by Bruce Blake
Yardwork
Bruce Blake
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Bruce Blake
Discover other Titles by Bruce Blake at Smashwords.com:
Another Man's Shoes
Walk on Water
Wave Songs
Boulder
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Tim made a special trip to buy the shovel he used to bury the nameless man. It was easy: an older lady in a blue vest directed him to the proper aisle without a second thought. A fifteen-year-old buying a spade doesn’t raise concern in anyone; it’s not like purchasing a gun or a hunting knife, though a shovel could be as deadly. But the shovel didn’t kill the man, Tim merely used it to dig holes to put bits and pieces of him in, a task for which it was made.
In the end, his father’s garden shears finally killed the nameless man.
The man probably had a name, everyone did, but Tim didn’t care to know it, didn’t ask or wonder about it. The moment he found the man sleeping in the shed, recovering from the abuse of whatever substance he’d imbibed to put him in that state, Tim decided the less he knew about the man, the better. If the need to call him anything arose, maybe it would be ‘opportunity’.
When Tim opened the shed door, it creaked on its rusted hinges like it always did. Autumn sun streamed in, splashing across the rough surface of the poorly-laid cement floor. Dust motes stirred and spider webs shimmered. In the rafters, the remnants of a nest poked out over the edge of an unpainted beam, but no birds lived in it anymore, he’d taken care of them in the spring, their tiny, brittle bones long since carried away by neighbourhood cats. The rake hung between two spikes Tim’s father drove into the wall a couple of years ago in an attempt to keep things tidy. The man lay curled on the floor below it.
“Hello?” Tim stood in the doorway, his shadow falling across the floor, touching the prone man. “Mister?”
No answer. He took a step closer and the smell hit. Besides the shed’s usual smell of must and fertilizer, he caught a whiff of the acidic stench of fresh puke, and beneath it, shit. Tim put his hand over his nose and mouth, blocking the smell.
“Are you all right, mister?”
The man didn’t so much as twitch. Tim held his breath, listening. Yes, there it was: the slow rhythm of his breathing. Alive -- not in good shape, probably, but alive. Two more steps brought the boy halfway across the shed, his eyes adjusting to the poor light. The man lay on his side, facing the wall, a tattered overcoat on his shoulders. The feet protruding from beneath the long coat wore boots wrapped with duct tape to hold them together.
A shiver of excitement stirred in Tim’s chest.
“Tim, are you going to rake those friggin’ leaves or what?”
A lawn chair on the deck provided Tim’s father an ideal spot to situate himself -- beer in hand -- to watch his favorite sport: his oldest son doing yard work. Tim poked his head out of the doorway to make sure his old man hadn’t gotten up to see about the hold up. He hadn’t, of course. It would take a lot more than impatience for him to put down his beer and remove his ass from the plastic cushion of the recliner-chair.
“Sorry, Dad. I knocked over the recycling. Just got to clean it up and I’ll be right out.”
His father grunted, took another swig of MGD, and grabbed the newspaper from where it lay on the deck beside him, using the delay to browse its pages for fodder for tonight’s dinner table diatribe. Tim went back into the shed and crossed to the rusted steel shelves his father installed as part of the clean up job. On the first three shelves, a variety of gardening tools and implements -- many of them unused -- lay arrayed in orderly rows awaiting their opportunity to shine while his father’s worn spank mags stuffed the bottom shelf full. He easily found the length of rope and roll of duct tape for which he searched. Finally, his father’s fastidious nature -- a disposition only displayed in the interior of the shed -- came in handy.
The man was passed out and unlikely to awaken for a while. Tim knew this because he’d seen his father in a similar state enough times, but he crept toward the man anyway, taking no chances. He crouched at his side, pulled out a strip of tape and used his teeth to tear it off the roll, then spit the gluey taste out of his mouth. The smell of the man threatened to overpower him as he leaned in to press the piece of tape over his mouth: puke and shit and booze. His finger brushed the stubble of the man’s cheek; it scratched against his hand. He jerked away.
