Sticks and Stones
We have all met up with a bully or two at some point in our lives, most likely during our childhood. There were always mean kids at the playground who called others such endearing names as Four Eyes, Fatso, Bucky Beaver and Dummy, not to mention slurs derogatory to their ethnic backgrounds. Then there were the schoolyard bullies who shook down kids for their lunch money, needlessly picked fights with smaller and weaker classmates or teamed up with other bullies to outnumber those of their own size.
As these pint-size tyrants grow older, many of them mellow out and actually become somewhat decent human beings . But some continue to take sadistic pleasure in tormenting others. They often join the military or the police force, or they become prison guards, gym teachers or high school football coaches: all occupations where they can put their childhood skills to good use. The most reprehensible of the lot become closet bullies: people who appear civil and amiable on the outside, but pity the spouses and children who know the true bullies underneath the façade!
Chester Arnold seemed the epitome of the kindly old grandfather. He looked like the type of benign senior citizen to sit in a rocking chair with a grandson on his knee, telling him tales of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and the good old days of baseball. Yet despite his harmless appearance, Chester was a first-rate, top-notch, A-number-one bully who, if there were a Bully Hall of Fame, would surely be one of the first inductees. He had been a bully all his life, and old age did not diminish his mean streak one bit; it only sent it into hiding.
Upon retiring from the workforce, many elderly people find a hobby to pass their newfound free time. Some take up a sport like golf or tennis; others enjoy fishing, swimming or boating; and many prefer more sedentary activities such as reading, completing jigsaw puzzles or stamp collecting. Chester took up writing—nothing as ambitious or time-consuming as a novel, mind you, nor as creative as a short story. No, the elderly Mr. Arnold took up writing letters—poison pen letters, to be precise.
Once he turned sixty-five and exchanged his construction job for a union pension and a monthly social security check, he became like Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The sweet grandfatherly Dr. Jekyll persona would mingle with the people in town, playing the part of the friendly and concerned neighbor; afterward, the bully Mr. Hyde would go home, clip words and letters from newsprint and send out nasty and hurtful anonymous missives to his unsuspecting victims.
Chester's letter-writing campaign officially began two weeks after he retired when his wife—who had for years borne the brunt of his malicious bullying—passed away and went on to a much-deserved rest. The widower was in the check-out line at the neighborhood grocery store and overheard two housewives gossiping about their neighbor, Velma Barnes, who apparently was having an extramarital affair with her married landlord.
Now, what Mrs. Barnes did or who she chose to do it with did not particularly interest him. He was by no means a moralist. God knows he had engaged in more than one indiscretion in his younger years. But, as usual, Chester was pissed off at the world; and on that occasion, he chose to take his anger out on Velma Barnes.
Using letters cut from the headlines of the local newspaper, he spelled out a message that was not particularly explicit, just cruelly suggestive: I HOPE YOU AT LEAST GET A BREAK ON YOUR RENT FOR ALL YOUR HARD WORK. The letter was, of course, unsigned.
Two weeks later the Barneses moved out of their two-bedroom duplex and into a one-bedroom apartment on the other side of town. When Chester heard the news, he smiled for the first time since his wife had died.
* * *
Over the years, Chester sent many more anonymous letters. He began attending the weekly bingo night at St. Michael's, an excellent place to hear the latest gossip. He also went to the Laundromat rather than use his own washer and dryer and spent many an afternoon sitting on a bench at the center court of the shopping mall, ears alert for any hint of scandal.
Sometimes weeks would pass before he would hear a juicy rumor, so Chester was often forced to send out cold call letters, as he referred to them. These took the form of vague accusations that might hit a sore spot in the conscience of a recipient. He sent one such letter to Herman Klein, the elderly mortician at Evergreen Funeral Parlor, saying only, I KNOW WHAT YOU DO WITH THE BODIES. Actually, Chester did not know a damned thing, but poor Mr. Klein opted for retirement to Florida shortly after receiving the letter. Chester felt not the slightest remorse. But then, what bully does?
