And he did that.
Another one. Again. Two more blows landed.
Then he thought to him, stand up and kick him in the face.
Pickling managed to shield his face, but the steel-toed boot hit his crossed forearms with a cracking sound, and the boy screamed in pain. It was music to Stiles' ears.
Stomp his head with your heel. Do it again. Again. Again.
It was like Stiles was directing an action scene in a movie.
Spit on him.
Grub hocked a noisy loogie and spat it on the bloody left side of Pickling’s head, as he lay there groaning, his hands and arms protectively wrapped around his bloody head and face.
He was about to mentally order Grub to pick up a broken cinder block and smash it onto Pickling’s skull when a woman shouted from an open rear window of the house at the back side of the vacant lot.
“I just called the police on you hooligans.”
Mind your own business, he thought towards her. She promptly pulled her head inside, but stood there by the window, watching them. Go do the dishes. She moved out of sight.
Stiles returned his attention to his perhaps temporary ally. “Grub, you’ve done a good job, and I owe you a favor, despite your punching and slapping me. I think we need to go, OK? Bring me my book bag.”
As if a spell had broken, the stocky boy smiled agreeably and said, “Sure,” suddenly calm, and he turned away from the moaning form of Pickling without a glance down, to retrieve the discarded backpack. Turning back towards Stiles, he did look down at his former friend-turned-enemy, and a puzzled expression showed he was uncertain as to what had happened.
Both of you will forget about what happened here.
All Grub did was offer a nod, and walked to Stiles to hand him the backpack. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the two of them calmly walked up the street to the next corner, Grub never looking back, and they turned towards the street where Grub and Pickling lived, several blocks away.
Making seemingly casual conversation, Stiles said, “You should wash that blood off your nose and knuckles before you get home, it would scare your mom.”
“Huh?” He seemed to notice his knuckles for the first time, but couldn’t see his face, of course. “When did I do that?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles lied, “you looked like that when I first saw you as I came up the street.”
“Oh.”
“Do you hate your nickname? Want me to call you Grady?” Pretending to be his friend seemed like a good idea.
“Nah, not if used by friends and family. It ain’t used to be mean. My mom uses it, and so does most of the rest of my family. My older brother, Anson, gave it to me when we were both small. We all call him Snake because he caught and played with one as a little kid. When I had a pet cicada grub, which I dug up in our backyard, he called me Grub, and the name stuck.”
“Funny family tradition.”
“You should meet uncle, Weinerman.”
“I’ll pass. In fact, I want to forget about this whole day, don’t you? School sucks.”
“Yep.”
Think of me as your best friend, but forget you saw me today and what happened here. The other boy nodded again in response to the silent thought and said nothing.
Stiles figured it was worth a try, to see if Grub obeyed and if he did so well after they parted ways. There was bound to be a police investigation if that lady had called them. Pickling was breathing when they left, but he’d had a severe beating. He was glad now that the women interrupted him before he told Grub to kill that asshole with a cinder block. He’d have to learn how this thought trick worked, but he remembered the exact moment this ability had activated, just as this ugly toad was about to kick in his ribs when Pickle dick told him to do it.
If this trick worked every time for anyone, he promised himself that Pickling would have a miserable time next school year, and he might not survive the full term. He wasn’t sure what to think about Grub. He’d been ready to beat him to a pulp just to please the other boy, but now he seemed truly eager to do what Stiles wanted.
Somehow, Stiles thought he was making people do things by thinking. Grub was just somebody that wanted other people’s approval, and he didn’t care who showed him respect.
He saw that Pickling had tried to resist him after being told to shut up, and he obviously had wanted to talk, but he couldn’t do so. He’d have to test this ability for range since that busybody bitch had been half of a yard away. He wondered how powerful his mental trick was, and how long would someone obey an instruction after he was gone. He’d made both boys simultaneously do what he wanted when he ordered them to kick, and then he controlled them one at a time. Was there a limit to how many he could control, and how far away? This summer might prove to be his most fun ever. He had a lot of getting even to do.
****
Once home, he said hi to his mom, dropped his bag on his bed, changed into play clothes before she nagged him to do it, and he headed outside. At the door, he thought of a test to try with his mom.
Make some brownies tonight.
“Shelly, would you like some brownies for dessert?”
“That would be great mom.”
He wasn’t crazy about her using that diminutive for Sheldon, but she refused to use his middle name of Parker, which he preferred. Other kids taunted him with that nickname.
Heading for a neighborhood park a couple of blocks away, he considered some possible paybacks to try, and testing he wanted to do.
As he approached the block-sized park, he spotted Tommy Harlow, a classmate, playing a contest of burnout, throwing a baseball hard as possible between him and Ron Garfield, another classmate. They took a step closer to one another with each throw, starting from home plate and first base. It was something he’d seen them often play until they got so close, one of them was forced to duck away when the ball came blistering fast, and they couldn’t be sure of getting a glove on it in time. It was a macho contest that they dared “Shelly” to try with them and laughed when he always declined.
