Spoonbenders

He remembers this moment, so how can he stop her? Soon she’ll do whatever she wants. He moves his hand out of the way.

She sees the hole in his shirt. She frowns.

“It’s okay,” he says. Meaning it doesn’t hurt, too much.

She undoes a button, then another. “What is this, Buddy?”

“Mom gave it to me,” he says.

She lifts the medal from his chest. He winces, because the impact has bruised him. Then she looks at his skin. There’s no blood.

“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” she says.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

MATTY

He slammed back into his body so hard that it shook the washing machine. He opened his eyes, and Malice was squatting in front of him, her worried face inches from his.

“I heard gunshots!” she said. “What’s happening?”

Oh God, what wasn’t happening? “There was an explosion, and Grandpa Teddy fell, and then your dad got shot—”

“What?!”

“But not shot! Now he’s in the front yard, and they’re fighting—”

Julian yelled, “The door opened!”

Malice bolted from the laundry room. Matty pushed himself to his feet, feeling dizzy. The kids had stopped playing with Mr. Banks. Jun cradled him in her arms. The other kids looked scared.

Malice ran out the door, and Polly and Cassie chased after her. “Front yard!” Malice yelled.

“Don’t go out there!” Matty said.

Julian gave him a scornful look and left the room. Matty turned to Jun. “You’re in charge. Don’t let Luke and Adrian go up there, okay?”

“I’m older than she is!” Luke said.

Matty ran up the stairs, and saw Malice, the twins, and Julian running toward the front door. “Stop!” he yelled. “They have guns!” They ignored him and ran to the front lawn.

Frankie straddled Nick Pusateri, punching down. Nick had his forearms up, protecting his face.

The twins screamed. Frankie glanced over his shoulder. His face was covered with blood, as it had been when Matty had seen him in the backyard. The girls screamed again. “Get back,” Frankie said.

And in that moment Nick hit him hard across the jaw. Frankie fell onto his side. Nick pushed himself to his feet. He looked twice as old as he had a few minutes ago. The toupee had vanished, exposing a skull that was hairless except for a fringe at the temple.

“That’s the guy who shot your dad,” Matty said. Shot at, he should have said. He hadn’t had time to explain what he’d seen.

Nick stepped to Frankie. Malice yelled, “Get the fuck away from him!” The twins resumed their miniature screams. Nick raised a boot. The pants pulled up, showing the red flames stitched onto the black leather.

Behind Matty, Julian said, “Pop-Pop?”

Nick glanced at the door, lowered his boot. Maybe it was seeing his grandson. Maybe it was finally hearing the sirens. Either way, he stepped back, breathing hard. Then he looked around as if getting his bearings. He turned and shambled toward a gleaming, finned sedan that looked like it had just driven off a Plymouth showroom in 1956.

Frankie moaned, tried to sit up. Matty said, “He’s getting away.”

Malice said to the twins, “Girls. Look at me.” Cassie and Polly were crying, but they listened. “Girls, you know that thing that you’re never supposed to do?”

Cassie nodded. Polly pushed a hand across her nose.

Malice pointed at the car.

“Really?” Polly asked.

“Do it,” Malice said.

“Okay,” Cassie said.

Nick got within twenty feet of the Plymouth when the hood catapulted from the frame in a shower of sparks. It spun away, end over end. The car battery was on fire. And then the entire engine burst into flame.

Nick stopped walking. He stared at the car for a long moment, and then he sat down in the grass.

TEDDY

Dying by gunshot was one thing. But he’d never expected to be blown up.

There’d been a whump, and then the ground opened beneath their feet, and he and Graciella had plummeted. They landed, tangled in each other—and bounced. Then they came down again, and her elbow slammed into his ribs. It was the pain that convinced him he wasn’t dead.

They’d landed on a stack of mattresses.

Dirt pattered upon their faces. Before they could get the air back into their lungs, they heard gunshots. He’d never used the word “fusillade” before, but he’d just experienced it. Then Frankie had run past the hole without looking down, and there was no noise except for the distant peal of sirens.

Finally they wiped the dirt from their faces, and got breath back into their lungs. Graciella asked the obvious. “What happened?”

“Buddy,” Teddy answered.

“We’ve got to get out,” Graciella said. “The boys are up there.” Even covered in dirt, even wild with anxiety for her sons, she was beautiful.

He looked for a way up. The hole was more than a hole; it had structure. The dirt walls were lined by four-by-fours, spaced every few feet and cross-braced. A wooden frame at the mouth anchored an array of hydraulic pistons. Those had been keeping the door closed, until they suddenly, and violently, weren’t.

It was a God damn tiger trap.