by C. V. Hunt
I tossed and turned as the rain turned into a full-blown thunderstorm. The ruckus outside was accompanied by the sound of something I could only think of as a wailing animal in the distance. I wasn’t sure if coyotes were indigenous to the area but the longer the animal carried on the more its cries began to sound human. After a while of desperately trying to fall asleep I opened my laptop and found a movie to watch for free. The flick wasn’t something I was particularly interested in but I wanted to occupy my mind with something other than the cutting incident and my father’s mental health and I desperately wanted to block out the sounds from outside and keep myself from Googling psychotic episodic symptoms until I was convinced I was either going crazy or had a brain tumor. The night was endless and the sensation I was waiting something out until the sun rose kept creeping into my thoughts. Like trying to keep someone who’d overdosed awake until the drug ran its course.
Eventually I managed to doze off near the end of the movie. But I slept fitfully and had a vivid dream of my father calling me, Phillip, and my mother into the living room of my childhood home. He had the three of us sit on the tired orange sofa with the wooden armrests and deflated and sagging cushions a small child could get sucked into. The same sofa Phillip and I had both managed to raise a decent sized goose egg lump on our heads from smacking our skulls on the wood when roughhousing. I was a kid again and so was Phillip. But Mom was older. And Dad stood in front of us. He smiled broadly even though his face was only a blur, and without a word, he pulled a small handgun from his back pocket. There was never a gun in our house while I was growing up and the sight of one fascinated and terrified me. My father lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Streams of gold confetti erupted from his head and showered the living room.
I woke to a crack of thunder and was covered in sweat. Flashes of light filled the windows as the lightning did its ritual dance with the rain. The movie had ended on my laptop and the Internet site I used had randomly moved on to a clip of a heavyset man reviewing a cigarette vaping device he’d purchased. I closed the laptop.
The cabin was stifling with the windows and doors closed. I listened to the rain in the dark for a few minutes and the thunder rumble and decided I’d overreacted to Lloyd. I got out of my makeshift bed and cracked the windows to allow some fresh air to replace the suffocating stuffiness. I thought about pulling the cords for the ceiling fans but in the dark I couldn’t be sure which cord was the right one and didn’t want to be blasted by the light instead. I flipped the blankets around so the sweat-soaked sheets wouldn’t be touching me before I lay back down. It didn’t take me as long to fall asleep the second time.
When I woke in the morning the storm had passed. The sun shone brightly and the air was thick with humidity. I made breakfast and decided I needed to do laundry. I gathered the pile on the floor, including the bloodied towel from the bathroom. Out of habit I slipped my cellphone in my pocket before stepping outside. I was halfway down the stairs when my phone alerted me I had a voicemail. I continued down to the garage area and started the washer before checking my phone. There was no reception in the garage and the only spot I found a signal was on the stairs again. The message was from the furniture delivery people and I returned their call.
The man who answered sounded confused and disgruntled. “Who’s calling?”
I said, “I have a voicemail asking me to return your call?”
“Lansing?”
“Yes.”
The phone’s earpiece emitted the sound of paperwork being shuffled and the rush of traffic.
The man made some uncertain sounds before he said, “Here it is. We have your furniture on the truck. Should be there . . . bout noon.”
“Uh. Okay. It’s sort of hard to find. My drive is steep and I have tiny turn around—”
He interrupted, angrily, “Been drivin’ ten years. Ain’t gonna be a problem. I think I can figure it out.”
I didn’t argue with him. I confirmed I’d be home for the delivery and climbed the stairs to the cabin. I spent the next hour moving things to make room for the furniture. The humidity caused me to sweat profusely and the cut on my chest stung as I worked.
A half an hour before the truck was scheduled to arrive I figured I should move my car out of the parking spot. I didn’t know how large the truck was and I hoped it could use the parking area as a turnaround. I peered down at Lloyd’s cabin and noticed the station wagon was gone. It also didn’t appear he had any more room than I did for a delivery truck to maneuver.
