by Bradon Nave
“Momma, it smells so good!” said little Bryce as she anxiously watched her older brother load her plate.
“Well, of course it does, baby girl. Your momma is only the best cook this side of New Orleans,” Graye replied in a confident, sarcastic manner.
Johnny smiled as he placed a chicken leg on his plate. He then grabbed a roll and backed away from the table.
“You’re gonna have to grab more than that if we’re gonna get through this pile tonight,” Jared said as he placed Bryce’s plate down in front of the hungry and excited little girl.
Johnny was very hungry, and there was a lot there, even for this entire family and himself.
“I can do that,” Johnny said as he reached for what he thought looked like a chicken breast.
“Attaboy!” said Jared with a smile.
Johnny couldn’t understand why the family was being so pleasant to him, but at the same time he knew he was in no position to question their friendly generosity. Just as easily as he had ended up in this huge, beautiful kitchen, he could be on the street, or even worse, in a week from now, or even tomorrow. For now, he was going to take the opportunity to quell his hunger, as well as try his hardest to not worry about what tomorrow had in store.
Once he was confident the selections on his plate would appease his rumbling stomach, Johnny turned and walked to the corner of the kitchen, about seven feet away from the table. He then sat down on the floor with his plate of food and his back to the family.
He picked up the chicken leg and bit into it; it was delicious. The Cajun spices were so flavorful, and the texture was so crunchy. Johnny was now wishing he would have taken more. Perhaps there would be some left over. He noticed the entire family had halted their plate preparation and was now watching him.
“Um, Johnny,” Jared said softly, “we got another place here at the table for you; right here next to me, man.”
Johnny, still sitting down, and with a mouth full of chicken, used his feet to swivel around on his rear. “You…you want me to sit at the table?” Johnny asked, somewhat surprised by the invitation.
Graye walked over to the boy and held out her hand to help him up. “Of course, sweetheart. Grab your plate and come sit with the family at the table. We can’t have you sitting on the floor on your birthday.”
Chapter Eight
Morning Mumbling
“I really just don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t mean anything to talk about it anyways,” Johnny said as he sat in the guidance counselor’s office.
The walls were exposed brick, and one entire wall was a huge bookshelf that was completely full of books, both large and small. The green floor tile wasn’t attractive, but Johnny liked Mr. Benson’s office. It smelled like oranges. He always felt comfortable there, at least until Mr. Benson started asking questions. Johnny would never tell him anything that happened at his father’s house.
“It doesn’t mean anything? What do you mean by that, Johnny?” asked Mr. Benson.
Mr. Benson was a kind man, but Johnny had heard whispers from others that the man had no business counseling anybody. He was thirty years old, tall, slender, often wore suspenders, and was just odd. He had a comb over, and used words that were foreign to Johnny. To top it off, he was constantly pushing his dark-rimmed glasses back up as they slid down his greasy, pointed nose.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Mr. Benson. I can’t leave there, and I’m going to be there my whole life. So, that’s just that. There’s no need to talk about it,” Johnny said as he sat in the office chair across from the counselor, looking out the small window on the left side of the office.
“Your whole life? No, that’s incorrect, Johnny. When you turn eighteen this year you are no longer required to live there if you don’t want to. By law, you are free to leave. There are several available resources and systems in place to assist those that need help getting on their feet. Johnny, your grades are very decent, and—”
“I can just walk out and leave when I turn eighteen? I don’t have to stay there no more?” Johnny asked, feeling his pulse behind his eyes, searching Mr. Benson’s face for truth.
“That’s…that’s right, Johnny. Were you told otherwise?” Mr. Benson remained expressionless.
Johnny felt certain the man knew more than he let on.
Mr. Benson had filed reports with administration, and had even contacted the local police department. Nothing came from it, as the law enforcement had nothing to go on other than rumors and a shaky counselor’s intuition.
Johnny couldn’t understand Mr. Benson’s specific interest in his case. He recognized the area was riddled with situations similar to his own. He was only one of many sad stories.
“Johnny, did someone tell you that you had to stay at your father’s residence your entire life?” the concerned counselor continued.
Johnny stared at his folded hands in his lap.
“How…how long after I turn eighteen can I leave?” the boy asked quietly, still staring at his hands.
“The day, the very second you turn eighteen you are free to leave. Twelve o’clock midnight, on July 18, you are free to leave and there is nothing anyone can say about it.”
Johnny sat up in bed. He was sweating and shaking as he looked about the dark room. He was breathing heavily through both his mouth and nose. The room, the smells, the sounds, everything was foreign as he frantically looked in every direction for familiarity. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was. In that moment, he was back in hell. As he evaluated the room, it began to come back to him.
The thick, heavy comforter was the most comfortable blanket the boy had ever covered up with, yet Graye had apologized because it had a flower print on it. Johnny often had to wash the mouse urine and droppings from his blankets on his old bed; flower prints were nothing to be apologetic for. The wall next to the door had an oil painting of a woman staring into a mirror. The closet was huge and was full of heartworm medication boxes and other supplies that Jackson needed.
