One by one he plucked them off, until he had finally relieved the hundred-legged creature of its limbs. Next came the antennae, then the eyes. He had no use for the body, as it appeared nearly hollow and made for an unremarkable splat beneath his sneakers and so it was left discarded among the other dismembered specimens on the basement floor. He so would have liked to have had a pocket knife to perform the procedure, but his mother was the type not to let Little Boys play with Dangerous Weapons. And so, he was left to do the job with her eyebrow tweezers, a chore made as much out of spite as of necessity. He had just finished scooping the last orb from its socket when he was startled by a voice that he could never get used to.
"I told you not to go down there, Robby."
He paused, then sighed, releasing his grip on his surgical instrument, letting the little amber ball fall to its final resting place on the bed of limbs watered by drops of quick mix lemonade in the Dixie Cup. Stood up. Turned around. His stepfather loomed from the top of the stairs.
"What are you doing, anyway?"
He was the picture of competent, casual authority. Easygoing in his management of law and order. Confident that they could forge a relationship of Mutual Respect. They could be buddies. They would be pals. He approached his new child in the same way that he got to know his clients, by first learning to sympathize with their perceived weaknesses.
Right now, he saw below him a pathetic figure, indeed. Thin, but flabby from lack of exercise. Pale from the lack of sunlight. Awkward from lack of social interaction. Poor kid, he thought. Bad grades, no friends, the athletic prowess of a slug.... You couldn't imagine a tougher spot to be in as a ten-year-old boy.
No, this was not the way. He was expecting too much from him. Rules only work when your subject understands them, and Robby doesn't understand anything. Let him hang out in the dark if it makes him happy. He'll come around. Baby steps. Just tell him to ask before he goes down here again.
"You know, if you really want--"
"My name is Robert."
"What?"
"I said my name is Robert. Call me Robert."
On the other hand, he was getting sick and tired of the little shit. Whose presence in the basement meant the next day appearance of large, eyeless worms surrounding his Norditrack. Who was not interested in the multitude of boyhood items he was, selflessly, willing to provide him with his generous salary as a consultant for Madison Avenue's largest advertising firms. Who did not respect the inherent superiority of penthouse over rent control. Who was weird and didn't care to change.
What had he gotten himself into?
~~~
At night he would watch them, observing their respective restless sleeps encased in immaculately ghost-white linen. Side by side, they slept on their backs. His stepfather straight and stiff with only the occasional snore betraying sentience. His mother also straight, but only to a point--as though she could only be contained from the waist down, her arms twisting wildly about her head. A knife and fork tucked in a napkin.
She dreamed the same dream she dreamed every night, the one where she climbs the top of the fanciest turret at the top of the most expensive apartment on Storrow Drive, and swan dives into the murky depths of the river Chalres.
She went ahead. She bit the big apple. She didn't mind the maggots. Or worms or whatever those things were that seemed to follow Robert around. What was the matter with Robert? There was nothing wrong with Robert.
