Growth

by Jeff Jacobson

  The kid fixed Sheriff Hoyt with a stare, for only a blink of a moment, but it was enough. Enough to take in the hat, the badge, Hoyt’s face. The kid looked away and didn’t say anything. Disrespectful punk.

  Just like his mom.

  Sheriff Hoyt snapped his fingers. It all came together, like water spilling down a suddenly unplugged drain. He now knew where he’d seen the gun. At that bitch’s trial, before she stole the election.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said to the kid. “What do you think your mother’s gonna say about all this?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Bob Morton glanced at the mirror and got a good look at his face. Now that the memorial service was finished, he could catch his breath, take a moment to try and make sense of everything. It had all gotten so confusing lately.

  Under the fluorescent light, he looked tired. Drawn. It was to be expected, he supposed. Mourning his son, hadn’t been sleeping right. Color was off. He just hoped his bad complexion hadn’t been too obvious this morning. He dabbed at the black spots at the corners of his mouth. He scrubbed harder; they persisted.

  Bob double-checked the bathroom door to make sure it was locked, then leaned into the mirror and gave the biggest blemish on the right ride of his mouth, right where his lips came together, a wicked squeeze. It bulged, but wouldn’t pop. He tried again. No explosion, no wet splat. He tried on the other side. No matter the angle, he could not express the black circles.

  And they were getting bigger, no question. Squeezing them just made things worse; his fingernails tore the skin and increased the swelling in the immediate area. He was starting to look like a squirrel in the fall, cheeks full of acorns. He splashed some more water on his face to calm things down. As the clusters got bigger, he noticed that the darkness inside the spheres faded more and more into a dull gray, like some kind of volcanic ash was slowly erupting out of his pores.

  He used the hand towel to dry his face. When he touched his nose, it felt like it was clogged with hard nuggets of snot. Using his index finger, he pushed up on the tip, as if he were trying to make himself look like a pig, tilted his head back, and leaned in closer to the mirror.

  Black stalks with conical buds at the tips clustered together in the nostrils like disturbingly thick hair. Bob gave them an experimental poke. They were flexible, and yielded to his touch. He placed both hands flat on the vanity and exhaled, long and slow. He understood that he was balancing on the razor edge of total, abject fear, and the slightest shift would send him screaming from the bathroom. His breath came out in a slight, wavering whistle, like a worried teapot.

  He had to stay in control; his family and his reputation demanded nothing less.

  He wrapped a wad of toilet paper around his fingers and pressed it to his nose. He took a deep breath and blew air out of his nose as hard as he could. Some air got through, but not much. His ears popped, and even that didn’t feel right. He checked the toilet paper and bit down on a bubble of hysterical laughter.

  Some of the things had broken loose and were smeared into the tissue paper, along with sticky smudges of black snot. He didn’t want to admit it, but they did look like some kind of miniature mushrooms. The soiled paper went into the toilet. He found the tiny scissors he used to trim his nose and ear hairs, and went to work methodically snipping away at the things still in his nostrils.

  Another blast into fresh toilet paper. When he pulled it back this time, it was covered with dozens of the mushroom things and more black snot. That went into the toilet as well, and he flushed it quickly. He took another look at his nostrils. He’d cleared most everything out of his nose, at least up front as far as he could reach. He needed a flashlight to check and see if there were more of the things growing deeper in his nasal passages, but he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  He got a Q-tip from his wife’s jar and screwed it into his right ear, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The cotton swab made murky, liquid sounds as he went deeper. He pulled it out and wasn’t surprised to find more black muck coating the tip. He reversed the Q-tip and stuck the fresh end back into his ear.

  Bob went through more than fifteen Q-tips before he was satisfied he was cleared out. They all went into the toilet as well. He crossed his arms, jamming his fingers under each armpit, and bit down on the insides of his lips. He would not scream. He would not.