I spotted movement in the doorway of his cabin. The main door was open and someone was watching from behind the screen door. The person retreated into the shadowy interior. I planned to pull my car out of the parking area and park it on the drive between the two cabins to allow the truck to use the parking space. I wasn’t sure how long the delivery would take and the drive would be blocked the entire time. I figured I should mention it to whoever was at Lloyd’s since the station wagon was missing and I didn’t want to cause a mini traffic jam if they were returning soon.
I walked down the drive and climbed the steps to Lloyd’s cabin. The steep incline behind his cabin kept the structure cooled by the shadows of the trees surrounding it. A damp chill saturated my skin as I stood in front of his door. I couldn’t make out anything beyond the screen. I rapped on the wood frame of the screen door. A woman emerged from the shadows of the interior almost as if she’d materialized out of thin air. Her sudden appearance startled me. It was the same woman I’d seen the day I’d moved in. But she wasn’t exactly a woman. If I was to guess her age based on the newness of her figure I would have picked maybe fifteen or sixteen. She was half a foot shorter than me and wore a thin cotton sun dress. I could see the pink skin of her areolas through the material. One of the nipples of her small breasts was hard. I averted my gaze and fought the urge to let my eyes explore further. I forced myself to look into her brown eyes because more blaring than her lack of undergarments was the ugly jagged scar across her neck. She was a pretty girl but there was something cruel and uncaring about her posture I couldn’t quite figure out. My penis began to stiffen and I thought about the list of things I still needed from the store to distract myself from becoming aroused.
I stammered, regained myself, and said, “Is your dad home?”
Her eyes bounced to my chest and back up to meet mine. She said, “He’s out.” Her voice had a mature quality to it as if she had already seen and done too much in her life to qualify her as a teen. “He went to the store.” One corner of her mouth twitched as if she were hiding a smirk.
A rustling and the slightest creak of wood came from within the darkness of the cabin. I couldn’t see anything beyond her but I felt the presence of someone. Out of nowhere dread and fear gripped my throat and my mouth went dry. The image of a rabbit cowering in the brush as a wolf caught its scent came to mind. Something primitive inside my head screamed danger as the faintest movement of air passed through the screen door carrying a scent I could only describe as a blend of decaying leaves and clove.
“Well, I . . .” I said. I took a step back and thumbed over my shoulder to indicate my car. “I have a delivery truck arriving soon and we might block the drive. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
She slipped one hand inside a hidden pocket on her dress and pushed open the screen door at the same time. I backed away and put a few feet between us as she stepped out onto the porch, barefoot. The rustling sound within the cabin faded as if it were receding toward the back of the structure. She produced a pack of unfiltered cigarettes and a lighter from her pocket. I bit back the urge to ask her if she was old enough to smoke. She lit a cigarette and dropped the lighter and pack back into her pocket before she answered.
She said, “He probably won’t be back for another hour or so.” She took a pull of her cigarette, crossed one arm under her breasts, pulling the material of her dress tighter and making her nipples more visible, and balanced the elbow of her cigarette holding
hand in the palm of her other hand. She observed me with an air of amusement. “So . . . what do you do?”
The question struck me as odd. It was a question one adult would ask another. Not a question a teenager would ask or be bothered to want to know or care about the answer.
In my peripheral I could see the small dark patch of her pubic hair beneath her dress. I blinked and focused on the smoke of her cigarette and thought, Laundry basket, aluminum foil, insect repellant . . . I said, “I’m a photographer.”
“Nature? Like . . . birds and stuff?” She twirled her cigarette holding hand to insinuate the trees around us. Simultaneously she stuck out the tip of her pink tongue and brought her free hand to her mouth. She plucked a small piece of tobacco from her tongue before recrossing her arm beneath her breasts.
“People. Black and white photos mainly.”
“Cool.” She nodded approvingly and took another puff of her cigarette. She lightly tapped her cigarette with her index finger to rid it of its ashes.