He couldn’t hear the dull humming of the swamp cooler that was in the living room of his father’s house. He knew he was safe for the night. What was confusing him was his conversation with Mr. Benson. Deciphering the past from the present was becoming increasingly difficult for the boy. The dream was so vivid. Was it a dream? Did it actually happen? Sitting in the bed with his legs bent in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees, he began to reassess. He then reassured himself that the conversation did take place. The meeting with the counselor resulted in the boy being a few minutes late getting home after summer school.
Johnny lay back and turned onto his side to face the window on the wall directly behind the bed he was sleeping in. This room was on the second floor, right next to Jared’s room. Jackson and Graye’s room was on the main floor, and Bryce’s room right across the hall from theirs. There was a second guestroom on the second floor, and the basement was basically a man cave, although Graye utilized the area more than Jackson and Jared did.
As the boy looked out the window, feeling the heavy sense of sleep overtaking his eyelids once more, he heard the whimpering of what sounded like a puppy. He quickly pushed himself up and looked toward the lit ground of the yard. A small, black, mixed-breed puppy looked solemnly up at him. Johnny instantly clinched his eyes shut as if he were attempting to keep blowing dirt from them. He opened them slowly. It was gone. He knew it had never been there. “Just stay away,” the boy muttered. Looking once more, assuring himself there was nothing there, he rested his heavy head into the plush pillow, cool and inviting.
Physically, Johnny felt comfortable after he recovered from his elevated heart rate and state of anxiety. The bed was soft; he felt as if he could melt into it. The sheets, the blankets, the clothes, everything about this night was comforting, except his mind’s dastardly setbacks. But he was convinced that he was safe. He closed his eyes as a warm blanket of comforting slumber ushered him off to sleep.
The floor was cold linoleum
that was torn in some areas, exposing the plywood subflooring. The baseboards in the kitchen were disgustingly filthy. Every dish and glass was in the sink as flies swarmed above the pile. On the kitchen counter was a half emptied package of generic paper plates. The kitchen table was actually a fold up display table. There were four mismatched chairs surrounding it. Where the wall met the floor was speckled with mouse droppings all around the room. The kitchen window, just above the sink, was cracked from top to bottom and was held together with duct tape. The old gas stove was covered in grease, as was the wall behind it, and even the popcorn ceiling was a dark brown from years of grease build up. The cobwebs in every corner of the ceiling were a dark brown from filth.
He sat with his back to the wall on the floor. The bottom of his feet were nearly black, yet he hadn’t been outside that day. A cockroach scurried across his right foot and quickly made an escape along the wall. On his lap was a paper plate covered in unheated chicken noodle soup. The house had no clean silverware, so he was using his fingers to pick up the noodles and lift them to his face. His lip hurt every time he opened his mouth too wide. It was healing from being busted, yet again; however, it would crack when he tried to eat. There was a constant noise of scurrying within the walls and under the sink. The entire house was infested.
He would clean the kitchen, he would clean the entire house. He would love to walk across a clean floor. His father would not allow Johnny to touch anything in the kitchen while he was gone. When he was there, Johnny would constantly be accused of misplacing a tool or a random part. Johnny would not dare touch anything of his father’s, yet he was constantly reprimanded in a gratuitous manner for misplaced items.
The sound of the swamp cooler often masked the sound of his father’s truck engine as it pulled up onto the front lawn. He was constantly listening and observing his surroundings like a hunted animal. Relaxation was only a word to Johnny. Every single day survival was tested in some fashion or another.
He craved something other than chicken noodle soup. He wanted something of substance, something sweet, like cake. Chicken noodle soup was often the only thing he had to eat in the house. When school was in session, he devoured everything the cooks piled on his tray. He pretended not to notice, as did several of his classmates, as the lunch ladies piled just a little bit more on his plate.
As he raised another cluster of noodles to his open mouth, a glimmer of light shimmered through the kitchen window. He dropped the noodles back on the paper plate as his heart raced. He hadn’t let his guard down, how did this vehicle approach without any notice? Perhaps he still had time to flee the kitchen. Just then, he heard the truck door slam shut. There was no doubting it was the sound of his father’s truck. He didn’t have time. He had been foolish and left the can opener out next to the empty dented can of chicken noodle soup. He sat, horrified of what was going to happen. He stared at his half-eaten plate of soup. The paper plate was saturated in broth and had basically lost most of its integrity.
The door in the kitchen opened up to the front yard. Johnny knew that on the other side, walking to the door that very minute was an inescapable source of pain. He sat silently, attempting to remain collected in an almost trance-like state as the door opened. His father’s foot hit the floor hard, as did the two steps following the first. Johnny continued to look only at the plate. He could tell by his father’s steps that the man was intoxicated.
When his father drank, there was a window of violence. From the time the man began to become intoxicated, to the time he passed out in his room, was the time Johnny dreaded the most. Sometimes, however, the man would drink so much so fast that this window of time shortened dramatically, and the man would simply pass out. Johnny hoped that tonight was one of those nights. Perhaps the man’s peripheral vision was so impaired that he would ignore Johnny altogether and head down the hall to his room.