He watched them, from outside the chain link backstop behind home plate, kicking the red dirt impatiently as he waited until they were no more than fifteen feet apart. Ron was starting to flinch on his catches, as he often started to do at that close range because Tommy used his greater strength and his long arm, to sling a hard fastball at Ron’s chest. They moved a step closer, as Ron cocked his right arm for a return throw.
Close your eyes, Tommy.
Aim for his head, Ron.
Tommy didn’t see it coming, and he extended his glove in front of his chest for the catch, where they were supposed to aim the ball. This time, it was high, and the result was a combination crack-thump sound, as the hardball struck teeth partly exposed by Tommy’s smiling grimace, convinced that his next throwback would force Ron to back out of a contest that Tommy often won.
His scream, instantly followed by Ron’s, “Oh, shit, Man. I’m sorry,” was even better than Stiles had hoped. Tommy threw off his glove and cupped both hands over his split and bloody lips, spitting out two upper teeth along with bright red blood, into his palm.
Stiles stood there, smiling in satisfaction. Then other kids, warming up in the infield and on the edge of the outfield grass, preparing for a short game before supper, came running over to see the gore. They each offered their sincere but awed condolences concerning the lost teeth and a bloody mouth. Just the opposite of what Stiles felt.
He shouted a question through the backstop. “What’d ya do Tommy, shut your eyes?”
Everybody laugh loud, was his group command.
Twelve hearty laughs sounded between home plate and first base, and from two kids still approaching the cluster around Tommy. One boy, laughing as he belatedly came in from Center Field, unaware of what had happened, asked, “What’s so funny?”
Exclaiming, “Oh!” as he saw the blood and Tommy crying. He asked, “Why’s this funny?”
Looking directly at Tommy, Stiles
ordered, say you blinked too long.
Through swelling lips, with a strong lisp and sputtering blood, the boy said, “I blinked too long.” There was another round of chuckles, but it was short and uncomfortable sounding, as Tommy sobbed at what wasn’t funny to him.
Stiles suddenly found his attention focused on two boys still in left field, farthest away, who had been playing catch for their own warm up, and which hadn’t participated in the group laugh, or apparently even noticed the cluster of boys on the infield. They noticed now and started trotting closer out of curiosity. Apparently, there was a limit to how far he could reach to control other people.
They agreed to call the ballgame off as some of the boys followed Tommy to his house, a few out of genuine concern, a couple out of morbid curiosity, and the others went home.
Stiles spent a couple of hours testing his range of control, only causing minor mischief with younger kids on swing sets and playground equipment, with some of their parents watching over them. The boys close to his age at the ball field were those he’d had the most problems with through middle school, but they were gone now.
He was greeted by his dad as soon as he entered the back door when he went home for supper. “You finally been playing ball?” He saw the red dirt on his son’s sneakers, knowing the only source for that was the ball diamond in the local park.
“No, Sir. I was just running some bases,” he lied.
“I shoulda figured that. You ain’t carrying that glove I bought you. Probably can’t catch shit anyway.” Not that he’d ever offered to play catch with his son, or had ever been a sandlot player himself. He’d just hoped the boy might learn how to play a manly game with other boys, rather than sit and read, or play sissy assed video games with its fake violence.
Jethro Stiles was a wiry, hard man, not very big, and had always had a complex about his height which led him to overcompensate. He drank too much, thought his son was soft and resented his being smarter than his old man. He was embarrassed by his son, and how he looked. Sheldon took after his mousy, small boned mother.
He thought Maddie constantly spoiled and shielded him from accepting responsibility, and for his social awkwardness that left him without friends. The smell of brownies had filled the house when Jethro came home from his day on a construction site, but he didn’t appreciate the treat; he knew his wife had only made the desert for the boy, not him. Brownies went well with milk, not the usual shot of whiskey he’d poured himself, after having several beers with men from work before coming home.
The other men often talked about their wives and kids, and their sons. Stiles never mentioned his boy, in case they wanted him to show them a picture. He didn’t carry one for that reason, and the fact was he didn’t want one. Sheldon, or Shelly as his mom had renamed him, had a practically concave flat chest, and his bony stooped shoulders looked as if he was in a perpetual flinch as if ducking away from real life, as Jethro thought of him. That was despite the boy gaining a couple of inches after his most recent growth spurt. It merely made him look gaunt, and his cracking voice made his father think of some squawking long-legged bird.
When he was drunk, he’d sometimes yell insults at his wife when her timid mannerisms annoyed him, which was often, and he’d smack her around in front of the kid. He was trying to see if he’d show anger, or make a move to defend her. He’d smack the shit out of him too if he tried, but at least he’d respect his showing some spirit.
Things were going to change soon at home, but it wouldn’t be for the better, as far as Jethro was concerned. You’d think if his boy displayed confidence, some spirit, that would have finally pleased him. The coming events wouldn’t exactly represent a continuing concern for him personally. Although, it would prove to last a lifetime.
***
A few days after the genetic switch activated, as Stiles would one day describe it, a uniformed police officer knocked on the door just before supper time. Maddie answered since Jethro was in his easy chair, with a fresh highball she’d brought him. He was still grimy from work, smelling of a day’s sweat and he needed to get motivated to take his shower before eating. Sheldon was in his room, as usual, but he seemed more animated than he’d been since…, well, since ever. He had brought home a stack of library books on each of the last two days and was pouring over them. Some school project probably.