She genuinely seemed interested in the subject. Maybe I’d pegged her wrong. Maybe she wasn’t just another teenager. Maybe she was really interested in the arts. I was engrossed in photography when I was her age and it gave me pleasure to know a handful of other kids my age were interested in creating something and we all had lofty ambitions and hopes of becoming celebrities who were adored and we wanted our creations to be fawned over by millions of adoring and admiring fans. But more often than not, if I happened to stumble into those same people again as adults and brought up the subject of their photography or painting or writing or whatever art they were passionate about as a teen, they would give a dry laugh and inform me they gave it up years ago because now they had a career that actually gave them a paycheck and a litter of children who required all their attention and a partner who’d rather sit around and talk about their daily woes every night after supper and they’d decided it wasn’t worth it to fight for a free moment to work on the thing they were so passionate about all those years ago. It was refreshing to find someone who actually might give a shit about my photography.
I said, “You’re more than welcome to take a look at them sometime.”
I regretted saying it before I’d finished the sentence. I couldn’t help myself. I kept glancing at the scar on her neck and it screamed for attention. It screamed to be photographed. The scar wanted its story to be told. Or I wanted to make it into something people would look at and struggle with the meaning behind it. I kept thinking of what lighting I would use and what angle and how I would crop the photo when it was finished. The desire to photograph certain things always grew into a gnawing sensation of want. But those models answered an ad and knew what they were stepping into. And I’d never enforced an age limit. I had taken and sold photos of children born with deformities with written consent from their parents. But I’d never approached a stranger before and pointed out their blaring flaw and asked them if I could capture something that could possibly be their utmost insecurity on film and magnify it for a profit. Sure, they received a one-time payment for modeling but they had stumbled onto one of my ads and had made the decision to approach me. Talking to her about her scar shortly after meeting and telling her about my fetish seemed gauche. Especially since she was so young. I had no idea how she would react if she saw the collection of photos. Not to mention I was sure Lloyd wouldn’t be thrilled about his daughter visiting my cabin alone. And the last thing I wanted was for Lloyd to be pissed off at me or, even less desirable, for him to accompany her.
She snapped me out of my reverie. She pointed to my chest and said, “You’ve got something on your shirt.” She smirked and took another draw of her nearly spent cigarette.
I looked down to see the self-inflicted cuts had seeped through the bandages and a couple small spots of blood had absorbed into my shirt. I struggled to come up with an explanation but only stammered. The whine of a large engine descending the drive drew both of our attentions. A box truck creeped around the sharp corner of the drive.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to move my car. I hope it doesn’t inconvenience your dad.”
I took the stairs unceremoniously. My nervousness made my legs wobbly. I jogged toward the truck and almost tripped when I discreetly tried to inspect the blood on my shirt. The slap of the screen door behind me startled me as if it were a gun blast.
8
I spent a half an hour directing the self-proclaimed professional driver of the moving truck in a fifty-point turn around. I could tell the man was growing more and more agitated with me by the deepening of his scowl as he glared at me through the windshield of his truck and by the shrinking posture of his young and quiet companion. I knew nothing of driving a truck or how to direct it. My mind was more focused on getting the furniture off the truck before Lloyd returned to find himself blocked from his own home and no way to turn around. I didn’t want to have any more interactions with Lloyd if I could help it.
Once the truck was situated I helped to relieve the two of the furniture haul to move things along quicker. The young delivery guy eyed me dubiously after scrutinizing the stains on my shirt. I followed his gaze and apologized and told him I’d had a nose bleed earlier. I was certain he could make out the puffy patch of bandages under my shirt and I avoided any more conversation with either of them. The two men sweated heavily as they unloaded the truck.
