CHAPTER 1
Do Unto Others First
Evil had always been in Jon St. Fond’s life. Lurking behind the wallpaper. Breathing down vents. He would turn quickly and in the span of an eye blink, the beast would be there. A horned shadow on the wall, a cold dusk of air, a tail slap on the door, a fallen picture frame, a deformed insect scuttling over the ceiling. It was there.
Right now, he couldn’t care about any of that. Right now, Jon was kicking open the screen door at the back of his parents’ suburban home and bringing something cupped in his hands over to the sink. He placed it gently into the basin and wrapped a hand towel around it.
It was the end of Indian summer in 1986. School had just started up and all of the anxieties that went with being a teen in the ‘80s plagued Jon. Lack of social graces, teenage awkwardness, no money—all these bothered him, but none of his problems loomed as large as his family.
Jon heard a sharp intake of breath. The warning “Oooooo,” of his snitchy little sister rose behind him. Jon knew it by instinct. How many times had he suffered after that preamble? He swung around and snarled at her.
“What, Catherine? What do you want?”
“You not ‘spousta use your feet to kick open the door like tha’,” she stuttered out. “And those towels are for hands, Mom says.”
She stood at the kitchen door, her mouth a flat frowning line of defiance at Jon’s heinous breach of protocol. Six-years-old and ready to rat on the world, Catherine was wearing her ugly tan Brownie uniform and clutching an empty plastic soda bottle in each arm. Behind her, he heard the murmur of his mother lecturing the other girls in Catherine’s scout troop, as she did every other week.
“Don’t say anything Catherine,” Jon pleaded. He heard the whine in his voice and hated himself for it. But she held the power and only an earnest plea might stop her smiting tongue.
No dice. She stared at him blank-eyed for a moment, and then ran back to the living room calling for mother. “Jon’s doing . . . ” whatever. He knew the drill but wanted to delay it as long as possible. He scooped up his cargo and ran for the cellar door.
Inside the living room, his mother’s high-pitched squawk rang out, “I’ll deal with Jon in a minute, sit down. Now remember girls, any man who makes you feel uncomfortable should be immediately reported to the police. If he touches you, talks to you, looks at you, is near you, and you don’t like it then he should be locked up. It can be a stranger, a teacher, your father, your uncle, your brother, your grandfather, your cousin. Report them and keep talking until they are locked up. What’s the number again?”
“911!” the gaggle of girls shouted.
Jon groaned. He had actually been victim to one such call by his younger sister wherein she made some pretty evil accusations. His parents convinced the police to leave the matter alone, but how close he came to being locked up stuck with him. He paused at the cellar door and sucked in a deep breath. The package in his arms squirmed and eeked.
“I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I’m not scared,” he intoned three times, then spun around and spat behind.
Jon flung open the door and jumped down the stairs, hoping to avoid— No, it gripped him as it always did. A wave of nausea ran through him. Some hidden scent, some forgotten childhood nightmare, some trick of the light always triggered unease in his soul. His gorge would rise and his bottom would drop. Every time his appetite dried up upon walking down the steps. He never actually did vomit but felt constantly on the verge of it. The ritual followed was to ward off the evil which lurked there. Childish, yes, but it was the only thing that gave him confidence.
He didn’t know why this happened. It was just a normal-looking cellar filled with standard cellar junk. Old holiday decorations, the water heater, a warped workbench with rusty tools, and the washer and dryer. It smelled dank and musty, but that wasn’t different from any of his friends’ cellars and he never had the gripping nausea when at their homes.
That was a mystery for another time, though. He needed to take care of his charge. Jon laid the towel down in a slightly grimy sink next to the washer and unwrapped the creature inside. It was a squirrel he had accidently run over with his Huffy on the way home from school. Its back legs were crushed and bent in weird angles. Its eyes fluttered open and shut, and the animal’s breathing came in rapid short breaths.
Guilt washed over him. He didn’t know what to do. It was an accident, yet he was responsible. The creature’s feeble eeking made the whole thing even worse. Jon paced back and forth, anxiety sending tremors of panic down his spine. He had to help, but how?
