{"id":2822,"date":"2026-02-07T17:33:49","date_gmt":"2026-02-07T17:33:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/?p=2822"},"modified":"2026-02-07T23:05:05","modified_gmt":"2026-02-07T23:05:05","slug":"the-wiggle-room-a-short-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/2026\/02\/07\/the-wiggle-room-a-short-story\/","title":{"rendered":"“The Wiggle Room”: A Short Story"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Note: This story originally appeared in the online literary journal Solar, Spring 2022. For this one, if you think “genre,” think Gothic. It’s “Based on a True Story,” kind of. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

According to his father, the neighbors who lived in the house behind them were conservative Christian weirdoes. \u201cStay clear of those two,\u201d he said. \u201cGive them a foot in the door and they\u2019ll have you down on your knees, praying for salvation. Or nail you to a cross somewhere because you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The neighbors were brother and sister. The brother a vet back from Afghanistan, missing a leg. He didn\u2019t talk to people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman walked over to their house and knocked on the door. The boy answered. She smiled at him and asked if he knew much about God? He was eating peanut butter crackers and shook his head. He didn\u2019t want to open his mouth to talk and show her all the mashed-up crackers and peanut butter. \u201cWell don\u2019t you think it\u2019s about time you found out? Jesus loves you, you know.\u201d She had a nice face and was exactly the same height as he, so they looked directly into each other\u2019s eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her forehead and cheek were unlined and seemed to glow with a waxy sheen. She had fine pale hair at her temple and scalp line as if they wanted to grow onto her face and cover it, like the Wolf Lady he had seen on the internet. Like her face was an open field in a forest of pale wispy hair. Her eyes a curious color, a dark blue tinged almost violet. She was maybe a little younger than his mother but she dressed in old-timey clothes. She wore a sun bonnet on her head, with white lacey straps tied neatly at her chin. Other faint wisps of her sandy hair curled out beneath her bonnet, at her neck, and the bonnet, which was a pale blue like baby boy clothes, ruffled in the wind. They lived near the shore and it was always windy. The boy guessed she wore the bonnet to keep her hair from being tangled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho\u2019s at the door?\u201d shouted his father. He was upstairs, in his dark room, developing pictures. \u201cTell them we don\u2019t want any.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman heard that, and did not waiver. \u201cTake this,\u201d she whispered, handing him a pamphlet titled The Watchtower. \u201cRead it, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He finished chewing and swallowed, then nodded. \u201cOkay,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll get right on it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She frowned, just a little. Turned her head. \u201cWas that a joke?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cI\u2019m serious.\u201d He held up the pamphlet. \u201cGot nothing else to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She kept staring at him. Looked behind him, over his shoulder, into his house. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho is it?\u201d shouted his mother. She was in the living room, watching TV and working on her laptop like always. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nothing,\u201d he said. \u201cJust the lady who lives behind us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, okay,\u201d she called out. \u201cWhat does she want? Does she need something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman kept standing there, staring at him with a Mona Lisa smile on her face. \u201cLady,\u201d she said, squinted her eyes. \u201cIs that what I am?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t know what to say. She didn\u2019t seem to be a weirdo at all. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he called out to his mother. Speaking to her in a softer voice he said, \u201cWhat should I tell her? She wants to know what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman made a face like that was a trick question, one which she didn\u2019t know how to answer. She held one finger to her plump lips and tapped, three times. \u201cI want,\u201d she said, pausing, \u201cyou to read that pamphlet. Then we will talk about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll do that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nodded and started to leave\u2014took a step backward, still looking into his eyes\u2014then stopped and stuck out her hand. \u201cI\u2019m Genevieve,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before he could take her hand she wiped it on her skirt and apologized, told him, \u201cI\u2019m sorry. It\u2019s this heat I guess. My hands get so wet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shook her warm and damp hand and laughed. \u201cPleased to meet you, Genevieve. I\u2019m . . . .\u201d And for a second he forgot his name. She let go of him and put both hands in the air as if she were trying to catch something, ducking and miming like she was playing baseball, in the outfield trying to catch a pop fly, until he finally remembered, \u201c. . . Patrick.