Cosmo by Spencer Gordon

says. ‘I’m not riskin’ it. Your mother would sniff us out.’
    I realize how drunk he is. Keith gets impatient and bull-headed when’s he’s hammered; likes the feel of heavy tools and taking direct, sloppy action.
    First he pitches Gorilla Monsoon away from him, the leash skittering across the floor and the puppy yelping in protest. ‘Stupid dog,’ Keith mutters. ‘What the hell’s he doing out of the spare room?’ Then he goes about tapping at the lid, trying to find a hold for the hooked end of the bar.
    â€˜Eddy!’ he bellows. ‘Make sure your hands are away from the lid!’ Then, without listening for a response, he starts cranking on the crowbar, trying to snap the clasp. It’s a slapdash performance, a stumbling act of bending, crouching and cursing. He’s making a ridiculous racket, too – something he fails to notice in his hammered state. Eventually he throws the crowbar across the room, defeated.
    â€˜Fuck it,’ he says, walking back to his workbench and picking up his electric drill. He’s got the thing plugged in and whirling in a few more minutes, lying on his side against the back of the trunk, shakily fitting the end of the drill bit into the various screws. It’s easier to listen to the drill than to have to bear Eddy’s muffled wails. Gold screws begin to fall from the back of the chest, landing around Keith’s gut in a small pile. Finally, after that achingly slow process, he’s removed everything attaching the rear side of the lid to the trunk. Then he stands and retrieves the crowbar, going back to work. He’s able to wedge the bar right in, and after a few solid thrusts the locking mechanism snaps apart in a satisfying crunch . And there’s Eddy, his pale skin and flabby arms, the Bic pen makeup completely smeared and running with his tears. The skull mask and jar of spiders have been kicked down to his feet.
    â€˜It’s okay,’ I say, kneeling beside the box, offering him my hand. ‘It’s gonna be –’
    Eddy screams and sits up, eyes rolling around in his head, looking feral. And suddenly he’s up, out of the box, still screaming, and running for the stairs.
    By the time I’m at the base of the steps, he’s whipped open the door to the basement and run screaming into the kitchen. Oh, shit , I’m thinking, just as Gorilla sprints between my legs in a blur of curly black fur, up the stairs and hot on Eddy’s tail. Then they’re gone, the boy and his dog, off toward the back door.
    I turn to look back at Keith. He shrugs his shoulders, smiles.
    â€˜Ring the bell,’ he says, and finishes his beer.
    Â 
    A few hours later. It’s about two in the morning, and Mom and Keith have been going at it for half an hour. Eddy’s been sent to bed and I’ve tried to do some cleaning, but mostly just to eavesdrop on their argument. I keep twisting the dishcloth in my hands, forearms dunked into the sink and fingers already rubbery. Eddy pissed his Speedo in the backyard and Gorilla went apeshit.
    â€˜Oh my god, your fucking privacy. You’ve got all day to have your privacy, sitting on your ass . Who the hell do you think you are?’
    â€˜Suck my cock.’
    â€˜ I can’t take it anymore! ’ Mom screams, and I cringe, ripping into the dishcloth. I want this to be over, want the heat between Keith and Mom to finally fizzle, break, and Mom to emerge victorious, kicking Keith’s ass to the curb in the process.
    â€˜Will you just listen to me for a second?’ Keith howls.
    â€˜No!’ Mom says, crying now, hysterical.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because I hate you! I fucking hate you! You’re a terrible man.’
    â€˜Right, I’m so fucking terrible, looking after, cleaning up after these little shits. Well, fuck you, too! ’
    I stand perfectly still. Neither of them says a word, but Mom keeps crying. And then