Interim(36)

“Do what?”

“You know.” It was impossible for him to look at Roy. He hung his head and kicked at the carpet.

“Do what?” Roy repeated. “And stand up straight when you’re talking to me.”

Jeremy sighed. “Furnish this place,” he said, forcing his eyes to meet Roy’s. He knew his face was beet red.

“It’s been furnished,” Roy replied. “That’s how we’ve always rented it.”

Bullshit. Jeremy saw the latest tenants move out. They had a moving truck, and he watched them load piece after piece of large furniture items. He smiled then. Roy noticed.

“Go put that milk away,” Roy ordered. “Keep food in the kitchen and dining room, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I don’t want dishes piling up in that sink. You’ve got hands and detergent. Use ’em.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I expect a ‘thank you’ to my wife for all that cooking.”

“You got it.”

Roy hovered near the front door, his face registering an awkward pain as he battled the statements in his head. They were all emotional and sappy and unwarranted, and yet he felt justified in delivering at least one of them. The problem was deciding which would embarrass Jeremy the least.

Please don’t, Jeremy thought desperately. He didn’t want to hear “Jeremy, you’re like a son to me” or “I love you, kid” or “What else do you need?” He couldn’t possibly need anything else. He was filled to the brim with all of Roy and Carol’s kindnesses—feeling drunk on a foreign feeling he could only identify as real love. But he did not need Roy to voice it. Those words would ruin everything.

“Well, you’re home now,” Roy said finally. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s good, then,” Roy mumbled. He turned the doorknob, then paused. “There’s no Sunday dinner in there.” He pointed toward the kitchen.

“I know.”

“We eat at seven. Sharp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

Now Roy averted his eyes. He opened the door and paused in the threshold.

“Be a good boy,” he said gruffly, and walked out.

Jeremy stood staring at the black door, replaying Roy’s words as he thought about his recent encounter with Regan. He tackled her to the ground. Be a good boy. He yelled at her. Be a good boy. He lied to her about his character, playing the pathetic victim so she would believe in his false innocence. Be a good boy. He planned to kill people.

Be a good boy.

“I can’t,” he confessed out loud. “I can’t, Roy. I’m sorry.”

He thought he should have heard an echo, resounding loud and menacing in his cavernous heart. He knew all the goodness left him the moment he uttered the words “I can’t” because he secretly meant “I won’t.”

***

He awoke in a panic. He swore she opened her mouth to someone. His days were numbered—the time ticking ticking ticking above his head, counting down to zero when the bomb would explode. He imagined S.W.A.T. teams bursting through every orifice of the apartment, shattering glass and splitting doors, slamming him to the ground and screaming in his face. He would hang his head in shame as they escorted him to the police car, unable to look at Roy and Carol. He could imagine their faces—shocked and horrified that they rented their apartment to a mass murderer.

“But he was such a good kid,” they’d say, unable to admit they’d been duped.

He jumped out of bed and hastily showered. He had to get to school early. He had to get her alone. He had to feel her out—see where her brain was. She had become his only liability, and he knew what they did to liabilities in the movies. They put them in a car, drove them out to the woods and left them there with a bullet in the backs of their heads. He could never put a bullet through hers, but then what would he do with her?

He didn’t trust her at all, and the more he thought about yesterday afternoon—tackling her to the ground and clamping his rough hand over her mouth—the more his vigilante side tossed and turned within his muscles. He was restless. He was wondering why Jeremy didn’t take care of the “Regan problem” when he had the chance.

You were too busy getting a hard-on, the vigilante spat, climbing all over her body like that.