Lights Out

by Douglas Clegg

  Jason was certain they’d make more than their goal if they were careful. They weren’t doing too badly, although they had friends who were doing much, much better.

  “Still,” Amy said, “Not bad for two kids from the suburbs.”

  On their last day in Costa Rica, Jason remembered the souvenirs for Kyle. One of the cute little shops near the beach had several T-shirts.

  “Very cool,” Jason said as he sifted through the mountain of shirts, all with printed sayings on the front or back, most of them about the beach and islands and surfing.

  “You know, the whole T-shirt industry isn’t a bad one,” Amy said. “At the company, we’ve seen growth in this kind of stuff.”

  “T-shirts? But they’re so cheap.”

  “You’d be surprised. High volume, low costs, high sales. Resorts like this. I’ll bet millions of people come through here annually. And every one of them buys a tee, or a beach blanket. A memento, gifts for friends.”

  “But we’re not exactly up on this kind of business.”

  “One of our clients is in textiles — they have a varied industry, but making cheap clothes is big for them.”

  “In Malaysia?”

  “Various countries,” she said, rattling off several, some of which he’d never heard of.

  “These are made here, there and everywhere,” the shop owner said.

  Jason looked over at the wizened old American with mottled skin.

  “Little factories,” the man said. “Nice clean places, each one of ‘em.”

  “You’re from the states,” Jason said.

  “New York,” the man said. “I own this shop and three others down the beach. Run them during high season, on my vacation. I’m in Manhattan most of the year. Started in boxer shorts and went to tees. My wife — died five years, November — used to tell me I’d moved up in the world. Underwear always does well. Resort business is on the upswing.”

  He went on: in America, in summer, T-shirts were huge. Tourist resorts in Central and South America, year-round profits. Big profit margin, low overhead. “Most people can afford to buy a T-shirt — a great way to pull in cash. Souvenirs are big. We had shops in Cancun, Mazatlan, Cozumel, along this coast, of course. Miami and San Diego, too. Used to have three shops in Tokyo. Closing most of these, year by year.”

  “Really,” Jason said, looking at the shirts in his hand. “Must be a boatload of work.”

  “Not these days,” the man said. “Overseers run the factories. The accounts are pretty basic. You don’t need to have an American down here — or anywhere. You get a local who knows the laws, knows how to crack the whip, so to speak. Here, China, Africa even, India, other parts of Asia, too. Big production, cheap, and a ton of sales. Even online. We’ve had the biggest growth online. Used to be, I had to fly all the hell over the world to check on factories. Now I just hire these overseers who run these places independently. Throw a rock in any port city and you’ll hit some guy just waiting to start up a factory. They take a percentage off the top, including production costs — I don’t ever have to worry about it. Everything shows up, inventoried, and everything sells to the point where I don’t even discount it. Nothing ever doesn’t sell.”

  After buying several of the shirts, they took the old man out for lunch. Jason and Amy shot a barrage of questions at him from across the table.

  Later, in their hotel suite before checking out, she said, “You really think this is worth doing?”

  “Well, we can research it a bit. But I always see people buying souvenirs — and those cheap shirts are popular.”

  “Everybody has at least one,” Amy said.

  “And you’re always making up funny sayings and stuff.”

  “True,” she said. “It’s my one dumbass talent outside of corporate bullshit.”

  “And we’re always talking about diversifying our income.”

  “Yeah, but there’ll be start-up costs.”

  “Maybe instead of buying a condo, we should create a company. Just a little one.”

  “Aw, but I loved the condo.”

  “Sure, but maybe in a year, we’ll buy ten condos. Think about it that way.”

  “But there’s a hell of a lot of T-shirts out there.”

  “We’ll differentiate,” he said. “We’ll do T-shirts just for kids. Or something.”

  “Sure. We can test it.”

  “Then, we get them out there,” he said. “Get the process going and if it breaks even, fine. If it takes off, we sell it for a big payday within three years. Or less. Who knows? Then, we’re not around when it crashes.”

  Kyle was thrilled to get the shirts from Costa Rica. He fell in love with one that had a picture of a palm tree and said, “Fun, Meet Sun.”

  The boy wore it everywhere.

  Within four weeks, Amy and Jason got their prototypes up and out. They launched some small online stores with various names, took out banner ads and made a few deals with established vendors.

  Jason kept up with the old man on business trips to Manhattan, frequently taking him to lunch and sometimes drinks and dinner, asking him questions, getting advice, until finally the old man said, “When is enough enough? Now’s the time. The market’s down, but T-shirts are up. If not now, when? Get this going. You’ll expand into other areas, once it’s running smoothly.”

  “You don’t mind competition?”

  “Please. I’m getting out of the business. I’m too old. Time for me to go to my little shops in Costa Rica year-round. Just enjoy sun and my grandchildren.”

  He recommended various regions around the world for the factories, but settled on one or two as sure bets. “You’ll get your best bang for your buck, and you’ll never have to see it if you don’t want.”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to see the place where they make our shirts.”

  “I can’t advise that,” the old man said. “Let them do their thing, you just do yours.”

