These are the tactics of the uninitiated I suppose, to whom the mysteries of sexual congress are still quite nearly incorporeal. For the young it is like grabbing jell-o. The wisps of possibility, a thin vapor of promise. Before we know how it is between men and women – or back then, boys and girls – we are so dreadfully afraid that what we have, as tenuous as it seems, will disappear like mist in the breeze. We bite our tongues, jam our hands deep in our pockets and stare at the ground. We want the mist to envelope us and we are painfully certain that even a sharply drawn breath will scatter it forever.
Freddy was no different – nor was I for that matter. It is the curse of the young. At a time when we are at our physical prime, when evolution has prepared us to mate, we are taught not to do it. We are sheltered and segregated. By doing so the freshness of youth is wasted on the young. Later in life, when our middles have grown soft, when gravity has begun its inexorable tug downward, we realize our folly. Only then are we truly capable of being comfortable with our sexuality. This being said, in spite of what popular culture teaches us perhaps true beauty doesn’t develop until middle age – or more likely because of it. Confidence is beauty. Assuredness is beauty. Certainty is beauty. Despite firm flesh and abundant energy these are things lacking in our youth. I lacked them and I think Freddy only had a hint. What he had was Çin’s doing.
I watched from the shadows as Freddy kissed Carrie good-night. She was radiant under the porch light and I will always remember her that way, the vision of a woman superimposed over the child I knew with scabs on her skinny knees and a baseball glove always near at hand. My heart ached and I wish I could have told her just once that I loved her. Maybe if I had told her – just said damn to the consequences and told her – things would be different.
I delude myself. Carrie loved Freddy. She did not love me. In the years I knew her I think I could count on one hand the number of times she spoke just to me. I have often thought she referred to me as ‘that guy – you know’ – if she referred to me at all. Still, to have told her…
-
I saw Carrie again in second period. She was with Freddy. Period two was a math class and Carrie and Freddy sat together near the front of the room. I sat at the back.
Almost unconsciously I was aware of her, of everything she did and every move she made. It was as though I could sense the storm coming. I could feel it tingling at the base of my skull. It was a thing I could not quite taste or touch. It was an itch at the very center of my back just out of reach. I knew something was going to happen and I was helpless. I could do nothing but wait and watch.
There is no recess in high school of course, just as there is no recess in junior high. But at least in junior high one could feel comfortable playing a game of football or baseball during lunch. We discovered high school does not allow such frivolity. We were expected to quite literally stand around in our little groups, chatting, smoking, being teenagers, all the while attempting to maintain the illusion that we and not our compatriots were the exact center of the universe.
Individuality is essential for teenage angst. Only the individual can strip bear the wider world and see the truck barreling down on them. The media tells kids to be themselves all the while strictly enforcing a code of morality, a code of conduct and a code of dress we all must adhere to in order to express that individuality. We are all unique but in order to prove it we are required to be exactly the same as everyone else.
Almost like a uniform a certain type of kid will wear the same jeans and shoes, the same shirt and coat – even the same underwear – as every other kid like him. If you preferred heavy metal to rap music you were supposed to hang out with other like-minded kids. Ravers never hung out with jocks, head bangers didn’t socialize with rappers and the top-echelon cool kids would sooner lose a limb than be seen in the company of anyone who would give more attention to a game of chess than a new pair of Vans.
Going into the tenth grade we are still not entirely certain which group we will belong to. We haven’t really decided what kind of individual we’ll be. The first while – the first few days of the new school year – is the only time the rules are relaxed. Everyone from junior high will cling together like penguins holding out against the intense cold of an Antarctic winter. The cliques can be seen picking off individual members of the colony who stand out for what they are but for the most part we are ignored by everyone older than us. Later that will change. But for the moment we are all equal – or equally worthless – in the eyes of our school mates.
I stayed apart. I believed that in my self-imposed isolation I could remain classless and be able to transcend the boundaries peer groups impose. Those of my ilk – and there are always a few – most often are simply left alone. We are ghosts in the halls, dwelling outside the rules governing everyone else striving to be as unique as his favorite celebrity or athlete. I indulge myself on occasion believing that we the lucky few, shunned by everyone are the true individuals. At the time it was a comforting thought. Sadly, it never made masturbation or Saturday night television any easier to bear.
I saw Mike Thomas that afternoon in chemistry. I never did discover why he was taking a grade ten subject but it could have been something as simple as his realizing he needed more out of his education after choosing to cruise through tenth grade the year before. Whatever the case was I stayed out of his line of sight. Dave had put himself on the radar along with the rest of the group. But I thought I was free and I did not want to do anything to jeopardize that.
Freddy and Carrie were in that class. Mike made his presence known to them. In an attempt to be intimidating he cocked an imaginary gun at Freddy. Carrie didn’t see it but Freddy did and spent the last twenty minutes of class ignoring the lab safety film we were watching. He stared at Mike, giving him the cold, unblinking gaze I’d come to know and dread.