When we were finished I gave them each a bottle of water and handed them each twenty dollars as a tip that didn’t feel adequate. Both of the men’s hard demeanors visibly softened with the newly gained cash. Even with little money to give I couldn’t bring myself to stiff them on a tip. My job at the café made me appreciate the people who could spare a dollar if nothing else. If you were willing to pay fifteen dollars for an oversized coffee drink that was more milk and sugar and syrupy flavoring than actual coffee and top it off with extra whipped cream and a scone the size of your head then you could afford to drop your server a dollar. Tipping someone who provided a service was the socially responsible thing to do since hourly wages for those jobs were a joke and any one person could not afford a living off a single job paying minimum wage. I knew it made me resentful when a customer showed up wearing name brand apparel and designer shoes and sneered at me as if I’d pulled out my penis and began jerking off while I prepared their order and they walked off without even glancing at the tip jar once I handed them their drink.
I was relieved once the movers were on their way. Ten minutes after they were gone I recognized the crunch of gravel from outside and imagined it was the sound of Lloyd’s station wagon as it passed my cabin.
The next hour consisted of deconstructing the makeshift bed on the floor to make the new bed and folding clothes and arranging them in the dresser. I followed the nesting routine with packing the photo a customer purchased for shipping, making a list of other items I needed from the store, and researching the nearest post office online. There was a small town with a post office closer than the town with the supercenter store. But the post office and a gas station were the only things located in the aforementioned town other than a few scattered houses. I chose to make the extra drive to the city so I could pick up a few forgotten things.
I showered and soaked the tape of the makeshift bandage with water to make its removal easier. The wound was hot to the touch but appeared to have stopped seeping for the moment and hadn’t formed a scab yet. The skin around each cut was an angry red and I tried to remember when the last time I had had a tetanus shot was. Once I was out of the shower I cleaned the area with rubbing alcohol, which burned like hell and made my teeth feel like they were vibrating when I clenched my jaw against the pain. I decided to let the cuts breathe before applying another bandage. I took the opportunity to try out the bed. I lay on the bed, naked, watching the ceiling fan turn lackadaisically and listening to the birds singing outside.
My thoughts wandered to the girl at Lloyd’s cabin and her breasts and the small patch of darkness between h
er legs and I found myself becoming aroused. I told myself I didn’t have time to masturbate. Besides, I’d never learned her name and didn’t have any idea how old she was and the fact I was becoming aroused while thinking about her disturbed me. She had smoked a cigarette but that didn’t mean anything about her age. Just because it wasn’t legal to smoke under the age of eighteen didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. I was certain she was underage and it made me feel disgusted with myself and guilty for finding her arousing. I was probably twice her age.
I reminisced back to a time when I was thirteen and smoked my first cigarette. Mom managed to procure a tiny worn down house in a decent school district. I didn’t make many friends at school because by the age of thirteen I was on to Mom’s inability to make enough money for us to stay anywhere too long. But there were two kids in my class, Zack and Nate, who didn’t seem to be bothered by my sudden appearance in their class at the start of the school year and were probably just as apathetic about my disappearance nine months later when an eviction notice appeared on our door. Phillip had reached the age of coolness where he was no longer interested (correction, he was downright embarrassed) in walking with me to school because there were girls to ogle and a driver’s license to dream about. A few weeks after starting the new school I began to meet Zack and Nate a few blocks from my house in the morning. We walked together and the other two would talk about movies or video games as I listened and wished for the day when Mom might be able to afford a game console or I would be old enough to get a summer job and buy one for myself. I don’t remember much about that time other than being chagrined about my situation and hoping for a lot of things that would never come without my volition. On one unremarkable day Zack had found an unmolested cigarette on the sidewalk before he’d met me and Nate. I couldn’t remember the reason Nate gave for having a book of contraband matches in his backpack but it didn’t take us long before we found a hiding spot behind someone’s garage and the three of us lit the cigarette and passed it around. Once the coughing fits and dizziness subsided we continued on to school. I got sick shortly after our arrival. I can still conjure the fretful expression Mom wore when she picked me up from the nurse’s office. Till today I don’t know if she was more worried about my wellbeing or the loss of hours from her job. The latter was more likely. And I never had the urge to smoke again after puking my brains out.
