Creeps by Darren Hynes Page A

pockets and tucks her chin downwards and walks even faster.
    â€œPaul Stool lost his hard-on—not that I was looking or anything, but sometimes it’s impossible not to.”
    â€œNo girl wants to hear that, Wayne Pumphrey … even if it is Paul Stool.”
    â€œNo, it was a compliment, you were so good you took his mind off it.”
    She nearly slips again, but manages to stay upright.
    â€œAnd I meant what I said too about you being better than the Hollywood crowd.”
    She says nothing. Turns left onto Lakeside Drive. He follows and, after a while, says, “You’re better than Angelina Jolie.”
    She stops and turns around.
    He stops too.
    â€œI know my own way home,” she says.
    â€œThe chivalrous thing would be to walk you.”
    For a moment they stand staring at each other, then Marjorie says, “Saw you gawking the other night, by the way. Gawk, gawk, gawk, that’s all anyone around here is good for.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to.” Wayne pauses. “She okay?”
    Marjorie looks away. “She’ll know to cut the beef in smaller chunks from now on.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She stares back at him. Slips her hands into her back pockets again. “For the stew, I mean. Piece lodged in her throat. Did the Heimlich thingy, but it didn’t work. The hospital’s only five minutes away, but it still took the ambulance forever.”
    â€œOh.”
    She heads off again and he follows again.
    A man passes pulling a child on a toboggan.
    Sometime later Wayne hears faraway laughter, so he turns and, through a front window, sees people gathered around a kitchen table playing cards and drinking from tumblers and pointing and holding their stomachs. Through another window in another house Wayne notices a woman sitting alone by firelight: long hair and her feet on an ottoman, her toes extended—like a ballerina—towards the flame. Up ahead, a cat scoots across the road, finding refuge beneath a parked SUV. Music somewhere: guitars and mandolins. A harmonica? A cloud, or is it iron ore dust drifting in front of the moon?
    At the intersection of Balsam and Oak, Marjorie stops.
    Wayne comes up beside her.
    No one talks for ages.
    Marjorie fixes her gaze on the tiny bungalow with the closed drapes on the corner. At last she says, “Sometimes I hate going in.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œNone of your business why … I just do .”
    He pauses. “I hate going home sometimes, too.”
    â€œPfft.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    Silence.
    Wayne says, “Mom threatens to leave all the time.”
    â€œOh yeah? Does she sit in front of the curtains all day and night in her bathrobe and not eat and not brush her teeth?”
    â€œNo. But she does pack her suitcase a lot. Even goes sometimes.”
    Marjorie looks at him.
    â€œShe comes back, though,” Wayne says.
    Marjorie goes to speak, but stops herself. Walks towards her house and pauses at the lip of her driveway. “No need to walk me to the door, Wayne Pumphrey.”
    Wayne peers towards the front window and sees fingers parting the drapes, then a sliver of forehead. Half an eye. He looks back at Marjorie. She shouts in the direction of the window. “You can let go of the drapes now, Mom! God! ”
    The fingers disappear and the curtains flutter, then go still.
    â€œWish she’d pack a suitcase,” Marjorie says.
    Quiet for a while. Then the faint sound of a train’s whistle. After it’s gone, Marjorie says, “Ever wish you could hop on it?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œThe train? Ever wish you could hop on it and get the hell outta here?”
    Wayne looks past her shoulder as if the train might be right behind her, then focuses back on Marjorie. “No, but I’ve imagined other ways.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œA hang glider or a hot air balloon or something. Once I had a dream that I could fly, so I flew to a