My mother grabbed my wrist.
“Come on,” she urged, “we need to get him.”
She yanked me down the hallway and we ran together, the echoing squeaks of my sneakers and the determined clicks of her heels seeming to chase the man as he slipped into an elevator.
“Wait!” my mother cried, and stuck her umbrella in the door before it could shut. The door shuddered open and she pulled me in after her.
“Larry,” she gasped, “I have been trying to get you to answer my calls for half a year now. When are you going to fix that leak?”
“I’ve been very busy,” the super sighed, frustration straining his voice, “but if it’s that important to you, I’ll get my tools from downstairs and head over to your unit now.”
He inserted a key into the elevator control panel. The elevator lurched and I felt my stomach drop as we descended.
“Well yes,” my mother said, rubbing her temples, “I can’t use the kitchen sink at all. Do you know what it’s like to wash dishes in your bathtub for six months? I’m a frail old retiree. I live alone. The kids moved out a long time ago. I mean they visit, but not every day. Not that I mind, dear, I know you have your own life. I can’t keep doing this every day, carrying pots and pans back and forth, and then cleaning the bathtub afterwards!”
“I can’t imagine anything worse,” he grumbled, turning away from us.
“You know, a lot of people have been moving out of The Harwood over the past few months,” I said quickly, hoping to cut the tension I could sense building, “and I’m sure Larry has been busy, helping them move out, and the new tenants move in.”
“I haven’t seen anyone move in,” my mother said hotly, “so he should have more time to spend on fixing the few remaining tenant’s apartments!”
I looked out the tiny, grimy glass window of the elevator and frowned. “How far down is the basement?”
“My tools are in the sub-basement,” Larry explained. “I was actually already heading there when you ladies jumped in. Had some repairs I needed to take care of in another unit.”
I interjected before my mother could make a cutting remark about being ignored in favor of other tenants.
“We have a sub-basement?” I asked, glancing at the elevator control panel.
“Only I can access it,” Larry said, ”you need the key.” He pointed at said key in the elevator controls, next to the letters “SB,” etched in the metal of the panel. A small, bronze, coin-shaped “NY Mets” keychain hung from the attached keyring, swaying gently as we descended even further.
“Lots of important stuff down there,” he shrugged, “Boiler room, plumbing, building stuff. Can’t have people poking around and messing anything up.”
The elevator suddenly lurched again as we stopped, and the door opened. It was dark, and unexpectedly cavernous, concrete cinder block walls stretching wide and tall. I felt my sneakers unstick from the floor as I walked, and looked down to see they were painted a very high-gloss black, I suppose to repel oil stains. There was also a drain in the floor, maybe to wash away oil stains? I knew the building was large, but this sub-basement seemed to span the entire block. It was just so big. Or maybe it was just the shadows that made it seem that way? I could just make out a faint light somewhere, coming from a far-off hallway or room.
“C’mon,” Larry said, jerking his head towards the light as he left the elevator.
I didn’t like this. “You know, I really think you should come up and look at the leak first,” I said firmly. “Instead of bringing up all these tools. For all you know, it could be a simple fix and you won’t need to bring everything. So let’s head back up.”
“I’m already here,” Larry yelled. “Like I said, I was coming down to get other tools anyway. C’mon, you better keep up. It’s easy to get lost here.”
His voice echoed, and continued to echo, for an alarmingly long time. How big was this sub basement?
“We’ll wait for you upstairs,” I shouted, already backing away.
“Elevator won’t leave this floor without my key,” Larry said, “it’ll only take a minute.”
I glanced worriedly at my spry, but frankly, squarely-in-AARP territory mother. She opened her purse and pulled out a maple syrup bottle filled with water. My mother holds strongly to the immigrant “reuse ALL the containers” philosophy, and I guess at some point she saw the beauty in reusing the Rocky Ridge Pure Maple Syrup Grade A bottle to make sure she stayed hydrated. She pushed the thick glass bottle back into the giant, cheap, quilted fabric bag she’d purchased in a Chinatown shop a few years ago, made a fist like she was holding something and swung it, then winked as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got us covered.”
I looked back up just in time to see Larry turn a corner. I didn’t even see the corner initially, all the walls and hallways just seemed to blend into a single concrete gray box that went on forever in all directions. I pushed my mom protectively behind me and walked ahead, rounding the corner to see…
An enormous room filled with bales of hay. Giant bales of hall. Covered with fabric bullseyes. Some bales had as much as three fabric bullseyes pinned one after another vertically. And arrows sticking out of them.
