In Laymon's Terms

Gary Brandner

FLAME DANCED AND crackled on dry evergreen boughs in the center of a small forest clearing. A young man sat on one side of the fire, three boys across from him. Four pup tents were set up at the perimeter pointing in four directions.

Neal Baines was the young man. He had blond hair cropped short and soft blue eyes. He wore jeans, a white sweatshirt and a quilted jacket. It was Neal who had insisted on the canvas pup tents, holding that lighter nylon shelters were not manly. He grinned now over the fire at the three boys.

“Okay, troopers, we’ve had hot dogs and beans cooked over our own fire. Pretty darn good, right?”

There was no response from the boys, who were attired in a mixed collection of new outdoor clothing.

Neal tried again. “What do you say to some toasted marshmallows?”

“Big whoopee,” Casey Poole muttered. Casey was a wiry youth, 12-years-old, with a mouth set in a permanent smirk. Like the other boys he was here at the insistence of his parents, who were home now enjoying a rare quiet weekend.

“Hey, it could be worse,” Moons Henafin said. “He could’ve brought rice cakes.” Moons was twenty pounds overweight, and his rear view accounted for the nickname. At home he was fed a diet of fruits, veggies, and tofu by his mother, who detested fats and was built like a golf club to prove it.

The third boy, Travis Walker, said nothing. Hot dogs, marshmallows, Neal Baines, camping trip...he would put up with it, but all things considered, he’d rather be home with his computer. His father was resigned to the fact that Travis would never be an athlete, but saw this as a chance at least to get him out of the house.

Neal took the tepid response for assent. “Henafin, you get the marshmallows from my tent, Poole, you poke up the fire, Walker you get the pointy sticks.”

The boys moved to their tasks with reluctance.

“Where do I find sticks?” Travis asked.

“Try pointystick.com,” Casey said, looking to Moons, who snickered.

“We’re sitting in a forest full of them,” Neal said. “Go cut four thin branches and whittle them into points. Get some use out of the new Woodsman set your father gave you.”

Travis adjusted his glasses and peered into the darkness. “Am I supposed to go out there alone? A guy could get lost.”

“You won’t get lost, Walker. Just keep the campfire in sight and you’ll be fine.”

“Don’t worry,” Casey said, “bears don’t eat geeks.”

“Unless they’re really hungry,” Moons added.

“Ha ha,” Travis said without mirth, and edged away between trees into the shadows. By the time he returned, the fire was banked and the marshmallows divided among the four of them.

Neal Baines inspected the sticks. “Good work.”

“Give him a merit badge,” Casey said.

Neal frowned him into silence.

The marshmallows were impaled and suspended over the coals for browning. Above them the night sky showed through the dark branches in patches of velvet pinpointed by glittering stars. A late summer breeze soughed through the forest carrying the tang of firs, spruce and juniper.

Moons Henafin eyed Travis’s marshmallows and spoke around a mouthful of his own. “You gonna eat all those?”

“You can have them.”

“Keep your fat hands off mine,” Casey warned.

“Who said anything about yours?”

“You were going to. You already ate most of the hot dogs.”

“Well, I was hungry. Is it my fault they starve me at home?” Moons stabbed the last three marshmallows from Travis’s stash on the point of his stick and thrust them toward the coals.

Neal Baines dabbed at his mouth and looked around with satisfaction. “Okay, troopers, it’s still a little early for sleep. Who’s got an activity to suggest?”

“How about Botticelli?” Travis suggested.

“What’s that?” Moons asked.

“It’s a word game. Something like Twenty Questions.”

“Word game!” Casey spat it out like an obscenity. “No way!”

“All right,” Neal said. “Let’s be cool. If you’ve got another suggestion, Poole, let’s hear it.”

“How about we pack up and go home?” Casey said.

“We could make it in time for Saturday Night Live,” Moons added. Travis rolled his eyes and said nothing.

