Bad Games - By Jeff Menapace Page 0,1

still staring at her, his expression calm and curious, like a man entertaining a riddle. “Huh,” he said softly.

The man brought his attention back to Patrick, started smiling again. “Well, I can sympathize with you on that one, my friend.” He pointed a finger over his shoulder. “I’ve got two of my own.”

Patrick leaned his torso away from the car and looked through the windshield of the man’s Pontiac. He squinted through glass and glare to see two child seats in back, each one occupied by a dark, fuzzy little head sticking out of a blanket.

Patrick smiled. “How old?”

“One and one,” the man smirked, his expression one of blatant delight for the riddle to tantalize before hitting home.

Patrick got it immediately, but accommodated him anyway. “Twins?”

The man all but giggled. “Yup.”

“Whoa.”

The man was beaming now. “That’s what I said when I found out. Hit the lottery my wife likes to kid. Hasn’t been too bad though really; they’re good boys. What about you?”

“One boy, one girl,” Patrick said. “Four and six.”

The man said, “Nice.”

Patrick felt it was now his dutiful turn to initiate some sort of generic inquiry before one of the blessed clicks. “So I take it you haven’t made any recent visits to our alma matter then either?”

The man shook his head, a saddened dip on the corner of his mouth. “Nope. Could have made a detour and stopped for a quick visit on the way up here, but the wife was having none of it. Broke my heart.” He breathed in deep as though reliving a tragic event. And then, switchblade-quick, the smile was back. “Still, my wife’s family has a nice little cabin out here in the boonies. She thought it’d be a nice overdue getaway for the four of us. Shake off city life for a little while I guess. She’s there now with her folks, waiting for me and the kids.”

“You’re kidding,” Patrick said. “Where are you staying?”

“Middle of Nowhere, PA,” he joked. “Why?”

“Weird coincidence, that’s all. My family and I are pretty much doing that same exact thing. Made the trek all the way from the ’burbs of Philadelphia. My wife’s family even owns a cabin out here as well. Crescent Lake. You ever heard of it?”

The man’s handle clicked and the chipped-paint numbers on the old tank rolled to a stop. He turned and headed to the rear of his car, talking over his shoulder as he worked. “No, can’t say I have.” He lifted the handle from its hole and locked it home on the tank. “We’re from Philadelphia too—city, not ’burbs—so I’m pretty darn clueless around here.” Screwed the cap back on, and closed the hole’s lid. “In fact, to tell you the truth,” he headed back to his spot in front of his car, “I get more creeped out around places like this—way out in the country—than I would on a wrong turn in North Philly late at night.”

Patrick chuckled. “I know what you mean. Our cabin is in a small community surrounding the lake I mentioned. It’s nice and cozy, but it’s out there—lets your imagination get the best of you sometimes. Guess I’ve seen Deliverance one too many times yeah?”

The man smiled. “Good movie.”

Patrick nodded. “Good but disturbing.”

“Disturbing how?”

Patrick’s chin retracted. “You serious?”

The man said nothing, just waited for elaboration.

“That scene,” Patrick said. “That one scene? The one with Ned Beatty?”

“Oh right,” the man said. “Didn’t like it, huh?”

Patrick’s chin retracted again. “Did you?”

“Thought it was funny.”

“You got a sick sense of humor, man.” .

“You should meet my brother.”

Patrick smiled. “I think I’ll pass.”

The man put a hand over his heart and made a face is if wounded. “Ouch.”

Patrick quickly said, “Oh I didn’t mean any offense by it, man. It’s just that most people—guys especially—found that scene in the film pretty disturbing. Did for camping what Jaws did for swimming if you ask me.”

The man chuckled and stepped forward with his hand extended. “Well put. And no more of this ‘man’ stuff—call me Arty.”

Patrick’s handle clicked. He replaced it on the tank before taking the man’s hand. “Patrick.”

“That’s a heck of a grip you got there, Patrick. Did you play football for Penn State?”

In clothes, Patrick looked like a powerful man at six-three and well over two hundred pounds. However, the lines of definition that had sculpted his body in his youth had been systematically erased over the years thanks to children, work, and Krispy Kreme donuts. His once treasured six-pack stomach was now a smooth