Crimson Snow

by Ina Carter

The kid sobbed and then started talking fast in Spanish, his voice shaky too. Poor guy seemed upset, and probably not just for the fact he didn’t hit a few baseballs.

  “Slow down, dude,” Kevin interrupted him, “En Inglés, por favor. You know my Spanish sucks.”

  The kid sniffled, and I watched him wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

  “I hate baseball!” he finally replied in English.

  “Yeah, I heard the bad words in there. Those ones I know in Spanish. What were you saying about your dad?” Kevin probed gently.

  “Mi papa is an ass.” The boy mixed languages but didn’t mince words. “He makes me play, and I don’t wanna,” the kid admitted.

  “Is your dad around, Andres?” Kevin’s voice sounded sad and perceptive.

  “No, it’s me and mama. He comes over to take me sometimes, but then he just sits on the couch, drinks beer, and watches baseball.” The poor guy started crying again, and my heart broke for this little soul. There were too many deadbeat parents around here, and this little kid was already feeling the hits of life from this young age. He looked no older than six-seven, but he already knew too much pain.

  “I’ll tell you what, Andres. My Dad was an asshole, too. I know the deal, dude. Don’t think baseball is bad because your Dad watches it. You know why I am good, and I don’t miss hitting the baseballs?” Kevin asked.

  “Why?” the little guy said quietly.

  “Because I imagine my dad’s face on the baseballs, and then I smack him hard.” Kevin tried to sound light, but his voice shook. Jesus, what did Jack do to him, I wondered. When we were kids, Kevin didn’t speak much about his father beyond the occasional mention, and Liam said Jack Mason was in jail, but this sounded like something terrible happened between Kevin and him after I was taken.

  “Tell you what, dude, let’s go back and get a few baseballs. We’ll borrow a pen from Mr. Berg, and you can draw your Dad’s face on them. Sounds good?” Kevin offered.

  The little boy started laughing, the tears all forgotten. “Mi papa has a goat beard.” He was funny. “Okay, you can draw the goat beard, too.” Kevin chuckled, too.

  I watched as he grabbed the kid’s hand, and the boy moved out of my line of vision, following Kevin behind the corner. I finally let out one heavy breath and sighed, relieved that I had avoided being caught.

  “And Lauren, don’t move out of there. I’ll be right back.” I heard his command directed at me. So long for hope. Kevin could sense me somehow…I was never able to sneak on him even when we were kids.

  I came around the corner since it was pointless to hide any longer and watched Kevin walk down to the field holding little Andres’ hand. As he promised the little dude, he sat with him on the grass and let him draw faces on a few baseballs. Then like before, the kid took the bat, and even from afar, I could see how his baby face hardened when he squinted his eyes and focused on the ball. Kevin threw a soft one, but this one Andres didn’t miss. I was holding my own breath, nervous for the little boy, and I was about to cry when he shot the baseball far down the field. It was a victory and a heartbreak all in one. God knows why a little kid had to hold inside him so much anger towards a parent. Now I got why Kevin became a prodigy at this game. He channeled into baseball the aggression he must have felt towards everyone who’s ever hurt him. I wondered whose faces he saw on those baseballs?

  I leaned back on the wall, unable to stop the tears. I felt Kevin’s presence, and his tall shadow fell over me, but I didn’t want him to see my sadness again, so I looked down, hoping my hair would obscure my face. I was turning into a complete slobbering mess around him.

  “Why are you here, Lauren?” Kevin reached and lifted my chin, turning my face to him. When he saw the tears in my eyes, his words died on his lips.

  “Don’t, please!” He turned away, tearing his eyes from mine. “I don’t need your pity… I asked you this morning to give me time, to stop pushing, but you can’t, that much is obvious.”

  Kevin’s voice trailed somewhere between sadness and anger, but when he looked back at me, his eyes softened. He reached for my face and wiped the tear from my cheek so gently, just with the tip of his finger, it felt like a brush of a feather on my skin.

  “What do you want to know, Lauren?” he whispered like he was afraid of my answer.

