The two-day beard in the pa.s.senger seat smacks the driver on the back of his head.

"What the h.e.l.l was that for?"

Two-day Beard crosses his arms. "The rabbit, you jacka.s.s."

"I missed him."

"He ran."

The driver frowns. "When'd you go soft?"

"Shut up."

"'fraid it was the Easter Bunny?" The driver laughs. "Like you was ever good enough for the Easter Bunny to leave a basket, right?"

Two-day Beard lifts the pistol from his lap. "I just don't like n.o.body killing something what never hurt 'em, is all."

Another rabbit skirts into the road. The driver's foot drops on the accelerator. For a moment, the headlights have the furry thing trapped, but it vanishes into the gra.s.s as the car pa.s.ses. The driver laughs again, opening his mouth with the laughter.

"f.u.c.k you," mutters Two-day Beard.

The car slides between a few more trees and skids to a halt at the edge of the lake. Both men climb out and slam their doors in near synchronicity. The driver jiggles the keys on his way to the trunk. He inserts the key and clicks the trunk open.

"The truth about rabbits, buddy," he says, "is that they're just rats with long legs. Like our friend here." He nods to the trunk.

Two-day Beard scowls as he puts his hands under the body's arms. "You gonna help with this guy, or write poetry?"

Chapter 67: Bona Fide King of His Realm.

Uncle Rego is a giant earthworm. I've known for a little while, even though most of the family might think I'm bona fide crazy if I said anything about it. It's not just the clammy touch of his skin, or the color, or the way his breath always smells like the nice, black dirt they put in Styrofoam cups for the night crawlers down at Jenkin's Bait and Tackle. No, I've seen the pictures that prove Uncle Rego's an earthworm, and what happened to my aunt is only what some folks might call "icing on the cake."

I don't know much about icing, but those pictures do a nice job of putting the chill on my spine. I've got them tucked away in the old Converse box under my bed for later. I made the mistake of talking about Uncle Rego to Pa once, and he gave me the back of his hand. h.e.l.l of a lot harder than his palm, even with the calluses. When I tell one of my folks about Aunt Tessie, it won't be Pa.

I figure Mama listens pretty good most of the time.

See, Rego is Mama's brother-her only kin left on that level since Uncle Garth got killed under his motorcycle last October. Mama doesn't talk about her childhood often, but when she does, I see the pale-as-potato-grub look on her face at the suggestion of Rego.

"Rather not mention that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h," she'll say, or, "I don't talk about that dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Once, when she and Pa were having one of their "heated debates", he said something I didn't quite understand about Mama and Rego doing "unnatural" things. Mama cried and cried and put that debate fire right out with her tears. When they were cooled off, Mama explained that she was just a little girl and Rego was so strong and he'd gotten into Grandad's whiskey and she ran off to the river that night with a bar of Ivory Soap and scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin glowed like mercury and even bled in a couple places. At least I remember she said something about blood.

Sometimes I try to shut off my ears because I don't really want a piece of what they're talking about.

Still, if I'm going to tell anyone the truth about Uncle Rego and Aunt Tessie, it'll be Mama. Besides, she's the one who sent me across town to Uncle Rego and Aunt Tessie's trailer that afternoon.

I rode my bike because that's what I always do, and sure enough, I nosed the awful dirt smell when I got there. Rego didn't have his disguise on at all. I could see the pale-brown slickness of his naked earthworm skin through a window. And, being curious like I am, I made my way right to the sill and peeked in.

Like I mentioned about those photos-ice all over my spine. Felt like I might vomit, too. There he was, curled up on that bed of theirs, pinkish-tan and slimy, and Aunt Tessie reduced to a pile of dirt. Her undergarments poked out of the black-brown lump, so I knew it had to be her. What was left of her. No lesson from biology cla.s.s will ever stick as well as the one about earthworms and what Mr. Block calls "the ecosystem." Used to make me kind of sad, thinking about my old dog Max and how the worms must have had at him when he died. Now, I just feel like I want to throw up-either that or get the biggest spade I can and slice old Rego in half and watch him squirm until he dies.

But I don't have that much courage. Not to face a big, king-of-the-realm worm like that.

Of course, Aunt Tessie just turned up missing. Uncle Rego put on his human skin again and called the police, moaning and b.i.t.c.hing about his wife, then getting all frightened like he feared he'd never see her again. Lies and deceit, like Grandma Shoemaker used to say. Lies and deceit.

If-when-I get around to telling Mama, I'm going to dig out those old photos, especially the one from when she's a little girl and Uncle Rego's touching her shoulder. I'd swear on Max's grave, it's not a hand at all, but his earthworm tail poking through. Mama must've known it, too, by the awful, sour-milk look on her black and white face.

Chapter 68: Watching the White Blossoms.

The doorbell rang while Harold Curtis watched the white blossoms tumble from his wife's favorite dogwood tree. He sat in an old lawn chair on his back patio, and the sound of the front doorbell came to him through the open sliding door. Harold's age ravaged fingers tightened on the aluminum arm of the chair. His knuckles went white. Harold's dentures clacked together as he set his jaw.

The doorbell rang again. Enough to wake the dead, he thought.

"I'm coming," Harold muttered, more for himself than anyone at the front door. He stood with an awkward lurch and shuffled into the dining room, through the hallway, and to his foyer. As he walked, he imagined no one might be at the door after all. The neighborhood children had a penchant for pranks-ringing an old man's bell and then scuttling off to laugh at him as he stood red faced on the front stoop. The neighborhood had changed a great deal in the last sixty years.

Time was, a child wouldn't think of pestering his elders.

