Citrus County

by John Brandon

  A lot of the women were nurses, and it made Mr. Hibma wonder if the nurse who’d kidnapped him had been one of these. Not all women became these. Maybe becoming one of these was what that nurse had been trying to escape. She wanted a two-person family out in the desert, down in the mountains in Mexico. The only chatter would’ve been the chalky, disarming trills of the birds. Probably not. Probably she was a nutcase, and not an interesting one. A regular old nutcase.

  Congratulations. Condolences. Mr. Hibma slid farther up the aisle. His eye was caught by a card revealing the top half of an almost-nude woman. She looked like she was having fun. The woman was about Mr. Hibma’s age and a lot of care had been taken with her hairstyle. Her sexy birthday wishes were going to make Mr. Hibma feel a way he didn’t want to feel, so he quickly moved on, advancing sideways through plump nurses and very skinny ones. Apology—the smallest section, five cards in total. Mr. Hibma didn’t want to apologize. He wanted to reconcile, maybe. Not even that. He wanted to make a fresh start.

  He slipped the cards out of their slots one by one, narrowed it to two. One of the finalists was adorned with perched doves, the other had a couple of cartoon Indians dropping their hatchets in a hole they’d dug. The two nurses next to Mr. Hibma were almost screaming at each other. To stem the tide of their voices, Mr. Hibma displayed the two cards in front of them and asked which they’d prefer to receive. They were his target audience, about the same as Mrs. Conner. They seemed not to notice his outlandish sunglasses.

  “What’d you do wrong?” one of them asked.

  “Nothing specific,” said Mr. Hibma. “I was being myself.”

  “You should never apologize for being yourself. I learned that after I got divorced,” said the second woman. She had bags of flavored coffee clutched to her chest.

  “Doesn’t that depend on what kind of self you have?” Mr. Hibma said. “What if your self has something wrong with it?”

  “People don’t change. They try to but they can’t. That’s speaking from experience.”

  “You’re probably right. I probably won’t change.”

  “I hope not,” said the woman with the coffee. “I’m never going to change for anybody ever again.”

  Toby rose early Saturday morning and dragged more supplies out to the bunker. He brought a dustpan and also another pillow, because Kaley had torn the stuffing out of her old one. He’d been keeping her for two months now. What, nine weeks? What did weeks and days matter? Toby didn’t want to keep track of time. It meant nothing. He went down and did what he had to do, thankful that Kaley was ignoring him this morning, then marched back to the house.

  When he opened the front door, Uncle Neal was sitting in a chair staring at him. Odorless smoke hung about the room. Uncle Neal reached back and set his pipe down. His eyes were bloodshot and the corners of his mouth were sharp.

  “Seen the nail clippers?” he asked.

  “I have better things to do than keep track of your nail clippers,” Toby said.

  “That’s a debatable claim,” said Uncle Neal. “Not that I care to debate it, but it’s a highly debatable claim.”

  Toby took a step toward his room and Uncle Neal stood and asked if Toby was hungry. Toby looked at the table and saw slices of white bread with butter, some kind of meat patties, and peaches in a bowl. Uncle Neal never buttered Toby’s bread, but today he had. The meat patties were arranged so they were slightly overlapping, like in an advertisement.

  “My breakfasts don’t suit you anymore, do they?” Uncle Neal said.

  The food had no aroma. It was like the smoke.

  “I’ll heat up a plate in a little while,” Toby said.

  He again started toward his room and this time Uncle Neal stepped right in his path.

  “I feed you for years,” Uncle Neal said. “All of a sudden you’re too fancy. All of a sudden I got to eat alone. You got some little girlfriend you’re always going and eating fancy with.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” Toby said.

  “Oh yeah? What do they call them these days if they don’t call them girlfriends?”

  “You don’t need to worry about calling her anything. She’s never coming around here.”

  Uncle Neal was still standing in front of Toby. He seemed engaged in the moment in a way that wasn’t usual. He still had his lighter in his hand and now he slipped it in his pocket.

  “I know who she is,” he told Toby. “The girl whose sister got snatched. You got some sick fascination with her because her sister got snatched.”