Still no movement.
Tim unwound the loop of rope as he wondered what would happen if the man heaved again with his mouth taped closed. Would it kill him? Or did only rock stars die choking on their own vomit? This man was clearly not a rock star, so maybe he’d be okay. It’d be better if it didn’t play out that way, but what the hell. He knotted the rope around the man’s ankles, using two fingers to grip the ragged hem of his pants and lift his leg as he wound it around then tied it off. The other end of the rope he snaked behind an exposed stud and fastened the man’s wrists, effectively hog tying him to the wall. The man let out a snort while Tim wound the rope around his wrists, halting the teen’s breath and stopping his fingers mid-knot, but it turned out to be no more than a snore.
Tim finished the job, stood and took a step back to admire his work. He’d learned a lot in the two months he’d stuck in boy scouts before they kicked him out for lighting things on fire. The man wouldn’t be able to free himself of those knots. He didn’t remember which was which -- sheepshank, square knot, fisherman’s knot -- it didn’t matter, as long as they held.
“Tim, what the fuck are you doing in there? These leaves aren’t going to rake themselves.”
“Coming,” he shouted back trying to sound like the enthusiastic, helpful son -- an act he always put on though not always convincingly. He stared at the man for a few seconds, excitement and anticipation swirling in his stomach, tingling his limbs. His dick stirred in his pants the way it did when he broke the twittering birds into pieces, the way no female ever made it stir.
“Do I have to come in and drag you out?”
A dose of scalding rage doused Tim’s arousal. The man shifted a little and farted: a long wet sound making Tim grimace. He grabbed the rake from its place on the wall before the odor found his nostrils, then planted a solid kick in the man’s lower back, imagining his father lying bound on the floor instead of some homeless man.
The man still didn’t move.
***
Tim purposely abandoned the rake in the middle of the lawn so he’d have an excuse to go back into the shed after dinner. His father wouldn’t let one of his precious implements -- precious, though he never used them himself -- remain outside overnight. Rust belonged on shelves and hinges but deserved no place on a man’s tools.
“What’s going on with you?”
He raised his eyes from his half-eaten dinner where he’d been log-rolling limp asparagus from one side of the plate to the other and looked at his mother. The corners of her mouth tugged up into the sad half-smile: the closest she managed these days to an expression of happiness.
“Nothing,” Tim said fidgeting to the other corner of his chair for the hundredth time. “Just enjoying dinner, Ma.”
To punctuate his statement, he popped a chunk of over-cooked roast into his mouth, chewed it with visible effort, then followed it up with a fork full of lumpy mashed potatoes.
“Don’t patronize your mother,” his father grumbled behind the sp
orts section. “Eat your fucking dinner.”
Tim fought to keep from fidgeting right off his chair, occupying himself with thoughts of what it would be like for the man to wake and find himself bound. He played it over and over in his mind, a different scenario each time as he struggled to finish the almost-inedible meal. First, he pictured the man terrified, eyes wide and staring, screams bulging the duct tape sticking his lips together. Then he imagined him angry, thrashing against the ropes, banging his head on the wall in an effort to get free. Finally, Tim pictured the man delighted, happy the boy had played right into his trap.
The thought sent a thrill shivering down Tim’s spine.
With the last fragment of tough meat still torturing his teeth and tongue, Tim slid off the chair, stacked his dishes beside the sink and headed for the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” A piece of asparagus flew out of his father’s mouth and landed on the dinner table as he spoke. Everyone pretended they didn’t notice. Tim’s soles squeaked on the linoleum as he skidded to a halt.
“To finish the yard work,” he said with a nervous smile.
“You got to do the dishes first.”
“But I did the raking, Dad. It’s Kyle’s turn for dishes.”
His father lowered his fork and fixed Tim with a ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ look. “Do as I tell you.”
