“So far this is about as scary as Casper the Friendly Ghost,” Casey observed.
“Just wait. The story starts when Robin is about three years old.”
“Oh Jeez,” Moons observed, “this is going to be a long one.”
“He lived in a large city with his mother, who worked in a department store. ‘What about his father?’ you are probably wondering.”
“Not really,” Casey said.
“Well, Robin’s father was not a nice man. Not like your fathers. He never held a regular job and he gambled away what money he did make. One day he told Robin’s mother he was going to the race track, and never came home.”
“Don’t those disappearing husbands usually go out for a loaf of bread?” Moons asked.
“This one went to the race track. Robin was too young at the time to understand what happened, but he did know that his father wasn’t there anymore.”
“Bright boy,” Casey commented.
“The neighbors all knew what happened, and they discouraged their own kids from playing with Robin, as though it was his fault.”
“Aww, child of a broken home. Boo hoo.”
“If you want to pay attention, Poole, it gets better.”
“I hope so.”
“When he was about six, Robin’s mother, whose name was Barbara, met a man named Kurt at a party. Kurt was tall and good-looking in a slick kind of way, and had a smooth line of talk that women seemed to like.”
“Here comes the sex,” Casey said.
“Shhh!” Travis shushed him. “This is getting good.”
The dark branches of the surrounding trees rustled as the night wind took on a chill. Everyone moved closer to the fire.
Neal went on with the story...
Robin’s mother was a soft, pretty woman. She had honey blond hair and eyes as brown and shiny as a horse chestnut. She was as good a mother as she could manage, what with working all day at the store. Robin stayed inside most of the time, playing by himself, and didn’t miss his father all that much. That all changed after his mother met Kurt. She cared only about pleasing him, and had little time for Robin anymore. Barbara’s problem was she had lousy taste in men. First she picked Robin’s father, who abandoned them, then Kurt, who turned out to be even worse.
Robin mistrusted him from the start. He saw the way the man’s face changed when Barbara left the room and the two of them were alone. Kurt was all Mr. Nice while the three of them were together, but when it was just him and the boy, the smile dropped away and he turned ugly.
Barbara didn’t see it. She was in love, and Robin did not have the words to explain why he distrusted the man. Kurt moved in with them and took over. Barbara kept her job at the store and gave most of the money to him. Kurt always claimed to have some kind of deal working, but he was at home most of the time drinking beer and reading girlie magazines. He got bored easily, and when he was bored he took it out on Robin.
It started innocently enough with tickling. Even though Robin didn’t like it, Kurt would grab him and tickle him until tears came, pretending it was a game. When Robin tried to get loose Kurt would dig his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises on his ribs. And there was the hitting. Worthless as he was, Robin’s real father never struck him. It was different with Kurt. At first he had a reason, so he said, for smacking Robin with the flat of his hand. Any little thing, like leaving his clothes out or not cleaning his plate. Pretty soon it was his fist, and there didn’t have to be any reason at all. The boy tried to tell his mother what was happening, but Barbara didn’t want to hear it, so she refused to listen.
It was, “Robin, Kurt is part of the family now. It’s up to you to do what he tells you.”
“I try, Mom, really. He just doesn’t like me.”
“That’s foolish, of course he likes you. Now let’s not hear any more about it.”
Robin started having headaches from all the hitting, but he didn’t tell anybody. What good would it do? The kids at school could sense that Robin was a loser, and they started picking on him. Kids can be cruel. Robin was not strong, and there was one boy in particular who liked to torment him. His name was Grumman. He was a year older than Robin and a lot bigger. He would catch Robin on the way home from school and twist his arm, or pinch him, or hit him hard in the belly. Once he burned him with the end of a cigarette. Robin’s headaches got worse.
He never even thought about telling anybody. It was bad enough to be known as a sissy, but to be a snitch would be even worse. So he took it from Grumman and the other kids. He took it for a long time, but finally he had enough. On his twelfth birthday he took a long-bladed screwdriver from a kitchen drawer. He carried it outside and rubbed the flat of the blade against the concrete driveway for hours until it was dagger-sharp. Now he was ready.
The three boys leaned expectantly toward the campfire.
The next day Robin walked home from school more slowly than usual, making it easy for Grumman to overtake him.
“Where we goin’, pussy? Home to momma and her greaser boyfriend? Do you watch him fuck her? How about I come along and we both watch?”
“Leave me alone, Grumman.”
“That’s not nice. Here I’m trying to be a buddy and you get all shitty with me.” He snaked a hand out and seized Robin’s left wrist. “Ever see this one?” With his other hand Grumman clamped on Robin’s knuckles and began bending the palm inward. “It’s judo.”
“Hey, that hurts.”
Grumman snickered. “No shit.”
While the other boy kept the pressure on his left wrist Robin slipped his free hand inside his jacket and grasped the wooden handle of the screwdriver.
Grumman’s grin widened. “Whaddaya got there, pussy?”
“A present for you.” With a backhanded sweep, Robin drove the sharpened blade of the screwdriver into the other boy’s ear. There was a muffled popping sound. Grumman gave a strange high-pitched squeak. His grip on Robin’s hand relaxed. He staggered a few steps and fell heavily as a thin red stream squirted from his ear. His face smacked the sidewalk and he quivered for several seconds and then moved no more.
Robin had no idea it was so easy to kill. Nor so much fun.
He pulled the blade out of Grumman’s brain with a sound like a spoon coming out of Jell-O. He wiped it clean on the dead boy’s T-shirt, and threw it down a storm drain.
The violent death of the bully was the talk of the school for many days. Everybody had a theory about what happened, but nobody connected it to quiet little Robin.
But things at home did not improve. Kurt continued to punch him around. And Barbara was no longer pretty. She was drinking a lot now and all puffy in the face. She lost her job. Kurt was on her case and Robin’s all the time. The boy knew what he had to do.
He was a little sorry about his mother. But all in all it would be for the best. She was sick or crying now when she wasn’t dead drunk, and not much good to anybody. One morning when she was passed out on the couch Robin did not go to school. He took a heavy chef’s knife from a kitchen drawer and walked back to the couch. Barbara’s face was all blotchy from drink and Kurt’s fists. Her mouth hung open. She smelled stale. Robin closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the way she had been. He tucked the mental picture away, then ripped the knife blade across his mother’s throat. Barbara’s eyes popped open for just a moment, then glazed. She gurgled as she died. There was a lot of blood spilling out of her. Robin wondered what it tasted like. He touched a forefinger to the open flap of her neck and brought the reddened tip to his tongue. It tasted salty and kind of coppery, like an old penny. Robin carried the knife into the living room then and sat down in front of the television. He turned the set on and found a channel with cartoons.