\u201d And then her hands grabbed the air, and she closed her fist on the sound of his name, and put one hand into the pocket of her long dress. \u201cNext time, then,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She made a little curtsey, turned, and walked down the gray concrete flagstone path to the white sidewalk, turned sharply, and headed down the street. She\u2019d have to walk around the whole block to get back to her house from that direction. He started to call out, tell her she could cut through his yard. He held his tongue. It didn\u2019t seem right, yelling at her like that, on the street and everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that woman still here?\u201d called out his mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s gone,\u201d he said. But he watched her walk to the intersection of Ibis Street, passing through the palm tree shadows, the brown palm fronds swaying and crackling in the wind above her. A pair of teenage girls, wearing flipflops and swimsuits and floppy T-shirts, passed her at the corner. When she couldn\u2019t see them, they turned and made faces, giggling. One of them held up her phone and took a picture of the woman walking away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wished he had done that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After that he watched her all the time. The woman in the house behind his house. The only thing that separated their yards was a weedy, sand-filled alley, where at night hunchback raccoons ransacked trashcans. It always smelled like garbage and dead things. Plus the salt spray that coated everything. Otherwise what separated their yards was just two stretches of gray chainlink fence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father told him that the brother was an angry guy back from serving in the Marines. His leg had been blown off and now he wore a prosthetic. \u201cBut if he walks by, whatever you do, don\u2019t stare at it. That\u2019s rude.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The neighbors\u2019 yard was a lush green square of St. Augustine grass, with four palm trees, one in each corner. A flagpole in the center, atop which flew a large Confederate flag. The woman mowed the grass every week, usually on Fridays or Saturday afternoons. The boy watched her from a tree house in his backyard, a plywood platform hidden up in the live oak branches. His mother said he should be careful up there. He could break his neck. His father thought it was good for him, would get him in touch with nature and shit. He helped the boy saw some two-by-four scraps and then hammer them into the oak trunk for a ladder, up to a vee-shaped spread of branches, onto which they nailed a sheet of weathered gray plywood they kept in the garage to cover the windows if a hurricane might hit. The boy took to spending his afternoons up in the tree house. He told his parents he was reading and doing homework. He was in ninth grade and making good grades, but he didn\u2019t have a close friend. If she came into the yard he spied on her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had a precise way of mowing the grass. Push the loud mower down the length of the yard in the center, turn left and go to the back corner, turn left and go back to their patio area, turn left and back to the place where she started. With each time the mowed area became wider and the dark green grass area in the center became smaller and smaller until he imagined he was in the center of the square, and she mowed the last spot, chopping him up into little pieces. Then he would wriggle on the ground, all the little pieces of him moving at once, chopped up and squirming and giddy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy mowed grass, too, for money. Several neighbors paid him and he was saving up for a PlayStation videogame console. The weed-eater was the worst part. It made a high-pitched buzzing sound. The sun was hot and it was always humid. He took off his shirt to mow some yards but then the mosquitoes in the high grass bit him like crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the treehouse, he could see the windows on the backside of their house\u2014their backside faced his backside. The house was nothing special: a two-story box with sage-colored aluminum siding, a small concrete patio behind the downstairs sliding-glass doors. Five windows upstairs, which he guessed to be (left to right): bedroom, bathroom, hallway, bathroom, bedroom. The three center windows were small squares. The outside windows, right and left, were larger rectangles. Late at night he snuck out to the treehouse and sat there watching. The right-hand window filled with golden light. A lamp on a nightstand. Gauzy curtains over the window. The figure of the woman, standing behind the curtains.  Through binoculars, he saw her, standing there in her nightdress. Looking in his direction. He wondered if she could see the glint of reflection from the security light onto the binocular lenses. He wondered if she could see him when he stood up, coated by moonlight there in the tangled oak branches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wearing a long white nightgown with ruffles at her throat. Her dark brown hair was long and flowed down each side of her body as if her head were a stone in the center of a milk chocolate river. He took a picture with his iPhone but all you could see was a fuzzy glow of their security light and a vague square shape of house\u2014with, on the right, one golden window\u2014like a licked butterscotch throat lozenge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The brother drove a red pickup truck and was the only one who seemed to leave the house. He left in the afternoon and came home in the night, late. Sometimes the boy could hear him yelling at the woman and telling her things, how she needed to clean up all this crap, how they couldn\u2019t live like this anymore. Once he came out on the patio with an armful of stuffed animals. The boy watched through his binoculars. The brother moved pretty well for having a fake leg. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There must have been a dozen stuffed animals: Through the binoculars he spied a penguin, a fox, and a bear in a canoe. \u201cThis is for your own good,\u201d he shouted at the sliding glass door. Behind the glass, the dim figure of the woman, standing there, her hands holding her head, her mouth telling him to stop. Her brother opened a barbecue grill and placed the stuffed animals inside, then squirted lighter fluid on them and tossed a match. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They burst into flame. The boy wanted to rush out there and knock them off the grill, but he didn\u2019t. \u201cIt\u2019s time for you to move on,\u201d shouted the brother. A skinny man with a pegleg and a big adam\u2019s apple. He wore crocs and cargo shorts. \u201cEnough already,\u201d he said as he opened the sliding glass door. \u201cWhat\u2019s done is done.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next week after her brother burned the stuffed animals, an ambulance came to their house in early evening. The sky was a violet color and the Confederate flag in their backyard popped in the wind, its grommets pinged against the metal flagpole. The boy could hear the crackle of the EMTs radio but not what they said. The flashing lights pulsed against the palm tree fronds like an outdoor disco. His father peeked out the back windows and said, \u201cUh oh. Trouble in paradise.\u201d His mother said she hoped it wasn\u2019t anything serious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another week went by. The brother\u2019s truck never left the driveway. On Saturday the woman mowed the backyard up in one strip toward his yard, where he sat cross-legged watching her from the treehouse, turned left, and when she came to the corner of the chainlink fence, in the shadow of the corner palm tree, she tripped. The boy saw her fall to the ground. The lawnmower engine stopped. She just lay there in the dark green grass, half in the shadow of the palm fronds. At first the boy expected her to get up and brush herself off. She didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He climbed down from the treehouse and went out the chainlink fence, liftng up the latch and swinging out the gate, with its gray metal Irish Setter figures on top of the gate frame. He walked up and spoke to her through the fence, her lying on the ground like that. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShhh,\u201d she said. \u201cThere\u2019s a snake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Between her and the palm tree trunk lay the dark olive shape of a huge snake. The boy guessed it to be a python because they were all in the news now, how the swamps and marshes were full of them, how they grew big enough to swallow a child. This one was like a black and dark green log that stretched from the palm tree to the chainlink fence and slowly squirmed away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you get up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to scare it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be right back.\u201d The boy ran to his father\u2019s garage and found the garden hoe, ran back to her and passed through her fence, slowed down when he got close. \u201cI\u2019ll kill it,\u201d he said, holding the hoe in both hands and raising it high. \u201cI got a hoe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat up and straightened her bonnet, which had twisted around. Her eyebrows crinkled. \u201cYou will not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose things can bite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled, squinting up at him in the sunlight, a halo around his head. \u201cSo can you. Should I hit you with a hoe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m a person. Not a snake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re all god\u2019s creatures.\u201d She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm. \u201cIt\u2019s too hot out here,\u201d she added. \u201cFor me and Mr. Snake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood there, awkwardly, hoe in the air. He wore gray sweatpant shorts and a T-shirt that read You May Not Rest Now, There Are Monsters Nearby. \u201cWhy\u2019d you fall?\u201d he asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI got all twisted up.\u201d She rubbed her ankle and said she was afraid it would be swollen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He asked where her brother was and she just looked at him. After a minute she said, \u201cHe\u2019s gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGone where?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She kept rubbing her ankle, and started to hum a faint, sweet tune. \u201cGone?\u201d she asked. \u201cGone to Dallas. The big D.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took her hand, which was warm and damp, and she pulled on him as she got onto her knees, then stood up, rising up to his height, like she was being inflated. \u201cThank you,\u201d she said. \u201cFor not killing Mr. Snake.\u201d He turned to look and it was in the other neighbor\u2019s yard now, their problem. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid he get a new job?\u201d asked the boy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho? Donald?\u201d She brushed herself off and started to limp away. \u201cNo. He doesn\u2019t work. He\u2019s injured. Or disabled, I guess you say.