"For a little town, there sure are a lot of people up to no good and doing things they shouldn't be doing," he laughed to himself as he cut out large letters from the Sunday edition's headlines and sorted them alphabetically into piles. "It's a regular Peyton Place we got here. Husbands cheating on their wives, wives cheating on their husbands, crooked businessmen cheating everyone, drinkers, pill-poppers and dope smokers—we got 'em all. Hell! I bet if I dug deep enough, I'd uncover child molesters, porno filmmakers and even a murderer or two."
When he finished cutting out his letters, he put them away in envelopes, balled up what was left of the newspaper and tossed it into the fireplace. Chester then glanced at his watch; it was almost 11:45. Agnes Walters was having a luncheon for the Seniors Society, a bunch of geriatrics who met regularly to share horror stories about their various physical ailments, the rising cost of medication, ungrateful children, spoiled grandchildren and the hardships of living on social security. These were conversations that would put an active volcano to sleep, but if he managed to get Agnes and one or two other old biddies away from the chronic complainers, he could probably get a few new bits of gossip to use as ammunition.
"Chester!" Agnes exclaimed with delight when she answered her door, glad to see an unattached male, especially one in good health. "I'm delighted you could make it."
"Aggie, you know I would never miss the chance to get a slice or two of your delicious homemade cheesecake. You're the Martha Stewart of the Seniors Society."
It's always best to butter up the old bags, he thought as he removed his jacket and hung it in the hall closet. It loosens their tongues and makes them much more likely to spill some beans.
Ever since Chester's poor wife died, Agnes, herself a widow, had been trying to get her claws into him.
Fat chance of that! he told himself with a grimace of disgust.
Agnes Walters was one of those women who did not believe in growing old gracefully or in any other way for that matter. She still dyed her gray hair a carrot-top red and wore clothes designed for women half her weight and one-fourth her age. With her blue eye shadow, false eyelashes, penciled-in eyebrows, dark red lipstick and rosy rouge, she looked like a mummified Tammy Faye Baker.
Another graduate of the Bozo School of Beauty and Cosmetology, he thought as Agnes took his arm and led him into the dining room.
The lunch was bland and unappetizing—even the cheesecake. Chester, seated next to Otis Spalding, had the pleasure of hearing about his companion's difficulty in moving his bowels.
Like I give a shit! But then apparently neither does Otis.
It was while the retired high school principal was comparing the relative virtues of Metamucil versus Fibercon that the town's closet bully overheard Ethel Tucker tell Agnes, "There must be some man in her life, but she won't say who it is."
Ignoring the King of Constipation at his side, who had moved on to the subject of Dulcolax, Colace, MiraLAX, Phillips' Milk of Magnesia and other stool softeners—apparently, Otis had tried them all—Chester turned his attention to the two crones seated across the table from him.
"What makes you think she's got a man?" Agnes asked.
"Someone who looks that good at her age must either have a man or be trying to get one," Ethel replied.
"I didn't think she was even interested in men. She spends most of her time either working or going to St. Michael's." Agnes then lowered her voice and added, "You know those holier-than-thou types aren't interested in sex; they consider it sinful."
"Well, I still say she's got a man," Ethel stubbornly insisted. "You can see it in the way her face glows and her eyes twinkle."
"Excuse me, Aggie," Chester interrupted. "What are you two gossiping about now?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Agnes teased, batting her eyes at him.
He smiled at her sweetly, wishing the over-aged, overweight bimbo would choke on her over-baked cheesecake. It was Ethel who told him what he wanted to know.
"We were talking about Eunice Robbins, that new cashier who works at Conway's Supermarket. You must have seen her. She's about forty years old, kind of quiet and shy."
"I think I know the woman you mean. Isn't she the one with the heavy New York accent?" he asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
"No, that's Helen," Agnes corrected him. "Eunice is the one with the bleach-blond hair and the rather large ... ah ... assets," she said, holding her two hands out from her chest.
"Oh, yes," he laughed. "I know the one you mean."
Eunice Robbins. He would have to remember that name.