  Then he felt something else, some kind of weird bulge in his armpits. He avoided meeting his eyes in the mirror as he lifted his shirt and found that more of the mushrooms were poking through the gray hair under his arms. He ripped off his shirt, lifted his arm high, and stared at the dark growths popping up. Turning, he twisted his head to look at his bare back. Just skin and patches of gray hair.

  Still, he wasn’t going to assume anything. Not anymore. He yanked his suit pants down, stepped out of his shoes and socks. Nothing between his toes. Nothing on his legs. Nothing behind his knees. He pulled his briefs out and glanced nervously down at his groin. Nothing there, thank God.

  Almost an afterthought, he stuck his right hand around to feel his ass, just in case, because he hadn’t been able to move his bowels in at least two days. That need was simply gone.

  He felt more of the tiny buds pushing up through the tight folds of the skin of his anus. There was a single moment of pure, toe-curling revulsion, and before he could stop himself, he curled his fingers into claws and raked at his flesh.

  He brought his hand back up. Black gunk was smeared under his nails. His hand shook. Then he gripped the mirror with his right hand and ripped at the mushrooms sprouting through the skin of his armpits with his left. He leaned closer to the mirror and saw that he was breaking the stalks off at the roots, leaving dark, ominous little craters behind.

  There was no blood.

  No pain.

  Somehow, that was the worst.

  Sandy didn’t trust herself to speak just yet and they drove home in silence. Kevin wouldn’t look at her, and watched the houses slide past his window. He’d barely said anything since Sandy had arrived on the scene and found her son in the back of an ambulance, getting the back of his head patched up.

  At least that prick Sheriff Hoyt hadn’t locked him in the backseat of his cruiser.

  She’d heard enough on the radio driving into town to piece together most of what had happened. But she still couldn’t figure out how her son had been involved. There would be time enough for that later, time enough to sort through everything, but not right in the middle of a major crime scene. As soon as she arrived, she hustled Kevin into her own cruiser and a simple glare at the nearest trooper told the man that she was taking her child and no one was stopping her.

  She’d switched off her radio, and when her cell phone rang, she turned it off and threw it at the floor. Kevin flinched, and she felt bad. She couldn’t take it anymore and whipped into the alley behind the Stop ’n Save. She shut off the engine and turned to her son, reaching out to stroke his hair.

  He didn’t react to her touch, still wouldn’t look at her.

  The line of bandages that stretched up his neck across his scalp chilled her. Tears welled up and she closed her eyes, trying to think of something, anything, to say. A simple, “What happened?” wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t even begin to crack the surface. She blinked furiously, willing the tears to disappear.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, feeling the summer sun beat down into the cruiser. Finally, Sandy said, “We better go home and make sure Puffing Bill hasn’t destroyed the place.”

  Kevin gave a slight shrug.

  At least it was a response. She put the car in gear and neither of them spoke the rest of the way home.

  Sheriff Hoyt was waiting for them. He’d parked in the driveway, forcing Sandy to park on the street. He stood, leaning against his rear bumper, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  Sandy told Kevin to go inside and let the dog out into the backyard. Sheriff Hoyt’s eyes never left her face. They stared
at each other for a moment, and Sandy didn’t want to dance around the subject. She knew Kevin was a witness to a mass murder, but that didn’t explain the scrutiny, the way Sheriff Hoyt had treated him like a suspect. “What do you want?” she asked. “My son has been through enough hell today.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Gonna leave a hell of scar, back of his head, there.”

  Sandy put her hands on her hips and waited.

  Sheriff Hoyt went to the driver’s seat and reached in through the open window. He grabbed a plastic evidence bag. Inside was the Model 686. “Know anything about this?”

  Sandy recognized the handgun instantly. Ice flooded her veins. Her mouth went dry. “You know damn well I do. It’s mine.”