  “Everything,” I admitted, “What happened to you in the last twelve years?”

  His lips trembled like he wanted to let it go, but the emotion was too heavy to put into words.

  “I can’t speak of it today. I am sorry. It’s just too much.” was the one honest admission that he let out.

  Liam said the same - that Kevin never shared anything about his past, even with his brother. But I felt Kevin’s hurt radiating in waves, soaking into me, and resonating with mine. You can’t talk about pain with someone who’s been lucky to never experience it, even if they are the most compassionate person. Even if they come from love, they don’t know darkness.

  “Come with me,” he said firmly, like he had made a decision.

  He grabbed my hand and, without another word, pulled me after him. I didn’t know where he was leading me and what it was that he wanted to show me, but at that moment I was desperate to take anything he offered, any answer, even if it was not in his own words.

  Being here in this neighborhood, watching him with those kids, hearing what he said to little Andres, was already giving me some inside to what his life was like.

  We crossed the street and then walked less than a block further down the neighborhood. He opened a metal gate and led me to a small one-story house. It was tucked behind an overgrown with vegetation front yard; it looked like an old man, torn by time, fallen down to his knees from despair and neglect. Kevin didn’t say a word to me and was not looking at my face to see my reaction to what might have been to his house. When we reached the door, his hand dropped from mine, and he swiped some spiderwebs, to reach over the awning of the porch. His hand searched over one of the beams, and when he found what he was looking for, he turned to me and handed me a key.

  “Here. This is the house I lived in. My parents are still paying the taxes and the bills, so there is electricity. Go inside and take a look. I hope you get some answers, Lauren,” he whispered.

  With trembling fingers, I took the key from him, afraid to open the door, to take a glimpse of what was inside that house.

  Kevin turned around and took the two steps down from the small porch. He was ready to leave me here alone. He read the question written on my face and shook his head.

  “No, Lauren. You have to do this on your own. Just leave the key back there when you are done.” He sounded sad. “I can’t go in there. Not today.”

  He turned around and left, and I sat down on the step, clenching the key, and thinking of his last words.

  He remembered the date. He used to say “no sad thoughts on your ‘soul day’ because God can hear them in your head, and you would make him sad, too.” So, I made both Kevin and God sad today by bringing up the past.

  I looked at the small house behind me, examining the exterior. There was no glass on the windows, just plywood nailed down behind the metal bars. It was depressing to even consider what was hiding inside.

  After I sat on the porch for a few minutes, my curiosity won, and with trembling hands, I inserted the key and cracked open the door.

  The rancid smell hit me like a wave, and I stepped back, shock traveling down my whole body. It smelled like dead rodents, mold, and rotting garbage. Liam said Kevin’s grandmother neglected him, but I wasn’t expecting this. It was dark inside since there was no daylight coming from the windows. With my feet shaking, I took one step inside, looking for the light switch. I found it next to the door, and when the light came on, I gasped. The tiny space which once might have been a living room was covered with piles and piles of garbage. Boxes were stacked over old clothes, plastic garbage bags with unknown content everywhere. There was a couch somewhere underneath all that filth. I
looked down at my feet, and the floor was unrecognizable; the old linoleum covered with mouse droppings, grime, and something sticky.

  How was this a place where a child grew up? His grandmother must have been a hoarder. It looked like one of those nightmare houses they showed on TV shows, but this was not someone’s dirty laundry on display. This was my Kevin’s home. He lived in conditions unsuitable for a dog. I was starting to shake like a leaf, the revolt in my stomach, not just from the odor, but from the terror. My instinct was to run out of there, but instead of leaving, I walked further into the house, jumping over heaves of old clothes and rusty remains of kitchen appliances.

  There were three doors, and the one I opened was the bathroom. It was old, the paint peeling, and rust stains were marring the sink and the shower wall from leaking faucets, but compared to the rest of the house, it was at least empty of trash. Did Kevin keep it somewhat clean? There was still a single blue toothbrush in a glass by the sink.

