by J D Spero
"JD Spero's Boy on Hold provides an especially poignant, compelling, and beautifully written update on the tale of the troubled child who witnesses a shocking event. Hen Trout and his off-kilter fascination with the world will steal your heart. Equally unforgettable are his stoic mother and all-too-teenaged brother, whose concern for Hen, even as they push through their own daily struggles, is equally moving. This family, under extreme duress, demonstrates how wisdom, kindness, and concern for one another can overcome even the greatest challenges. An utterly impressive novel that reveals incredible promise from this gifted writer. "
~ David Corbett, award-winning author of The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday
Appropriate for Teens, Intriguing to Adults
Immortal Works LLC
1505 Glenrose Drive
Salt Lake City, Utah 84104
Tel: (385) 202-0116
© 2019 JD Spero
http://www.jdspero.com/
Cover Art by Ashley Literski
http://strangedevotion.wixsite.com/strangedesigns
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information email [email protected] or visit http://www.immortal-works.com/contact/
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-7339085-3-5
ASIN (Kindle Edition) B07T3RZLT3
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Note to Readers
Acknowledgments
Playlist
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Immortal
For my boys, especially Adam Henry
and for my dad
What are heavy? Sea-sand and sorrow:
What are brief? To-day and to-morrow:
What are frail? Spring blossoms and youth:
What are deep? The ocean and truth.
Christina Rossetti
October 1991
Henry Trout snuck downstairs, skipping over the creaky bottom step. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes with a Tai Chi salute and slunk through the dark house. Past Mom’s room. Through the kitchen. The youngest-ever nighttime ninja at seven years old, he slipped out the back door without a sound.
Dark quiet all around made his belly go goosy, even though his big brother, Tyler, taught him long ago not to be afraid. “Think of this, Hen,” he’d said. “When it’s dark, it’s dark for everyone. You don’t even need to hide. It hides you.”
Hen pulled on his Spiderman hood. The cold night air stung. Hen’s teeth chattered, making clicky sounds. But the Adirondack Mountains hugged him all around. Where they lived in Severance, near Paradox Lake, their street was like a patchwork quilt—the Hoggs on their left was a dark square, and Miss Sally on their right was a bright square. Their house sat in the middle, their square a blend of autumn colors.
Crickets chirped in the distance. How far away were they? Maybe hedgehogs were there too. Hedgehogs were the coolest nocturnal animals, with tough-guy spikes on the outside and soft fur on their bellies. Miss Sally would know. She knew lots of things. Like, that hedgehogs sleep all day during school and are ready to play in the afternoon. Hen already had a name picked out for the one he was going to catch—Louis. He always liked the name Louis. It was the best name for a pet.
Aha! Maybe Miss Sally would babysit Louis while Hen was in school, like she babysat Hen while Mom was at work.
Tonight, in the deep night, Miss Sally’s bay window blinked different colors into the dark quiet. Like a disco ball. She must’ve fallen asleep in front of the TV again, slouched in her worn plaid chair. Hen smiled at the light. Wait ‘til Miss Sally saw his new pet. Hen couldn’t wait to see him, too. If only Louis would come out from wherever he was hiding so Hen could adopt him right and proper. Tyler said he needed a trap. But Hen thought if he was patient enough, Louis would come to him. Right in their backyard.
Hen ducked into his play tent and waited.
And waited. And waited.
Not Louis, but sleep kept coming for him. The tent floor was like a bed—the grass underneath soft and comfy. The moon made the green canvas glow like a nightlight. He yawned so big it made a whooshing sound. He lay down, but made a promise to stay awake.
Louis could be there any minute! A little ball of spikes wobbling into his tent, his tiny claws scratching, his nose twitching. Hen could see it now. He closed his eyes. It was easier to keep still that way.
Stay still.
Stay quiet.
But stay awake.
He could do it. Don’t fall aslee…
A scream. Shrill and high-pitched.
Hen shot up, knocking against the tent’s piping. Dark quiet was everywhere. Was he still asleep? Inside a bad dream? His stomach flip-flopped.
Another ugly noise. From next door.
Miss Sally’s house!
Hen scrambled out, rubbing sleep away.
Light from her window. Not a disco ball, just gray. Like fuzz on channel three. The sounds weren’t from channel three, though. Not from a dream, either. They were real.
Everything got really slow. Like someone hit slow motion on the VCR.
A jagged shadow stretched across the window like a Scooby-Doo monster.
Someone was inside Miss Sally’s house!
His heart moved into his brain, beating between his ears. He shook his head to clear it like a dog shook off water.
He looked again. Two shadows. The Monster. And another shadow—small, soft, hunched over. Miss Sally? They faced each other, like they were arguing. The voices were muffled, but angry.
