The Candyman-Part 3

The sound of eighteen wheels on cracked asphalt served as my alarm clock the next morning.

As I rolled over and unsuccessfully smushed the pillow over my head to block the noise, my father’s words came back to me. Curiosity overwhelming my need to sleep, I shot out of bed and ran over to the window, hoping to finally catch a glimpse of our mysterious neighbor. Wasting no time, I shoved aside the curtains and scrunched my face against the glass, ignoring the feeling of its surface sticking to my flushed cheeks.

The glow of the early morning sun was not nearly enough to make out the moving truck, but luckily the movers had brought their own industrial flashlights, bathing their paths into and out of the house in an eerie, color-devoid sheen.
I stood there watching for nearly five minutes straight, and was just about to give up when the front door opened and a hunched figure stood there, shrouded in darkness. I squinted hard, but only made out the faintest of features before a big man, one of the movers, slipped in front, blocking my vision as he carried some oak furnishing or another.

Well, that’s a wash, I thought sourly as I climbed back into bed. I pulled the covers over me and turned over, ready to try and get a little more shuteye before I had to get ready for school, but damn it, I was too pissed off.

So instead I rolled back out of bed, threw on a pair of jeans and a T-Shirt, and stared at the wall, my mind turning yesterday’s events over and over, hoping something would click.

Instead, my alarm went off.

This was going to be a swell day.

I ended up going to the bus stop early, being unable to go back to sleep and my appetite not up to the task of having more than a slice of toast. When I arrived there, I was pleasantly surprised to find Clark sitting on the curb, moodily stuffing his chubby face with potato chips while rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes.

“The moving truck wake you up, too?”

All I got was a grunt in response as I sat down next to him. Then again, I’d asked a relatively stupid question.

“Seriously, what’s with this guy, moving furniture at this hour?”

Clark shrugged, then shook his bag of chips around in my general direction with his eyebrows raised. I accepted, and we sat in silence for a short while, watching our classmates slowly trickle in, each rubbing their eyes and grumbling something about lynch mobs.

As it turns out, even at school the strange circumstances surrounding the old man’s appearance in town caused some ruckus. At lunch, all we heard around campus were rumors and so-called “facts” about him despite not a single person there knowing his first name. A couple of the more notable ones mentioned that he was of European descent. So of course cries of “Nazi Trundermann” or “comrade Trundermann” or even “sleeper agent #47” plagued us as soon as we stepped foot in the classroom.

I think everyone knew it was B.S., but they must have been bored or something, because that entire day, people wouldn’t shut up about it. Of course, the rumors made good joke material, and even I caught myself making a crack every so often. But after hearing about it all day it started to get old fast.

I think the moment Clark and I couldn’t stand it anymore was when one of the teachers (in Lit, I think) brought in an old movie projector and showed us King Kong. Projectors were expensive, so the fact that we got to watch even a musty old flick like King Kong in class was more than a treat, it was pretty much a goddamn miracle.

Well, I swear, there’s a special place in hell for people who talk during stories, anyhow.

Luckily, Lit class was the last class of the day for me, so it wasn’t long after that that the bus came and I met Clark at the stop on the edge of our neighborhood. As per usual, I took out the ol’ pigskin and tossed it at him, beginning our ritual game of catch.

As we tossed it back and forth, we shared war stories about Trundermann, how people wouldn’t shut up about the guy, how yes, I was excited, but no, not THAT bad, and then we talked about girls.

I don’t know how we got to the topic, but after discussing our crushes, we somehow landed on the question that had been rolling around in our heads all day. The Meeting. Should we have it? Was his arrival really that important, after all?

For a few moments, we walked in silence, the ball having gone still and resting comfortably in my hands as we thought for a bit. Then Clark summoned up a grin and jumped up once, causing change to jingle in his pockets. Up ahead, just across the street, stood the Harney and Sons Supermarket. My own grin slowly rose to my face as I realized what this meant, and through my brimming excitement his words barely made it through.

“Allowance came in early- relatives one town over sent their favorite grandson some pocket-cash.”

Strange, really, to think that I was excited at the prospects of sweets once. It’s also strange to imagine what would have maybe happened if H&S were open that day, what might have changed.

Ah, there I go again, going off on tangents. I swear, Ezz, my mind’s in a tizzy.

But the store.

But the store, it was closed, see. Open sign was still swinging from the door, lights were still on, but not a sound, not a soul remained.

Even at the time, before They stalked the streets, I knew something was wrong about this. Clark may have only been mildly disappointed that we wouldn’t be sharing a double-chocolate malt, but something in me rebelled against the idea of a store without a soul.

...

Sorry. It seems I left for a while.

We also left, the ball now safely tucked away in my knapsack and the uncomfortable shroud of silence draped over us again. This didn’t change until our usual splitting-off point, where I mentioned going in and possibly getting some answers from my father. I believe I told him to wait outside.

This was the first of many regrets.

When I walked through the door, I caught wind of only a few words that still haunt me. Yes, even now, these words set my bones to ice, even now, after all I’ve seen, all I’ve done.

“I’ve been laid off.”

The reason doesn’t matter, but it was something about being unable to properly pay debt, being unable to tell their employees, using their savings to pay everyone’s final two weeks and severance.

All that matters is that the H&S was no more, and its bankruptcy was the catalyst for the wreck you see before you.

I remember no sorrow, or even panic. Instead, a perverse sort of calm fell over me. I believe this was when I understood that I was Well and Truly Fucked. I vaguely remember walking outside, shutting the door very carefully behind me, and asking Clark to please leave I just want to be left alone right now. I remember telling him Friday, for sure, we would have it, remember doing the countersign or sign or whatever trivial petty bullshit we used to make our little club feel significant, and I remember hearing a lot of crying. I think it was a female.

There was a door-slam, some excited chatter about giving those damned Jews a piece of his mind, and two forms made their way out our driveway down the street, their outlines black against the afternoon sun.

They didn’t leave much evidence of what they planned to do or when they’d be back. There was a single note on the fridge, something about leftover meatloaf, but that was it.

No goodbye.

No photos on the back of milk cartons.

Not even a glance backwards as they walked out the door.

Their bodies would return two days from then.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | END

All cover art is done by me in Mr. Doob, a procedural drawing tool, on my Chromebook.