Maybe some splints for its legs? What could he make them out of? Twigs? Popsicle sticks? Oh, hell, its back was probably broken. Maybe something to eat, or some water, or some whiskey to ease the pain. Could squirrels drink alcohol?
He went back upstairs and ransacked the kitchen, finally coming across a can of Spanish peanuts favored by Father. Taking that was a mortal sin, but he recklessly did it anyway. Jon filled a saucer with water and hurried back down to the animal.
Inside the living room, his mother was wrapping things up. “Okay girls. Remember, you deserve to be given the best of everything. If someone can’t provide what you need, then take what you can and move on.”
The squirrel had gone silent. He slid a peanut between the squirrel’s weird thumb and fingers. It fell out, so he tried again. The creature’s eyes flitted a bit then dropped the food. All right, it was too far gone for that. Jon edged the saucer to the animal’s snout. Surely it could use some liquid. That was the one thing you always needed when you were sick or run over by a vehicle.
“Jon, Jon, where are you?” His mother was stomping around above. “What’s this about you kicking the screen door again?”
He froze. This would not end well. He knew it. His mother took a sadistic glee in ranting about petty crapola. It was only Jon who received these assaults. She left her other two daughters alone. He was her favorite stress ball.
Though he couldn’t end it, Jon hoped to delay the attack for a while. He remained still by the sink, watching and waiting. His focus was on the door exclusively and didn’t notice that his hand had strayed a little too close to the squirrel’s mouth. The animal roused a bit and, whether he recognized Jon or just lashed out because of the pain, the squirrel bit deep into the webbing between Jon’s thumb and forefinger.
Pain. Scream. Crying.
“Ah ha!”
The cellar door kicked open. His mother, all five-foot-two-inches of her, stood silhouetted against the dying afternoon light. As she stomped down the stairs, a hideous joy was revealed on her face. She loved having the high ground. She loved having an excuse, no matter how petty, to rip into someone. It filled her with a cold warmth that neither children, nor marriage, nor church could supply. These moments were what she truly lived for.
“How many times do I have to tell you to use your hands to open the fucking door, you idiot. Your feet will bend the metal if you kick it enough times,” Slim figured and large breasted, her visage was the living definition of a ‘bitch face.’ Her shrill words spat out rapid fire. “Why are you such a fucking retard? This house is going to be yours one day, stupid. You might want to fucking take care of it a little.”
Catherine peeked around the cellar door, barely stifling a giggle. Her face mimicked her mother’s as she absorbed the scene, excited by the chaos she’d caused.
“Is Jon in a lot of trouble?” she asked.
“No, dear.” Mother’s tone twisted to doting parent mid-syllable. “Why don’t you get a popsicle for being a good girl and watch cartoons.”
“Okay.” But she didn’t leave. No cartoon could beat the show in the basement.
“Why can’t you ever follow simple directions? It’s not much. It’s not fucking rocket science. I ask you not the kick the door open, but that’s too difficult for you. I send you to get some Hellman’s mayonnaise, you get some other goddamn brand. I tell you to cut the lawn a quarter of an inch, you cut it half. You’re so incompetent. When are you gonna pull your head out of your dumb ass and stop being the biggest fuck-up in the world?”
Anger. Hurt. Depression.
It would be so satisfying to break her face. He could almost feel the crunch of her teeth across his knuckles. The rules of society held back his blow. One just didn’t hit their mother, did they? No matter what she did, she was still a mother and that meant something. So he took the emotional wounds, withstood the verbal battering, without complaint. He became the proverbial whipped dog since society left him no other options.
Despite his resolution, Jon was not the type to do absolutely nothing. Robbed of using violence, the only thing he could manage was tears. That made him hate himself more. He wanted to be a man, be strong, but . . .
“Holy shit. Are you crying, you little wimp?”
Eyes downcast, a sniffle wiped away. “No.”
“Yes, you are!”
Why was his life like this? Why couldn’t she be a normal mother who cared for her children? Cared about them as people, not just about their basic needs. Father supplied him with clothes and food, but not much else.