The bales were placed at varying distances from where we stood. A single, bare light bulb, placed slightly off center with a long metal pull dangling from it, was all that illuminated this room. The shadows cast by the bales were dark and almost velvety. I heard metallic clanking and looked over to my left to see Larry with his back to us, rifling through what sounded like a tool box.
We watched him silently for a minute, and I was about to suggest that we wait for him in the elevator when he suddenly straightened and turned around.
He had a heavy-duty red tool box in his right hand. In his left hand he held…a wallet?
“Check this out,” he said grinning, and flicked his wrist. A roll of photos in plastic wallet sleeves unfurled. Confused, I walked over.
They were photo after photo of Larry, two pre-teen kids, a boy and a girl, and a woman, all wearing camouflage hunting gear, all standing or crouching next to deer, elk, and boar carcasses.
And all holding compound bows.
“You’re probably wondering about this,” Larry said, waving at the bales of hay. “I come down here to practice. This is my meditation place. Gives me peace, and a chance to, like I said, practice. You see, my daddy was a game hunter, and when I was old enough, he taught me to hunt game. He thought it was wrong to raise animals only to kill them to eat. Unsporting. So we only ate what we killed. Culled the weak to keep the herd strong. And now I’m continuing that legacy with my wife and kids.”
“So,” I said slowly, “You don’t buy any meat.”
“Nope.”
“You just…”
“Harvest, prep, and store it. Got freezer chests all over the basement. Wife wants meat for dinner? Grab some out of the freezer, bring it home.”
He waved his wallet at me. “Go on,” he said, “take a look. Don’t get a chance to brag about me and my family often.”
I took his wallet and slowly scanned the sleeve roll of photos more closely. Some of the photos were clearly older. They were yellowed and faded, and Larry looked much younger in them, as it usually works with much older photos. His wife and daughter both wore pink camo, which seemed like it would be less effective than normal camo, but what do I know. I don’t hunt.
They were all smiling, and crouched down next to their kills, their compound bows prominently and proudly displayed.
Then I turned the sleeves over. And the photos were not of game animals. They were people. Former residents of the building.
Sweet old Mrs Hernandez. Mr and Mrs Tanner. A young athletic couple I’d only chatted with a few times, but often saw in the laundry room as they were always washing their workout clothes. And several others. The entire back of the roll of photos sleeves was full. All the victims with arrows in them, lying on the floor of the sub-basement. And crouched down next to all of them, with his compound bow prominently and proudly displayed, was Larry.
“No!”
I jerked my head up just in time to see Larry smirk as he raised his arms, and felt someone knock me to the ground.
I heard a hiss and a thwwpp sound and lifted my head up in time to see an arrow go into and part way out through the back of my mother’s arm before she collapsed to the ground, her face ashen.
“Mom!” I cried. I crawled over to her on my hands and knees. Her arm was bent at an odd angle, possibly broken. Now that I was closer, I could see that the arrow had also grazed her rib cage when it came out of her arm, tearing her blouse. Blood soaked through her clothes, dripping onto the floor as she shook terribly. I grabbed her other hand and leaned over, sobbing. “Mom, It’s me, Emily, you hear me? I’m here. You’re okay, you’re gonna be fine.”
“Shit,” sighed Larry. “Not a mortal wound. Well, you’re old. I don’t think you’ll give us any trouble.” And he turned and raised his bow once again at me.
“What do you want,” my mother groaned, “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m doing society a service,” Larry said soothingly, his bow still aimed at my head. “Hunting isn’t just about food. It’s also about the greater good. You keep a population healthy by removing the old and weak. I’m doing my part, however small, here, in The Harwood, and my wife is too, although as a nurse, she doesn’t use a compound bow.”
“I mean,” he chuckled and shook his head, “nurse walking around a hospital with a compound bow, that’s a bit suspicious, don’t you think! But fortunately if someone just dies of ‘natural causes,’ well that’s just another day at the office. And someday, she and I will graduate our children to this, their true calling.”
“You’re sick, Larry. That young couple in your photos,” I gasped, “they were practically professional-level triathletes. How on earth is killing them eliminating the weak?”
“Weakness isn’t only about the body!” he hollered, his mood abruptly shifting. His face reddened, and he began gesticulating wildly, with both arms. I winced, imagining the bow going off, firing an arrow deep into my chest, rendering me helpless, as I watched my mother slowly bleed to death on the cold, concrete floor. He suddenly leaned down, jabbing his finger at me as he punctuated each word, and despite my fervent desire to not appear like I was scared shitless, I shrank away, whimpering.
“It’s about the mind too, okay! And about the soul! What did those parasites contribute to this society? Collecting trophies and accolades when they could have used their strengths to help others, to further humanity! And you know what else?”
