by Jeff Strand
Mr. Zack shook Toby’s hand. “I wish you nothing but the best. Maybe you’ll be able to hire me someday, when you’re a fabulously wealthy business owner.”
“Maybe.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Thirty years old. How did that happen?”
“He’s never coming back,” said Larry.
“Yes, he is.”
“He’s off having himself a hot summer fling with some other forest monster. How’s that for irony? He destroys your love life and then goes off and enjoys his own.”
“What if he got hurt?”
Larry considered that. “That seems reasonable. The lynch mob might have tracked him down. Skinned him, made bandanas out of his fur, sliced him open neck to groin and played keep-away with his insides. Then they felt bad about reverting to primal savagery and all took a vow to keep it a secret.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“His arm and eye did look pretty bad. You cleaned it up, but you can’t expect to just rinse out a bullet wound and have everything heal up like a paper cut. Think of the infection. How much pus do you think leaked out of his eye before he couldn’t take it anymore? Do you think his arm just sort of rotted off by itself, or is it still dangling there, flopping around, always getting in his way?”
“It’s time for you to go now.”
Larry shrugged. “Whatever. You’re the boss.”
Toby envisioned the ground splitting open. Withered hands grabbed Larry’s feet and pulled him beneath the surface. He looked kind of bored while they did it.
“Do you know what’s really sad?” Toby asked out loud, to nobody in particular. “Larry is probably my best friend at this point.”
“I’m going to be blunt: this isn’t working out.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You’re not getting along with the others in the mailroom.”
“What? I haven’t had any problems with anybody!” Toby insisted.
“They say that you make them uncomfortable.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
Toby’s new boss, John Rydelor, frowned and looked nervously toward the door of his office, which was ajar. “Please lower your voice. You were hired on a six-week probationary period, and like I said in the interview, I believe that the only way to achieve success in business is through teamwork. The other members of the mailroom team have issues with you, and I’m going to respect their wishes.”
“Owen, you son of a bitch, how could you leave me? See what I did? I swept out your cave. It’s the first time your cave has been swept in fifteen years! Come on, Owen, I really need to talk to somebody!”
He’d resisted the idea of taking in the roll of film, which had remained hidden in his bottom drawer, to be developed. But if he couldn’t have his monster, he could at least have pictures from their first encounters. He’d just tell the employee at the photo booth that it was a guy in a mask.
It didn’t matter. The film was too old and couldn’t be developed.
“Hello?”
“Toby, it’s Mom.”
“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“Your father’s had a stroke.”
They celebrated Thanksgiving in the hospital, three weeks early. It was always Dad’s favorite holiday. Toby wasn’t sure if Dad could smell the turkey or the mashed potatoes, but Toby liked to think that, at least in his mind, his father enjoyed the meal right along with them.
Toby wrote a wonderful speech for the memorial service, heartfelt yet amusing, but succumbed to uncontrollable tears after a few sentences and left the podium.
“Do you have typing skills?”
“I don’t, but I can learn.”
“We’re not really a ‘learn on the job’ environment.”
1976
“Happy birthday to me…”
“You don’t want to come back? Fine! There’s nothing to come back to!” Toby smashed the hammer into the side of the cave. He struck it again, harder this time, and shards of rock sprayed into the air.
He bashed at the stone wall again and again, bellowing with frustration. He refused to stop. Even when his arms ached so badly that they felt like the hammer had been smashing them instead of the wall, he kept at it.
He didn’t quit until the hammer slipped out of his hands and he was physically unable to pick it back up.
Then he started kicking.
“Hello?”
“Toby?”
“Aunt Jean…?”
It didn’t surprise him how thin she was. Aunt Jean had told him on the phone that she didn’t have much of an appetite since Dad died. He’d told her that she needed to eat, and she promised him that she’d try, and she’d say something like, “Your aunt is making me a milk shake right now,” and then the next week she’d admit that she just wasn’t very hungry.
He’d offered to move to California, to stay with her, but she’d laughed away the idea. He had his own life. She loved hearing him talk about it every Sunday. A great job, a serious girlfriend, lots of friends who got into wacky misadventures…she couldn’t let him put everything on hold for her. She’d be fine. She just wasn’t very hungry these days.
It wasn’t her physical appearance that upset him when he walked into the hospital room. It was the bandages around her wrists.
“Do you want to be alone with her?” Aunt Jean asked.
“Yeah.”
Aunt Jean nodded and left the room.
Toby sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her hand. “Why did you do it, Mom?”
“I really don’t know.” He could barely hear her.
“That’s the kind of answer I’d give you when I was a kid. You wouldn’t let me get away with it, either.”
She gave him a weak smile. “I guess I just felt like your father was the only thing keeping me…sane.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was sitting there in the bathroom, on the edge of the tub, and I was crying. I didn’t feel bad about it. That’s what you do when your husband dies—you cry.”
