The Feeders

21 - Mrs. Peterman's Demise

An hour has passed, so I figure it's been long enough for Salem to put his big brain to use and do a lot of thinking. I find him at the kitchen table, amidst a mess of drawing boards and scribbled papers. his laptop is open in front of him.

"I've been thinking," he says.

"And?" I knew he would. What else would he be doing?

"I think...it might be possible--"

"Yes! I knew you could work it out! Thank you!" I start to hug him, but he thrusts his hand out to stop me.

"It's going to be difficult. And we're going to have to act."

"Okay, I'll do whatever you tell me we have to." He didn't stop me this time. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed. Salem is surprisingly fit for a guy that spends more time in the library than anywhere else. He doesn't even grunt when I give my best bear hug. I step back. "How do we do it?"

"We'll get to all of that later. Right now...it's feeding time."

Mrs. Peterman, who lives across the street, has a nasty side. When we were younger, she'd come out and shout how she was going to call the cops on us for riding our bicycles in the street. It's not as if we were ever reckless. We live in a cul-de-sac and always kept a close eye out for traffic. She was just grumpy. If we walked too close to her begonias, which she insisted on planting right beside the sidewalk, she would rush out her door like a banshee. I've seen her kick a cat away from her flowers on a few occasions. She also made a habit of stealing our paper often, which might sound a bit unstable, considering she was stealing papers from a police detective. Dad never wanted to make enemies with our neighbors, so he didn't make a fuss. He'd go over and get it back, and politely thank her for handing it over. Mom always suspected that she stole it just so dad would go over. Could there be a hint of attempted adultery on Mrs. Peterman's part? I'm not sure. It was just a suspicion.

Mrs. Peterman's known offenses range from small-time theft to child and animal cruelty. Maybe those aren't charges that would normally send one to the electric chair, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Dusk had come, and our parents are getting wilder as the night comes on. Monsters come out at night, I think involuntarily. I immediately feel guilty. They couldn't help what was happening to them. I shove the thought away and chalk it up to nervousness at my upcoming roles during Mrs. Peterman's demise and Zachary's rescue. My role is simple in Mrs. Peterman's demise. Stomp the begonias and sing. I need her to hear me so she will look out and see me.

I start my little ditty after I walk across the street. I hope the noise isn't loud enough to stir Mr. Carpenter in his house beside mine. Our only target is Mrs. Peterman. We both like Mr. Carpenter. He has always been kind to us and it would be horrible to have to take him out to save our own skins. We both know we will if we have to.

I'm singing Tiptoe Through the Tulips as a step in her begonias, mashing at least three of the lovely flowers into twisted and broken versions of their former selves. Her voice startles me, it comes so quickly. It seems as though she's been watching out the window constantly for this exact sort of thing to happen.

"Hey, you mean girl!" she chirped.

I stop singing and look for her voice. She's opened a window, rather than come outside.

"Hello, Mrs. Peterson!" I call cheerfully. "Lovely night isn't it." I turn toward the stars and point. At the same time, I'm stepping around, crushing more of her precious flowers. When she sounds again, I know she's moved. Her voice is further behind me than it was to the left.

"Get out of those flowers you foul thing!" She's waving around a long umbrella, which she probably intends to hit me with.

I mock gasp. "That's not very nice."

She's rushing at me as fast as she can come, which, lucky for me, isn't nearly as fast as Salem can move. He hits her across the head with a cooking pan and she drops without even knowing what hit her. I feel a pang of regret. She was cruel, but seeing someone go down like that just feels...wrong.

"Jan, are you okay?" Salem says. He's lifted her front by putting his hands under her arms. I must have blanked out for a second, thinking about how disturbing this all was. "Come on! We have to hurry."

I rush up and grab her ankles and we carry Mrs. Peterson back to the house together. Two dutiful children, doing what they have to do to keep the family together. Mrs. Peterson is a little heavier than I expected. Her arms and legs are slim, but her middle is a little pudgy, and Salem almost loses a step going down to the basement. We recover quickly.

"Is she already dead?"

"No."

"Should we?" I wonder aloud.

We stop at the bottom of the stairs and take a breather. It feels like I've been hiking up a steep hill. We drop her weight and stand up straight, stretching our backs.

"Maybe. We could do it quicker than them. Less painful," Salem says.

I nod in agreement. "Just do it fast."

"Why me?"

"You're older."

"So what? That doesn't make me more likely to be a killer." Something about the way he says this while our Z parents sling spit and snarl nearby is a little creepy.

"This was your idea."

"Killing her ourselves was yours."

Dang, he's got me there. I revert to our common way of settling chores between the two of us. "Rock, paper, scissors?"

Salem wins with rock and refuses to do best two out of three. "She could wake up any moment. Just get on with it."

I rush by mom, who looks dry. She's not frothing with spit the way dad is. She's got a mummifying sort of look to her. She claws at me as I run past. I tear my eyes away from the painful site of her and study the shelf where we store various things for repairs. There's a big pipe wrench and that's what I grab. When I get back to the stairs, my hands are shaking like crazy. My body is physically rebelling from this act that I must perform. I stand over her, knowing it would be a blessing for her to not have to be alive while my parents rip her apart and devour her, but I just can't do it.

"Okay. I can't. I'm too scared," I say.

"Crud," he grumbles and he takes the pipe from me.