Larry straightened up again and began pacing in a circle. Even in the dim light, I could see a thin sheen of perspiration forming on his face, now etched with rage. I felt my mother’s grip on my hand tighten despite her frightened trembling, her breathing shaky. I knew she must have been in so much pain.
“They were so annoying and picky! Made me tear into their apartment walls over and over again, because they swore it had mold inside, or mice scratching in it, or something moving around, and I couldn’t say no because the building just got sued last year because of mold, and they took advantage of that, they totally took advantage of that! You know one time they asked me to come up to their apartment just to hang up pictures for them? What’s the use of big, strong muscles if you can’t hang up pictures? God! They said they didn’t have a leveler, but that’s such a bullshit reason, you can pick one up from Home Depot for $8! I think there’s even an app for a leveler! And after all that, every Christmas, all they gave me was a lousy $20 Starbucks gift card? I don’t even drink co–“
Larry staggered back when the jam jar smacked into his nose with a satisfying thwack sound. I had slowly and quietly reached into my mother’s bag, rifled past the threadbare cardigan, hand sanitizer, tissue paper packs, and wrapped candies, and grabbed the first glass object my fingers found. I had thrown it at Larry’s face with the full strength mustered from my noodle arms.
“Jam jar?” I asked, breathing heavily.
“Sometimes I meet Linda in the park for walks and she gets thirsty too,” my mother explained weakly from the floor. “So I brought that for her to use as a cup. Sharing is important.”
Larry blinked hard several times and sniffled loudly. “You,” he hissed, straightening up, “you fu–“
Larry screamed, I imagined from equal parts pain and surprise.
I missed his nose this time, but the beveled edge of the second jam jar managed to hit his left eye. Which was open when the aforementioned second jam jar made contact.
“Second jar is for me to drink from,” my mother said, coughing, “more sanitary for both Linda and I that way.”
The third time I reached into the bag, I found something glass, flatter than a jam jar, and with a small loop near its plastic flip top cover. Heavy like it contained something. I made a tight fist around its neck, lunged at Larry, and in one motion pulled it out of the old, quilted bag, drove the maple syrup turned hydration bottle upwards, bottom side facing skyward, in a fluid arc from under his nose, towards an imaginary spot on the ceiling directly over the center of his head.
I heard a most satisfying and loud “Crack!”
Blood pouring from his now-broken nose, Larry fell back and hit the ground. Hard. And like a good dance partner, I followed his lead. With my foot. Which landed on one collar bone, and then the other one, and finally his sternum for good measure. Hard.
“Key,” I said, my voice steely. “Now.” I carefully kicked the bow out of his limp hand, and then gingerly nudged it further away.
Larry laughed. Which I was not expecting. It was the deep, lazy, throaty laugh of someone who’s won.
“I swallowed it,” he giggled.
I stared. “You what?”
“Yeah, bitch, that’s what I did,” Larry chortled. “I didn’t want you assholes trying to take it from me, so I swallowed it. Figured I could shit it out in a few hours after I killed you.”
“You know,” I said bitterly, “my mom’s lived here alone for 15 years, and I can count on one hand the number of times she’s ever called you for anything. She always fixed things herself, or asked me or my brother to do it for her. I remember she had a roach infestation once and all you did was give her a pack of glue traps! And despite that, she always gave you Christmas money. Cash, too. An old but independent woman, living her best life, who treated you with kindness and consideration. So what the fuck were you even doing, trying to kill her?”
Larry smiled and raised his eyebrows. I imagine he would have shrugged if his collarbones were still intact.
“I guess,” he smirked and pursed his lips, “You ladies were just practice.”
I looked over at my mother, her face grayer, her breathing shallower, a growing pool of blood beneath her. I turned my head towards the bales of hay. Then I turned towards Larry. And smirked back.
I walked over to the closest bale of hay, and began to pull out the arrows, one by one. Slowly. Deliberately. Even with the dim light provided by the single light bulb, I could see that they were very, very sharp.
I walked back over to Larry on the floor and stood over him, my legs straddling him on either side of his hips. I looked down on him. Larry’s smile was steadfast, but I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“I guess you’re practice, too.” And raised high my fistful of arrows, pointed side down.
My mother and I sat on the floor of the elevator as we slowly ascended, silent, our legs crossed beneath us. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I held her hand and squeezed it periodically in what I hoped was a soothing gesture. We both looked up at the elevator controls and watched the small, bronze, coin-shaped “NY Mets” keychain, now covered in blood and entrails, sway slowly next to the letters etched in the metal of the panel, “SB.”