Tim opened his mouth to protest but the scrape of his father’s chair pushing away from the table killed any objection before it emerged. He needed no more threat than the sound of chair legs on floor: if his father was willing to get up, things wouldn’t go well for Tim. He hung his head and slouched to the sink, cleared dishes from the bottom and wiped out the garbage collected in the drain: potato peelings, coffee grounds, left over rice and chicken rinsed from someone’s lunch plate. The Palmolive bottle wheezed a last gasp of liquid soap into the running water as the rest of the family finished their meals and piled their dishes on the counter beside him. Kyle -- a year younger but two inches taller and ten pounds heavier; built more like their father where Tim developed a slight and dainty frame like their mother -- cleared their father’s plate for him, provoking a grunt of thanks. He smirked, whispered ‘pussy’ in Tim’s ear and prodded him in the ribs with his elbow as he set the plate down. Tim frowned but kept his mouth shut.
Forget the bastard, he told himself. Get the dishes done. Then the fun begins.
Their mother rose and excused herself, headed for the worn chair in the living room which provided her haven. She’d sit there for the evening pretending to read a book or knitting a sweater which she never seemed to finish while their father watched reality t.v. and news programs. Occasionally, he’d curse what he saw but neither of them would speak other than when he commanded her to get him another beer. She’d do it without protest. Kyle made a beeline for the basement stairs, making for the Nintendo Wii meant for the boys to share but which Tim rarely touched.
“Go finish the yard work.”
The muscles in Tim’s arms and legs froze, turning him into a statue, a half-washed plate in one hand, the other hand dipped in the water, rinsing the washcloth. Kyle stopped, teetering on the edge of the top stair.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Your brother’s doing the woman’s work.”
“But he--”
“No buts, Kyle. My rake can’t stay out there all night.”
Panic jarred loose Tim’s paralysis. He let the plate slide into the sink with a clunk and faced the other two, his throat tight.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll do it.”
“Like hell you will. You’re a lazy little shit. You always forget.”
“I won’t forget. I started the job, I’ll finish it.”
His father glared at him over top of the paper. He pushed his chair away, folded the newspaper and set it on the table, then stood. His belt made a hissing sound as he pulled it through the loops of his pants and set it menacingly on the table beside the paper. Another time, the implicit threat would have made Tim nervous, scared, but not tonight. No way he’d forget to go back to the shed.
“Bring me a beer, Kyle. Your sister will put the rake away.”
He slouched out of the kitchen and down the hall to the living room where he’d sit on the chair close enough to their mother’s she’d be able to hear him speak but not close enough to touch. It would be no more than ten minutes before he drifted into his after-dinner nap. Tim turned back to the sink, intent on finishing his chore quickly so he could get back to his secret in the shed. Kyle went to the refrigerator and plucked a bottle of beer off the shelf in the door then crept up behind Tim. He jammed the long neck of the bottle painfully into his older brother’s ass and leaned toward his ear.
“Fag-boy.”
He gave the bottle another push making Tim flinch, then took it out. As he crossed the kitchen, Kyle twisted the cap off and flicked it over his shoulder. It hit Tim in the forehead and fell into the sink with a plop. The muscles in Tim’s jaw bulged as his back teeth ground together; a pulse beat at his temples.
He held his tongue and finished the dishes.
***
The man’s eyes didn’t show surprise when they finally opened to see Tim squatting beside him, not at first, anyway. They appeared bleary, unfocused, the eyes of a man with a monstrous hangover.
“What are you doing here?”
Tim kept his tone conversational if not friendly. No point in scaring the man: not yet. The man’s cheeks bulged as he attempted to speak, unaware of the gag across his mouth. This fact still didn’t seem to startle him. He shrugged in reply instead.
“You don’t belong here.”
