The Waiting

by Joe Hart

  “Did he mention why he was so dead set on getting it running again?” Evan asked.

  “No, but I will say this: I wouldn’t call it frantic, but he was obsessed with that clock. Talked about it from time ta time, but I could always tell it was on his mind. Sometimes he’d go twenty minutes jest starin’ out at the lake while we fished, not sayin’ a thing, jest lookin’ at somethin’ I couldn’t see.”

  I can go back.

  Evan finished his beer, and saw that his hand trembled. Jacob seemed to notice it too.

  “You okay, boyo?”

  Evan set the empty can down on the desk. “Yes, I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

  This was definitely the truth, what with armed men coming into the house at night and then disappearing without a trace. Evan sighed with the weight of the memory. It was still fresh in his mind, but with the bright lake beyond the window and the taste of beer on his tongue in Jacob’s snug office, it was far away—someone else’s problem.

  “What do you think really happened out there?” Evan asked, nodding toward the island.

  Jacob’s brow crinkled, and the darkness returned to his eyes. “I don’t know, boyo. No one but Dan, Maggie, and the good Lord do fer sure.”

  “If you had to guess.”

  Jacob fell silent for over a minute, and then turned and stood, looking out the window at the impressive view beyond. His voice floated back over his shoulder, disembodied and thin.

  “I never knew a couple who loved one another as well as those two. Dan would’ve died fer Maggie, and she fer him. And maybe that’s jest what they did.”

  Jacob turned back to Evan, and he saw a glaze of moisture on the older man’s eyes, like windows after a mist.

  “All superstitions aside, you mark me words, boyo. Somethin’ right terrible happened on that island, and I thank God above I don’t know what it was.”

  21

  Evan almost drove straight to Selena’s office, but thought better of it and went grocery shopping instead.

  It wouldn’t have done to show up at her business with beer on his breath, no matter what time of day it was, and noon was still a couple of hours away. He pottered around the grocery store like a much older man, forgetting why he went to an aisle, only to realize he was staring directly at what he needed.

  After leaving the store, he drove to the hospital and waited in the car until Shaun’s appointments were over. He watched people come and go, watched them walk across the parking lot to their vehicles, some laughing, some somber. He wondered about their lives, who they were, whom they loved, why they were here. He’d done it many times before, especially when his dreams were still attainable and his life hadn’t been taken apart and rearranged into something unrecognizable. He remembered Elle telling him his people watching was a result of being a writer at heart. You want to know because you want to tell their stories, or make them up, she’d said. He had no interest in writing about other people now; he merely wondered if they’d suffered more or less than he had.

  Inside the hospital his mood rose the moment Shaun came into view down the long, sterile hallway, this time guided by a heavyset therapist with blond hair and a permanent smile. The thought that Becky Tram would never walk down these halls again caused the strength to drain from his legs. She wouldn’t get married or have children because she was now lying on a cold metal tray somewhere in town, a mortician standing over her trying to figure out how to put her head back together.

  Evan bit back the sick that tried to rise into his mouth and smiled as he picked Shaun up. The woman related the events of the therapy session and commented on how strong Shaun was. Evan smiled and nodded at the right times, then thanked her, feeling like a marionette with invisible strings.

  Since it was almost tradition, they went to their café and sat outside after ordering a banana split. Evan hadn’t brought his laptop with him, and he didn’t miss it; anything to do with the clock brought up too many uncomfortable questions. Instead he focused on Shaun, who was watching a group of boys approaching on the sidewalk. They were maybe twelve or thirteen, and their laughter and talk seemed to flow from one to the other—boy-speak that most adults couldn’t understand. Evan gazed at his son.

  Do you know that you’re different? Can you tell? Do you long to be free of your chair and constant fatigue? Do you have an inkling that there’s more to all of this?

  The thoughts pulled a knot tight in his chest, and he had to look away. He noticed that the waitress bringing their banana split and coffee was struggling with the door leading onto the patio. Evan stood and walked over, opening it for her.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling.

  “Here, I’ll take that for you.”

  The waitress smiled again, giving him the ice cream and coffee cup. “Thanks, I just started, and I haven’t got the hang of carrying food through here without spilling it yet.”

  She let out an endearing, nerdy honk of laughter as Evan took the food from her.

  “No problem,” he said, as she disappeared back inside.

  He heard the laughter of the boys on the sidewalk, along with sounds Shaun made when he was happy or excited. Turning, he saw the group of boys standing on the other side of the low, decorative fence that separated the café’s patio from the sidewalk, a few feet from where Shaun sat. The largest of the boys, who had a wild shock of black hair and a sunburned forehead, was pulling faces at Shaun, his tongue hanging out wildly as he rolled his eyes back in his head.

  “Ahhhhh, does the retard like it?” the boy said, and screwed up his face while mimicking Shaun’s sounds. “Ahhhhhh!”

  “He probably thinks he’s looking in a mirror, Davey,” one of the other boys said, and the entire gang broke up in shrieks of laughter.