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh. Okay. Well what does he do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo? Mainly he just drinks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He let it go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ll give you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He followed her as she limped toward her house. \u201cYou want me to finish mowing?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. Oh, well. I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t mind.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stopped and stood there. \u201cYou could?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t mind,\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll pay you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s okay. We\u2019re neighbors, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nodded. \u201cI\u2019ll pay you anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI won\u2019t let you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She turned her head to one side. \u201cStubborn one, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrincipled.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome in when you\u2019re done. I\u2019ll make us something to eat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy got her mower going and followed her shrinking-grid pattern with geometric precision. Before he finished it began to rain. The woman came out on the concrete patio and stood under the awning, waving at him. He waved back. He wouldn\u2019t stop until he was done. The last square of grass had the flagpole in the center and he was soaked with cool rain when he stood beneath it, wind blowing the flag sideways, a spray of droplets speckling his face as it popped off the fabric with its blue X against the red background, his hair plastered to his head. He felt a tug on his shirt and turned around to find the woman, now wet and bedraggled, pulling on his T-shirt and telling him to get inside. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the kitchen, she said, \u201cLook how wet you are. Here.\u201d She handed him a towel. \u201cYou look like a wet rat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy wiped his face and laughed. \u201cThanks. Call me The Rat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman untied her bonnet and set it on the table. \u201cI\u2019m wet too. Let\u2019s be rats together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dripping all over the kitchen floor, he toweled his hair and looked around the room. A wall calendar with an illustration of Jesus with a woman prostrate before him, as if kissing his feet. An old green table in the center, with a bowl of apples and bananas in the center. She left and came back with a pair of bluejeans and a western shirt with pearl snap buttons. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake off your things and put those on,\u201d said the woman. \u201cWe\u2019re wet and making a mess of everything, aren\u2019t we?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d said the boy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not your fault. Go on now.\u201d She made a shooing motion with her hands and smiled her little Mona Lisa. \u201cI won\u2019t bite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy stood there, holding the jeans and shirt. \u201cYou mean here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere. Where else would you go?\u201d She reached out, took both of his shoulders in her hands, then turned his body. \u201cYou face that way. No looking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He heard some clothes ruffling and feet shuffling. \u201cGo on now. I want to put these in the dryer.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took off his shirt and hesitated, and before he could stop himself, glanced behind him. The woman had pulled her dress down and was facing away from him, standing barefoot in her white brassiere and her bottom in white underpants, kicking the dress to the side and stepping out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He unzipped his pants slowly and as quietly as he could and pulled them down. They were soaked and heavy. He stumbled, standing there, trying to get his feet out of the cuffs. As soon as he could he pulled the blue jeans on, put his arms through the shirt sleeves. When he turned around the woman was watching him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t that better?\u201d she asked. Her dark hair was long and wavey and he tried not to stare at her. She was like a different person. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWarmer,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWarmer is good?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He nodded, staring at the graceful lines of her collarbones, like wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She reached a hand out to him. \u201cCome here. I want to show you something.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took her hand and she led him through the formal living room, with a striped hard-looking sofa and no TV set, to the garage. A floor of cool gray concrete, the smell of wood shavings. The garage door pulled shut. An amber Yield sign nailed to one wall. In the corner was a low white freezer with a black cord plugged into a socket on the wall behind it. Above it, an illuminated bar sign with the legend The Wiggle Room in loopy lime-green cursive neon script at top, and below the title, silhouette images of a blue martini glass and a red go-go dancer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Genevieve saw the boy staring at it. \u201cIsn\u2019t that a hoot?\u201d she asked. \u201cDonald put it up there just to irritate me. Now I kind of like it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy asked where he got the thing. She said it was from a bar he used to visit. \u201cHe bought it for two hundred dollars when it closed down. But if I asked him for that much he\u2019d yell at me. How money doesn\u2019t grow on trees.