by Aaron Grunn
he heard a rib crack.
They were on the shoulder, half the car leaning over a ditch.
"Don't move." Tom said, looking over his side of the car.
"Come to my side," John said. He could feel the sweat pouring down his armpits. He could smell himself. It was a foul stench. He gulped. The ditch seemed pretty deep. At least twenty feet. Enough to crunch the car.
"Come to my side," John said, surprised that his voice worked.
Tom slowly shifted his weight the car swayed slightly. Tom froze.
"Move when it sways back," John said.
Tom nodded and when the car swayed away from the ditch, he lifted his leg and placed it between John's legs. Then his arm. He waited as the car swayed, less this time. Next, he lifted and placed the other leg on John's side. The car stopped swaying.
John started it back up. It didn't start. He tried it again. Nothing. One more time, he thought. And it started. He turned the wheel and moved away from the ditch.
"My turn," Tom said.
They drove back under the speed limit. John watched the dark outlines of the countryside pass him by. He was surprised that Tom wasn't angry. In fact, he only seemed shaken, and hadn't blamed John yet.
"Sorry, I thought I had it," John said. His ribs really hurt.
Tom smiled. "Not to worry."
Tom had just given him that look that his mother gave him; that look like they weren't looking at John, but something, or someone else.
"You're just like him."
"My dad?" John said.
"Yeah, your old man. He could see in the dark. Like you. Though I don't think he could do it as well as you. He never drove without headlights," Tom said and shook his head.
"Do you think he's still alive?"
"He's a survivor, like you."
That felt good, as if "like you" was a phrase with magical powers.
"How so?"
"For one, he did the same thing you just did. Drive with his eyes closed. Claimed he could do it, feel it, as he said."
"Driving?"
"Yeah. Scared the crap out of me. But he wasn't going as fast, and he didn't even make it through one turn," Tom said. "You did."
John noticed a bump and dried blood on Tom's forehead, but decided not to mention it. "Did you crash?"
"Oh, it was a softer landing than this one."
John nodded and looked out the window. They were returning to the main strip of the town. There were teenagers hanging out in the parking lots of the supermarket, and ice cream store. The well-lit area soon gave way to the darker parts where John lived. He felt a surge of pride; he was finally connected to his father with something he did.
"You said that you saw me fighting those boys."
"What about it?"
"What did I do?"
"You threw them around. I thought that was obvious."
"I... I don't know what happened."
"Your dad said the same thing when he was first thrown in jail. That he didn't know what happened."
"He was in jail?"
"They had a video of him doing it. Not much he could say, even if they were bigger than him."
"Was he defending himself?"
"Doesn't matter, kid."
"I'm not a kid."
"Right," Tom said as turned into the parking lot. "Listen to your mother. I know she probably sounds like some nagging old lady to you. But she's right. You're special, and as soon as they find that out they are going to want to put you away. It's why no one knows where your father is."
Tom got out, then leaned his head into the car. "Also don't tell your mother about what we did, she'll kill me," he said with a smile.
John stepped out, his legs feeling weak, and followed his uncle. He wasn't certain who Tom was talking about when he said 'they'. What would his mother say about the bump? He realized that his ribs didn't hurt anymore.
"Well, where have you two been?" his mother said as they entered. "My God! What happened to your head?" she said and reached out to touch Tom's head. "Did you get into an accident?" She walked over to John touching him all over.
"Mom, I'm all right. It's only Tom."
"What did you do?" she said pointing a finger at Tom.
"I took John for a spin in the Impala. Might help him with his new girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend," John said.
"Cute thing. Apparently she has a great personality too. Who'd have thought, eh?" Tom said winking at John's mother.
"Leave him alone. Have you done your homework, John?"
John nodded.
"Well I have dinner ready, but I already ate. Eat and get ready for bed," she said.
John looked at the time. To his surprise, it was already ten.
"Mom, how come you never talk about dad?"
It might have been the wrong thing to say, because it was as if he had dropped a time bomb in the room. Tom and his mother froze, then moved only to look at each other. His mother seemed especially affected by it.