When he returned home after lunch, Chester put on his latex gloves and got out his paper, glue, tweezers and alphabet envelopes. One letter at a time, he spelled out his message: YOU CAN'T HIDE BEHIND THE CHURCH. I KNOW ABOUT YOU AND THAT MAN. Then he carefully typed an envelope addressed to Eunice Robbins at the address he found for her in the phonebook. He would drop the letter in the mailbox in front of St. Michael's when he went to bingo that evening.
* * *
When Chester Arnold arrived at St. Michael's Church at six that evening, Agnes Walters cornered him at the front door. He did not want to sit with her since he seriously doubted she had any more good scoops for him. However, the husband-hunting old lady had ideas of her own. She grabbed onto his arm and would not let go until they were sitting side by side at a table in the church basement.
"Father Dempsey must not be feeling well," she remarked, as the game was about to begin.
"Oh? How do you know?"
"Father Fitzgerald is calling the numbers tonight. That's always been Father Dempsey's job."
St. Michael's boasted not one, but two parish priests. The elderly Father Dempsey performed the lion's share of the work: conducting the Sunday masses and officiating at funerals, weddings and christenings. He was the one who heard confessions and handed out the wafers and grape juice during confirmations while Father Fitzgerald, his assistant, mainly concerned himself with overseeing church finances, filling out paperwork and scheduling events. Basically, the younger cleric was little more than Father Dempsey's secretary.
The evening passed slowly, no doubt due to Agnes' nonstop chattering.
"You know, Chester, I'll never understand why a man like Father Fitzgerald ever became a priest. He's so tall, dark and handsome," she said dreamily, "and so strong! Just look at those arms and shoulders. He's bulging with muscles."
"He probably played football for Notre Dame," suggested her bingo companion, who promptly forgot about both Agnes and the muscle-bound Fighting Irish priest when B7 was called and he won the $250 jackpot.
On the way out of church later that evening, Chester, who was desperately trying to extricate himself from Agnes Walters's clutches, bumped into Father Fitzgerald.
"Hello, Mr. Arnold," the priest said with his usual patronizing smile. "Congratulations on being the big winner tonight."
As he shook Chester's hand, Father Fitzgerald felt a thick, sticky substance on the old man's fingers.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Father. I guess I didn't get all the glue off my hand."
"That's perfectly all right, Mr. Arnold. No harm done."
Normally, Father Fitzgerald would not have given any further thought to the matter, but the old man's behavior was quite odd. He acted like a boy who had been caught by his mother looking through the latest issue of Playboy magazine. The priest watched closely as Chester left the church and walked over to the mailbox. As he was about to deposit an envelope in the mail slot, he looked guiltily around and saw Father Fitzgerald still staring at him. He hastily put the envelope back inside his pocket, waved to the priest and hurried home.
Strange old bird, Father Fitzgerald thought. Perhaps he's going a bit senile.
* * *
The following week was a slow one as far as the anonymous letter-writing business went. Chester had been unable to unearth any new skeletons in his neighbors' closets, so he decided it was time for another cold call letter.
But who should I send it to?
He did not want to waste his valuable time sending one out to any of his old cronies at the Seniors Society. At their ages, they were mostly immune to his accusations, anyway. Much like it was said in the old schoolyard comeback, sticks and stones may break their old, brittle bones, but names would never hurt them.
Maybe he should send one to a teacher; they were always vulnerable to hints of misconduct. Just because they were paid to teach the town's children, their characters were supposed to be beyond reproach.
"I bet the board of education makes each and every one of them take a vow of chastity," Chester joked to himself.
Chastity. The word provided sudden inspiration.
"I never sent a letter to a member of the clergy before."
Chester was not a religious man. His only pilgrimages to St. Michael's, or any other church, were on bingo nights. Besides that, he had never been a Catholic. His family were Methodists, so he had no qualms about sending a letter to a nun or a priest. In fact, he was rather pleased with himself for coming up with the idea.
Now, what will ruffle old Father Dempsey's feathers? he wondered with a sense of amusement. Maybe I could accuse him of pocketing some of the collection money or running a fixed bingo game.
Neither of these ideas really appealed to Chester; they were too petty and uninteresting, worth at most only a few Hail Marys and an act of contrition. He wanted something that would make Father Dempsey's hair stand on end and his collar turn around.
