The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

“I hear you,” said Stevens. “But I need you on time or not at all.” He nodded to the
only other car in the bay. “That’s an oil change there.”
“Yep,” said John Paul and went over without another word to the Camry on the jacks.
He changed the oil and put in a new air filter, to boot, though the old one was fine as
you please. He told the woman who owned the Camry that the filter was shot and would
she like to see it. A woman’d believe just about anything you told them about a car. More
money for the shop, more money for John Paul. Win-win.
All day long while he worked he thought about the lady in her robe. The curve of
her body under that white terry cotton. The way the robe fell open just a bit while she
stood there with her little monkey. He imagined what she wore under it. Probably damn
near nothing. He imagined himself reaching under that robe until he just about drove
himself crazy, until five o’clock came and all he wanted to do was get home and drink
himself into a blur so he wouldn’t have to see his wife in focus.
He drove past the little house on his way home. It was dark out, and one light burned
in an upstairs window, probably her bedroom, though he couldn’t say why he was sure
of this. She must be sore lonesome in that little house all day and night with only
the child for company. He wondered what she’d say if he drove up her driveway and
knocked on her lintel. “What do you want?” she’d surely say. “Let me show you,” he’d
tell her, and step right through her front door.
John Paul got home sometime around fifteen after and grabbed a beer from the
fridge. He went out back to check the trap. He’d gone and bought himself a genuine
bear trap on the computer. Solid steel, with cast jaws and hand-forged cross and bottom
pieces. “Its serious teeth,” the ad had said, “can literally snap a 2 x 4 in half.”
“Hellfire,” John Paul said, “I’d surely like to see that.” So he bought it. And when it
arrived by UPS, the first thing he did with it was snap a two-by-four in half. Son of a
bitch really worked. There was some truth left in this broken world.
Out back, during the day while he was at work, the trap had sprung. It lay there
closed and empty in the yard, like a monster’s metal dentures. He pulled at the steel jaws,
straining to avoid the razor teeth. It felt like wrestling an alligator.
His wife came out, slamming the back porch door behind her. “I hear you out here,
John Paul.”
“What of it?”
“Why don’t you leave that nasty thing alone and come eat dinner.”
“Not hungry,” said John Paul, cigarette resting on his lower lip. “I’ll eat later.” He
tugged at the steel spring. A vein pulsed in his forehead.
“It’ll be cold later.”
“Cold is fine,” he said without looking at her. “Go on, now.”
“It’s no bear,” said his wife.
“I already told you. Go on inside and do something. Bet you ain’t done nothing all
day.”
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