Aaron Polson - The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories

“Where’d you find the worms?”

Owen shrugged as he started walking toward the garage.

“Owen, where’d you find the worms?”

The boy stopped, his shoulders dropped, and he turned slowly to face his father. “Just in this old garden. Nobody uses it anymore. Really.”

Albert flinched slightly as though bitten. “Owen, was it the old house just north of the high school, the little white one?”

The boy dropped his head. “Yeah.”

“You know it isn’t safe — that house is slated for demolition.”

Owen nodded. “I know, but Nick Snyder said the best fishing worms lived in that garden.”

Albert knelt to his son’s height. “I don’t care what Nick Snyder said. I just want you to stay away from there, okay?” He tried to mask the concern in his voice. The man and his son stood in silence for a moment, the space between them growing tense and heavy. The front door crashed open, and Meghan stepped out, wiping her hands against a small towel.

“Owen, Lonnie’s mom called. Said he wasn’t feeling well, and he needed to take a rain check on the fishing trip.” Owen slumped to the garage to replace the spade. Meghan turned to Albert. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered.

During dinner on Monday night, Albert watched his son poke the meatloaf on his plate for the fifteenth time before saying anything. “Not hungry?”

The boy looked up, his face washed with a white frown. He shrugged and dropped his eyes back to the plate. His fork jabbed into the meatloaf again. “Not really.” He dropped the fork with a clatter on his plate. “Look, can I be excused?” His eyes swelled, rimmed with pink, prompting Albert to nod. Owen pushed from the tabled, grabbed his plate, and carried it into the kitchen.

Albert leaned closer to his wife. “I’m worried about him.”

“It’s a phase.” She grinned before taking another bite, and her green eyes danced. “I think he was a little upset because Lonnie is still sick.”

Albert looked at his hands and rubbed a thumb across the opposite palm. “I wish they wouldn’t have gone to Jantz’s place.” He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples with both hands. “I’m glad the city has decided to tear it down.” His eyes opened Meghan’s smile. “Demolition starts next week, and the new lot should be up before the end of the school year.”

Meghan nodded and took another bite. They sat in silence for a moment while she chewed. Eventually she set her fork down and studied Albert’s face. “I know that place carries some bad memories. Why don’t you lie down, let that headache melt away a little?”

“The dishes.”

“I’ll handle the dishes. Go lie down.”

Albert obeyed, leaving his dinner plate on the counter next to that of his son. After staggering upstairs, he stood at the foot of his bed in the dark room, pushed off both shoes, and flopped onto the comforter fully clothed. His eyes drifted shut.

He remembered that little house when its whitewash was fresh and the old man spat at trespassers. Elroy Jantz was a squat, shriveled man with black eyes and a quick temper. They’d teased him before — throwing rocks at his windows, even breaking one once. But Elroy Jantz’s garden had the best bait worms in town, and the promise of fat, wriggling things pulled the young Albert to that black garden with his own partner in crime, a thick boy with blonde hair named Ralph Chapman. Their parents warned them away from that old hermit’s place — said he was strange and dangerous, but the boys were twelve years old and invincible.

In Albert’s memory, Ralph swelled fat and whitish-pink, just like the worms. The swollen Ralph poked a hand toward Albert and called his name, “Albert…Albert…Albert…”

“…Albert?”

He started awake and looked into Meghan’s green eyes. “Megs…”

“You were out cold. Thought you might like to shower or at least change before bed.” She pulled her t-shirt over her head and started on the bra clasp.

Albert rose, blinking heavily, trying to shake the malaise from his limbs. He watched Meghan’s muscled back and pressed his hands against her skin.

“Oh, feeling frisky?”

He spun his wife, pressed his lips against hers, and forced his wriggling tongue into her mouth. They tumbled into bed. After they made love, Albert lay with her pressed against his naked body for a time, sucking in her sweet scent, trying to forget the memories.

A week burned away, and Owen sat at the kitchen table, scribbling small robots on scrap bits of notebook paper. Albert slipped in through the front door, dropped his briefcase next to an old wooden desk, and sat down next to the boy. Owen wore a pale, unresponsive scowl.

“Hey, buddy,” Albert said.

Owen cast a quick glance at his father, muttered “hey,” and dropped his eyes back to the paper. His hands worked quickly, spreading dark doodles across the white page. Albert began to notice a different pattern to Owen’s robots. Instead of fighting each other, the usual motif, Owen had rendered a handful of large worms poking from the ground and devouring his creations.

“Looks interesting.” Albert smiled as he spoke, trying to engage his son in conversation.

Owen shrugged. “Guess so.”

Albert watched the boy work for a few more minutes before the silence ate at him. He moved to the stairs, glanced back at his son, and hurried to his bedroom. Slipping from his suit felt freeing; Albert was always happy to shed his work clothes and throw on a pair of shorts and a worn t-shirt. He took a deep breath and sat on the bed for a moment. The room darkened slightly, and Albert turned to the doorway.

“Hi.” Meghan moved from the doorway and plopped on the corner of the mattress.

“Hey.” A moment passed. “Is Owen okay?”

Meghan slipped one hand on Albert’s back and rubbed the knotted muscles between his shoulders. “You’re tense. Carrying too much extra weight.”

“What’s up with Owen?”

Meghan’s hand dropped. She moved it to Albert’s knee. “Lonnie’s been sick all week. I think Owen is just a little worried about his friend. Maybe you two should go see him after dinner tonight.” She patted his leg, stood, and walked out of the bedroom.

Albert pressed the Bowman’s doorbell, and waited in silence next to his son. Owen had brightened slightly at the prospect of visiting his best friend, but the trip to Lonnie’s house had been quiet, almost tense. When the door clicked open, Albert sighed long and slow. A well-etched face greeted them.

“Yes?” Lonnie’s mom was a plump woman, middle-aged with too many worry lines around her eyes. She brightened a bit upon spotting Owen. “Oh, Owen. Lonnie will be happy to see you. Come in.”

Owen moved closer to his father as they crossed the threshold. The Bowman’s house smelled of flowers and Lysol. “Dad, come with me,” he whispered to his father.

“Sure, buddy.” Albert unconsciously reached for his son’s hand.

“Lonnie? You have company,” his mother announced at a bedroom door. The odor of disinfectant swelled from the dark interior, overwhelming the hint of flowers. She reached into the room and flicked a switch, illuminating the room.

Lonnie, his face washed like a bleached desert, lay under a thin blanket on his bed. His cheeks had collapsed some, lost some of their childish blubber in just one week. Under the blanket, his body shifted like a loose pile of bones. His mouth opened as if he would speak, but no sound came.

Albert staggered, seeing his old friend in Lonnie’s eyes: Ralph, sick and fading, pale and dying, just like Lonnie Bowman. Ralph ballooned in his memory and blocked out the lamp. Some things were better left in the ground. “Owen, I…” He retreated into the hallway and blew out the sick air. “Owen, I’m going to wait in the kitchen. You two probably want to talk.”