“Time to step up and start being a man. No one loves a pussy,” she continued on without missing a beat. “That means doing what you’re told. And why the hell are you bleeding?”
A little pool of blood had developed in the webbing of his hand. It spread over the lines of his knuckles. He had forgotten it under the abuse. Only after it was pointed out to him did he feel pain. That and the nausea.
“Well?” she demanded.
He mutely pointed to the sink. She stomped over and screeched. “Why is there a half-dead animal stinking up my good basement?”
“I . . . I . . . ”
“What?”
“I kind of hit it with my bike.”
“Jesus fuck, so you bring it home?”
“It’s not dead.”
“We’ll see about that.” She grabbed the squirrel and dashed its head open against the bottom of the sink. This time the nausea overwhelmed him, and he vomited on the slate floor.
***
Jon retreated into his inner thoughts. In his room, he scribbled furiously away in a spiral notebook. He had labeled it “geometry notes” to prevent any curious snooping, but it really contained his secret diary—or journal. Yes, journal was more masculine—where he raged against his parents, his insecurity, his lingering virginity, and whatever was left in the world.
It had taken him an hour to clean up the puke and dispose of the squirrel carcass, All the while he endured vicious barbs and nasty giggling from the two females who had decided to “supervise” rather than help. The dead animal was all but forgotten now, only hate rattled around his brain.
If that stupid bitch wants me dead then she should just shoot me, but that would mean she would have to get off her lazy ass and do something besides whining out of her cunt. She can’t do anything but complain that’s why she never gets anything done. She just complains and waits for someone else to fix it because she’s such a lazy whore.
This was one of his escapes. Not the big one, but a minor oasis to deal with the garbage of life. A place to expel the venom from his soul. With each word he tossed out, he felt a cathartic warmth, a rush of pleasure, which stabilized his mood. Pressure slowly decreased.
And it’s only ME! She doesn’t treat Michelle or Catherine bad. And it’s not just because I’m a boy. She has some special hate in her heart for my presence. She won’t talk like that to Father. Or anyone else! Bitch is always looking for some excuse to attack, like I’m ruining the house that’ll be mine.
He paused. Technically, Mother was right. The place probably would go to him as the only male heir. Michelle was older, but considering her toxic waste lifestyle, it would be turned into a crack den five minutes after her claws snatched up the deed. Father would never let that happen. The house’s legacy was very important to him.
Their home had been in the St. Fond family ever since Jon’s great-great-grandfather ordered the two-story house out of the Sears Roebuck catalogue in 1922—The Puritan, model no. 3190—paying the princely sum of $1,947 for the whole thing. Once the thirty thousand pieces had been shipped down the Erie Canal, the old patriarch had the dwelling installed over a pre-existing cellar. He must have been a cheap bastard because he refused to shell out for frills like plumbing, electricity, or a boiler. The old time ways were the best to him apparently, including having to wipe your asshole with your own hand. All of the staples of modern life had been added later by less sturdy descendants.
While being forced to write some stupid essay about his family, Jon had stumbled on a whole box of old papers detailing his great-great-grandfather’s legal troubles over the construction. The old man would hire a crew for a day, fire them without paying, and then hire a different crew for the next day. He kept this up until the house was finished. Eventually, the various crews banded together and sued for their wages. The old man refused to settle and strung the proceedings out for six years before finally settling on a quarter of what they were owed. The land appeared to have belonged to the family for longer than the house stood, though most of the records had been destroyed by some flash flood in 1959.
And even if I will inherit it, there’s some horrible thing just waiting underneath. I know it. They always half-ass it with me. Like there’s a lot of taxes owed on the house or it’s on a sinkhole or something like that. That’s how they work. Catherine gets all the latest Barbie crap, but when I ask for that new VHS copy of Star Wars, they get me some knock-off episodes of Jason of Star Command, the shittiest of shitty sci-fi shows.