There was an indecipherable discussion at the hall door, and Maddie led the policeman into the living room. “Jethro, the police wish to talk to Sheldon.”
She gestured the officer to sit on the couch and said, “He’s in his room. I’ll go get him.”
Jethro set his glass down, curious. “I’m his old man. What’s this about? He jaywalk coming home from school or something?” He didn’t offer his name or get up for a polite greeting and a handshake.
“No, Sir. I’m Sargent Anders, and I’m investigating the beating of a boy that lives a few blocks away. We have reason to believe, from an eyewitness, that your son may have been involved in some fashion, or knows what happened. I have some questions for him if you and your wife have no objection. Or, if you prefer, we can interview at the station, with your attorney present in the morning.”
With a snort of amusement, Jethro said, “When you see Sheldon, you’ll know you’re barking up the wrong tree. He’s a kid that can’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“Yes, Sir. Is it all right with you for me to ask him some questions here? You’ll be present and have the right to refuse. Otherwise, we’ll need to speak to him tomorrow at the station, with your legal representative present.”
“Ha. Do we look like we keep a lawyer on retainer? Ask away.” He said the last, with a wave towards Sheldon as he entered the living room, his mother trailing behind.
Anders stood and introduced himself, with Sheldon shaking his hand as he told him his name, not appearing the least nervous. He even seemed cool and collected and sat on the other end of the couch from the Sergeant. His mother took her easy chair on the other side of the couch by her son and waited expectantly.
A notebook open, pen ready, Anders wasted little time. One look at this near stick figure of a boy, and his father’s comment now made sense. “Do you know a Grady Blanchard, nicknamed Grub?”
“Yes, by sight. Grub just moved here, and never went to my school; he’s a freshman in high school.”
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?”
“A few weeks ago, on his street, when I was walking home from school. He and an older kid I know tried to start a fight with me after they made fun of me, and I said something back that made them mad. I started taking another street to come home, to avoid them. Why?”
“The older boy, you said you know him?”
“He was in my middle school, two years ahead of me. His nickname is Pickle. It’s from his last name, Pickering, or something like that.”
“Dwayne Pickling?”
“I guess so. We were never friends. Pickle is older than me and was a bully. Still is, since he wanted to beat me up, with that other kid named Grub to help him. Pickle’s mom told them to leave me alone.”
“Did you see them two days ago? On Duncan Street, where the produce store burned down?”
“Uh…, I walk past there each day now, because I was staying away from their street so that I wouldn’t get beat up.”
“You didn’t see them there Tuesday?”
“At that lot? No. If I had, I’d have run like Hell. I couldn’t fight them both. Did they say I was there?” He now felt uncertain. They apparently had mentioned him, despite his telling them not to remember.
“Someone beat Pickling pretty badly, breaking his jaw, giving him a serious concussion, a fractured forearm, and a broken nose. He’s still in the hospital. You had words with them a few weeks ago, and they threatened to beat you up. Did you get to Pickling first?”
Sheldon presented him with his best look of incredulity, glancing meaningfully at his unblemished skinny fists when he held them up.
“What do you think?”
It’s ridiculous, he thought towards him.
Nodding, the officer made a note on his pad.
Maddie couldn’t hold her tongue; she had to defend her son. “He’s never been in a fight or caused any trouble. Did either one of them say he attacked that boy? They’re lying if they did.”
The Sergeant looked pensive, and said, “Neither of them says they can remember anything from that day. For the injured boy, I could attribute that to his concussion, but for the Blanchard boy, he might have a motive to lie, especially if he was in on the assault. But he can’t say where he was that day, or what he did. Says he has no memory of it at all. That isn’t the lie I’d expect if he was guilty.”
Jethro was almost hopeful Sheldon had done it, as improbable as it seemed, but something was missing in the tale. He’d not befuddled his mind with booze yet. “What brought you here? Why question Sheldon? They can’t blame him if they can’t remember anything. Is it the other boy's mother, the one that told them to leave my kid alone?”
Anders nodded, looking at the father. “That was part of it when we asked her who might have a grudge against her son. But it was another woman, whose house backs up to that vacant lot, who heard screaming and arguing, and she described someone resembling the Blanchard kid as being there, although her back fence prevented her from seeing Pickling laying on the ground. She reported seeing another boy over by the sidewalk, and her description matches your son.”
Jethro was incredulous, sounding almost hopeful. “She saw Sheldon help beat up this other boy?”
“No. The lady didn’t see the beating happen, and said she didn’t get a good look at that second boy because she went to wash dishes.”
Sheldon looked at the back of Ander’s head and thought forcefully. There’s nothing to this story.
Anders nodded, folded the notebook and slipped it into a breast pocket. “I can’t see any link to your boy other than that these three kids had grudges between them. Your boy certainly doesn’t look the part, and neither of them says they saw him this week. But they may be hiding something.”
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