Toby wiped his own tears from his eyes.
“And while I sat there, I suddenly thought that I didn’t want to live without your father. And I knew there was a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet, that I’d used to cut his hair the last time. I got them out, and I opened them up, and I didn’t make a sound when I used them.”
“God, Mom…”
“I didn’t do it right, though. You shouldn’t do it across the wrist. You should do it up the arm. That’s why I’m still here today.” She sighed. “I hope I’m not here tomorrow.”
“Don’t say that. That’s horrible.”
“I miss him so much.”
“I know, but you can’t just give up.”
She looked straight at him. “I’m not giving up. I’m making a decision.”
“I’ll stay with you, Mom. I’ll take care of you.”
“No. You’ll use up all of your vacation time.”
The next morning she was gone.
Toby lay in the cave, staring at the ceiling. There were no stalagmites. Any good cave was supposed to have stalagmites. Or was it stalactites that hung from the ceiling, and stalagmites that grew from the floor?
It didn’t matter. The cave didn’t have either.
This sure was a small cave. No wonder Owen left. You couldn’t live in a tiny little cave like this for your entire life.
1977
“I was told this job had upward mobility.”
“It does.”
“It does not! I’m still scraping rust stains off the floor!”
“You don’t just climb the ladder automatically. It needs to be earned.”
“I have earned it. I work my ass off here. Three people who started after me have moved out of The Pit.”
“It’s not all about hard work. Part of it is attitude. You want to work your way into an office, you need to start shaking some hands and building some skills. I’ve watched you, Floren. Sitting by yourself in
the lunchroom is no way to work your way out of The Pit. What else are you good at? I don’t know. Show me.”
Toby knelt in front of Melissa’s tombstone.
“I don’t even know what to say to you. I’ll just sit here and be quiet, if that’s okay.”
“Sleepin’ in a cave, oh yeah, I’m sleepin’ in a cave. I’m feelin’ pretty brave, ‘cuz I’m sleepin’ in a cave. I think…”
What rhymed with cave? Fave. Pave. Save. Rave. Wave.
“I think it is my fave, to be sleepin’ in a cave. The path outside I’ll pave, so I can get inside my cave. My money I will save, ‘cuz the rent’s really cheap when I’m sleepin’ in a cave, except when I’ve still got a mortgage payment because I still usually sleep at my real house. About it I will rave, the love for sleepin’ in a cave. When you walk outside please wave, to me sleepin’ in a cave…”
“He’s only been here a week! How did he get out of The Pit before me?”
“Are you kidding? Look at his hair!”
“You should bash your head against the wall until it’s completely splattered,” Larry suggested. “I mean, hit it really hard. I bet if you put your mind to it, you could crack that skull in under five hits. Go on, prove me wrong.”
Nick giggled. “Put your mind to it. That’s kind of funny.”
“Ha! I didn’t even plan that! Go ahead, Toby, put your mind to it and splatter your mind! I want to see your thoughts trickling down the wall.”
“Both of you, go away.”
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while.”
“Of course I’ll take you back,” said Mr. Zack. “You’re always welcome here. You know that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir. Who put those crazy ideas into your head? Sir. When I hit a hundred years old, you can call me sir. Until then, it’s Mr. Zack. This is great timing, because guess who just announced that he’s retiring?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Koerig. How would you like to become a butcher?”
Toby knew that spending this much time in a cave was unhealthy, both physically and mentally. Even prehistoric cavemen probably didn’t spend this much damn time in caves. It was a sign of a sick, sick brain.
He couldn’t help himself.
He just knew that if he waited long enough, someday Owen would walk through that cave entrance.
And one day, he did.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Where in the name of fuck have you been?” Toby demanded. “You selfish, inconsiderate, uncaring dickhead. Do you think I can even describe what I’ve gone through waiting for you?”
Then they hugged.
“I can’t believe you’re back. You haven’t gone completely wild, right? You’re not going to kill me?”
Owen gave him the thumbs-down sign.
“You still remember! Can you talk now? Do you speak fluent English? Where have you been? You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
Owen signed: Home.
“Yeah, you’re home now. Or are you just surprised that I’m in your home? I’ve taken pretty shitty care of the place, as you can see.” Owen’s eye seemed to have healed just fine. His arm had a bare patch and a scar where the bullet had hit it, but there was no indication that he was having any problems using the limb.
Owen tapped his belly.
“You’re asking me for food? Fifteen seconds after you get back? Get your own damn food.”
Owen tapped his belly, then pointed at Toby.
“You want to give me food? I don’t want to eat anything you would scavenge. Where the hell have you been?”
Owen repeated the food gesture.
“Don’t get impatient with me. You’re the one who’s been gone for a couple of years. You want me to get food?”
Yes.
“Food for me?”
Yes.