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Otherwise the garage was mostly empty. Cardboard boxes in the corner, a stack of Watchtower<\/em> pamphlets on top. A cricket hopping across the floor. A weight-lifting set in the center, with a wide black bench in front of it. No car. She led him to a rough wooden table upon which were dolls arranged around a small wooden farm set. \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d she asked. \u201cDo you recognize it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A house and barn made of Popsicle sticks. A tiny corral in which stood four plastic horses. Behind the farm scene was a good-sized cotton-candy-looking dark cloud shape with a wide top that narrowed to a small funnel at bottom, suspended by wires.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWatch,\u201d said the woman. She flicked a switch on the table and a buzzing noise commenced from the cloud: It began to twirl and spin around, slowly at first, then gaining speed. The narrow bottom of the cloud wobbled and skittered across the table, and almost knocked over the Popsicle stick house. \u201cOops,\u201d she said, and flicked the switch. It slowly quit turning and the buzzing sound diminished. \u201cDonald made it for me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy looked at her. \u201cIt\u2019s a tornado, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nodded. \u201cBingo. But what tornado?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took his hand again. Hers was wet and warm but he didn\u2019t pull away as she made him get closer and lean down on the table. He had to hold the blue jeans waist to keep them from falling off. \u201cLook.\u201d She pointed to the small doll of a girl in pigtails, wearing a blue and white dress, holding a little dog. The dolls were about eight inches tall, about the size of Barbies, and roughhewn. The girl stood next to a mean-looking woman in a man\u2019s hat, standing astride a bicycle with a basket in front, pointing at her. The woman said they were corn-husk dolls, made from corn husks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Wizard of Oz?\u201d he guessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, you\u2019re a sharp one, aren\u2019t you, Patrick?\u201d said the woman, not letting go of him but putting her other hand on her heart and fluttering her eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooks pretty obvious to me,\u201d he said, not knowing if he should pull his hand away or not. She was squeezing him and pulling him closer. \u201cThat\u2019s Elvira Gulch, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman laughed. \u201cIt is indeed.\u201d She let go his hand and touched his cheek. \u201cNo one has ever recognized it before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWay cool,\u201d he said. \u201cKind of weird, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She made a funny face, scrunching up her eyebrows. \u201cDonald said it was a stupid waste of time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho\u2019s Donald?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy brother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, right. Well. Brothers are like that, aren\u2019t they? Always giving you a hard time.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She picked up the Dorothy doll and held it in front of his face, ventriloquizing, \u201cDid you ever read what I gave you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d he asked, laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Watchtower,\u201d insisted corn-husk Dorothy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA little,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019d you think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shrugged. \u201cI\u2019ve heard of Jesus before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut not that much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot really. Not much. I mean, my parents? They think it\u2019s kind of kooky.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is not. It\u2019s the light,\u201d she said, letting go of him and lifting her hands and the corn-husk Dorothy up to the heavens\u2014in this case the exposed two-by-four rafters of the unfinished garage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay. Well. To them it\u2019s kind of kooky, so I don\u2019t want to get in trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled. \u201cYou\u2019re kidding, right? Your parents wouldn\u2019t get mad at you for finding Jesus, would they?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He grinned. \u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I never,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He laughed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy are you laughing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPeople don\u2019t say that anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled her little smile and lifted her chin. \u201cI do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s old timey. I mean, I like it. In an old-timey way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On a shelf above the workbench was a stack of dark blue books. She took one down and opened it up to show a page of large coins, set into slots in the book. She told him Donald was a coin collector or numismatist<\/em>. \u201cHere,\u201d she said, working out two bright coins and holding them out to him. \u201cTake these silver dollars. They\u2019re rare. Worth a lot more than a dollar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy said he couldn\u2019t do that. He was glad to mow the grass for her and wouldn\u2019t take any money, silver dollar or paper money. \u201cIt\u2019s just a favor,\u201d he said. \u201cNeighbors do each other favors.