Harold wrapped his gnarled hand around the k.n.o.b and pulled the door open. He expected no one, so was surprised to see the chubby face of his neighbor's daughter, Janie Dure, ten years old, wearing her Brownie uniform. The girl held a clipboard against her chest like body armor.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Curtis." Her voice was small, delicate.

"Janie," said Harold, raising his eyebrows. His lips curled slightly at the edges.

Janie rocked back on her feet, almost stepping away from the door. "Am I bothering you, Mr. Curtis?" Her smile dropped to the ground, and her tiny fingers pressed against the back of the clipboard.

"Just watching the blossoms, Janie." He pushed one gnarled hand to the girl. "'fraid I thought you were one of those boys. The jokers."

Janie moved closer, pausing at the threshold, closed her eyes for a moment and stepped over. The smell inside was always stale, hints of mildew, and the age of things older than Janie's grandparents.

"Cookies, then, is it?"

Janie nodded and remembered her voice. "Yes. I wasn't sure..."

The little girl's words faded, but Harold understood. Maggie was the one the neighborhood children loved. She was the one with smiles and kind words, tubs of sweets and b.u.t.tery hugs. The house went quiet, rotting from the silence and shadows, when she died. Harold began to rot from the inside after she died.

"She used to love the lemon ones. What are they called?" His eyes drifted to the back patio, caught in a brief swirl of white blossoms there. "She used to love a lot of things." He reached out with one hand and s.n.a.t.c.hed Janie's forearm. The girl winced at the tight pinch, surprised by Harold's quickness.

"Mr. Curtis," she protested. Tears-brewed mostly from fear-began to squeeze from her eyes. With a few shuffling steps, he towed the girl to the sliding doors.

"She used to love these blossoms, too." His voice was more of a growl, the grinding sound of stones pressed together. Harold Curtis's eyes were black, lost.

"Please," she pleaded.

"Oh." His eyes dropped, finding his arm and the tight grip on Janie's arm.

When he released the girl, her arm bloomed white where his thumb had pressed into her skin. She backed away. His head sank to his feet.

"No cookies this year, Janie," he muttered, but the girl was already gone. Harold eventually lifted his head, and his eyes watched the lazy dance of blossoms as they broke free of the tree and wandered to the ground.

Chapter 69: The Bet.

Ben says the fuse is waterproof.

I take the bet. He swallows sparks, and the color burns from his face.

After a dull thump, his mouth opens, blood sputters out, and he mutters, "You owe me," before collapsing.

Chapter 70: Night Lights.

On the outside, the lights shine brighter than I remember as a kid, but inside the old man is dying. That's what Mom says anyway, that's what she tells me while we drive the boys around town so they can see Christmas lights. She's Grandma to them, and she doesn't say anything about the man dying loud enough for them to hear.

"He has cancer. The bad kind," she whispers.

I nod, wondering just what the good kind of cancer is.

She continues. "A nurse comes in twice a week, that's what Mary Ann says anyway. Really bad shape."

"How'd he do the lights?"

"The town helped out-some volunteers at the church. Downtown businesses. It'll be too bad when he's gone, an end to an era. Do you remember when we used to drive by here."

My hands tighten on the wheel. "Sure."

The boys are still gawking at the house, their bundled little faces pale and slack as they drink in all the twinkles, the thousands of tiny sparkles. Out, out brief candle, I think, but the candles won't go out. The town won't let them go out. I step on the gas and pull away from house, a little disgusted with myself, a little disgusted with us all.

At the Phillips 66 station three blocks down from the house, I turn onto the highway and head home. In the review mirror, I see the boys yawn. They're up past bedtime, and tomorrow is Christmas. Mom looks at me, and I can tell she's frowning a little from the droop at the corners of her mouth. Probably a response to my scowl. I try to relax, but all I can think about is the old man rotting inside his house.

Liz meets us at the door. "How was everything?"

I shrug. "The boys need to get to bed. Tomorrow's Christmas."

She backs away a little, probably sensing one of my moods. Before helping Nick and Nate into their pajamas, we lay out three sugar cookies-the flaky kind Mom makes with red sprinkles-and set them on the table with a gla.s.s of milk. "For Santa," Liz tells the boys.

We tuck them in upstairs, and I crash in the living room, flipping through TV stations trying to find A Christmas Carol. I only like the version with Alastair Sim. In every advertis.e.m.e.nt, the houses are decorated with little lights. I can't escape the thoughts of the old man. Mom and Liz are talking while I surf; I can hear a little of their mumbles.

"What's eating him?" Liz asks.

"I don't know...we drove by all the places he liked as a kid."

I smash the power b.u.t.ton on the remote, and march into the kitchen.

"I'm going to bed," I announce.

On the way to my old bedroom, I pause outside the boys' room and peek in. They're tucked neatly under fat comforters, sleeping peacefully with visions of Santa and the gifts to come in the morning. Nothing is out of order for them, only me.

I've been lying in bed for thirty minutes, staring at the ceiling, before Liz comes upstairs. She undresses, folds over the blankets, and slips inside. She's trying to be quiet, probably sure I'm asleep.

"I'm not asleep," I say.

A pause. "Oh, sorry."

Another pause. I feel the air in the room thicken.

"What's wrong, Bub?"

"Nothing." I close my eyes and wait a few moments. Maybe sleep will come. Maybe not. "We drove by a few houses I remember from when I was a kid."

"Oh."

"Yeah. This one house, well Mom said the owner was dying. Cancer. He's in bad shape."

"That's too bad."

I suck in a lungful of stale air. "The town won't let him die."

"What?"

"They put up lights on the house."

"Who did? I don't understand."