  I opened the door next to the bathroom and turned on the light switch. This was the only room that still had a window. There were spiderwebs and a large water stain on the ceiling, but the room was empty of belongings, just a bed, closet, and a cheap bookcase. In one corner sitting over two boxes was a small camper TV with two metal antennas. Kevin’s room.

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, shutting from my view the nightmare. My eyes fell on the poster of some baseball player, but the paper was crinkled from moisture coming from the wall behind it. There were still books on the shelves of the small bookcase, and when I got closer, my fingers traced the bindings. I read the titles, my heart beating a hundred miles an hour. Young Kevin loved Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and even Stephen King’s scary books. The thought that this whole house was a horror for Kevin to lived in, and didn’t have to imagine it, made me nauseous. The books were old like they came from thrift stores, some had library labels, but they seemed loved, with creases on the paper, like someone had read them over and over again.

  The small twin-size metal bed still had an old brown bedsheet. I sat on the mattress, and the metal frame squeaked under me, like a rasp coming from the throat of a dying man. My fingers traced the rip in the fabric, and I looked at the torn sheet, and like that, my own heart tore apart. The smell was in this room as well, like it was saturated in the walls, seeping into everything. How did he live here? The images of Kevin as a young boy cuddled on the rusty bed with a book in his hands, trying to lose himself in his imaginary world, hoping for a magical creature to save him from this real-life nightmare, was too much.

  I was about to lose it, so I ran. When I went back to what was supposed to be a living room, my whole being screamed. He could have died in this filth, rotted away like the garbage in this place, eaten by the rats that roamed underneath this junk. I hated the woman who did this to him, who subjected this little boy to an inhumane life. In my rage, I grabbed the first thing I saw and heaved the plastic bag outside the door. And I kept going, grabbing stuff and throwing it outside to the porch. I stumbled over a laundry basket with wet, rotting moldy clothes. I grabbed the handles and carried the thing outside, stumbling over the steps, falling to the ground.

  At that moment, I was down on my knees, the tears wetting my face, I looked up at the sky, and a guttural scream tore from my chest. I was mad at God for this cruelty, and like he could hear my despair, he opened up the sky and cried with me. The rain started falling and every drop was heavy, like an emotional onslaught of misery. I kept shaking, wanting to somehow erase the past, fix this for Kevin, make him forget.

  “Yo, Chica, you Kevin’s girl?” a voice above me asked.

  I looked up at a Hispanic man, with a red bandana and salt-n-pepper beard. He might have been scary, but when he saw my red and puffy eyes, he got down on his knees next to me, and I grasped at him.

  He held me while I cried and spoke to me in Spanish. I had no idea what he was saying, but his words sounded comforting, and his arms were gentle when he held me. After my body shook all the despair and my tears washed away the sadness, I let my grip on the man lessen. I sat back on my heels, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve. I looked up at the face of the guy who helped me. He was rough looking, covered in tattoos, and dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt with a skull on it. He looked scary like a biker, but his eyes were kind. He got up and offered me a hand to help me stand up. We were both getting drenched by the rain, so I followed him, and we took cover under the porch.

  He looked inside the house, and his face scrunched, his jaw hardened, and he grumbled something that sounded like a swear in Spanish. He looked at me, and then at the stuff, I’d heaved outside.

  “You Kevin’s girl?” he repeated the earlier question he asked me. It was too long and difficult to explain my relationship to Kevin, so I just nodded.

  “That evil woman…” he murmured in English, shaking his head.

  “Is Kevin around?” he asked.

  “No, he is probably down at the community center. He was teaching the kids… He gave me the key…” I said a few partial sentences trying to explain everything, but probably not making too much sense.

  “He is a good boy. Comes here every weekend to teach baseball,” the man responded.

  He took another look inside. “Yo, chica, you planning to clean this dump?” he asked.

  Now that he posed the question, I knew that it was exactly what I wanted to do. There was a way to erase the past. I had no idea why Kevin had left the house in this condition, but today I was going to give him a present.