Fear pierced his heart. He stared so hard his eyeballs went dry.
What was happening?
Something grew out of the Monster. A weirdly-shaped object. Heavy, by the slow way it swung around. Shadows splashed together. Then one huge, heaving blob, with sharp angles jutting out. Like a fight cloud in a comic strip.
Was that what he was watching? A fight? It changed so fast. Like the darkness was trapped in a net. Hen wished he had night vision.
He inched toward Miss Sally’s house, gulping pockets of air like he was about to go underwater. He had to get closer. He had to see.
All of a sudden, it was really warm. Hot. His Spiderman sweatshirt was too much. As he crawled across the grass, wetness soaked through the knees of his sweats. It traveled up his legs and into his stomach and heart and brain. He was wet all over. Was it sweat? Or pee? Maybe both.
“Don’t be scared.” Tyler’s words rang clear in Hen’s mind. “When it’s dark, it’s dark for everyone. You don’t need to hide—”
It wasn’t working. The moon was a spotlight on him. He hid inside Miss Sally’s willow tree and peeked from the curtain of its long, wispy branches
.
“Put it down!” Miss Sally’s clear voice. “Get out of my house this instant!” A voice folded over Miss Sally’s. Then a thump. Like something heavy dropped. The shadow blob flung apart like an explosion, leaving only one shadow standing.
The Monster.
“Miss Sally?” Hen whispered, the night taking his words in a steam cloud.
Hot tears pricked. But Hen wouldn’t blink.
Another voice. Distant, angry yelling. Hen felt a chill, recognizing it…
Marcella willed her eyes to focus on the textbook that lay open in front of her. She’d set up the coffee to start brewing at 4:45 am. Up and at the table by five. That gave her at least an hour to read her assigned chapter before the kids got up.
It really was ideal. A perfect environment to study. The house—heck, the whole world—was library quiet. The hum of her refrigerator the only sign of life. Her kitchen table was sturdy and clean. The overhead lamp was so bright it almost felt like daytime.
But her eyes were sticky from sleep. Yawn after yawn came in waves like she had a strange tic. It made the words blend together on the page. Coffee stung like acid in her empty stomach.
She had enrolled in the Coastal Community College telecourse a month ago, the same day the yellow flier was delivered to her mailbox advertising new offerings for the very first “virtual college” in the country.
Work toward your degree in the comfort of your own home! Affordable! Accessible! With Coastal, college comes to you!
Surely, it was a sign. A sign that even she—a single mom living on a pittance in the remote Adirondacks—could obtain a proper education. Make something of herself. Turn things around for her children. Tyler might soon be eighteen and out on his own, but Hen was still little. He needed her. He’d need her for many years to come.
She bit the inside of her cheek, a wide expanse of time yawning in her face. She could do both. She could be a good mom and get her degree. There was time to become the kind of woman her children would be proud of.
She now wondered if the hundred-fifty-dollar registration fee—such a splurge, it was downright dangerous—was a smart investment or a desperate grasp at an impossible dream.
A business degree was the obvious choice in order to get a good job, she reasoned. Her first class was Marketing 101. Perfect. No in-the-clouds philosophical mumbo jumbo. Nothing too mathy. Marketing was something she could see. Advertisements were everywhere. This was a good first step.
But these books didn’t talk about commercials or billboard ads. They talked about market strategy and product development. They talked about focus groups and customer acquisition. The chapter she started this morning was on pricing and distribution.
On and on and on. Case studies about these things called “widgets” and economies of scale and profit margins and…
Words, words, words.
Mumbo jumbo, mumbo jumbo.
By the time the alarm went off on the microwave clock, she’d only read one paragraph. And she didn’t comprehend a single word. Not a one.
She cut off her next yawn, spite cutting through her. How did that hour go by so fast?
The uneven song of larks ushered in the sunrise. A rosy hint peeked through the trees out the window. These classic signs of promise felt like a slap in the face.
She thumped the thick textbook closed with a mixture of relief and grief. She pressed on the glossy cover with both hands, covering that ridiculous image of a lightning bolt striking an accounting spreadsheet.
She was wide awake now. Sigh.
Tomorrow, she’d set the coffee for 4:30 and get started by 4:45. That would give her a good fifteen minutes to let her eyes adjust and her yawns to subside before she really had to concentrate. Tomorrow would be better.
But who knew? Sometimes your brain absorbed what you think you didn’t understand. Didn’t she read that while waiting in line at Stewart’s yesterday? The magazine showed a cartooned brain with a porous, spongy texture. “Subconscious Learning” in bold letters leading to page fourteen where a SUNY-based scientist discussed his study. It claimed lots of what people learned was by osmosis, kind of. They didn’t even realize they were learning it. That was the basic gist. No matter she didn’t get through the whole article before the clerk rang her up.