"John, now's not the time."
"When is the time, mom? Because I've never even seen what he looks like until the other day. Why won't you tell me anything about him?"
"John! Not now!"
"You never talk about him!" John yelled back. He hated her right now, and could only see her not telling him as part of her wanting to hurt him. "Why?"
"John, don't yell," Tom whispered.
"Just leave it alone, all right John? I don't want to talk about him," his mother said.
"He's my father!" John. "I have a right to know about him."
"Don't talk to me about rights. What do you know about any rights? About this world? Huh?"
John felt like he'd been slapped by his mother's words. She spoke them in a condescending voice he'd never heard before.
"Katherine," Tom said, now in a louder voice. "He has to know about his father. You can't keep it from him forever. Not with the way he is."
"Then you tell him," she said and walked into the kitchen.
"I hate her," John said, out loud.
Tom shot him a look of hate. "Come," he said and held out his hand.
"Why should I listen to any of you? All you do is lie!" John said, shouting out the last part so that his mother could hear it. He wanted to hurt her as much as he could.
"Please," Tom said and walked to the front door and opened it.
John decided to walk out, but only because he wanted some fresh air, and to be away from his mother.
"I want to leave this place," John said when he shut the front door.
Tom regarded him casually, then pulled out a cigarette and sparked up. After a few clouds of smoke disappeared into the air he spoke: "You shouldn't be so rough on your mother."
"My mother? What about me? What about what I've been through? It's always been like that... I always have to bend over."
"John, your mother has been through a lot... At least treat your mother with the respect she deserves."
"Everyone always says I can't understand because I'm too young. Well, why don't you try to explain it for once?" John said, his voice cracking.
Tom didn't reply, he only tightened his lips together.
"Is it because you can't explain it? Is that it? Everyone here is full of it, and I'm tired of it all," John said, and when he finished he couldn't think of what else to say, so he walked off. After a few steps he looked up and saw two men in hoods standing between two cars and talking to each other in whispers. They both looked up and shot him looks of venom. John stopped. They had faces like rats, and something gleamed in their hands.
John turned, headed back and looked at Tom who was staring at him, though his mind seemed to be grappling something else.
"What do you want to know about your father?"
John wasn't certain.
"Why doesn't he want to see me?"
"It's not that..." Tom started.
"No. He's alive, right?"
"I'm sure he is."
"Then why didn't he ever come back?"
Tom's eyes darted around the parking lot as if he was worried about being heard out.
"He doesn't care, does he?"
Tom shook his head. "No. Well... Your father was always a hard man to get along with. But it's not that."
"Then what?"
"Listen. All right," Tom said, acting like he was speaking to himself as much as he was to John.
"I'll listen. I always listen. Isn't that what you adults want? For me to listen and never get a chance to tell you how wrong you are?"
Tom raised a hand. "Your mother told me about how many times you've moved."
John nodded. He heard a scuffle and turned around to see the two men in a half fight: not on the ground yet, but each had grabbed the other's sweater and was pulling and pushing.
"Well she's scared of being found out."
"By whom?"
"Men. Company men. Though even I'm not certain who."
"Why her?"
"Not so much her, but your father's family. In other words, they want him and are willing to do anything to achieve that."
"Hurt her? Us?"
"Yeah. I'm pretty sure they're willing to hurt anyone. Especially you," Tom said and pointed at John's chest. "And now you're too much like your father for them to let you go. That's why your mother doesn't want you getting into trouble."
"The reason I'm so special."
"That's right, like your old man."
John mulled this over; it was a hard fact to swallow. He could feel a rush through his head, his blood, and—something he hadn't quite felt before—his balls. He startled when he heard a thud and turned to see the two men in hoodies on the ground now, yelling and trying to punch each other. John's anger multiplied.
"Hey!" John yelled as loud as he could.
The two men jumped to a stop and looked at him. A street lamp shone on their bloodshot eyes and decayed teeth.
"Do you live here?"
The two men looked at each other.
"No? Then get the hell out!" John said.
The men didn't seem to listen.
"Better listen to him," Tom said in an extremely gruff
