Aaron Polson - The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories

The boy turned to his father, nodded, and stepped closer to what remained of his friend.

Mrs. Bowman offered Albert a glass of water, and he sat sipping in silence. For her part, Mrs. Bowman bustled about the kitchen, finishing dinner dishes and scrubbing the stove top. She tried to ignore his presence, but seemed haunted by something. The silence grew, Albert fidgeted on his stool until he finally broke.

“What does the doctor think, you know, about Lonnie’s condition?” he asked, blushing and embarrassed like he was a child again.

She stopped her bustle. “Doc Wilson doesn’t know what to think. His tests come back showing anemia and all sorts of malnutrition, but he can’t find any cause. He has these pink marks, swollen in places — little lines, but the doctor doesn’t know what they are.” She laid the dishtowel on the counter, and shook her head lightly. “I don’t know what to do — ”

“What to do about what?” Owen stood at the entrance to the hallway, cradling a white cube under his arm.

Albert turned. “Nothing buddy. We were just talking. You ready?”

Owen nodded.

Mrs. Bowman pinched her face into a forced smile. “Thanks for coming. Really. I’m sure it meant so much to Lonnie.” She paused for a moment, took a breath, and steadied herself. “He’ll be back in school before you know it.”

Father and son sat next to each other in Albert’s car, both riding in silence and staring ahead into the dark night. Something writhed in Albert’s memory, and every few minutes he would glance at the Styrofoam box resting on his son’s lap. His hands tightened on the steering wheel until the question burned from his mouth.

“What’s in the box, buddy?”

Owen opened the lid slightly. “Just the worms. The ones we dug out of old Jantz’s garden.” He pushed the lid shut. “I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry about going there, lying…”

Albert closed his eyes for a moment, stuffing his memories further into his brain. He sighed. “It’s okay, Owen.” He directed the car into their driveway.

“I think some of the worms got out.”

“What?”

“Some of them got out.” Owen pulled open the box again. “Only about half of them are left.”

“I made him leave them in the garage. For the night at least.” Albert thrust his hands under his head and closed his eyes. He tried to relax as Meghan contorted during her nightly yoga routine. “I think we should dump them in the morning.”

Meghan stood and stretched, exhaling as her fingers extended to the ceiling. With a light sigh, she moved to the side of the bed, flipped up the comforter, and slipped in beside Albert. There was a purpose in her silence.

“Meghan?” Albert propped his head on one arm.

She closed her eyes. “Yes?”

“Don’t you think we should dump the worms in the morning?”

“Look, bub, I don’t think those worms have anything to do with Lonnie’s illness. They’re not hurting anybody here.” She opened her eyes slowly and turned to Albert. “As for Jantz — all that happened long ago. Ralph’s death wasn’t your fault or Elroy Jantz’s.” Meghan touched his face lightly with her hand. “That was all a long, long time ago.”

The weekend filled with rain, but on Monday morning Albert stood on the sidewalk in front of Elroy Jantz’s old house, a weary bungalow just blocks from the local high school. The old man was dead now, had been for the past eighteen months, but Albert still heard the threats — angry words that kept him away from that sidewalk for almost twenty-five years. He listened as the bulldozer growled angrily, creaking and clanking toward the small structure. His eyes seemed fixed on the house, but they saw a different time.

He remembered years before — a bright Saturday afternoon when he rode to Jantz’s house with his friend, Ralph. They crept through the old man’s back gate, slipped past the no trespassing sign into his vegetable garden, and pawed in the rich earth for the best bait worms in town. Jantz burst from his backdoor, spewing curses at the boys, catching Ralph by the collar before he could scramble to his feet and run.

“Mr. Roberds?”

The voice yanked Albert from his memory. “Yeah — yeah, what is it?”

The foreman stepped forward, handing him a phone. “Your wife, sir. Something about a friend of your boy…in the hospital.” His voice was ground under the cracking and rending of old wood as the bulldozer crushed the small house.

When Albert came home that evening, he checked the container of worms, verifying that they were still there.

Elroy Jantz came to visit Albert in his dreams that night. The old man’s pinched and grey face swelled before him, just as it had twenty-five years ago. Albert was a child again, a boy cowering before the gnarled man that held his best friend. He wanted to run, to hide, but the magnetic pull the old man held him locked to the moment.

“I’ve been watching you. You threw rocks — broke my window, trampled my garden, and now you boys want some worms, huh? Well, have some, have some.” He forced Ralph’s jaw open and shoved a wriggling thing inside. “Eat up, boys.”

The twelve-year-old Albert panicked, burned with terror upon seeing his friend’s wide, frightened eyes. He turned and ran, left his bike behind the old man’s fence and sprinted home, lungs exploding all the way. The old man yelled after Albert. He closed his eyes, but Jantz’s face swelled again, and a voice rose in his head. “Your turn’s comin’ boy. You’re next.”

Albert woke with a thick coat of sweat covering his head and arms. He heard a sound, maybe small feet working up the stairs, and then a click of a door. Albert rose, moved quickly from bed, out his door, and through the hallway to Owen’s room. Inside, the boy lay quiet and still. Albert turned back to his bedroom, and noticed a small smudge of mud on the carpet. He returned to bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

On Tuesday afternoon, Albert stepped out of the hospital into the bright sunshine. Lonnie had looked worn and grey, much like his memory of Ralph from all those years ago. Albert felt compelled to make the visit — he had to check Lonnie’s arms, see for himself all the unnatural pink lines under his skin. In the parking lot, a man stepped from behind a truck — just a pale shimmer of a man, a flicker in the afternoon sun. Elroy Jantz.

Albert’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced his eyes away. The air fell heavy on his bare skin, loaded and icy — enough that Albert shivered and drew the collar of his jacket about his neck. A quick gust of breeze whispered past his ear, and curiosity ripped his eyes back to the old man. He was gone, devoured by the grey air. A voice spoke in his head as Albert rushed to his car.

Elroy Jantz’s ghost chased Albert home. His anxiety grew as he sped through quiet, residential streets, knuckles whitening as he clutched the steering wheel. The worms had to go — maybe back to the lot that once held Jantz’s little house or dumped by the roadside out of town — but they had to go.

He guided his car into the driveway and waited as the garage door slowly rose, allowing a growing bar of muted daylight inside the dark space. The worm box rested on the workbench, and Albert snatched it quickly and tucked it under one arm. Meghan’s voice punched at him from inside the house as Albert turned back to his car.

“Albert!” she called again, almost shouting to snap his hypnosis.

He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Albert, I’ve tried to call all afternoon. Your phone — ”

“I shut it off.” He backed a step toward the car. “I went to see Lonnie Bowman today.”

Meghan stepped into the garage, her face pale like fresh wax. “Oh. Albert, Owen came home sick today.” She pushed at her hair, an anxious gesture.