Deep breath. Let osmosis do its thing.
Time to Mom up. She cinched her robe tighter.
She padded through the house, the worn wood floors gently creaking under her slippers. Upstairs to wake up Hen. Sweet boy would be hungry soon. Before she knew it, he’d be off to school.
“Good morning.” She tiptoed in.
Across the room, Tyler’s snoring shook the walls. She bristled at the sound.
Hen’s pillow had slid off his bed. His covers were crumpled like he’d—
“Hen?” She flinched, confusion smacking her consciousness. He wasn’t in bed. She checked the bathroom. No sign of Hen.
“Where in the world?”
She hurried back downstairs, dread closing in. He couldn’t have crawled into her bed without her realizing, right? Could he have slept there through her dual alarms and coffee percolating and yawning and grumbling over her studies?
No. He wasn’t in her bed. Not in the downstairs bathroom, either.
That sinking feeling hit, like when she’d lost him in Ames for a full five minutes.
Not on the couch. Not hiding in the closet.
Oh, no.
Blood roared in her ears. Panic rose up in her chest. She glared at her textbook, blaming it. What was she doing, reading that crap while her son was missing?
She stood in the middle of her living room, arms out, her balance precarious.
My boy. My boy. Where is he?
Where could he be? What was she not seeing?
A cast of sunshine splayed across the kitchen floor. It fell on her left slipper, warming it. She looked to the back door and gasped. Outside!
Could he be out there in the backyard? He always went in his play tent in the summer. It was the tree house he’d never have. But he couldn’t be in there now, could he? That would mean—
Her slippers skated across the kitchen linoleum, and she flung open the door.
“Hen!” she called, frantic.
There he was—a dark splotch inside his play tent.
The earth righted on its axis. The air had oxygen again. Whew.
But why was he hiding there?
No matter. Her relief was so great she didn’t care. She palmed her chest to settle her pounding heart. Hen scrambled out, his face scrunched against the morning sun.
“Mom?” His voice was scratchy.
She rushed to him. “Hen, what on earth are you doing out here?”
He rubbed his eyes and looked to Sally Hubbard’s place where he spent every day after school while she worked. Marcella fought a flutter of something—was it jealousy?—and led him inside. To his own house, where he belonged.
“I went to wake you up and you weren’t in your bed. Do you know how much that scared me?” She hugged him hard and noticed he was shaking. A ripple of worry went through her. “Oh sweetie, you have a chill from being out. How long were you outside?” She brushed his too-long bangs out of his eyes. “There are pine needles in your hair.” Some loosened, and the sappy end bits stuck to his Spiderman sweatshirt. His sweat pants were grass stained at the knees. “You’re not in your pajamas. What were you doing in the backyard at the crack of dawn? Tell me the truth.”
His huge hazel eyes beamed up at her as if they could talk. Oh! Those eyes. Her heart swooned. How she loved this boy. If she could, she would jump into those eyes and see the world as he saw it. It had to be better than her view.
But his standard silent gaze would not do right now. She refolded her arms. “I can’t read your mind, Hen. Tell me.”
“I was outside, and—” He cut himself off. His lips trembled. Tears were on the way.
Enough.
“I’m going to say this once and only once
.” She wagged her finger at the back door, as if it were in trouble. “You’re not allowed to leave the house without permission. End of story.”
She shuffled him into his seat at the table and promptly slid that awful textbook into her tote bag. Out of sight, out of mind.
She went about preparing his breakfast, enjoying the easy breath that marked the shift in a stressful morning. Marcella took comfort in these small nurturing acts. It reinforced her role as a mother. A good mother. For now, everything seemed normal and fine.
She hummed absently while she flitted about the kitchen, urging the day to remain positive. She forced a smile at Hen—eyes bright!—who seemed to need it more than she. The way he looked at her made her pause, like he needed help but didn’t know how to ask for it.
Mom always made things better. “Maybe in the summer Tyler can take you camping. We might be able to borrow a tent. Maybe Miss Sally has one. Or Bernie.”
The last flake of cereal fell into Hen’s bowl. The now-empty box had been the last in the pantry. Ugh. She’d need to buy groceries. If not today, then tomorrow.
Hen’s sullen eyes were altogether too much. She poured his milk and excused herself. “I’ve got to get into my uniform.”
She avoided the mirror as she changed. A run in her stocking. Again? As she dabbed the end with clear nail polish, she heard Tyler stumble down the stairs.
The fridge door swung open.