“Troopers, I’m disappointed in you. I think we can get along one night without television. Try to enjoy the out-of-doors for once. What do you say, Walker?”

“Actually,” Travis admitted, “this is kind of boring.”

“Boring? Doing guy stuff? Hey, this is what they call male bonding. Being together out here in the night air under a canopy of stars, breathing in the sweet fresh air. Boring?”

“He’s a poet” Casey said sotto voce to Moons.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Moons amended.

“Give him a chance,” Travis said. “He’s trying.”

Oblivious to the remarks across the fire, Neal raised a forefinger in inspiration. “I know what will liven things up.”

“Please tell me we’re not going to sing,” Casey said under his breath. Moons rolled his eyes, “Here it comes: Kum Ba Ya.”

Travis leaned close to the other two. “Do you know what it means? Kum Ba Ya?”

“Do you know how much I don’t care?” Casey muttered back.

“Scary stories!” Neal said. “I’ll bet you’ll like that. How about it, troopers?”

“Oh gosh, yes,” Casey said, not bothering to feign enthusiasm.

“Look out,” whispered Moons. “Here comes ‘The Hook’.”

“If he calls us troopers once more...” Casey muttered.

“Who wants to start?”

The three boys looked off in different directions.

“Come on, I know you guys like horror movies. Who has a good gory story?”

“There was the time the TV in my bedroom broke and I had to watch reruns of Matlock with the old folks,” Casey offered.

“Very funny, Poole. How about you, Henafin?”

“There was this little girl in the forest and this big bad wolf...”

“Never mind. Walker?”

“I’m not much good with stories.”

“Then I guess it’s up to me,” Neal said. “I’ll bet I’ve got one that will scare the pants off you.”

“Uh-oh,” Casey said. “I got holes in my underwear.”

“Do you guys want to hear this, or do you want to hit the sleeping bags?”

“It’s not even nine o’clock.”

“So what’ll it be?”

“Tell us the story,” Travis said. The other two nodded glumly.

“Now settle down and listen up...”

The boys exchanged a look and arranged themselves as comfortably as possible on their side of the dying campfire.

“There was a little boy named Robin...”

“This isn’t going to be Winnie the Pooh, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. Anyway, that was Christopher Robin.”

“Oh, right.”

“Robin was not any kind of special little boy. He was a lot like you guys. He could be a smartass sometimes.”

“Who does that sound like?” Moons smirked, nudging Casey.

“And he wasn’t the brightest student in class.”

Casey gave Moons a slug on the shoulder. “How about it, Brainiac?” “And sometimes he was very quiet, and didn’t want to talk to anybody.” Casey and Moons pointed exaggerated fingers at Travis.

“So far this is about as scary as Casper the Friendly Ghost,” Casey observed.

“Just wait. The story starts when Robin is about three years old.”

“Oh Jeez,” Moons observed, “this is going to be a long one.”

“He lived in a large city with his mother, who worked in a department store. ‘What about his father?’ you are probably wondering.”

“Not really,” Casey said.

“Well, Robin’s father was not a nice man. Not like your fathers. He never held a regular job and he gambled away what money he did make. One day he told Robin’s mother he was going to the race track, and never came home.”

“Don’t those disappearing husbands usually go out for a loaf of bread?” Moons asked.

“This one went to the race track. Robin was too young at the time to understand what happened, but he did know that his father wasn’t there anymore.”

“Bright boy,” Casey commented.

“The neighbors all knew what happened, and they discouraged their own kids from playing with Robin, as though it was his fault.”

“Aww, child of a broken home. Boo hoo.”

“If you want to pay attention, Poole, it gets better.”

“I hope so.”

“When he was about six, Robin’s mother, whose name was Barbara, met a man named Kurt at a party. Kurt was tall and good-looking in a slick kind of way, and had a smooth line of talk that women seemed to like.”

“Here comes the sex,” Casey said.

“Shhh!” Travis shushed him. “This is getting good.”