  “Thought so. Any idea how it got into that little fucker’s hands? I’d like to hear all about that.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sheriff Hoyt watched her for a moment, face impassive behind those mirrored sunglasses. He used his tongue to dislodge some piece of stringy meat stuck between his upper molars. Eventually, he said, “Maybe you don’t, maybe you do. Not sure it matters much, ’cause I’ll bet your boy knows. We gonna have to talk to him, down at the station, you understand that, don’t you?”

  “He’s not going anywhere right now.”

  Sheriff Hoyt considered this. “You do realize that four people are dead, ’cause of this.” He hefted the plastic evidence bag. “Slow news day, this’ll be front page on the national news. It’s bigger than both of us, bigger than this town, this county. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that you are hereby suspended without pay. The county police will take over your duties for the time being.” He turned the plastic bag over and over in his hands. “You and your son are in a heap-load of trouble. I hope you know this. Hell, I wanted to, I could take him in immediately, put him in a room, and sweat the truth out of him.”

  “You could try.”

  Sheriff Hoyt chuckled. He knew damn well Sandy wasn’t talking about his legal right to remove a suspect from his home and take him to the station for an interrogation.

  She was talking about him making it out of the driveway alive.

  He turned his gaze skyward and contemplated the branches of the elm trees that swayed gently above their heads. “Tell you what. You sleep on it. Get yourself lawyered up. And bring Kevin down to the courthouse tomorrow. We do need to speak with the young man, as I’m sure you are aware.” He nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow. Bring him down and we’ll get all this sorted out.”

  He waited for Sandy to agree, or say something defiant, but she stood motionless, drilling him with her stare. He kept waiting, but when it became apparent Sandy had made herself perfectly clear and felt no reason to explain herself any further, he tipped his hat, curled his fingers around the bag, and got back into his cruiser.

  She stepped out of the way as he backed down the driveway. When he drew level with her, he rolled down the passenger window and said, “Tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. Don’t be late.”

  She didn’t respond. He rolled the window back up and left.

  Sandy moved her own cruiser into the driveway and went inside. Kevin was out in the back, playing with the dog. She gave him a few more minutes and spent them pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

  Her gun. Good Christ. Four people dead. Her gun.

  She unplugged the house phone and made sure her cell was turned off, then went to the sliding glass back door and saw Kevin on his knees, petting the scarred pit bull. Puffing Bill seemed to know something was wrong, because he was leaning into the boy’s touch. Sandy watched for a while, and while she didn’t want to disturb them, she couldn’t put it off any longer.

  She slid the door open and went out to the backyard. Part of her couldn’t help but notice the mounds of earth along the fence, covered with leaves. She’d been meaning to get out there and plant flowers in the spring, but had never found the chance. She tried to push that out of her mind, because the last thing she needed was something else to feel guilty about.

  Kevin and Puffing Bill were aware of her presence, but neither moved. Puffing Bill seemed to know that the boy needed him, and stood stock still. His eyes found Sandy. She patted his head.

  In the end, she didn’t have to say anything. She simply sat quietly, both of them petting the dog, and Kevin finally said, “Mom, I took it.” His voice quavered, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t cry as the whole story came pouring out, how he had taken the Smith & Wesson, and how Jerm had been tormenting him for months, how it had all gotten so twisted and awful, what Jerm had done with his lunch bag, all of it. When he got to how he had finally tried to crawl out of the trailer, and then woke up with Jerm’s mom laying on top of him, his voice finally cracked irrevocably, and there was no going back. Sobs erupted out of him and he gasped for breath.

  Sandy could not process all of it right away. Part of her brain was still trying to put all the pieces together, but the mother instinct inside her, the part of her soul that recognized that her child was suffering, overrode everything else for that moment, and she took him into her arms and squeezed him tight. Tremors racked his thin body.

  She held him for a long time.

  “You feeling okay?” Cochran asked. He swiveled from Bob’s desk, steepled his fingers in concern on his chest.

  Bob shut the door to the bathroom behind him and fixed his attack dog with a grim stare. “I lost my son. How do you think I feel?” He settled himself on the edge of the couch, eyes on the TV news.

