Bad Games

6



Amy drove the Highlander along the only gravel road leading out of Crescent Lake. The large wooden sign that welcomed the family to the lake upon arrival now informed her that she was leaving, just in case the obvious had managed to elude her.

She recalled from previous years spent at the cabin that a Giant Food supermarket was a convenient three or four miles past the lake and would provide a decent go-to spot for any necessities that might pop up during the course of their stay.

As for now, Amy’s list was as basic as basic gets: some meat, some liquid, and some starch. Caveman-style, Patrick called it.

Remembering her husband’s expression brought a small smile to the corner of her mouth. When she recalled Patrick’s goofing around with the kids in his caveman voice the other corner of her mouth rose as well. She was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense feeling of love and gratitude for her husband—such a wonderful man who not only loved her unconditionally, but was the ideal father to her two babies.

The smile was now full-blown. Her light-brown eyes rimmed hot with happy tears. Amy laughed a small laugh, wiped the tears with the back of her hand, and pressed down on the accelerator. She wanted the food shopping over with so she could be back home with her husband and children as soon as possible.



* * *



“When will you let me pet him?” Carrie asked.

“When we take him to the vet and get him checked for every possible disease known to dog,” Patrick replied.

“When are we going to do that?” Carrie asked, looking over her shoulder at the four-legged bundle of dirt and fur that was following the three of them around the lake.

“That was a joke, sweetheart. We’re not going to be doing that. Besides, he probably belongs to someone else around here.”

Father, son, and daughter had walked halfway around the lake—Patrick in the middle with Caleb staying tight to his left, Carrie occasionally straying from his right in order to check the status of the terrier.

Despite the lake’s moniker, it was not crescent-shaped. If anything, it was more of a perfect square. However, Patrick believed he was correct in the assumption that “Crescent Lake” carried a bit more flair than the alternative “Square Lake” when it came to attracting potential residents.

Not that there were many vacancies. Crescent Lake was a small community—a secret of sorts. And the locals preferred it that way. If they wanted glamour and tourists they could have gone to any one of the fancy resorts in California, Arizona, Florida. Perhaps one of many island paradises that seemed almost fictional in its extravagance. But here, tucked away in a wooded nook of western Pennsylvania, they remained anonymous, truly to themselves—a prize forever cherished from the moment received.

Patrick and the kids stopped their walk for a brief moment to take in the view. Caleb bent over, picked up a shiny flat rock, and then handed it to his father. Patrick weighed the rock in his hand, then skimmed it across the lake’s surface, where it jumped a good four times. Caleb looked on as though it was quite possibly the single greatest thing he had ever seen in his four-year-old life, and began frantically searching the ground for more flat stones to give to his father.

“Who?” Carrie asked her father.

Patrick turned away from the lake and gave his daughter a funny look. “Huh?”

“Who does the dog belong to?”

“I don’t know, sweetie, maybe our neighbors. Do you remember the Mitchells?”

Carrie nodded and immediately continued her inquiry. “They didn’t have a dog last year,” she said.

Patrick sighed and answered, while turning back to Caleb who had just pushed a second flat rock into his father’s belly. “Well maybe they just got him, honey.”

Carrie glanced over her shoulder at the dog for the umpteenth time. The terrier was maintaining a cautious ten feet behind the trio lest he suffer the wrath of Patrick’s shoe again. “He doesn’t have a collar,” she said.

Patrick skimmed the rock harder this time and managed five skips. Caleb nearly fainted with delight.

“Daddy, he doesn’t have a collar,” Carrie tried again.

Patrick breathed in deep through his nose and let it filter out slow. With the most patient of smiles, he said, “Carrie, what would you like Daddy to do? It isn’t our dog. Chances are he’s a stray.”

Carrie made a funny face. “What’s that?”

“It’s a dog that doesn’t have an owner and lives on its own.”

Carrie’s face lit up and Patrick quickly added to his definition before her little mouth could form a word.

“—But,” he began, “that also means he’s probably very dirty and might be carrying some kind of disease. So it’s best to stay away from him.”

She scrunched her eyebrows. “Disease?”

“Yes, like rabies. Ever heard of Cujo?”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. Bottom line is that he’s very dirty, and I want you to stay away from him.”

“How ’bout we give him a bath then?”

“How ’bout you listen to your father for a change and do as you’re told?”



* * *



According to Amy, if you’ve seen one Giant Food supermarket you’ve seen them all. So for her, this particular one in western Pennsylvania was no horizon-broadening experience. She moved up and down each aisle with a purpose, grabbing only what was needed, affording no second glances towards impulse items. She enjoyed food shopping as much as she did a pothole after an alignment. Plus, she was still pining to be back with her family so they could settle in properly and let their weekend officially begin.