The man looked at him but made no move to comment. Tim reached around and pulled out of his back pocket the pair of shears used for pruning small branches. They normally sat on the shelf a couple of feet away and he had no reason for them to be in his pocket, but he liked the dramatic effect. The man strained to see what his captor held, head wobbling on his neck like it weighed too much for him to hold. Tim moved to show him. The sight of the shears cleared some of the glazed look from his eyes.
“Should I let you go?”
Tim released the shear’s safety clasp and they popped open. He fit its jaws around the rope, feigning an offer to cut it, to free the man.
“Would you leave if I did? Would you go back where you came?”
The man nodded and the action seemed to sap all his strength. His head sagged to the floor, clunking against the concrete. His eyelids fluttered, eyes spinning circles, searching to find focus. The teen leaned in closer to allow their gazes to meet. It took a second for the man’s to settle in. When it did, Tim saw some recognition of his situation beginning to dawn; that realization brought the thrill back to his stomach, bile to the back of his throat. His expression transformed into a sneer.
“I don’t think so.”
Tim moved the sheers away from the rope and grabbed the man’s bound hands. With his thumb and index finger, he wrestled one of the man’s pinkies out of the pack of digits. The man watched, eyes wide and nostrils flared, until the sharp edge brushed the skin of his finger, then he thrashed away. His movement drew blood from his finger and an exasperated sigh from Tim.
“Come on, now. You didn’t think I was going to hurt you, did you?”
A muffled, strangled sound like the lament of a distant fog horn caught behind the duct tape covering the man’s mouth. He thrashed and wiggled, his bound feet kicking against the side of the shed. If the noise kept up long, Tim’s father would soon be drawn out of his chair to seek out the cause of the racket.
“Be quiet, for fuck’s sake.”
Tim leaned his weight on the man’s legs, attempting to pin them, but fear must have given him strength. Where seconds before he didn’t have enough to support his head, now Tim couldn’t contain his thrashing. The oft-repaired boots slammed against the wooden wall, the impact echoing in the small structure, Tim expecting each sound to draw his father one step
further out of the after-dinner nap, then eventually to his feet and finally out the door to the back yard.
“Stop it.”
The flat side of the sheers hit the man’s head hard enough to leave an impression of the safety latch on his temple, though not hard enough to knock him unconscious. It knocked the fight out of him, nonetheless.
“No more of that,” Tim grunted reaching across the man to grasp the rope fastening him to the wall. A thin line of blood trickled down the man’s forehead toward his ear, its red path capturing Tim’s attention. The teen stopped, reached a shaking hand out and touched the small wound with the tip of his middle finger. The man flinched.
“You’re bleeding,” Tim said raising the blood-dabbed finger toward his face. The urge to put the tip of his finger into his mouth, to taste the man’s life, made him run his tongue across his parted lips. He inched the finger toward his mouth, saliva flooding his tongue in anticipation, but stopped. He didn’t know where this man had been, no concept of his habits or what diseases he carried like a sewer rat. Tim hastily wiped his finger on the man’s grubby coat: likely not the first blood stain to grace its surface.
With the impulse passed, he returned his attention to the job of tightening the ropes to keep the man’s noise-making to a minimum. The man might get away if he untied him, so instead Tim took up the slack by tying more knots, these ones of a type appearing in no boy scout handbook: improvised, ungainly, but effective.
“There.”
Tim leaned back on his haunches to examine his work. The man’s hands and feet were bound directly together, making his body into the shape of a bow, his appendages in turn tied tight against the wall allowing for no movement. “That should hold you.”
The man stared, his breath drawn in short, sharp bursts. Whatever substance brought him here in the first place, then clouded his senses as it left his system, was gone. Fear, anger, helplessness replaced it, all showing plainly in his rheumy eyes. The birds and the squirrels and the Albertsons’ dog didn’t show emotions like this and they brought an excitement to Tim he’d never felt before. His hand shook as he picked up the sheers, but not because of nerves. His breath shortened, but not due to anxiety. A shiver ran up his spine, but not in fear. They felt good -- all of them. And he liked it.