  “I can only imagine,” Cochran said.

  Footage of the burning island appeared on the TV and Bob yelled, “Quiet,” and turned the sound up. But there was nothing new. Just that distant, grainy footage of the island on fire and a bunch of smug assholes arguing about what could have been done to prevent such a tragedy.

  Bob gripped his knees, then sank back into the couch. Seeing the footage yet again pushed the horror and rage and confusion out of his chest. He realized he was exhausted. “I’m sorry. Exploding like that. I mean . . .” He looked up. “Do you have any sons, or children?”

  “No. I have never married. I have no children.”

  Bob turned back to the TV. “You’ll see. Someday. You’ll have kids and someday you’ll change your mind.”

  Cochran nodded politely. “Other friends have said the same thing.”

  Bob said, “There ya go.”

  They heard the bedroom door open and shut, and Belinda appeared on the stairs. Bob turned the TV off. He didn’t want her to have to listen to any more news about the island. She’d changed her clothes, and now wore her usual sweater and jeans, and sensible gym shoes. She headed straight into the kitchen. They listened to her open and close the fridge, then heard the water splash into the sink.

  Cochran didn’t say anything, just listened for a while, and turned his attention back to the papers on the desk.

  Bob wanted to exhale. Thank Christ. His wife was back down where it made him comfortable. He’d listened to those sounds every night of his married life, and they put him at ease, because life was back where it should be. The money was at the bank, the corn was growing under God’s blue sky, and his wife was back in the kitchen.

  He even felt a little hungry.

  Soon Belinda stood in the kitchen doorway. She cleared her throat. “Dinner’s ready.”

  The men stood and followed her into the dining room. She had laid out dinner, trays and trays across the table. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Peas. Salad. Garlic French bread. Ice water. White wine.

  “I’m sorry, it isn’t much,” Belinda said. “Probably nothing like what you are used to.” This was aimed at Cochran.

  Cochran said, “It’s great. Thank you.”

  Bob waited for more, because he thought his wife deserved a hell of a lot of praise from a guest for showing such hospitality just days after losing her son. When it became clear that Cochran wasn’t going to say anything else, Bob had to say, “Much obliged, dear. As always, a fantastic spread.”

  She st
ood back, letting the men take their seats. When they were settled, she brought her own plate to the table and sat down, but made no attempt to reach for any food. She spoke, quietly, directly to Cochran. “Why? Why couldn’t you leave him alone? Why did you have to go and burn him?”

  Bob closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything, to change the subject.

  His wife did not stop. “You burned him up. What happens to his soul, then? What happens then?” She started to cry. “My boy. My boy. You burnt him. Erased him. Couldn’t even leave a piece for his own mother.” Her voice rose. “Didn’t even have the decency to send him home in a box.”

  Bob stood up. “Honey, please.”

  She waved him off, focused on Cochran. “What is wrong with you people?”

  Cochran said, “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  Bob took his wife in his arms. “Honey, you’re tired. You aren’t yourself. Time to get some rest.” He escorted her upstairs. She went agreeably, although she asked, “Why?” every so often as if she had forgotten the question.

  Upstairs in the master bathroom, Bob shook out two more Xanax and gave them to his wife. She took them without hesitation and let him tuck her into bed. He turned off the light, lingered a moment, listening as she started to softly cry. He wanted to say something, but had no idea what, and closed the door on her low sobbing.

  He went back down and sat at the table.

  Cochran laid his fork on his plate.

  Bob said, “Sorry. It’s . . . Thought it might do her some good to be in the kitchen. Soothe her nerves, you know? She’s just tired.”

  “Of course she is,” Cochran said. “It’s okay. Truly. I understand. I am here as an Allagro employee. You and your wife are a part of the Allagro family, and my job extends to helping you as best as I can during this difficult time. Now that we have gotten through the memorial, my job here is nearly finished. I can wrap up the loose ends tomorrow, and leave you good folks in peace.”