  “I’m not sick,” Toby said. “I’m just fine.”

  “I used to think I was going to raise you.” Uncle Neal gripped Toby’s shoulder. Toby finally smelled something—Uncle Neal’s shirt. He’d been wearing the same clothes for days. “I used to think we could help each other.”

  “Well, we can’t,” Toby said.

  “I know what you’re doing, you little thief.”

  It felt like Uncle Neal could’ve broken Toby’s shoulder. Toby tried to move. He said, “What am I doing?”

  “You’re stealing from this house and selling the stuff at that rat-ass flea market. You’re a businessman, a little merchant. I brought up a boy who would rob his own flesh and blood. A little fucking capitalist.”

  Toby didn’t feel like answering to this accusation. He had been stealing. It was a lot easier to get things from the house than to keep making extra trips to the grocery store or the drug store. And it was free. What could his uncle do about it?

  “I’ll tolerate disrespect,” Uncle Neal said. “I’ll tolerate thinking you’re something special. I tolerate that stuff all the time. But there has to be a line, and I’m the one who has to draw it.”

  Toby kept quiet. He felt each of his uncle’s fingertips digging into the bones of his shoulder. Uncle Neal hadn’t laid a hand on him in years—hadn’t pushed him around or even mussed his hair, hadn’t dug Toby in the ribs after making a joke, hadn’t slapped him on the back when he was coughing. Uncle Neal looked at his hand and flexed his fingers. He inhaled greedily.

  “And I gave you a fucking allowance. That was my choice. That was my own poor rearing.”

  Uncle Neal hit Toby then, a kind of open-handed punch. He rushed it and it didn’t land squarely. He hit Toby a second time. Toby wilted, but not out of pain. Uncle Neal seemed surprised that his blows were having an impact.

  “I want it to hurt me more than it hurts you,” Uncle Neal said. “It doesn’t, though. It doesn’t hurt me.”

  “It doesn’t really hurt me, either,” Toby said. He didn’t look up, but he had the feeling his uncle was staring at his own hand.

  “I can’t be hurt anymore,” Uncle Neal said. “I’m that low.”

  “You’re tough, is all,” Toby told him.

  “I’m not even ashamed.”

  Toby kept crouching there, still. He couldn’t tell exactly where Uncle Neal’s blows had landed because his whole head felt hot. Somewhere inside, he was glad Uncle Neal had hit him. It was a relief. Uncle Neal backed away, his shadow lifting. He walked out the front door and Toby got himself standing. He heard Uncle Neal’s footfalls across the porch and then his truck starting up with the wail of an old frail dog. Toby went to the bathroom and took a look. He was going to have a bruise on his neck and a mark on his forehead, but they wouldn’t last. He shook his shoulder out. That was probably the last time his uncle was going to touch him. The man was desperate. Something in him was rancid and weak. He and Toby had to put up with each other. Kaley and Toby had to put up with each other. Shelby had to put up with the whole world. How did anyone keep from going rancid? How come everyone wasn’t like Uncle Neal?

  Toby’s nose was running but his eyes were dry. He ran the hot water and got out a washcloth. He let the water turn steamy and then he let it run and run until he could no longer see himself.

  Toby and Shelby had agreed to meet on Sunday, and Shelby decided they should go for a ride on the old folks’ trolley, a stout yet aerodynam
ic-looking bus that, three times a day, drove a big loop that included a pharmacy, a supermarket, the movie theater, the county offices, and a cafeteria-style restaurant. Shelby gave the driver two crisp dollar bills and she and Toby took the back row. There were only two other passengers, a frail old woman adorned with jewelry and a younger guy with a box of T-shirts on his lap. They sat in the middle of the bus, across the aisle from one another. The woman was hugging herself, shivering. The driver, a lanky black man, had the trolley’s air conditioner pumping.

  At the first stop, the pharmacy, no one got on or off. Same thing at the supermarket.

  Shelby elbowed Toby and he looked away from the window. She got a good look at his face. She could tell he was dreading being asked about it, so she decided she wouldn’t. She didn’t like people in her business. She knew how he felt. If his dings had been the result of a fistfight with another kid or a pole-vaulting injury, he would’ve said so. Something had happened with Uncle Neal.