The dark branches of the surrounding trees rustled as the night wind took on a chill. Everyone moved closer to the fire.

Neal went on with the story...

Robin’s mother was a soft, pretty woman. She had honey blond hair and eyes as brown and shiny as a horse chestnut. She was as good a mother as she could manage, what with working all day at the store. Robin stayed inside most of the time, playing by himself, and didn’t miss his father all that much. That all changed after his mother met Kurt. She cared only about pleasing him, and had little time for Robin anymore. Barbara’s problem was she had lousy taste in men. First she picked Robin’s father, who abandoned them, then Kurt, who turned out to be even worse.

Robin mistrusted him from the start. He saw the way the man’s face changed when Barbara left the room and the two of them were alone. Kurt was all Mr. Nice while the three of them were together, but when it was just him and the boy, the smile dropped away and he turned ugly.

Barbara didn’t see it. She was in love, and Robin did not have the words to explain why he distrusted the man. Kurt moved in with them and took over. Barbara kept her job at the store and gave most of the money to him. Kurt always claimed to have some kind of deal working, but he was at home most of the time drinking beer and reading girlie magazines. He got bored easily, and when he was bored he took it out on Robin.

It started innocently enough with tickling. Even though Robin didn’t like it, Kurt would grab him and tickle him until tears came, pretending it was a game. When Robin tried to get loose Kurt would dig his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises on his ribs. And there was the hitting. Worthless as he was, Robin’s real father never struck him. It was different with Kurt. At first he had a reason, so he said, for smacking Robin with the flat of his hand. Any little thing, like leaving his clothes out or not cleaning his plate. Pretty soon it was his fist, and there didn’t have to be any reason at all. The boy tried to tell his mother what was happening, but Barbara didn’t want to hear it, so she refused to listen.

It was, “Robin, Kurt is part of the family now. It’s up to you to do what he tells you.”

“I try, Mom, really. He just doesn’t like me.”

“That’s foolish, of course he likes you. Now let’s not hear any more about it.”

Robin started having headaches from all the hitting, but he didn’t tell anybody. What good would it do? The kids at school could sense that Robin was a loser, and they started picking on him. Kids can be cruel. Robin was not strong, and there was one boy in particular who liked to torment him. His name was Grumman. He was a year older than Robin and a lot bigger. He would catch Robin on the way home from school and twist his arm, or pinch him, or hit him hard in the belly. Once he burned him with the end of a cigarette. Robin’s headaches got worse.

He never even thought about telling anybody. It was bad enough to be known as a sissy, but to be a snitch would be even worse. So he took it from Grumman and the other kids. He took it for a long time, but finally he had enough. On his twelfth birthday he took a long-bladed screwdriver from a kitchen drawer. He carried it outside and rubbed the flat of the blade against the concrete driveway for hours until it was dagger-sharp. Now he was ready.

The three boys leaned expectantly toward the campfire.

The next day Robin walked home from school more slowly than usual, making it easy for Grumman to overtake him.

“Where we goin’, pussy? Home to momma and her greaser boyfriend? Do you watch him fuck her? How about I come along and we both watch?”

“Leave me alone, Grumman.”

“That’s not nice. Here I’m trying to be a buddy and you get all shitty with me.” He snaked a hand out and seized Robin’s left wrist. “Ever see this one?” With his other hand Grumman clamped on Robin’s knuckles and began bending the palm inward. “It’s judo.”

“Hey, that hurts.”

Grumman snickered. “No shit.”

While the other boy kept the pressure on his left wrist Robin slipped his free hand inside his jacket and grasped the wooden handle of the screwdriver.

Grumman’s grin widened. “Whaddaya got there, pussy?”

“A present for you.” With a backhanded sweep, Robin drove the sharpened blade of the screwdriver into the other boy’s ear. There was a muffled popping sound. Grumman gave a strange high-pitched squeak. His grip on Robin’s hand relaxed. He staggered a few steps and fell heavily as a thin red stream squirted from his ear. His face smacked the sidewalk and he quivered for several seconds and then moved no more.