I saw a special once on the Viet Nam war. They interviewed a vet who had served three tours of duty. He was in-country for nearly two and a half years before being wounded in combat. The remainder of his third tour was spent in hospital and then later training teenage boys not much older than I was to kill. The interviewer asked him about killing, about how he felt taking a life in combat. The vet’s expression went hard then went soft. A kind of void followed. At first you think it’s fearm but before long you know it’s so much more. That look expressed absolutely everything available in the human emotional range yet at the same time nothing at all. It was his eyes most of all. Those empty eyes. One look could soften the bowels of a hardened fighter or win the hearts of the most resolute crowd.
I don’t remember what the man said. I only remember the look. It was the look of a killer, a man who had been to hell and back and only wanted to escape. He knew that no mere words could hope to express what it was truly like.
Freddy had those eyes. He had the thousand-yard stare. But the life in the soldier’s eyes remained while Freddy’s drained. His were the eyes of a reptile. His eyes still showed things about him when the life returned to them, crashing down on you like a tidal wave. But that stare was lacking one element. Freddy showed no regret.
-
Everyone knew hunting season began with the toll of the dismissal bell. The tenth graders scattered, hoping to escape before the feeding frenzy began. I knew I was on my own and I left, heading for the street as casually as I could while moving as fast as I could. Briefly I saw Josh in the student parking lot. He was jogging for his car. Dave and Carrie came behind him. They had last period art together and from that wing of the building it was a quick dash to the car.
I never saw Jeff and I didn’t know what happened with Freddy until later. At the time I didn’t wonder or care. I heard a scream and out of the corner of my eye I witnessed the first casualties. The rapid patter of eggs struck asphalt and flesh, metal and glass. They were all around me.
I quickly learned Mike was not the only one who came prepared. I didn’t wait to see who was after me. I shucked my dignity and my pretence o
f an exemption from the festivities and bolted, running as fast as I could. Eggs fell around me and then behind me. I never knew if they were aimed at me or not but I was not about to find out. I never looked back.
-
Something drew me to Freddy’s house. As misplaced as it was, I think it was concern. I arrived before anyone else and I let myself in as I was accustomed to doing. Maggie was out, down at the craft shop she sold her quilts in. As for John, I could hear ZZ Top emanating from the garage. I figured John was working on Maybelline again, getting the car ready for sale.
It was strange being in that house alone. I was familiar with every piece of furniture, every plate and glass in the cupboards – even the way the second step always creaked when the humidity was low and the back door stuck when it was high. Despite these familiarities the house felt alien to me.
I took a Pepsi from the refrigerator and went upstairs to Freddy’s room. A book of mine was sitting on his desk. Somehow, I don’t recall what book it was yet I can recall every other detail of that afternoon. I suppose I’ve relived it in my dreams often enough to remember: The roast gurgling away in Maggie’s crock pot, the stack of mail left unopened on the little table in the foyer, the empty laundry basket sitting at the top of the basement stairs – one handle cracked. These are inane little details of another family’s life that may very easily escape even their notice. Yet I remember. I remember everything except the damned book. It is an unimportant little detail itself, even less important than the smell of rosemary and thyme and stewing pot roast or the stress crack on Maggie’s laundry basket. I mean, it’s just a book. But sometimes it is all I can think of.
In Freddy’s bedroom I sat in my corner with the desk lamp spun to illuminate the pages with my Pepsi near at hand to await his return. I had only read a few pages when the tell-tale sputter of Josh’s car rose in the distance. I put my book aside and stood by the window. I could see Carrie climbing out of the front seat but Freddy was not with her. Alone, she came to the front door. I heard the doorbell chime in the front hallway.
Something came over me. I chose to hide. The doorbell rang a second time. Heavy footsteps clumped in the hall downstairs and I stood in Freddy’s half-opened doorway listening. I could not quite hear what was said, only a murmur of conversation followed by John’s laugh, a deep baritone that could be as mean as a teased dog or as sweet as cotton candy. This time it was the nice one.
More murmured words followed. The front door closed. I recall how Carrie felt about Freddy’s father but she remained inside. John said something else and she laughed.
“Freddy!” John yelled up the stairs. I could hear two or three beers in his voice – enough to make him your best friend but not quite enough to make you regret it.
I was silent.
“Freddy!” He repeated. His boot creaked on the second step. “Funny,” his voice floated up to me, “I could a’ sworn I heard him come in.”
“I can call later,” Carrie suggested. Her voice was much softer than his but I could hear it now.
“Why don’t you just go on up there? I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Cartwright. I don’t want to impose.”
“Go on, Carrie,” John sounded funny. It took me a moment to realize he was trying to be flirtatious. It was more disturbing than anything else.
The stairs creaked again. “Are you sure you don’t mind? Freddy could be a while.”
“No big deal. I’m just out in the garage, anyway – unless you wanna come out and keep me comp’ny?”
“That’s fine, Mr. Cartwright,” Carrie sounded a bit nervous. “I’ll just go up and wait for him – I’ve got some homework to do anyway.”
John laughed. “Homework on the first day? Wasn’t like that when I went t’ school.”
The stairs creaked alarmingly as John took his weight off. I stepped back into the bedroom as Carrie’s light footsteps fluttered up the steps. I imagined John leering at her, watching the flex and bunch of her buttocks as she mounted the stairs. This was the same man who eyeballed her in the basement like a pervert at a peep show if Freddy’s story was true.