  “When’s the last time you let someone be your friend?” Shelby asked.

  Toby thought. “Last year.”

  “What happened?”

  “He transferred to a middle school in Gainesville so he could play basketball there.”

  “Still friends with him?”

  Toby shook his head.

  “Why, because you guys don’t have a phone?” Shelby draped her arm across Toby’s lap.

  “Even if we did, probably wouldn’t still be friends.”

  Toby fidgeted into a straighter posture. Shelby’s hand was resting flat against his thigh. He didn’t notice, or else he was acting like he didn’t notice. The mark on his neck almost looked like a paw print. Shelby was going to make him forget about his uncle, for a while at least.

  They pulled up near the movie theater. There were a few people standing outside, but none of them made a move toward the trolley. It was a two-screen theater, showing a horror flick and a kids’ movie. A poster of a bald guy hanging upside-down, one of his eyes bulging out, hung next to a poster of cartoon automobiles.

  The old woman turned in her seat. She cleared her throat, and this action sent a chill through her.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she chimed.

  The guy with the box on his lap looked at her.

  “I’d like one of those T-shirts, one of the long-sleeve ones. Would you entertain a trade?”

  “I might make a trade.”

  “A bracelet?” The old woman hoisted her arm. “They’re real.” With her finger, she separated one bracelet from the others. “This one’s worth sixty bucks.”

  The guy looked in his box. “A small, I guess.”

  The two of them exchanged their goods. The guy dropped his new jewelry into his shirt pocket and the woman slipped the T-shirt on over her head. She tugged it this way and that, getting it straight, a faint smile on her face.

  The trolley jogged into motion.

  “I had lunchtime friends last semester,” Toby said. “Dina and Tom.”

  “Who are they?” asked Shelby.

  “They’re that couple. I wasn’t really friends with them.”

  “What couple?”

  “Dina and skinny Tom. The two that say they’re going to get married when they turn sixteen?”

  Shelby was at a loss.

  “I used to sit at one of those four-person tables with them. We’d pile our stuff in the fourth chair.”

  Shelby pressed her palm against the inside of Toby’s leg, squashing the notion that it was resting where it was resting on accident. Toby talked more quickly.

  “I’ve never seen much reward to friendship,” he said. “Starts as an interview and ends as a job.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “It’s part of a toast.”

  Shelby moved her hand until it rested against a lump that could’ve been what she was looking for or could’ve just been a fold of Toby’s bunched-up shorts. The trolley pulled up to a cluster of two-story glass buildings. There were spindly oak trees everywhere, newly planted. It was the government offices. They were closed today. The old woman and the guy with the T-shirts exited the trolley and went their own ways. Shelby had no idea where they might be going. The driver got off for a moment and spoke on his cell phone. When he got back in, he adjusted his rearview mirror and put drops in his eyes. He held his hand in front of a vent, making sure it was blowing cold air.

  As soon as they were back on the road, Shelby unbuttoned Toby’s shorts and burrowed her hand. Toby made a deft adjustment of his hips, making it easier for Shelby, and then he stilled, eyes forward, back arched off the seatback. Shelby’s hand was hemmed in so she took short strokes, trying not to squeeze, trying not to hurt Toby. He was motionless. Shelby ceased her stroking. Toby’s legs were shaking. She didn’t want him to finish already. She resumed, slower, working her hand luxuriantly. Toby was holding his eyes open. The next stop was in sight. Shelby executed some rough jerks and a small sound escaped Toby. He fumbled with his shorts, yanking them down, exposing himself to the air and the light. Shelby watched Toby’s face, on which still rested a bland expression, and felt cheated. She wanted to see some exaltation. She wanted to see him reel into another, better state. Toby put his hand on Shelby’s, aiming himself toward the seat in front of them. The stuff ran most of the way down the seat and then lost its liquidity. It was unmistakable. Anyone who saw it would know what it was.