  Still, Jason got on a plane within a week, heading to a small, obscure country the old man recommended.

  The factory was a large warehouse thirty miles from the coast.

  Jason met the overseer — a local with an unpronounceable name, in his late thirties, smart, educated, confident.

  The overseer pointed out the factory floor where the workers would go at it, the bathrooms, his own office, and the machines.

  “You’ll never have to worry about a thing,” the overseer said. “I take care of it all. You’ll check spreadsheets and run sales and marketing. And think of this: all the people you’re giving jobs to. I thought my little factory would go under, but you’re saving it.”

  Jason had a good trip.

  “Production’s already begun,” he told Amy.

  A few weeks later, a problem cropped up.

  Kyle.

  The nanny was upset, because a woman had come to the door one afternoon demanding things, bothering her, bothering Kyle when he got home from school.

  A neighbor, it seemed, had called the local social service agency.

  Visiting social services, Jason met up with the caseworker.

  “We got a report,” she said, after checking her computer. “Someone noticed your son had scarring around his throat.”

  Jason stared at her. “What?”

  “We didn’t find anything wrong with him. We spoke to him. He showed us his neck. It was fine. Still, we had to follow up.”

  There was a procedure, she told him. She passed him some paperwork. He filled it out.

  He wondered if he needed to call his lawyer.

  He wondered which neighbor had done this.

  That night, Jason sat on the edge of Kyle’s bed as his son got into his jammies.

  Kyle kept the T-shirt on. Jason asked him to take it off and put on his pajama top.

  “But I like to sleep in it.”

  “I need to wash it. Sleep in another one.”

  “But this is my favorite,” Kyle said.

  “Come on, Kyle. Just change in
to another one. That one’s filthy. Stinky.” He tried to make the word “Stinky” sound funny so that Kyle would loosen up. But the boy didn’t. “You’re being stubborn.”

  “I sleep good in it.”

  Jason got up and pulled out the middle drawer in the pine dresser by the bed. He reached for a T-shirt. “This is a cool one.”

  “No.”

  “Kyle,” Jason said. “Just change.”

  Something came over his son’s face. The boy looked as if he were frightened of his father, and embarrassed in a much deeper way than he should have been.

  “Kyle, what are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Kyle.”

  His son began crying.

  “Kyle, you’re being a baby about this.”

  “I don’t want to take my shirt off.”

  “Why not?”

  Kyle looked down at his hands. “I just don’t. Don’t ask me to.”

  “Look, one way or another, that shirt is coming off your back. My advice is: just forget all this nonsense. Take it off. Now.”

  “Please, Dad. Don’t make me take it off. Please.”

  Jason caught his breath. He felt a strange power rising up in his throat. He coughed it back. Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t get mad.

  “Kyle, look,” Jason said, calming. “I’m your best friend, right? And I will never hurt you. Never. But this is important. I think you know why.”

  “Please,” his son whimpered.

  Reluctantly, Kyle raised the shirt over his head.

  He didn’t look at his father when he grabbed the other T-shirt.

  “Stop. Freeze.” Jason said, just as Kyle began drawing the new shirt down over his neck.

  His son stood still.

  Jason flicked up the bedside lamp to its highest setting, and lifted off its shade.

  The room lit up.

  Kyle’s side and chest looked bruised. Jason grasped his son’s shoulders lightly, turning him around.

  The boy’s back had a series of crisscross scars raised up in a pattern that made him think of a whipping.

  “Holy shit,” Jason said. He felt kicked in the gut. “Kyle, what happened?”

  Kyle closed his eyes as if he’d dreaded this moment. When he opened them, he looked down at his feet.

  “Who did this to you? Was it someone at school?”

  Kyle glanced up at his father. He whispered something.

  Jason couldn’t hear him. He crouched low in front of his son, looking at the scars and bruises.

  “Just tell me who did this,” Jason said. “I’ll take care of it. It won’t ever happen again.”

  “I don’t know,” Kyle whispered. “I don’t know. It just happens.”

  In bed with Amy, he told her.

  “Holy shit,” she said.

  “Exactly what I said.”

  She wanted to bolt out of bed and check it out for herself.

  Jason told her that would only embarrass Kyle more. “I washed his back. Put some lotion on. He said it doesn’t hurt.”

  “You think it’s psychosomatic or something?”

  “We’ll get him to the doc tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

  “Who the hell is doing this?” she asked.

  “It’s not Maria, obviously.”

  “Maybe we need to change schools,” Amy said. “If they’re not doing something about this. Maybe they’re protecting some fucked-up little sociopathic bully.”

  In the morning, when Jason helped get Kyle ready for a trip to the doctor’s, he noticed that some of the bruises had faded.

  By the time they got to the doctor’s office — and waited another forty minutes for Kyle’s pediatrician — the bruises were mostly gone.

  The crisscross pattern on the boy’s back was barely perceptible when the doctor had Kyle undress.

  “Sure, I’ve seen this sometimes,” the pediatrician said. “We don’t quite know what it is. Sometimes kids are allergic to stuff. We can test him.”