“What the fuck do we have here?” His drunken father’s voice was horrifying. He wasn’t going to pass out. He was drunk, mad, and Johnny had just handed him a reason for reprimand.
Johnny’s hands were shaking as he watched the boots approach him from the corner of his eye. He knew what was coming, yet continued to avoid eye contact with his father. “I sure did thought I smelt of me a little faggot,” the man said under a drunken breath, “and this little faggot is basically trespassing.” The man’s words penetrated in a cold, deep voice. “What you doin’ in here, boy?” the man asked as he used the back of a kitchen chair for balance and raised his muddy boot. Johnny knew he would soon be kicked in the head or face. There was nothing he could say to prevent it. He also knew if he said nothing, it would only anger his father more.
He swallowed hard and answered. “I-I’m sorry. I was hungry. I’m just really hungry.”
“Dude, for real. I’m about to get us some breakfast,” said Jared as Johnny shot up in bed and used his feet to propel himself to the other side, next to the wall. He looked at Jared in total confusion. He knew he had just been with his father. He remembered Jared vaguely, but the fact that he was not in front of his father was completely confusing to the young man. He continued to stare at Jared as his heartbeat resounded in his throat.
“Johnny, it’s okay. I think you were probably having a bad dream. No need to apologize, man. I’m pretty hungry too.” Jared was wearing old blue jeans and a torn red t-shirt, with steel-toed boots and an old Budweiser ball cap.
Johnny continued watching him. The room was completely lit, the sun was up, and he imagined it to be at least eight in the morning.
Jared took a hesitant step in the direction of the bed with his back arched, and his hand out in front of him.
“Hey, man, you were talking, I came in to ask if you wanted to help me out in the stables today. Do you wanna eat some breakfast?”
Johnny felt the tension ease slightly as he began to recall Jared, Jackson, Graye, and Bryce. Still pressed against the wall, he knew where he was, but he wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t in any danger. His respirations were uncontrollable, heart rate was still elevated, and he felt his fingertips ache as his hands attempted to grip the wall behind him.
“Is-is he here?” Johnny asked with a cracking voice.
“Who? Is who here, man?” Jared looked at Johnny, waiting for a response. “Mom and B are in town, and Dad got a call around four, he’s been gone all morning. It’s just you and me, Johnny.”
Johnny finally gained control of his breathing and began to relax. He slowly came to the realization that his father was nowhere near the room or the house.
“I…I’m sorry. I guess I just was having a bad dream,” Johnny said as he touched his face, just to be certain it had not been kicked.
“Dude, no worries, you were probably having a night terror because of that ugly-ass bedding,” Jared said, grinning as Johnny let out a forced chuckle and the mood in the room began to lighten.
“So, I have about six hours of shit shoveling in the stables today.” Jared tilted his head and looked at Johnny, giving him a half smile and raising his eyebrow as he asked, “So, you think you might wanna give me a hand?”
Chapter Nine
On The Farm
As Johnny emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of tattered work jeans and a torn, gray Old Navy t-shirt, and some of Jared’s old tennis shoes, he had a plethora of thoughts running through his head. He wondered what Jared thought of him after witnessing his actions. He wondered what he was saying out loud when Jared entered the room, and he was certain that Jackson’s son now thought he was a psycho. He thought Jared would now look at him the way some of the kids at his school looked at him.
He made his way down the hallway toward the top of the staircase banister. The floors were always shiny and dust free. The banister and stairs alike were both as dark as the hardwood floors. Johnny took the time to appreciate the beautiful light fixture in the hallway. From the bathroom, he could see out over to the big red barn. The surrounding property was even more amazing in the dayli
ght.
“How those fit ya, man?” Jared asked from the bottom of the staircase as Johnny appeared at the top.
“Shoes are a little big, but nothin’ too bad,” Johnny replied.
“Well, now we both look like hicks,” said Jared with a smile. “Come on down, dude, I fixed us some eggs and sausage.” Jared motioned Johnny down the staircase with his hand.
Johnny felt a little more at ease, as Jared’s actions and tone seemed extremely welcoming. Perhaps he didn’t think Johnny was such a freak after all.
As Johnny stepped off the staircase and followed the boy into the kitchen, he saw Jared had already fixed his plate and poured him a glass of orange juice.
“Thanks, man. This looks really good,” Johnny said as he eyed the plate of food, walking to the kitchen table. Johnny hadn’t had an actual breakfast in years.
“Hey, man, no worries at all,” Jared replied, standing beside the table, plucking up pieces of piping hot scrambled egg with his fingers and putting them in his mouth.
“Dude, I totally sleep walk sometimes. Mom caught me in nothin’ but my underwear one night, just standing by the front door. She said it was the freakiest shit she’d ever seen. We all do dumb shit when we’re passed out, and most the time we probably don’t know it,” Jared said, chuckling.
This immediately put Johnny’s mind at ease. Even if he were only at the house for the rest of the day, he didn’t want Jared remembering him as the crazy guy that said crazy things in his sleep.
“Yea, man. I think I was about to jump out the window when you came in this morning. I totally forgot where I was,” Johnny said, smiling as he pulled out the kitchen table to sit down and eat.