The phone rang. Someone else answered, then his mother squawked up the stairs that the call was for him and he needed to hurry the hell up. Jon stashed the book in its hiding place under a small black and white TV on his desk. That was another way his parents screwed him. Michelle had a massive twenty-five-inch Zenith television with cable hookup—the little snot got thirteen whole channels right to her room—while he had been given this crappy ten-inch Mexican knock-off with rabbit ear antenna that he had to wrap half a yard of tinfoil around to get even the lousy PBS channel.
He snatched up the receiver and waited for the other extension to click off. It didn’t. Jon breathed heavy and waited, and waited, and waited some more. God damn it . . .
“Mom, can you hang up?”
“I don’t think so. If you need to talk, go ahead. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t listen in. I mean, are you talking about drugs or robbing a bank? No? Well then it doesn’t matter if I hear.”
“It’s okay, dude,” the caller chimed in.
Michael Dutch was on the other end. Jon’s oldest friend. His non-biological brother. Michael also had the distinction of being one of the few people with a worse home life than Jon. His parents were self-absorbed assholes just like Jon’s, but they also had the added handicap of being poor. A hand-to-mouth existence had been Michael’s entire life. He needed an escape as much as Jon did.
“Are we still on?”
“Definitely.”
“All right, I’ll meet you in a bit.”
“Remember, you have to do all your chores first,” butted in Mother. “I’ll be double-checking and reporting to Father. Anything not done well and you’re not going anywhere, mister.”
Jon slammed down the phone and panted a while in near-rabid frenzy. Fuck her! This was one of her little games. No matter how much he scrubbed the floor or how long he vacuumed the rug, there would always be a problem, real or imagined. It didn’t matter.
He was going out and she could shove the chores. If she did tell Father . . . a cold dread seized him . . . it was a problem to deal with later. Right now, Jon needed to get away.
He gathered up a number of hardbound books with bits of loose-leaf paper sticking haphazardly between the pages and put them carefully into a backpack. These were precious objects, holier than any ancient script. They were the tools and keys with which Jon escaped the world. They were how he kept his sanity and maintained stability in his soul. They let him be . . . something else.
He donned a baseball cap and sauntered down the stairs. The Girl Scout gear stowed away, Catherine was now decked-out in a brightly colored leotard. She pranced around the living room with the best ballerina flats money could buy adorning her feet. As she spun, an infectious grin of true joy broke out over her face. Mother clapped, pure maternal love leaking from her smile.
“Beautiful. Just beautiful,” she muttered.
And it was. For a split second, he forgot all about the horrible snitching and lies Catherine had made up about him and took in her happiness. There wasn’t much grace, but her laughter made up for all that. It was a side of his sister that only occasionally snuck out. Then she saw him and evil reclaimed her face.
Mother joined her in the stare. “Are you going to make a stand or something?” she mocked Jon.
“Nope, I’m just going.” He strode past them.
“Fine,” Mother said, shaking her head, “you’re the one who’ll deal with Father, not me.”
He slammed the screen door behind him and yanked his Huffy from the garage. There was still a smear of blood down the center of his front wheel. The guilt stabbed him again. Just an accident, he reminded himself. Jon gave a brief salute to the trash can which was the animal’s final resting place. Then hesitated, thinking there should be more that he could do.
Inside, Mother heaped praise on Catherine. “When we go, you’re gonna be number one. Oh, I know it! You’ll be the prettiest girl there. Everyone will be jealous.”
Mother and daughter spent a lot of time touring the child pageant circuit. The pair primped and preened, teased up hair, rubbed Vaseline on teeth, danced, and sang. Many times Jon had come home to see Catherine standing on the kitchen table practicing cute quips to say to the judges or reciting rote speeches on how much she loved herself some Jesus. Catherine did fairly well, too. A shelf on the upper walkway was loaded with ribbons and trophies. Rather than be jealous, Jon was all for it. It got them out of his hair.
His mother went on and on in her praise of her youngest child.
Jon spat. Nothing like that had ever been thrown his way. The squirrel’s soul would have to migrate on without any more salutations. He stomped on the pedals and rode off into the night.
