Dweller - Jeff Strand [79]
Mr. Zack had died a couple of weeks ago. “Natural causes.” That’s where Toby was headed. Natural causes: “Yeah, he died, but that’s what was supposed to happen.”
The big five-oh had not been a happy birthday, even though Garrett got him a copy of Close Encounters of the Third Kind on VHS (which he’d already had, but which Garrett had painted all over with nail polish a couple of years earlier) and Hannah made a portrait of him out of jelly beans glued to construction paper. Fifty was just too old. He wanted a rewind button.
No, not rewind. Reset.
Jesus. What a whiny baby he was being. He might clean up some past messes, given the chance, but he certainly wouldn’t wish away the path of his life. He was best friends with a monster. Who else in the world got to say that? Probably nobody. His life was cool.
He wished Garrett were with him right now. They took lots of walks in the forest together and had a great time, but, of course, when he went to visit Owen his son had to stay at home.
A pity. Garrett would love Owen.
Owen would love Garrett.
Toby had been eight years old when he first saw Owen. Admittedly, his reaction had been to scream and run home crying to Mom, but there hadn’t been anybody there to reassure him, to show him that Owen was nice. If Dad had been there to hold his hand, Toby would have been filled with awe, not terror.
Not that Toby was considering bringing Garrett to meet the monster. Not a chance.
Owen wasn’t there when Toby arrived at the shack, but he showed up soon after, a half-eaten dead rabbit in his claw. He took a great big nasty bite out of it, then held out the dangling remains, offering them to Toby.
It was polite of him to do so, though Toby had never once accepted his offer. Toby waved it away and Owen resumed dining.
“So do you think I’ve been obsessing about turning fifty?” Toby asked. “Sarah thinks I have. I don’t know, I probably have, but I guess my real question is, do you think there’s anything wrong with obsessing about turning fifty? It’s what I’d expect other people to do. And Sarah wasn’t exactly bouncing with joy when she turned forty—you know that, I told you about it. Hey, chew with your mouth closed. Nobody wants to see that.”
As always, Owen continued to chew with his mouth open. Toby hated being here right after a fresh kill. “Do you really have to do that in front of me?”
Yes.
“Okay, then. That answers my question. I can’t stay long today, anyway. I promised Garrett we’d get started on that tree house.”
Bring him.
“You say that every time. Not going to happen, buddy. Not if I want to stay out of divorce court.”
Owen looked disappointed. But, let’s face it, life was full of disappointments.
“There’s one behind the tree!” Garrett shouted.
“Holy cow! Shoot it! Shoot it!”
Garrett pointed his fingers at the tree and zapped the imaginary space invader. Then he made a sound effect to indicate that the alien had blown into a million pieces, the bits scattering across several acres.
“Good job,” Toby said. “The woods are safe.”
They stood in the backyard. The tallest of the three trees in their yard had been declared the site of the new tree house, which meant that they’d have to saw off a few branches and displace a squirrel.
Toby looked over the plans that Garrett had carefully drawn up. They depicted a two-level structure with a fireman’s pole connecting them. There was a secret passage, a guest bedroom, a room with a fully functional alligator pit where enemies could be deposited, a pizza parlor, and a cannon. Garrett was aware that the project had to be scaled back, though Toby promised to respect his creative vision.
“All right,” Toby said, brandishing the hacksaw like a knight’s sword, “neither one of us has a clue what we’re doing, so we’ll make a good team. Your job is to hold the stepladder, while Mom watches us through the window and gets really nervous. Can you handle that?”
“I want to cut down the branches.”
“Okay, here, have a dangerous saw—no. I’ll do the cutting. You can haul away. That’s a lot more fun.”
“Watch