  A boiling sensation flowed over his body, as if a powerful UV lamp had been turned on only feet away. A savageness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before blinded him, and all he felt was the flow of air over his skin as he moved. There was a panicked shout that echoed on the building fronts, followed by a yelp of pain, and when he blinked, Evan saw one of his hands wrapped firmly in the big boy’s dark hair. The other hand held the scalding coffee a few inches from his face.

  The rest of the boys stood several steps back, their faces pale white in the brightness of the day, eyes wide and staring. Evan expected them all to start screaming or calling for help, but they were transfixed by what was happening before them. The shock of what he’d done dissipated almost at once, and the rage returned full force as he remembered the mocking sounds that came out of the big boy’s mouth. He pulled Davey closer, yanking at his hair so that the kid’s head jerk around.

  “Listen, you little fucker, my son was in a car accident and has brain damage. He’s gone through more in the last three years than you probably ever will in your life. Now if you don’t want me to burn the fucking skin off your face with this coffee, you’ll get moving. You got me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Davey squeaked. His voice sounded so high that he could have sung soprano.

  Evan released his hair, giving him a little shove that he hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help. The boy rubbed his head where he had gripped him, his eyes full of tears and absolute fear. There was a beat, and then the whole pack of kids ran, the bottoms of their shoes kicking up dust from the sidewalk as they pelted away. They never looked back, and Evan watched them round the corner and disappear like a herd of prey running from a predator.

  Shaun’s sobs brought him back, and he looked at his son, who stared at the ground where the banana split lay facedown, rivers of melting ice cream flowing away through the cracks in the patio blocks. Evan closed his eyes and sat, then held one of Shaun’s hands. He surveyed the street and saw no one, silently thanking fate that they were the only customers outside at that moment.

  “I’m sorry, honey, I dropped it.”

  Shaun gazed at him, his eyes rimmed with tears.

  “D-d-drupa.”

  Evan nodded. “I’ll get y
ou another one. To go.” He picked up his coffee as he stood.

  ~

  They arrived at the island around noon, the sun finally making its first appearance of the day overhead. A sickening sensation flowed through Evan’s stomach as he tied up the pontoon and carried Shaun to shore. Had he really meant to grab that kid? To burn him? No, he couldn’t have actually gone through with it—but he wondered. A second more without restraint, he might have. He might have tipped the cup and let the steaming liquid stream over the kid’s already burned forehead and drizzle down his cheeks, red streaks appearing like tracks of fire on his skin as the coffee did its work.

  He shook his head. No, as much as it would’ve been satisfying to hurt the boy, he couldn’t have done it. Grabbing his hair had been a step too far; even laying a finger on the kid’s shirt would land him in court these days. He stopped, standing still on the dock for a second, his hands full of grocery bags. What if little Davey told someone, or one of the other boys said something to their parents? Would they be able to identify him?

  Of course. He and Shaun were probably the talk of the town because they were living on the island, and with Shaun’s disability, there wouldn’t be much room for mistaking who he was.

  He moved to the shade where Shaun rested in his chair, anxiety constricting his lungs. He dropped the groceries and sat, crumpling more than easing down. When he looked out across the lake, he expected to see a boat topped with red and blue lights approaching, stern-faced men in uniforms at its helm.

  Get a grip.

  He hadn’t hurt the kid, not really, only scared him, and the little shit deserved every second of it. Maybe next time he would think twice about teasing someone with disabilities.

  A little heartened by the thought, he pulled his phone out and dialed Selena’s number, then ended the call before it could go through. Glancing at Shaun, he saw his eyes flutter and close, only to open again.

  “Let’s get you inside, buddy. Dad could use a nap too.”

  After laying Shaun in his bed, Evan hauled the remaining groceries into the house and put them away. He’d bought the makings for lasagna, one of Shaun’s favorites, and wondered if Selena liked it too. He reached for his phone again, to call her, and once more stopped himself, feeling needy and pathetic.

  “Take a nap, you need it,” he mumbled out loud, and went to the couch.

  The sun faded behind a layer of clouds, and the cool, gray light that filled the house was soothing. Evan looked down the hallway, making sure that he could see where Shaun lay, and put his head on a pillow. He fell asleep like toppling into an abyss before he could adjust himself into a more comfortable position.

  ~

  He awoke to the feeling of soft fingers stroking his hair. As the vestiges of sleep left him, Evan thought it was Elle waking him in the morning, as she sometimes used to do. She would draw him out of sleep by dragging her fingertips through his hair and then trailing them down his shoulder and onto his stomach, where they would do a few slow circles before traveling farther south. Then she would pause, stroking his upper thighs with maddening restraint. He would be fully awake by then but still feigning sleep, a smile on his lips, waiting, waiting for her hand to slide over and ...

  Evan opened his eyes to find Selena standing next to the couch, her fingers brushing his hair. He started, his heart leaping and then jigging in an insane rhythm. She stepped back, her eyebrows drawing together.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Ah, it’s okay,” Evan said, clearing his throat.

  “I wouldn’t have come in, but the door wasn’t shut completely and came all the way open when I knocked.”

  He cleared his throat again and sat up, acutely aware of the straining bulge in his jeans. What the hell had he been dreaming about? He crouched over his erection, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

  “That’s fine.” He frowned. “I’m sure I shut the door tight.”