Living in the jurisdiction of the Boston Diocese, Chester had read all about Father John Geoghan's and Father Joseph Birmingham's fondness for small boys, but pedophile priests were old news these days. Not nearly as widespread were stories of erring priests who had been too friendly with a nun or even with another priest. Of course, Father Dempsey was a bit too old to be chasing nuns around the sacristy, but he had been a young man at one time.
Once again, Chester got out his gloves, paper, pre-cut letters and a bottle of glue from the top of his closet and went to work. YOU CALL YOURSELF A MAN OF GOD, BUT I KNOW ABOUT YOUR PAST. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR VOW OF CHASTITY, FATHER? Chester was proud of that particular letter; he considered it one of his finest. He would be willing to bet that at least at one point in his long life, Father Dempsey must have had difficulty keeping that vow.
Chester went to the kitchen drawer for an envelope but could not find one. Apparently, he had used the last to mail his letter to Eunice Robbins. He would have to get a new box from his desk in the basement. When he returned to the kitchen, envelopes in hand, he was shocked to see Father Fitzgerald standing at the back door.
"Hi, Chester. You got a minute?" the priest asked through the screen, dropping the "Mr. Arnold" form of address he usually used.
Chester acted quickly and placed the box of envelopes on top of the letter, which was still lying in plain sight on the kitchen table.
"Sure thing, Father. Come on in and have a seat," he called, pushing all his poison pen paraphernalia to the side as if graciously making room for the priest rather than trying to hide the evidence of his guilty secret. "Out of uniform today, aren't you, Father?" Chester joked when he saw the man was dressed in street clothes: jeans, a flannel shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap—a rare sight in Red Sox territory.
"Yes, I sometimes remove the collar when I'm not on church business."
"You haven't come to reclaim my bingo winnings, have you?"
Father Fitzgerald laughed, but once he was inside the kitchen and the door was firmly closed behind him, the priest's demeanor suddenly changed.
"Cut the shit, old man," he growled through clenched teeth.
Chester was flabbergasted. Even if Father Fitzgerald had seen the letter on the table and knew what Chester was up to, surely his reaction would be more professional.
"When Eunice showed me the letter she received, I remembered the glue on your hand and the suspicious way you were acting when you went over to the mailbox. I've been watching you ever since."
He grabbed Chester's most recent letter from the table and shoved it in front of the frightened old man's face.
"This proves it was you," he spat, his voice dripping with repressed rage.
"Father, there's really no need to overreact," Chester said, hoping to calm the priest down.
"Since you know all about my past, you can cut the father crap. What I wanna know is how you found out about me. Who you told?"
"I ... I don't know anything about you. That letter was meant for Father Dempsey."
"Lying isn't going to save your wrinkled old ass. You know about me and my wife; you said as much in that letter."
"Your wife? What wife? You're not married; you're a priest."
"Stop pretending. You know I'm not a real priest, that I'm a former member of the Stefano crime family and that Eunice Robbins is my wife. So much for the Witness Protection Program!" he complained with abhorrence.
"Look," Chester said, beginning to sweat, "I really don't know who you are. Up until a minute ago, I thought you were Father Michael Fitzgerald, a Catholic priest. These letters I write are just a harmless hobby of mine, a joke—honestly. And this one was intended for Father Dempsey, not you."
"Are you sure you've told no one about me? Or about Eunice?"
"I swear."
The counterfeit priest seemed to relax. Perhaps the old man was telling him the truth after all. In which case, his cover was still intact and he had nothing to fear.
"Okay, Chester. You just make sure you keep your nose out of our business, got it?" he patted the old man on the back.
"It's a deal," Chester agreed, as he shook the mobster's hand.
Suddenly, those strong arms Agnes Walters had drooled over, so like those of a Notre Dame linebacker, grabbed Chester around the throat. Then the hands of the former paid killer snapped the poison-pen-writing bully's neck with ease.
Salem sometimes sends himself poison pen letters—just so he can receive mail!
above image © actioncat.com
