by Ben Clabaugh
CHAPTER 8
The underbrush was sparse, and a narrow, well-trodden path extended from where he stood to a small creek bed at the bottom of the hill. David walked down to the creek, his mouth suddenly dry. He followed the creek upstream. It ended abruptly at a miniature grass-topped escarpment at the edge of the trees. Water seeped from between dark, twisted tree roots, soil, and limestone slabs. He cupped his hands and let the trickle fill them. The water was clear and cold. He brought the water to his face and sniffed. It smelled okay. He hesitated, scanned once more for dirt and bugs, dipped his tongue into the water. It felt wonderful—cool and wet, and the slightly metallic taste was not much different than what came out of the tap in the kitchen. He refilled his hands and drank greedily. He refilled his hands a few more times then stood, feeling refreshed. Having discovered the source of the stream, he turned westward to see where it led.
The trickle grew to a little stream slipping over steps of limestone, winding around miniature sand bars, and trickling between slippery tree roots and fallen limbs. The pools were dotted with tiny dimples as water bugs skated across the surface in short, quick bursts. The reek-reek of grasshoppers and locusts from the tall grass faded, replaced with the rustle of leaves stirred by a lazy breeze and the occasional caw or chirp of some unseen bird.
He saw the shimmer of sunlight on the surface of a pond further downstream and broke into a jog. He emerged suddenly from the cover of the trees a few yards from the water. Squinting against the bright sunshine, he saw hundreds of tiny, circular ripples form at the edge of the pond accompanied by faint plopping noises, like a cascade of small pebbles falling into the water. The resulting ripples were quickly dampened by thick, dark green moss growing in the water. He moved to the water’s edge and watched, his mouth open with delight, as a dozen or so tiny frogs leapt from shadowed, hoof-shaped indentations in the mud.
“Cool,” he whispered. Leaning out over the water, he saw dozens of tiny shapes gliding away underwater.
The small pond was about fifty feet across and was formed by an earthen dam at the far side. The water was a deep shade of opaque green. David could only guess at the depth. The trees stood back from the edge making a ring around the water twenty feet or so wide so that it appeared as if the water level in the pond was much lower than normal. The ground between the trees and the water was dry and hard, the grass or weeds dry and crisp.
Remembering the purpose of his exploration, David walked around and down the backside of the dam. As he had expected, water seeped from the bottom of the dam. Within a few yards the stream was reborn, as lively as it had been upstream of the pond.
David set off to follow the stream when he felt a sharp twinge in his lower abdomen. It felt as if he were being poked with a knitting needle from the inside. The pain passed after just a moment, and he resumed walking. After a dozen or so steps the pain returned, worse than before. David gasped and bent over, his hands pressed to his stomach. Suddenly he straightened and held his breath, clenching his sphincter against the sudden pressure as the pain shifted from front to back.
He knew he was in a desperate race against the clock. He bolted back up the way he had come, running as fast as he could while still clenching, holding back the surge he knew was coming. He clenched his fists and his teeth, hoping it would help prevent a blowout.
A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He whimpered a tiny cry of triumph as he emerged from the trees into the pasture, celebrating reaching the half-way point. He knew he could no longer run and hope to hold back, so he walked as quickly as he could, doing his best to emulate professional speed-walkers. Just the summer before, Eric and he had laughed themselves practically to exhaustion watching speed walking on the Wide World of Sports, imagining that the sport’s inventors must have had crippling and constant diarrhea. He decided he would appreciate the irony later but only if he made it.
David forced his concentration on the course ahead, clenching every muscle he could, his breath coming in short, shallow, gasps. As he approached the fence, he worried he would not be able to bend over and step through without letting go. He made it, though the effort left him gasping for breath. He fast-walked across the yard, arms pumping, whimpering with the effort, and cried out as Pete bounded up and crashed against his legs. He reached the door, and broke into a run through the house to the bathroom in the hall. He made it!
David spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, the TV on, but not really watching reruns and cartoons. Every twenty to thirty minutes he would dash to the bathroom to sit, bowels clenching spasmodically, wondering how he could’ve been so stupid. As the afternoon wore on the room grew gradually darker. He left the lights off, finding an odd comfort in the synchronicity of the outer gloom with how he felt. He thought about his life, what it had been, what it had become, and where it was inevitably going. At his old school, he knew he had not been the most popular kid in school, but he had had plenty of friends. He had liked his teachers, and they had liked him. He seemed to be able to get along with just about everybody.
Then Janie died and it felt like everything went dark. It had happened so suddenly. Sure, she had been a pain in the neck, but that didn’t mean her death, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have left a hole in his chest the size of a basketball.
But this situation hadn’t been normal. Everyone thought it was his fault. He had seen the looks and heard the whispers—and the worst part of it was, he thought they were probably right. So sure, he had been confused and angry. He didn’t want to be around anyone, not his friends, not his family. He had just wanted to be left alone for a while.
That’s all. He just had wanted to be left alone. And for that, they punished him by moving to this place where the only other kid was a weird retard whose parents treated him like a baby, and he sniffs dogs’ butts. David had blown his chance to start over with a new group of friends for the summer, and the only thing worse than being The New Kid in school was being The New Kid with the creepy friend.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, thinking.