  He traced back through his actions before lying down, and couldn’t remember if he had or hadn’t. Evan rubbed his face and looked around. Shaun still slept, although he’d turned over and one arm dangled out of bed and into the shadow below it. Something could grab him like that. Grab him and pull him under the bed if it wanted to. He shuddered, blinking at the sun that now sat above the mainland.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Oh, wow, we’ve been sleeping for four hours.”

  “Well, you must have needed it,” Selena said, turning away from him.

  Evan began to rise off the sofa and paused, her words striking a nerve. Elle used to say that whenever he overslept on a weekend or when Shaun would sleep sometimes for five hours or more right after his accident. Even the way Selena said it reminded him of his wife, the caring tone telling him he could’ve slept all day if it pleased him. Brushing off the déjà vu, he stood, thankful that his arousal had dissipated enough for him to move normally.

  “I thought I’d drop by and check on you guys, make sure you were doing okay today.”

  “We’re good, thanks. I appreciate it,” he said, moving toward the kitchen. “We got back around noon from Shaun’s therapy—”

  He halted halfway across the threshold of the kitchen, his eyes widening as he stared at the floor.

  Three watery footprints trailed across the linoleum.

  Evan swallowed and jabbed his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them, sure that sleep still clung to the lids and made him think he saw—

  But when he opened them again, the footprints were still there. Their forms were drying, beginning to shrink, becoming baby prints, but still very much real. He knelt and reached out, touching one of them. His finger came away wet. He heard Selena move closer and step into the kitchen behind him.

  “And then what’d you guys do?” she asked.

  Had his feet been wet when he put away the groceries? No. His shoes might’ve been, but he’d taken them off at the door, like he always did. His sock-covered feet were dry. Besides, the shape of the tracks couldn’t be denied. They weren’t shoe prints. Whoever had walked into the kitchen had been barefoot.

  “What are you looking at?” Selena asked.

  “You didn’t come into the kitchen, did you?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the small puddles.

  “No, I shut the door and came over to wake you. I probably should’ve just let you sleep.”

  His jaw worked for a moment, and then he grabbed a dishtowel that hung off the nearby counter.

  “No, that’s fine. I needed to get up anyway,” he said, swiping the tracks away with the towel.

  He felt the cool water soak into the fabric, and it repulsed him on some base level. Evan stood and opened the trash lid, then tossed the towel inside, glad to be free of its touch.

  “Are you all right?”

  He turned and saw the concerned look on her face, maybe the way she looked at a client who sat, no doubt, on a heavily padded leather love seat in her office.

  “I’m fine, just a little wonky from the nap.”

  “‘Wonky’?” she asked. “Are we British now?”

  He shook his head and chuckled, the laughter feeling good after the touch of the dishtowel. “Yeah, what of it?”

  Selena smiled. “Oh, nothing. I always liked British guys, their accents are a turn-on.”

  He blushed but couldn’t help returning her smile. “I’m half English.”

  Selena giggled and tilted her head in a way that made him want to go to her, put his fingers in her hair, and pull her close. Their eyes locked for a second, and time stretched out like pulled taffy, elongating while their gaze welded solid. Selena finally dropped her eyes, smiling again, this time to herself.

  “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” she asked.

  “No, go ahead, the loo’s down the hall, on the right,” Evan said, in his best English accent, which wasn’t very good.

  She laughed again and disappeared into the living room. Evan walk
ed out to the kitchen’s boundary and turned around, expecting the tracks to be back on the floor, but it was dry. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. What the hell was happening to him? Hallucinations? He hadn’t imagined the wetness of the towel. Was there any other explanation?

  An idea came so quick and clear to his mind, his head almost snapped back with its arrival. He had the urge to slap his forehead, like a character in a classic comedy show. The grocery bags—he’d set them right where the tracks had been. There were cold items in there, things that would cause condensation. A little moisture had leaked out and only looked like footprints.

  The explanation felt so good, so right, that he almost sagged with relief. That was it, definitely and most assuredly. He pulled a chair out from the table and heard the wind chimes outside spring into life, as if slapped by someone passing by. At the same time, movement to his right drew his eyes to the wooded backyard.

  A dog crawled across the grass, its front legs straight and jerking with effort to drag the rest of its body, which slouched low because of its missing hind legs.

  Evan rounded the table, hearing a chair flip over with his passage, but it sounded dim and distant as he pressed his face against the window like a child peering into an exhibit at a zoo. The dog looked like a golden lab, its fur almost orange in the afternoon light. Its head drooped below its shoulders as it moved, its concentration held on the edge of the woods. Its hips swayed back and forth, the bleeding nubs twitching with effort to move legs that were no longer there.

  “Holy shit,” Evan gasped, his breath fogging up the window and obscuring his view.

  He wiped the moisture away, leaving a streaky haze at eye level. The dog stilted its way over a hump in the lawn and then, after one baleful look at the house, slid itself behind a large pine tree.

  “What are you looking at?”

  He jerked, his stomach constricted so he couldn’t get out the moan that ached to be free of his lungs.

  “Dog,” he said, his mouth forming the word without conscious effort.