last saw him. I think I'll take him camping tonight. Reintroduce him to nature, you know.
"The kind that's red in tooth and claw," you add when she looks puzzled.
* * * * *
You call them off his body long enough that you can remove his clothes with your own human hands, and then you turn them loose to devour everything. You even make them carry off the bones, to gnaw and crack and worry, so that nothing that could possibly identify him—that could even identify the presence of a human corpse—will be left. You already had him sign the car over to you, and a run through his mind showed there was little chance that anyone would track him into this part of the country. But after the incident with Llewellyn you don't want your name connected to another wolf attack. And to cover even the remote contingency of the car being traced to your city, you drop it off and sell it for a few hundred bucks at a used car lot.
That evening, with the windfall, you treat yourself and your mother to a late supper of steaks and potatoes, laughing the whole time as you describe the look on your father's face when you led him into the clearing where the wolves were waiting, and of the way his expression changed when you gathered the pack around and gave him a friendly little talk about what a shit he was, and then set them to growling at him, and of the playful chase they gave until, tired of the sport, you let Cody—your new name of your favorite male of the pack—knock him down and tear his throat away.
She won't touch her meal, so you scarf it all down: the wolves' dinner was delicious, and you can taste it still, but it did nothing to fill your own belly.
Then you bike back to the hill, as is your nightly wont, and sleep on the open ground with the pack around you. They burp and belch all night.
Early the next morning you wake to the sound of voices, so you hurry the pack away and pull on your clothes—just in time for two park rangers to come into the clearing and look at you with astonishment.
"What are you doing up here?" one of them blurts out.
"Just spending the night out in the open, sir," you say innocently.
"You're not allowed to. It's dangerous. There are wolves around here."
"Shit! Really?" you exclaim in shock.
"We had a report yesterday of a pack prowling and chasing someone. You heard about that attack down in the city, right?"
"No, what attack?"
"Never mind. Just get home, and don't come back up here after dark."
You gulp and hurry away, mostly just glad they didn't check your ID, or you might have had to possess them both right then and there.
When you get down to your bike, though, you've begun to think that might not have been such a bad plan. Your wolves may not be safe—you're upset to find that your attack last night had been overheard—and having someone on the park staff might be your only hope to keep them out of danger. The ranger truck is nearby, and peering in the window you see a bottled water.  | Members who added to this interactive
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