Robin had no idea it was so easy to kill. Nor so much fun.

He pulled the blade out of Grumman’s brain with a sound like a spoon coming out of Jell-O. He wiped it clean on the dead boy’s T-shirt, and threw it down a storm drain.

The violent death of the bully was the talk of the school for many days. Everybody had a theory about what happened, but nobody connected it to quiet little Robin.

But things at home did not improve. Kurt continued to punch him around. And Barbara was no longer pretty. She was drinking a lot now and all puffy in the face. She lost her job. Kurt was on her case and Robin’s all the time. The boy knew what he had to do.

He was a little sorry about his mother. But all in all it would be for the best. She was sick or crying now when she wasn’t dead drunk, and not much good to anybody. One morning when she was passed out on the couch Robin did not go to school. He took a heavy chef’s knife from a kitchen drawer and walked back to the couch. Barbara’s face was all blotchy from drink and Kurt’s fists. Her mouth hung open. She smelled stale. Robin closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the way she had been. He tucked the mental picture away, then ripped the knife blade across his mother’s throat. Barbara’s eyes popped open for just a moment, then glazed. She gurgled as she died. There was a lot of blood spilling out of her. Robin wondered what it tasted like. He touched a forefinger to the open flap of her neck and brought the reddened tip to his tongue. It tasted salty and kind of coppery, like an old penny. Robin carried the knife into the living room then and sat down in front of the television. He turned the set on and found a channel with cartoons.

Kurt came home in the middle of Scooby Doo. He was in his usual crappy mood.

“Barbara!” he called. “Where the hell are you, woman? Is the kid here?”

Robin stood up and, gripping the handle of the heavy knife, walked out to the hallway where Kurt was doing the yelling.

“I’m here.”

“What the hell are you doing watching TV this time of day? Why aren’t you in school?”

Robin moved up close to his stepfather. “Goodbye, asshole.”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. Before he could speak, Robin drove the knife handle-deep into the lower part of his stomach. He yanked the blade upward, slicing through flesh and fat and muscle until it scraped the breastbone. Kurt grunted and grabbed at the wound, trying to keep his intestines from spilling out. He dropped heavily to his knees. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he pitched face down on the tile floor.

Robin went back to the television set where he watched the rest of Scooby Doo. That was where they found him.

Neal Baines paused and looked across the campfire at the three rapt boys. “I see I’ve got your attention now.”

“Pretty good story,” Casey admitted. The other boys nodded silently in agreement.

“Ah, but that’s not the end,” Neal said, making his voice spooky.

The boys moved closer together.

Since Robin was only 12-years-old, the state could not try him for murder. In fact, a lot of well-meaning people sympathized with the boy as an “abused child.” He was sent to a school for the socially challenged, where he learned, among other things, how to make a serviceable knife out of innocent materials. He fashioned his first from a toothbrush and a razor blade. He tested it by slicing open the jugular of one of the older inmates. This act was blamed on a severely retarded boy into whose locker Robin slipped the weapon.

He was a good-looking boy and was the star of most of the little plays the school put on at holiday time. A woman visitor at one of these productions made the mistake of coming backstage while Robin was fighting one of his headaches. Her mouth flapped and her chins jiggled and he didn’t understand a word she said. She smelled like perfume and sweat, and when she went to hug him she breathed garlic in his face. Robin picked up a sharpened spoon stolen from the cafeteria and ripped open the artery just under her ear. By the time she was found in a sticky pool of blood Robin was off in another part of the school.

When he was eighteen Robin was pronounced cured and his record was expunged. In his six years at the school he had developed a small talent for acting, and a pretty fair knowledge of vital spots on the human body. He took a job at the same department store where Barbara had worked. Shortly thereafter, an assortment of excellent knives disappeared from the kitchenware department. And so did Robin.