“So you want me to get food for myself? You mean pack food, like for a trip?”
Yes.
“Why?”
Come with me.
“Are we going somewhere far?”
Yes.
“Okay, I’ll go home and get some stuff. Will you still be here when I get back?”
Yes.
“Do you promise?”
Yes.
“What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
Sleep.
“Fair enough.”
Toby filled his backpack with food, mostly granola bars that had probably gone stale in his pantry but which he assumed were still edible and nutritious. They were certainly a lot healthier than the crap he’d been eating for the past couple of years. He refilled the thermos with water, and double-checked the first-aid kit that he always carried. He’d used up quite a few of the Band-Aids from chips of cave wall hitting his arms and face, so he added a few more from the bathroom supply.
Toilet paper, a poncho, a spare set of shoes, and he was ready to go.
There was a carton of chocolate ice cream in the freezer. Owen would love that. He probably hadn’t enjoyed a treat in years. But it would melt before Toby got back to the cave, and he didn’t want to drag an ice chest out there along with his heavy backpack.
And, most important, Owen didn’t deserve ice cream. Why even consider such a thing? What Owen deserved was a great big punch in the nose.
Still, he was elated to have him back.
He hiked back out to the cave, half expecting Owen to have abandoned him again. But the monster lay on the ground, curled up, fast asleep. Toby lay down next to him. He couldn’t fall asleep—he still had concerns about his personal safety—but he did snuggle with the monster until sunrise.
As they walked, Toby realized that he’d regained his appreciation for the beauty of the forest. Sunlight streamed through the canopy, illuminating a world of green. Birds chirped. Flowers bloomed. The entire forest was filled with the potential for discovery, for adventure.
And, yeah, it all sounded like a bad greeting card, but Toby didn’t care. Despite a lack of sleep, he was wideawake. He was as excited about this journey as if he held a skull-and-crossbones-adorned treasure map, leading him to the location of a long-buried pirates’ stash of gold, silver, and jewels. He was in a cobweb-filled corridor of a pyramid, avoiding poison-tainted death traps while seeking the sarcophagus of an ancient emperor. He was seated in the cockpit of a plane he’d built himself, flying over the South American jungle, searching for a lost tribe.
Owen led, of course. Sometimes Toby spoke to him. More often, he remained silent, lost in happy thought.
He got tired more quickly than Owen, and insisted on more rest breaks. When Owen balked, Toby reminded him of the whole “gone for two years” issue and Owen relented. They never rested for very long. Toby was too excited to resume their journey.
As darkness fell, Toby built a makeshift shelter out of some branches. It was about as makeshift as you could possibly get, but it only collapsed once during the night. This time, Toby had absolutely no trouble falling asleep. He dreamed of his mother making him a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, her wrists unscarred.
The next day they came upon a large pond. They splashed around in it for nearly half an hour. Owen jabbed a fish with his talon and threw it into his mouth whole, chewing it rapidly and then offering Toby a scale-tainted smile.
“You could have at least left me the tail or something,” Toby said.
After a few minutes of effort, Owen hooked another one. Toby built a small fire, used a branch as a skewer, and cooked up the fish perfectly. He ate most of the meat. Owen ate the head, tail, and bones.
They swam some more, until Owen indicated that it was time to leave.
The bugs seemed a lot worse in this part of the forest, but Toby buried his face into Owen’s back and was still able to get a decent night’s sleep.
“How far do you think we’ve come so far?” Toby asked, as they walked side by side. It had to be at least fifty miles. Maybe closer to seventy-five. “Are
we almost there?”
Yes.
“This is going to be worth the trip, right? It’s not going to just be a slightly larger cave? Because by ‘long trip’ I kind of thought you meant a few hours, and I never asked Mr. Zack for the time off. I’m in the butcher department now, so we spend a lot of time around knives. Just thought you should know.”
Toby took a bite of his tasteless granola bar. Even with raisins, or what purported to be raisins, it was pretty bland stuff. He hadn’t really researched it, but he assumed that Magellan had much better cuisine during his travels.
“You need to hunt us a deer,” Toby said. “A nice big plump one. Venison. Lots of venison.” His stomach growled.
Owen began to jump up and down, almost like a baboon. Toby had never seen his friend act this excited. They must be getting close. Owen pointed ahead, jumped up and down a few more times, then raced off, leaving Toby behind.
Toby hurried after him.
He ran out into the clearing, and then froze. “Oh my God…”
There was another pond. Three creatures relaxed in the water. Long brown hair. Sunken yellow eyes. Enormous fangs. Sharp talons.
Toby didn’t know if he should be awestruck or terrified.
Owen looked back at him, and frantically gestured for Toby to follow.
That didn’t seem like a good idea. This was the kind of social encounter that one eased oneself into, perhaps over the course of weeks.
Were these Owen’s relatives? Or had he just somehow found more of his own kind?