  Shelby looked at Toby. His hair was growing spiky from when he’d buzzed it. Shelby couldn’t tell if anything had happened, if their souls had scrubbed against one another. The trolley stopped and Shelby tugged Toby out of the seat and guided him to the front. Shelby’s eyes met the driver’s and he winked at her, but not in a knowing way. The driver didn’t know a damn thing. Winking at young people was something he always did, part of his procedure.

  Shelby and Toby ventured inside JB’s Cafeteria and filled trays with meatloaf and sweet potatoes. As Shelby sat across from Toby, both their mouths full, she was struck by a fresh and potent curiosity. She wanted to know, now, not only Toby’s darkness but where he slept and what he ate and what his favorite type of weather was and what made him sneeze. She wanted to know what he dreamed of at night, what was going on in his mind when he stared at the wall during class. Shelby was fascinated with the efficiency of her hormones. She had engaged in a sex act and now, what, she was in love? She had caused a male of the species to blow his load and now, what, she wanted to be his little girlfriend? Astonishing. Shelby tried to enjoy the feeling. She felt lush.

  Before basketball practice, Mr. Hibma rushed over to the common area in the main building of the school and approached the carnation booth. It was manned by a younger girl, not an eighth-grader, a tiny thing wearing a suit. Her pumps were like a doll’s shoes. She was probably a replica of her mother. Her mother had dressed her this way and pulled her hair back like that because her daughter was going to be in the public eye, a saleswoman. Or the girl’s mother was a slob and the girl was rebelling.

  “Where is the money going?” Mr. Hibma asked her.

  “A field trip,” she said. “Washington D.C.”

  “That’s a lot of carnations.”

  The girl’s back was straight and her hands rested on the tabletop. “I’ve already got Publix to match our funds, and we’re going to get a big discount from Amtrak. We have a quarter of what we need. We project to hit our mark by the end of the semester, then go on the trip this summer.”

  “Do you want to be a politician one day?” Mr. Hibma asked.

  “No, I want to work for a politician.”

  One of the girl’s eyes was off, aimed slightly to the side. It made the rest of her look that much more put-together.

  “My name is Gina Lampley,” she said. “You’re Mr. Hibma.” She shot her hand out toward him. “I can’t wait to take your class. I’ve heard you get to do a lot of presentations. I don’t get nervous talking in front of people.”

  “I look forward to having you.” Mr. Hibma had to grow
comfortable with the kissing of his ass. It was one of his problems, he knew. The other teachers enjoyed kiss-asses and he didn’t. He had to start valuing each student for what they were. Some kids were just kiss-asses and they couldn’t help it, no more than one can help being Samoan or allergic to celery.

  “I like your shoes,” the girl said. “An old teacher would never wear those shoes.”

  Mr. Hibma looked at the girl, kindly he hoped. He knew she had completed all the necessary paperwork allowing her to be out of class this period. She’d chosen this spot for her booth because of the heavy foot traffic. She’d stenciled a flower on each order form, stacks of them. She was going to grow up and thrive in the world of red tape, fine print, licenses, sales, arts and crafts—the world everyone was forced to live in.

  “Can I specify which color?” Mr. Hibma asked.

  The girl nodded pertly. “Red or white.”

  “Better go with white.”

  “How many should I put you down for?”

  “One will do the job.”

  The girl got an order form and started filling it out herself. She asked if the tag on the flower should say who it was from, and Mr. Hibma said it should. The carnation was to go to Mrs. Conner, room 142. Mr. Hibma reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He gave the girl three of them.

  “Oh,” she said, like an honest mistake had been made. She held the limp, gray money in her fingers. “Do you have any crisper ones? I like them to lay flat in the envelopes, then I can fit the same amount in each.”

  “Crisper bills?”

  “If you don’t, that’s okay.”

  Mr. Hibma looked around the common room. This girl was only being herself, like everyone had a right to.

  During a pop quiz in American History, Toby was called to guidance. He left his quiz paper face-down on his desk and walked to the office, where he presented himself to the kiss-ass who manned the reception desk. He was directed down a hallway, to the sixth door on the left. Toby had never been called to guidance. He knew this was not supposed to mean one was in trouble. Maybe the counselor was curious about Toby’s plans for the summer, or which classes he wanted to take next year in high school.