“Excuse me?”

Amy was in aisle seven deciding between two types of instant rice. They were fortunate to have a microwave oven in the cabin, and the convenient Uncle Ben’s pouches that plopped steaming rice onto your plate in ninety seconds were a godsend to hurried families and frozen-waffle-bachelors alike.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Amy turned over her shoulder and locked eyes with the man behind her—his black to her light brown. The man was solidly built with a shaved head.

“Are you talking to me?” Amy asked.

The man smiled, forcing a squint in those black eyes. “Yeah.”

“What do you want?”

“Some help.”

Amy was backed up against the rice display so she took a step to her left to create distance. The man did not appear an immediate threat, but he had a confident, straightforward way about him that made her feel vulnerable.

“Help?” she said.

“Yeah, can you help me?” The man smiled again, a bigger one this time, more confident.

Amy did not answer right away, and for a good five seconds there was a moment when the two just stared at one another. The man never blinked, and did not speak again until Amy responded. His smile was close to becoming a leer.

“I don’t know…I…what do you want?” Her words were close to a stutter. She wanted to turn and walk away, but the man with the shaved head had not crossed any physical boundaries. It was his demeanor that seemed to be taking liberties—it held her still despite the desire to move.

“Help,” the man said once again. “Actually, more like some advice about something.”

“I don’t know—”

“You see, I’m cooking dinner for my girlfriend tonight, and I’d be lying if I said I knew my way around a kitchen.”

Amy heard the word “girlfriend” and expected a sense of relief that she was not his motive. But there was no relief. The way he continued to look at her…

“I was kind of hoping you might be able to suggest something I could whip up real quick that wouldn’t take all night, something that wouldn’t set my house on fire?” He ended his quip with a satisfied chuckle, all but licking his own eyebrows as the smile officially became a leer.

“I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry.” Amy took two more steps to her left. This time the man did move. He took one step towards her.

“Are you sure? I could really use some advice on this. You see, my girlfriend kind of looks like you. And I figured maybe the two of you might share the same kind of tastes.”

Amy felt a tight chill down her back. She contemplated leaving her cart and just exiting the store. But then a twinge of anger surfaced along side her trepidation. She straightened her posture and a surge of confidence spoke for her. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Excuse me.” She threw both packets of rice back onto the shelf, gripped the handle of the cart with both hands, and went to maneuver it past the man, hoping he would take the hint and step aside. He did, but very slowly, looking her up and down as she worked passed him.

“I understand,” the man said. “I didn’t mean any harm, you know.”

Amy ignored him and never once looked back as she pushed the cart up to the self-serve checkout line. She regretted not taking the rice, but for now starch could—and would—wait. Besides, she could pick some up somewhere else. Or better yet, have Patrick do it.

Amy quickly scanned the meat and juice over the scanner, only pausing long enough to make certain each item emitted the definitive boop!

Stuffing the items into the plastic bags next to the scanner proved more cumbersome than it should, and she cursed her nerves. She thought of people in movies who struggled to put keys into locks when they were scared—fine motor skills that went out the window due to the effects of adrenaline. Who knew bagging groceries could be a fine motor skill?

Just get it done and go, girl.

She was on the second to last bottle of juice when Amy knew that the man with the shaved head was behind her. She refused to turn and acknowledge his presence. Only two more beeps and a swipe of her debit card and she was out of there.

“You know, miss…in a way I was giving you a compliment,” the voice behind her said.

She ignored him.

“My girlfriend is a beautiful woman.”

One beep down.

“I’m not kidding.”

She could hear his breathing, low and heavy.

“The two of you could be sisters.”

Second beep. Swipe the debit card and you’re done.

“I wonder if your tits are the same.”

She froze.

“You wanna turn around and give me a little peek?”

Amy spun. “F*ck you!” She actually shot spit when the expletive left her mouth.

The man with the shaved head just laughed and held up both hands in playful surrender. By now several curious eyes were on the pair. The man met the stares of each onlooker—an arrogant smile for all of them—before leaving through the hiss of the automatic doors.

Amy breathed in and closed her eyes. Purple blotches swirled inside the black canvas of her eyelids. Her legs shook. She placed both hands on the rim of the conveyer belt to steady herself.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” A pleasant female voice said behind her. Amy nodded but kept her eyes closed, facing the register. She took one final breath, opened her eyes, and swiped her debit card. She punched in her code, waited for approval, ignored the receipt, grabbed the groceries, and headed outside.

Amy was close to the Highlander when she stopped and dropped both bags of groceries to the ground. She doubted her vision. What she was looking at couldn’t be what she was looking at. But it was. And the fact that a stranger had left two packets of instant rice on her windshield wasn’t nearly as unnerving as the fact that the stranger knew which car was hers.