  “Allergies,” Jason said. “To what? Peanuts?”

  “Maybe it’s the material. What’s this made from?”

  Jason shrugged, touching the edge of the material at Kyle’s shoulder. “Natural fibers, I think.”

  “Where’s it made?”

  “Does that matter?” Jason asked.

  The doctor nodded. “Sometimes these factories have other things going on in them. You never know. I’ve certainly seen this before. Cheap goods, lower standards.”

  Before he left the doctor’s office, Jason set up two more appointments — one with the child psychiatrist, as recommended by the social worker — and one more to double check the bruises the following week.

  After Kyle’s session with the psychiatrist, Jason was handed a prescription.

  “He seems stressed,” the psychiatrist said. “We’ll get him on a couple of good meds and see how it goes. He may be a little sleepy after the first dose. If you notice erratic behavior, call me.”

  “Did he talk about anything I should know?” Jason asked.

  “Don’t worry about this,” she said, ignoring the question. “It’ll pass. Get those pills. They’ll kick in within a week. I’ll bet this clears up by the weekend. I’ll call social services about the other thing.”

  “That’s it?”

  The psychiatrist nodded. “Bottom line, your son is fine. Kids go through phases. He’s not in pain. He’s not being bullied. My only concern is that he gets some rest.”

  That night, Jason called the overseer of the factory, who swore up and down that the factory was clean. The workers weren’t sick. The fibers were not only natural, but had been tested for allergens.

  “Don’t worry,” his overseer said. “I make shirts for a ton of suppliers. Hell, we make sheets now, we make towels, place mats, scarves, purses — you name it. I’ve got deals with a lot of great places. You’d be surprised all the stuff we make here.” He mentioned several brands to Jason, who noticed — as he went through the house later — that in fact, most of the upholstery was from that region, and the 750 count sheets on the bed were exclusively from this particular factory.

  Unable to sleep that night, Kyle crawled in bed with his mother and father.

  Given the rough week and the new course of pills that Kyle was on, Jason decided to allow this bending of the rules.

  In the morning, after Amy left for her commute, Kyle still snoozed, head on his mother’s pillow. He wore a T-shirt that Jason had just thrown out the night before.

  Looking at his son’s back under the shirt, Jason saw a crisscross of faint scars, bloodstains along them.

  He reached out to touch one of the scars. It was slightly raised. His son flinched, waking up.

  “Daddy?” Kyle turned around to look at him. “It happened in my dream again.”

  “Again?” Jason asked. “What do you mean ‘again’?”

  Kyle nodded. “That’s when I see him.”

  “Who?”

  “The little boy. The one who’s hurt.” Kyle said. “I dream about him. He says he dreams about me. He likes seeing where we live.”

  “Bad dreams?”

  Kyle nodded. “They beat him.”

  Thoughts raced through Jason’s mind: Kyle was going to tell him the truth. He was going to tell him it was a dream, but it was really and truly the truth. His son was going to tell him now who had done this.

  It was no allergy. No psychiatric problem.

  Some other boy was hurting him. A boy in the city. A boy in school. A boy in the neighborhood.

  “Who beats him?” Jason asked.

  “Others.”

  “Who are the others?”

  His son squinted and tilted his head slightly.

  “You can trust me,” Jason said, almost frightened of what his son might say. “Have these ‘others’ threatened you?”

  Kyle shook his head, slowly.

  “Tell me what happens in the dream.”

  “The boy gets hurt. The others make him hurt.”


  “And who are they?”

  “People,” Kyle said.

  “Do they live near us?”

  Kyle shook his head.

  “Please, son. This is important. Tell me more about the boy.”

  “He’s not fast enough.”

  Jason remembered all the bullies in gym class from his own childhood, the boys who just liked to pummel other kids.

  “Is the boy not a fast runner? Or good at basketball?”

  “Not fast enough,” Kyle said. “They make him bleed. They make him cry. Sometimes he can’t sleep for days. He’s afraid they might kill him.”

  Unable to control himself, Jason nearly leapt for his son, grabbing him in a bear hug.

  “Daddy? Are you okay?”

  “Nobody’s ever going to hurt you. Nobody,” Jason whispered. “You just need to tell me. You need to trust me. I’m your father. I love you. I love you no matter what you do, no matter who you are. You could do the most terrible thing in the world, Kyle, and I would love you anyway. I will love you until the world comes to an end, Even after that, I’d still love you.”

  Kyle struggled against his father’s embrace, but then he began crying, too.

  “You’re scaring me,” he said.

  Jason let go. He took a few heavy breaths, calming.

  After a minute, Kyle told him more about the boy and what he remembered from the dreams — the bruises on the boy, the scars on his back and shoulders, even the name.

  “I think it’s his name. I’m not sure he told me. But I think this is his name.”

  After pulling Kyle into another school — a better, more expensive one — Jason banned all T-shirts from the house.

  Kyle had some minor side effects from the course of medication he was on, but slept through most nights. He seemed better behaved and more alert during the day.