Unspeakable Things(45)

I eyeballed the tremendous potluck mess, glops of spilled food that the cats lapped at, crusted pans that would need to be washed and returned to their owners, forks and cups and plates stacked dangerously high. “The adults should help.”

Sephie hoisted a slow cooker, not bothering to answer me.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll help clean up the food and gather the garbage, but then that’s it. Mom didn’t even say we had to do that much. It’s not like we made this mess.”

Sephie still didn’t respond. She was acting so grown-up, looked so mature in that apron, in addition to spending a whole afternoon bartending. I hoped she didn’t think she was the boss of me.

“I’m going inside to grab trash bags,” I said reluctantly.

Some stragglers had started playing instruments down by the bonfire. Mandolin music stroked the warm night air, and the smell of woodsmoke was comforting, but I was sure the rest of the party was in the barn. That’s why I was surprised to hear people in the house when I stepped into the sunporch. I paused, tuning my ears. Whoever was inside was in the living room and so hadn’t spotted me yet. When I heard the slur in their words, I realized I didn’t need to worry.

“Naw, it’s just boy shit. They’re all trouble, those Hollow boys.”

I perked up. Aramis was speaking. Aramis like the stinky cologne, I mentally corrected, not like my favorite Musketeer. I tiptoed toward the pantry to grab the black trash bags, sticking near the wall, hoping I could escape without being seen. The sweet skunk smell of marijuana smoke was strong, even two rooms over.

“You think they’re all lying? For attention?” That was an unfamiliar voice.

“You said they’re friends.” My dad.

“Neighbors, anyhow,” Aramis corrected. “More or less. Clamchik, Milchman, that Kleppert kid. They all live in the Hollow.”

Clam, Teddy. That Kleppert kid.

An icy weight plummeted from my head to my stomach, freezing everything in its path. Were they talking about boys who’d been molested? Clam, puppy-haired Teddy, plus either Randy or Jim Kleppert, the first one a fourth grader and the other in sixth grade. Had they all been attacked? The salad that had been so delicious began to foam and bubble in my stomach, pushing acid toward the back of my throat. I’d shared Halloween candy with those kids.

“But yeah, I think it’s bullshit what they’re telling us,” Aramis continued. “None of them can identify the guy; they all say he wore a mask. Their physical descriptions don’t square, either. The perp is tall and strong in one, short and wiry in another.”

“Paper says there were only two boys,” the stranger said.

“Paper doesn’t know everything.”

Another pause, then the stranger said, “I heard they were sexually assaulted.”

I could hear Aramis’s shrug through the wall, then a sharp intake as he sucked on a joint. He spoke around a mouthful of smoke. “Somebody messed up that Clamchik kid, poked him in the butt, but the other two didn’t have any marks. I think it was some hazing gone wrong that they’re too afraid to talk about, boys trying out what it’s okay to stick in and what’s not, and it got out of hand.”

“You stopped by Gary Godlin’s last week,” Dad said, almost an accusation, but he was so high that it sounded whiny. “I passed his house on my way to town and spotted your cruiser.”

“Goblin lives out here?” The stranger’s voice. “Man, I wondered what happened to him.”

“Next house going north,” Dad said.

Goblin. Godlin. It had been the similarity between the words, not his villainous face, that had earned him the nickname.

“Had to,” Aramis said. “You know his stepdad used to rape him like it was a hobby, like it was softball or some shit that he had to do every Tuesday and Thursday?”

“Damn,” Dad said. His voice had changed.

“Got sent away for it; died in prison. Whenever something funny goes on around town, I check on Goblin. Stopped by Connelly’s house, too, the band teacher? Pure fruit. There’s a few other stops I made for protocol, and they turned up nothing. I’m telling you, the boys are lying for some sorta attention. You know how Hollow boys are. No dad around, a mom who smokes in front of the television and chows down Twinkies all day.”

Bauer didn’t seem interested at all in catching the man responsible. I thought again of what he and Dad were hiding.

I heard one of the men take a hit and start coughing, first through his nose as he tried to save the smoke and then full throated when he couldn’t contain it.

“Hey, be glad you have girls, Donny,” Aramis said, followed by a clapping sound like he was smacking a watermelon. The coughing subsided. “Those boys do some weird shit. Speaking of, what happened to your youngest’s neck? Looks like you collared her.”

“Born that way,” Dad grunted.

“She’s pretty, even with that scar,” the strange man said. It sent a jolt right up my spine how grody he sounded, like he was auditioning for some over-the-top pirate role.

“Damn pretty,” Dad agreed, his tone fierce but also false, laid over his brittle ego. “How much would you pay for her?”

Aramis laughed, and the other man copied him, and I could tell they both thought Dad was joking and it was one of those things that Dad wouldn’t even remember saying tomorrow, but those laughs still rammed their fists into my queasy belly and I ran outside, gulped in the inky night air, and that was too much, there wasn’t even room for that, and I ran around the side of the house and upchucked my guts. Buckets of stomach-stew sailed out of my mouth, bitter acid with chunks of peas and weenies steaming on the lawn. The puke ejected so forcefully that I choked as I vomited.