The headaches still came, but he learned to live with them. He changed names and jobs and cities frequently, so, except for the use of a knife, there was no clear pattern to the killings that followed in the next few years. The victim could be anybody. A homeless man in Phoenix, a teacher in Grand Rapids, a truck driver in Manchester, two young sisters in Seattle. As Robin grew into young manhood his self-confidence and pleasant appearance let him insinuate himself into any situation. He could be a delivery man, a door-to-door salesman, a mechanic.

“He could be anything,” Neal concluded, looking around. He paused for several long seconds. “He could even be...a counselor.”

The boys stared at him wide-eyed across the flames.

“Holy shit,” muttered Moons Henafin.

“Guess what name he is using today?”

“You’re not...” Casey Poole’s voice wavered and faded to a whimper.

Travis Walker wrapped his arms around himself as though for protection.

Neal’s eyes glittered in the fading firelight. His teeth glistened in a smile that was evil itself.

“We’re fucked!” Casey whimpered.

Neal’s grin widened, showing darkish red gums. “Today,” he said, “Robin the knife boy calls himself...Neal Baines!”

“I knew it!” Casey got out.

The boys began scrambling to their feet, looking wildly around for an escape route. The tall evergreens seemed to lean in over their small clearing, sucking out the air.

Neal Baines began to laugh. The boys looked to each other, then at the young man across the campfire. His laughter rose into a wild cackle. He threw back his head and howled his glee into the night sky.

Moons Henafin began to whimper.

Abruptly the laughter stopped. The boys, standing now, unsure what to do, stared at their counselor.

The crazy grin relaxed into Neal’s familiar big-brotherly smile. The glitter faded from his soft blue eyes. He took a moment to look at each of the boys. Then he said quietly...“Gotcha.”

“Holy shit,” Moons said for the second time.

“I knew it wasn’t really you,” Casey lied.

“You are good,” Travis admitted.

“I just wanted to show you troopers that I can tell a scary story.”

Moons and Travis faked a laugh. Casey pretended to yawn.

“I think it’s time to sack out now. We’ve got a long trek home in the morning.”

Moons peered over his shoulder at the sullen woods. “Maybe we could, um, move the tents closer together.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still scared,” Neal said. “It was only a story.”

“It’s not that,” Moons explained. “I just meant if we want to, like, talk to each other.”

“I don’t want you guys yammering all night. The tents stay where they are.”

Not making any attempt to hurry, the boys unrolled their sleeping bags, made a few lame jokes, and eased into their pup tents while Neal banked the fire.

Travis lay staring up at the low roof of his tent. The story of Robin the knife boy would not leave him. Every night sound took on a sinister meaning. The creak of the trees, the cry of an owl. Once he thought he heard one of the other boys sob, but everything was quiet after that.

Quiet until a soft footfall outside brought Travis to full alert. The flap of his tent was snatched aside.

“It was you!” Travis got out.

Neal Baines’s eyes raked Travis with fearful intensity. The terrible grin was back. “Oh, yes. It was me.” His jacket was open and the front of his sweatshirt was wet and red and sticking to his chest.

“You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, yes I do. You know I do.”

Travis pulled in a breath.

Neal anticipated him. “Go ahead and yell. Nobody’s going to hear you.”

“Casey? Moons?”

“Not now. Not ever again.”

Travis squirmed in his sleeping bag. “Why?”

“Why? Because it’s fun. It’s a rush. You really should try it.” Neal laughed deep in his chest. “But then, you won’t have a chance, will you?” He worked the top half of his body into the boy’s tent and brought his right hand up where Travis could see it. “I brought my knife.”

Travis slipped one arm free of the sleeping bag. He lunged upright and punched Neal in the soft flesh just under the breast bone. “So did I.”

Neal made a last sound, something like “Aaaaaah,” and looked down at his life spilling out as Travis withdrew the Woodsman blade.