Scary Out There by Jonathan Maberry

doesn’t notice
    that either as she goes to talk
    to Daddy’s old patrol car partner,
    Mark. She stands very close—
    maybe too close for church—and
    as always when I see them
    together, a hot shot of anger zaps
    my nerves. Yes, it’s been five
    years since Daddy died. Plenty
    of time for Mom to hook up
    with another guy. But why Mark?
    That feels totally wrong, and it’s
    becoming ever more obvious
    that they’ve bonded, both here
    and well beyond church, which
    is probably where it started.
    Mark, in fact, was the one who
    convinced Mom that this peculiar
    brand of born-again believing
    is her entry code to the Pearly
    Gates. Arm in arm, they approach
    Pastor Smyth, who grins broadly
    at their news. Now all three turn to
    stare at me. Whatever they’re selling,
    I damn sure don’t want any.
    As If I Have a Choice
    Mom kisses Mark softly
    on the cheek and as she starts
    in my direction, my phone
    vibrates. Like an idiot moth,
    drawn to a smoking lantern,
    I peek at the text. Snake oil.
    My ghost has a sense of humor.
    Wait. My. Ghost. I just thought
    that. Does that make him real?
    I suspect my cell holds an answer
    to the unvoiced question, but I
    don’t try to look because Mom
    is standing in front of me. Mark
    is coming over to watch the game,
    and he’s bringing pizza for dinner.
    Hope you don’t mind. We’ve got
    something kind of important
    we want to discuss with you.
    â€œGame?” Mom watches games?
    What kind, and since when?
    The baseball game? It is April,
    you know. Mark’s a Yankees fan.
    Oh, of course. And it is April.
    Like that’s ever meant anything
    before. What the hell’s going on?
    â€œI don’t care if he comes over.”
    Actually, I do, but whatever.
    She turns and gives Mark a thumbs-up,
    and I follow her to her car, wishing
    I’d driven my Bug so I could skip out
    on whatever it is they’re determined
    to tell me. It can’t be anything good.
    On the way home I sit in quiet
    anticipation of a Valium cocktail.
    That’s what I need. Deep silent
    space and zero communication
    with the living or the dead, whether
    or not it’s all in my messed up head.
    I consider the text I might or might
    not have received in church. Paradise .
    Is that the same place as Heaven?
    If it exists, Erica would be there.
    But what about Cam? Or Daddy?
    Not only was he mean, but despite
    the noble way he died, he did plenty
    of dirty cop things. Makes me wonder
    out loud, “Hey, Mom. Think Daddy
    ever found the key to the kingdom?”
    If you mean do I think he’s with our
    Heavenly Father, of course I do.
    â€œBut what about . . . ? He did
    some shitty stuff, you know.”
    She actually lets the S-word slide.
    He was a good man who behaved
    badly sometimes. God understands
    human frailty and forgives our sins.
    Every sin except suicide, apparently.
    But I keep that nugget to myself.
    By the Time
    Mark arrives, extra large meat
    lovers’ pizza in hand, the game
    is underway, the Yankees ahead
    by one run in the second inning.
    And I am one Valium toward calm
    acceptance of the approaching
    storm. I didn’t want to get too
    buzzed until after the thunder
    rumbled. But I’m not going to
    wait seven more innings before
    liftoff. I don’t watch baseball,
    but I do know there are a minimum
    nine to suffer through. Mom
    must really have a thing for this
    guy. But I don’t, so as I pick
    pepperoni and sausage off
    my pizza in protest of eating
    in front of the television, I forge
    ahead and ask, “What is this big
    news you want to share?”
    I expect maybe they’ll finally
    fess up and tell me they’re dating
    or even that they’re taking a trip
    together, implying they’re having
    sex. But when Mom mutes the TV
    and they both turn away from
    the game and toward me, I know
    suddenly and without a doubt
    there’s more. Mom clears
    her throat. Ahem. Mark and I
    have