“You just make yourself comfortable,” John called after her.
I cast frantically around the room looking for a place to hide. As cliché as it might be, I chose the closet, pulling the bifold door closed only a heartbeat before Carrie came into the bedroom. I could see her through the louvers in the door and once more I was struck with longing. I indulged myself in a brief fantasy wherein I stepped out of my hiding place and she came to me. We would make love on Freddy’s bed. Afterward she would lie next to me, our naked skin cooling in the gloom of approaching night and I would confess my love to her. In my fantasy she would reciprocate and she would become my girlfriend.
The fantasy was so clear, so vivid that I very nearly did step out of the closet. I was saved by the phone ringing in the front hall downstairs. I heard John’s murmured voice answering. The conversation lasted only moments. All the while I watched Carrie. She went through Freddy’s room slowly, a whimsical little smile, half curious, half embarrassed and completely self-conscious playing across her moist lips. She stopped at his desk and lifted my book, reading a few lines of the marked page before replacing it and continuing on. The can of Pepsi was there, cold, beads of moisture mantling its surface but she failed to notice its significance. She ran a hand across the quilt on Freddy’s bed – Maggie’s work of course – and I could see the little smile grow as a similar fantasy likely played through her mind. I was not in that one I’m afraid.
Footsteps mounted the stairs. I knew it was John despite his uncharacteristic gentility. The tread of his feet in the hall was barely audible and before I knew it, before Carrie knew he was even coming he stood in the doorway. He filled the frame with his bulk. Her back was to the door and he watched her for a moment without speaking, his eyes roaming over her.
“I think Freddy’s gonna be a while,” he announced finally, causing Carrie to jump.
“You scared me!” Carrie gasped.
“Sorry, Hon,” John replied, “I surely didn’t mean to.” He had a strange look in his eyes, a serious look.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I realized what the look meant. Carrie didn’t immediately know what he was intending. She would discover quickly enough. By then it was already too late.
“Why don’t you sit down,” John motioned to the bed. “Freddy got into a little bit of a scrap at school. He’s gonna be a while.”
“Is he okay?”
“It’s hard to hurt Freddy,” John said. I thought there could have been a note of pride in his voice as he said it.
“I should go then.” Carrie made to leave but John blocked her, his shoulders near to rubbing each side of the door frame.
“Nah,” he encouraged. “Go sit. We should get to know each other a little better.”
Still I don’t think she knew – or if she did, she could not believe it. “My mother’s gonna be wondering where I am.” There was a hint of fear in her voice.
I was frozen. I could do nothing. Wave upon wave of icy dread washed over me. My testicles and my throat were clenched in iron fists – clenched and twisted. Immobile, I watched as John turned her around. He took her backpack and set it in the corner, closing the bedroom door as he stepped in.
“That’s okay,” John told her in a quiet voice. He tried to sound soothing but he managed something closer to coldly maniacal instead. “You can call her in a bit if you want. We’re just gonna talk for a bit. I ain’t gonna bite.”
I could not follow what happened next. A period of time; a second or a minute flicked by without me. In that moment John was on her, one hand over her mouth, the other everywhere else.
Carrie was whimpering. She struggled against him but to no avail.
“Shh,” he told her. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. I ain’t. You’ll like this – It’s gonna feel good.”
I closed my eyes. I could do nothing.
The connection between my brain and my limbs seemed to suddenly have been severed. As cowardly as it sounds, I was afraid John would hurt me – maybe kill me – If I tried to stop him. More than that, I was afraid of what Carrie would think if she knew I had been hiding there, watching her.
John’s belt buckle tinkled. Fabric whispered away with a dry rustle. I heard a zipper.
Silence.
The squeal that followed, choked against John’s wide palm, was filled with a terror and pain too immense for words, a sound less heard and more felt in the hollows of my chest. I have awakened in the dark of night with that sound echoing in my dreams, fearing it had come from my throat while I slept. But it was real then. It was a sound that no one should ever have to hear. It was a sound no one should ever have to make.
“You be quiet,” John hissed. “Go with it. It’ll feel good if you do.”
Her scream faded to sobs and whimpers. There were words mixed in but they were lost against John’s hand, stained with dirt and engine grease. Still I could not look. I could do nothing.
John grunted. Sounds of bestial passion escaped him. The bed creaked and Carrie whimpered.
“Fuck, that’s nice!” John exclaimed, nearly growling. He sucked drool off his lips. He cursed while she cried.
At some point Carrie stopped struggling. My cheeks ached and my eyeballs felt as though they would burst but still, I would not look. I did not want to look. The bedsprings creaked faster and faster. John would be finished soon. I was afraid of what would come next.
John cried out sharply. It was not a cry of ecstasy but of agony. He gasped and I heard a wet, ripping sound, the sound of a turkey leg being torn from the carcass.
My eyes opened but I was left blind by a swirling frenzy of flickering stars. In the room John screamed again. His scream was followed by the same soggy, eviscerating pop. My vision cleared. Somehow, I had knocked the closet door opened but as yet I was undiscovered.
After The Flesh Page 19