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before he could stop her she reached out and stuffed one of the coins into his jeans pocket. \u201cIt\u2019s yours now,\u201d she whispered. \u201cYou can\u2019t give it back.\u201d She stared at him and looked odd, in the dim garage light. Her lips were slightly ajar and her eyes seemed to be looking into him, expecting something. The violet color faintly visible in the dim blue light. Outside the sound of rain gushing out the gutters and splattering on the driveway. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you hungry?\u201d she asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know?\u201d She smiled and turned her head. \u201cHow can you not know if you\u2019re hungry or not?\u201d She let go of him and pushed his chest. \u201cYou either are, or you aren\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI better go I guess. My p\u2019s, you know, they\u2019ll be wondering where I am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour p\u2019s?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cParents.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh.\u201d She reached out and took his hand again. \u201cBut you\u2019re next door, at your neighbors?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He raised one eyebrow. \u201cBut they don\u2019t know that, do they?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe that\u2019s a good thing,\u201d she whispered, looking away from him, squeezing his hand. \u201cI have Eskimo Pies,\u201d she added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou mean the ice cream sandwiches?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nodded. \u201cIce cream bars,\u201d she corrected. \u201cI love them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, yeah. I could go for that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled and walked over to the freezer. He followed her but a few feet away she paused and stopped him, putting a warm hand on his chest. \u201cYou wait here.\u201d When she opened the freezer he couldn\u2019t see inside, and she kept her body in the center of it, blocking the view. \u201cJust one second,\u201d she said. \u201cThey\u2019re in here somewhere. I don\u2019t want you to see. It\u2019s such a mess.\u201d She barely lifted the freezer lid, and rummaged around inside, feeling with her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou want me to help?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. I\u2019m good,\u201d she said. A moment later she turned around and held two Eskimo Pies to her chest. \u201cThe best part of the pie is the wrapper.\u201d She opened one and peeled back the foil wrapper, making sure not to tear the illustration of the Eskimo in his fur suit and rainbow on the cover. \u201cHe\u2019s such a happy little Eskimo. Here,\u201d she said. \u201cOpen your mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hesitated but saw that she was serious. \u201cWell, I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on.\u201d She came close to him and stood at his same height, with the black chocolate-covered ice cream sandwich in front of his mouth. Close enough to smell the tang of her body, her wet hair. \u201cBite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She eased it into his open mouth and let him take a little bite, then pulled it away. \u201cThat\u2019s enough,\u201d she said, and laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His phone started to vibrate. It was his Mom texting him, asking Where in the world are you?<\/em> He showed the woman, who squinted at it, then told him to shoo. \u201cNext time,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He finished the Eskimo Pie before he walked in the backdoor of his house, and hid the stick. In his room he locked the door and took the silver dollar out of his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers. He liked the warm feel of it. It was dated 1925, the head of a woman with spikey hair on one side, an eagle on the other. He slept with it beneath his pillow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next day the boy rode his bike past Genevieve\u2019s house and wondered if she was home. Her brother\u2019s red pickup truck, parked in their driveway, close to the street, now had a red-and-white For Sale sign taped to the windshield. \u201c$7K OBO. 512 729-2355.\u201d Why would the woman\u2019s brother sell his truck if he just moved to Dallas? The boy was almost old enough to drive. Next year he would be. He wondered if he could buy it. Maybe his parents would help him. Maybe he could mow her grass for a few years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Days later, when his parents were at work, he watched her yard from the treehouse. With his binoculars he looked at all the windows and the patio. Through the sliding glass doors he could see into the living room: Two bare white feet and bare legs prone on the tan carpeting of the floor. That\u2019s all he could see from his angle. It appeared to be a body lying lifeless on the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He climbed down from the tree house, passed through both gates, and walked up to the back of the woman\u2019s house, watching the sliding glass doors. When he got close the sun came out from behind clouds and the reflection of the light on the glass doors blinded him from seeing inside. He cupped his hands against the glass to make a shadow to see through the reflection. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman was lying face down, on top of a sleeping bag, her head on a small pillow. She wore only a nightgown that was hiked up to her hips. Her skin so white it seemed to glow, her dark hair tangled and curling off the pillow, and her legs open to show her darkness below. He stood for a second, staring, his shadow crossing over her white skin. He wondered if she was sick or dead or if he should go for help. She looked like the victim of a sacrifice or an attack. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stirred, squirming and wrapping her legs around the sleeping bag, burrowing into the pillow. He heard a sound and glanced behind him, but it was just the flag, luffing in the wind. When he looked inside again the woman was staring up at him. He stepped back, hurrying sideways, out of view of the sliding glass doors. His heart pounding, he walked quickly through her side yard, past her driveway with the red pickup truck parked in it, out to the street, then the long way around on Ibis Street back to his house. His mother pulled into their driveway just as he was walking up to the door. She rolled down the car window and asked, \u201cSo where have you been?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNowhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She made a face. \u201cWhat are you up to, Pat? Nowhere is no place to go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI just went for a walk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight,\u201d she said. \u201cYou never go for walks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, if you really want to know,\u201d he added. \u201cI got a moon pie from 7-Eleven.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you not to eat that crap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s why I didn\u2019t want to tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She got out of the car and asked if he would carry in the groceries for her. \u201cAnd no more sweet things,\u201d she added. \u201cSugar is poison.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he got off the bus the next day and walked past her house, the woman opened the door and waved at him. He waved back but put his head down, kept walking. \u201cPatrick,\u201d she called out. \u201cCome here a second. I want to ask you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wore one of her long dresses and no sun bonnet, a gold crucifix at her throat. When he got to the door she wasn\u2019t smiling and asked if he could come in for a second. He said that he probably shouldn\u2019t. He needed to do some homework.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease?\u201d she asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019d appreciate it,\u201d holding the door open. He stepped inside and she told him, \u201cFollow me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She led him to the garage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes your mother know what you\u2019re doing?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He realized she was angry. \u201cWhat do you mean? Doing what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSpying on me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what you mean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI saw you yesterday when I woke up. You were looking at me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He told her he wasn\u2019t spying on her. He just saw her lying on the ground and thought she was sick or something. When she asked how he could see her from all the way across the yard, he told her he was bird watching with binoculars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you were spying on me, then, weren\u2019t you?\u201d She stepped close to him. \u201cYou\u2019ve been looking at me at night, haven\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t know what to say. She was breathing hard through her mouth. \u201cKneel on this bench. Hands and knees. Here.\u201d She pointed to the weight-lifting bench. \u201cOn your hands, and on your knees.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen, I-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you want me to call your mother? Tell your parents what you\u2019ve been doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was breathing hard now. \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got on his hands and knees. It was so quiet he could hear a cricket chirping. He was wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. They dangled awkwardly as he leaned over, and he felt her knock them off his feet, the slap sound of them falling to the concrete floor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook at the wall,\u201d she told him. \u201cBeg forgiveness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stared at The Wiggle Room sign bright with its loopy lime script. \u201cPlease don\u2019t tell my parents,\u201d he whispered. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He felt as she reached around his waist and unbuttoned his pants, yanked them down. She tugged his white underpants down to his knees. \u201cThere. How do you like that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to teach you a lesson,\u201d she said. \u201cYou don\u2019t want me to call your mother and father, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re not going to tell them anything, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He heard her moving around the room. She took a leather weight-lifter\u2019s belt from off the rack of free weights. Then she was behind him. The basement air was cool and he had goosebumps on his skin, tingling. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is what Donald used to do to me when I was bad.