Frankenstein

house. They shielded it from north winds while leaving it exposed to daylong sun, a plus in the long Montana winters.
    Erika parked in front of the attached garage and entered the houseby the back door. At once she knew something was wrong, and as she put the bakery box on the kitchen table, she said, “Jocko?”
    On every previous occasion when Erika returned home from doing errands, Jocko greeted her with excitement, eager to hear of her experiences at the supermarket and the dry cleaner, as if they were epic and magical adventures. Sometimes he read poems he had written or performed songs he had composed while she was out.
    The silence alarmed her. She raised her voice and called out again: “Jocko?”
    From nearby came his muffled reply: “Who are you?”
    “Who do you think? It’s me, of course.”
    “Me? Me who? Me who,
who, WHO
?” Jocko demanded.
    Head cocked to the left, then to the right, Erika made her way around the kitchen, trying to pinpoint his location.
    “Me, Erika. Where are you?”
    “Erika went out. For an hour. One hour. She never came back. Something terrible happened. To Erika. Terrible. Terrible.”
    He was in the pantry.
    At that closed door, Erika said, “I’m back now.” She didn’t want to tell him about Victor just yet. He wouldn’t handle the news well. “Everything took longer than I thought.”
    “Erika would call if she was late. Erika never called. You aren’t Erika.”
    “Don’t I sound like Erika?”
    “Your voice is strange.”
    “My voice isn’t strange. I sound like I always do.”
    “No. No, no, no. Jocko knows Erika’s voice. Jocko loves Erika’s voice.
Your
voice is muffled. Muffled and strange and muffled.”
    “It’s muffled because I’m talking to you through a door.”
    Jocko was silent, perhaps thinking about what she said.
    She tried the door but it wouldn’t open. The pantry had no lock.
    “Are you holding the door shut, Jocko?”
    “Talk to Jocko through the keyhole. Then your voice won’t be muffled and strange and muffled. If you’re really Erika.”
    She said, “That might be a good plan—”
    “It’s an excellent plan!” Jocko declared.
    “—if this door had a keyhole.”
    “What happened? Where’s the keyhole? Where’d it go?”
    “It’s a pantry. Doesn’t need a lock. It never had a keyhole.”
    “It had a keyhole!” Jocko insisted.
    “No, little one. It never did.”
    “Without a keyhole Jocko would suffocate. Did Jocko suffocate?” His voice quivered. “Is Jocko dead? Is he dead?
Is Jocko in Hell?
”
    “You have to listen to me, sweetie. Listen closely.”
    “Jocko’s in Hell,” he sobbed.
    “Take a deep breath.”
    “Jocko’s
rotting
in Hell.”
    “Can you take a deep breath? A big deep breath. Do it for me, sweetie. Come on.”
    Through the door, she heard him breathe deeply
    “Very good. My good boy.”
    “Jocko’s dead in Hell,” he said miserably but with less panic.
    “Take another deep breath, sweetie.” After he had taken three, she said, “Now look around. Do you see boxes of macaroni? Spaghetti? Cookies?”
    “Ummmm … macaroni … spaghetti … cookies. Yeah.”
    “Do you think there’s macaroni, spaghetti, and cookies in Hell?”
    “Maybe.”
    She changed tactics. “I’m sorry, Jocko. I apologize. I should have called. I just didn’t realize how much time went by.”
    “Three cans of lima beans,” Jocko said. “Three
big
cans.”
    “That doesn’t prove you’re in Hell.”
    “Yes, it does. It’s proof.”
    “I like lima beans—remember? That’s why you see three cans. Not because it’s Hell in there. Know what else I like besides lima beans? Cinnamon rolls from Jim James Bakery. And I just put a dozen of them on the kitchen table.”
    Jocko was silent. Then the door cracked open, and Erika stepped back, and the door swung wide, and the little guy peered out at her.
    Because his butt was nearly flat, he wore blue jeans that Erika had altered to prevent them from sagging in the seat. On his T-shirt was a photo of one of World Wrestling Entertainment’s current stars, Buster Steelhammer. Because his arms were three inches longer than those of any child his size, because they were thin, and because they were creepier than a loving mother would openly acknowledge, Erika had added material to extend the sleeves to his hands.
    He blinked at her. “It’s you.”
    “Yes,” she said, “it’s me.”
    “Jocko’s not really dead.”
    “You’re really