  “Yeah, that was the plan,” I told the man about the decision I had just made.

  “We gonna help you then. It’s time we help the boy,” he declared.

  I had no idea what he meant by “we,” but he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He had a conversation with someone in Spanish, and the only partial words I got were Kevin, and casa, which I knew was house. The man turned to me and extended a hand.

  “I am Jose. I live next door.” He nodded to the small house, which was on the other side of the wire fence. It was a similar size to Kevin’s, but the yard was clean and even had flower beds.

  “You stay here, chica. I go get some stuff.”

  He was gone, running through the rain, while I stood there staring at the inside of the horror house and wondering where to start. Jose came back carrying a box of garbage bags, followed by a Hispanic woman.

  “This my wife, Maria,” he introduced her.

  “Hola,” she replied.

  She didn’t speak English, but we somehow understood each other, silently agreeing that this was a hard task for one person to undertake. She patted my hand when she looked inside, and her eyes shone in compassion. Maria had a bucket, rags, and a mop in her hands, and put them down on the porch.

  Jose went to his house again, and a few minutes later parked an old pick-up truck in front of Kevin’s house.

  He picked up the bags and molded clothes I had thrown into the yard and heaved them into the truck’s bed.

  “I gonna take all to the dumpster.” He told me the plan.

  Maria and I went inside and started taking more stuff to the yard. Now that I had a purpose, I was able to be more detached from what my eyes were seeing. I emptied a few boxes into the truck, and they seemed fine to hold some things. By the look of it, there was not much salvageable in this mess. Kevin’s grandma was a hoarder, and all of it was garbage that looked like she dug out of a dumpster. Time had also left its mark on everything, considering no one had lived here for eight years. The piles of clothes were moldy with big holes probably eaten by rats or other critters, and even Maria was holding her nose when she dug into the waste.

  In the next hour, strange events unfolded. Men and women started to show up and join the cleaning crew. It seemed like the whole neighborhood came to offer a helping hand. Some came on bikes, some by foot, but in this mostly Spanish speaking group, there was camaraderie and kindness extended to me, and more than anything, to Kevi
n. The ones who spoke some English all told me that he was a good kid and that he coached some of their kids at the center. This old lady that came from across the street told me about Kevin’s grandma and how she died from taking too many pills. She also said that she remembered Kevin always sitting on the porch with a book. Something I could absolutely imagine.

  Jose gave me the task to sort through things and see what I wanted to keep. It was sad that nothing seemed like a personal memento or family heirloom. I went to Kevin’s room and packed his books, the poster, even though it was water damaged, and the few clothes still hanging in that closet. It was sad to think about how little he had. He probably took all that mattered with him when he got adopted by Liam’s parents, but I didn’t want to throw his well-loved childhood books.

  Amongst his grandma’s belongings in her messy bedroom, there were a few photo albums. I was too busy to look through them, but some I think were old pictures of Connie. The old woman was her mother.

  I packed some salvageable items and told the women who were going through the piles with me to keep whatever they found useful.

  In the next few hours, we hauled the garbage, even the old rusty appliances. There were a dining table and a dirty couch buried underneath all the junk. The couch was hollow in the middle, and the table had seen better times, so Jose and a few other men took them to the dumpster as well.

  I offered to pay them for at least the sewage fees, but they shook their heads, telling me to keep my money. It was strange. Those people came to offer their help completely unconditionally. They all seemed to know poverty and likely what it meant to be in need and how much it mattered to give a hand to someone who needed it.

  Once the house was almost bare of furniture, all that was left were two beds, a nightstand, and Kevin’s old bookcase. It was time to clean with the supplies Maria had brought, and I got down on my knees and started scrubbing the filthy floor. It was unbelievable how much garbage came out of this small house. The women helping me clean all spoke in Spanish, but I noticed some smiles and exchanged looks when they looked at me. I don’t know what they were saying about me, but it seemed they all thought I was Kevin’s girlfriend. I didn’t care, all that mattered was to clean this dump and go home to him.