Read Online Boys Life by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert R. McCammon
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edge of the woods wearing a long overcoat that flapped in the wind.
An earthquake woke me up.
I opened my eyes, my heart pounding. Something had crashed; the sound was trapped inside my head. The lights were still off, and the night still reigned. I reached out and touched Ben beside me. He drew in a sharp breath, as if my touch had scared the wits out of him. I heard an engine boom, and I looked out the window toward Deerman Street to see a Chevy’s taillights as Donny Blaylock pulled away.
The screen door, I realized. The sound of the screen door slamming had jolted me awake.
“Ben?” I rasped, my mouth thick with sleep. “Your dad’s come home!”
Something else crashed down in the front room. The whole house seemed to shake.
“Sim?” It was Mrs. Sears’s voice, high-pitched. “Sim?”
I got out of bed, but Ben just lay there. I think he was staring at the ceiling. I walked through the hallway in the dark, my feet squeaking the boards. I bumped into Mrs. Sears, standing where the hall met the front room, no lights on anywhere.
I heard a hoarse, terrible breathing.
It was, I thought, the sound a Martian might make as its alien lungs strained on earthly air.
“Sim?” Mrs. Sears said. “I’m right here.”
“Right here,” a voice answered. “Right… here. Right… fuckin’… here.”
It was Mr. Sears’s voice, yes. But it was different. Changed. There was no humor in it, no fun, no hint of a preacher joke. It was as heavy as doom, and just as mean.
“Sim, I’m going to turn on the light now.”
Click.
And there he was.
Mr. Sears was on the floor on his hands and knees, his head bowed and one cheek mashed against the rug. His face looked bloated and wet, his eyes sunken in fleshy folds. The right shoulder of his jacket was dirty, and dirt was smeared on his jeans as if he’d taken a fall in the woods. He blinked in the light, a silver thread of saliva hanging from his lower lip. “Where is it?” he said. “You see it?”
“It’s… beside your right hand.”
His left hand groped. “You’re a goddamned liar,” he said.
“Your other hand, Sim,” she told him wearily.
His right hand moved toward the metal object lying there. It was a whiskey flask, and his fingers gripped it and pulled it to him.
He sat up on his knees and stared at his wife. A fierceness passed over his face, ugly in its swiftness. “Don’t you smart-mouth me,” he said. “Don’t you open that big fat smart mouth.”
I stepped back then, into the hallway. I was seeing a monster that had slipped from its skin.
Mr. Sears struggled to stand. He grabbed hold of the table that held the Scrabble tiles, and it went over in an explosion of vowels and consonants. Then he made it to his feet, and he unscrewed the cap off the flask and licked the bottle neck.
“Come on to bed, Sim,” she said; it was spoken without strength, as if she knew full well what the outcome of this would be.
“Come on to bed!” he mocked. “Come on to bed!” His lip curled. “I don’t wanna come to bed, you fat-assed cow!”
I saw Mrs. Sears tremble as if she’d been stung by a whip. A hand pressed to her mouth. “Oh… Sim,” she moaned, and it was an awful sound to hear.
I backed away some more. And then Ben walked past me in his yellow pajamas, his face blank of expression but tear tracks glistening on his cheeks.
There are things much worse than monster movies. There are horrors that burst the bounds of screen and page, and come home all twisted up and grinning behind the face of somebody you love. At that moment I knew Ben would have gladly looked into that glass bowl at the tentacled Martian head rather than into his father’s drunk-red eyes.
“Hey, Benny boy!” Mr. Sears said. He staggered and caught himself against a chair. “Hey, you know what happened to you? You know what? The best part of you stayed in that busted rubber, that’s what happened.”
Ben stopped beside his mother. Whatever emotion tortured
An earthquake woke me up.
I opened my eyes, my heart pounding. Something had crashed; the sound was trapped inside my head. The lights were still off, and the night still reigned. I reached out and touched Ben beside me. He drew in a sharp breath, as if my touch had scared the wits out of him. I heard an engine boom, and I looked out the window toward Deerman Street to see a Chevy’s taillights as Donny Blaylock pulled away.
The screen door, I realized. The sound of the screen door slamming had jolted me awake.
“Ben?” I rasped, my mouth thick with sleep. “Your dad’s come home!”
Something else crashed down in the front room. The whole house seemed to shake.
“Sim?” It was Mrs. Sears’s voice, high-pitched. “Sim?”
I got out of bed, but Ben just lay there. I think he was staring at the ceiling. I walked through the hallway in the dark, my feet squeaking the boards. I bumped into Mrs. Sears, standing where the hall met the front room, no lights on anywhere.
I heard a hoarse, terrible breathing.
It was, I thought, the sound a Martian might make as its alien lungs strained on earthly air.
“Sim?” Mrs. Sears said. “I’m right here.”
“Right here,” a voice answered. “Right… here. Right… fuckin’… here.”
It was Mr. Sears’s voice, yes. But it was different. Changed. There was no humor in it, no fun, no hint of a preacher joke. It was as heavy as doom, and just as mean.
“Sim, I’m going to turn on the light now.”
Click.
And there he was.
Mr. Sears was on the floor on his hands and knees, his head bowed and one cheek mashed against the rug. His face looked bloated and wet, his eyes sunken in fleshy folds. The right shoulder of his jacket was dirty, and dirt was smeared on his jeans as if he’d taken a fall in the woods. He blinked in the light, a silver thread of saliva hanging from his lower lip. “Where is it?” he said. “You see it?”
“It’s… beside your right hand.”
His left hand groped. “You’re a goddamned liar,” he said.
“Your other hand, Sim,” she told him wearily.
His right hand moved toward the metal object lying there. It was a whiskey flask, and his fingers gripped it and pulled it to him.
He sat up on his knees and stared at his wife. A fierceness passed over his face, ugly in its swiftness. “Don’t you smart-mouth me,” he said. “Don’t you open that big fat smart mouth.”
I stepped back then, into the hallway. I was seeing a monster that had slipped from its skin.
Mr. Sears struggled to stand. He grabbed hold of the table that held the Scrabble tiles, and it went over in an explosion of vowels and consonants. Then he made it to his feet, and he unscrewed the cap off the flask and licked the bottle neck.
“Come on to bed, Sim,” she said; it was spoken without strength, as if she knew full well what the outcome of this would be.
“Come on to bed!” he mocked. “Come on to bed!” His lip curled. “I don’t wanna come to bed, you fat-assed cow!”
I saw Mrs. Sears tremble as if she’d been stung by a whip. A hand pressed to her mouth. “Oh… Sim,” she moaned, and it was an awful sound to hear.
I backed away some more. And then Ben walked past me in his yellow pajamas, his face blank of expression but tear tracks glistening on his cheeks.
There are things much worse than monster movies. There are horrors that burst the bounds of screen and page, and come home all twisted up and grinning behind the face of somebody you love. At that moment I knew Ben would have gladly looked into that glass bowl at the tentacled Martian head rather than into his father’s drunk-red eyes.
“Hey, Benny boy!” Mr. Sears said. He staggered and caught himself against a chair. “Hey, you know what happened to you? You know what? The best part of you stayed in that busted rubber, that’s what happened.”
Ben stopped beside his mother. Whatever emotion tortured
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