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He felt a sharp slap against his bare behind. She spanked him three more times with the belt. He could hear her breathing and yelping, just a little, with each swing. \u201cHow do you like that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t know what to say. It stung.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWere you looking at me, asleep on the floor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he whispered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood,\u201d she said. \u201cAt least you\u2019re telling the truth.\u201d She spanked him again. \u201cAre you going to do it again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He promised he wouldn\u2019t. He heard faint sounds, her voice choked with emotion. \u201cWhat if I want you to?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t know what to say. He waited for more and then felt fingertips on his skin, lightly touching him. She said she hoped she didn\u2019t hurt him. \u201cYou have red marks,\u201d she added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He told her he was okay. Could he get dressed now?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a good person,\u201d she said, starting to cry. \u201cI\u2019m a horrible person and I want you to know that. To know how horrible I am.\u201d She put her cheek against his back, then kissed it, and told him to get up, helping him pull up his pants and touching his bare skin as she pulled them up. Then she got him to his feet and took his hand, led him to the freezer. \u201cOpen it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A gush of white mist escaped the freezer when he lifted the lid. Outside rain began to fall and spatter on the metal roof of the garage, gutter down the driveway. When the mist lifted it revealed a bulky bundle wrapped in a checkered quilt filling up the freezer, with boxes of Eskimo pies and frozen peas and hashbrown potatoes jumbled on top. She told him it was Donald. He died after he came home from the hospital and she didn\u2019t have money for the funeral and she needed his disability checks so she was going to keep him there. \u201cHere in the Wiggle Room,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\u2019s better this way, you see?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy said he wouldn\u2019t tell anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Donald complained of aches and pains all the time. \u201cIt was for his own good,\u201d she added, reaching into the freezer and giving the body wrapped in quilt a tender pat. \u201cHe was in misery, you see? Out of which he\u2019s now put. I was arranging his pillows and he just stopped breathing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d said the boy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t like anything. He thought women were evil because he never had a girlfriend. I told him how can women be evil if God created them? And he said yeah but he just pulled out a rib, and it was a bad one. They\u2019re a trap, he said. But I\u2019m a woman, I told him. Don\u2019t go bragging about it, he said. You\u2019re my sister, but give you half a chance? You\u2019d be like the others too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy said it was wrong for a man to say a thing like that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She handed him the belt. \u201cHere. You take this.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy told her he should leave now. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman made a small motion with her head, turning it to one side, as if trying to hear him better. \u201cWill you help me be a good person?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He told her he really had to go now, that his parents would be worried. They\u2019d be calling any minute. But she didn\u2019t seem to be paying any attention to him as she crossed the room and got into position on the bench. On her hands and knees. Then she asked him to come over and bring the belt. Told him she was bad and she deserved it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said he had to go home now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t want me to tell your parents about you watching me, do you? You know what they do to peeping toms?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She said they would castrate him. That it\u2019s a law. \u201cYou have to do this,\u201d she told him. \u201cYou have to save me. It\u2019s the only way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood there with the belt in his hands, the sound of hard rain rattling on the metal roof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Note: This story originally appeared in the online literary journal Solar, Spring 2022. For this one, if you think “genre,” think Gothic. It’s “Based on a True Story,” kind of. According to his father, the neighbors who lived in the … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[304,305,306,1,303],"tags":[85,95],"class_list":["post-2822","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction-writing","category-gothic-short-fiction","category-texas-stories","category-uncategorized","category-william-j-cobb-short-fiction","tag-fiction-writing","tag-good-fiction"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2822","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2822"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2822\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2853,"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2822\/revisions\/2853"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2822"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2822"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/williamjcobb.com\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2822"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}