by Adam Dark
His eyes seemed to scrutinize me as if he were weighing what he should do. It was as if he was annoyed and pleased at the same time to see me awake, as if I had saved him the trouble of prying me out of bed by my ankles.
I stood and faced him. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and swollen as if someone had punched him repeatedly. His lips parted to reveal a pristine row of white teeth. While the rest of him was a hapless wreck, his teeth were perfect.
“Are you the only one up?” he asked.
His voice was hoarse and sounded like someone trying to speak through a bucket of water.
“I didn’t see the point in waking them,” I said.
He watched me. His head nodded slightly.
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked.
The tension in the air was palpable. I had come to terms with whatever fate befell me, but now, standing six feet from the one person who could destroy me, shattered my reserve. It was all I could do to keep my legs from buckling. I gripped the side of my bed for support.
Simon’s chin scrunched up. He rubbed his shaved head with his right hand. His other hand never left his pocket. I couldn’t help but stare. Did he have a knife in his pocket? The wound up cord he’d use to whip me? Or something more painful?
I expected Simon to call me to follow him or to grab me by the waist and flip me over his back, but he never budged. He just stood there, watching me like a scientist does his experiments, waiting for some chemical reaction to the drugs he had pumped into the air.
Another three minutes passed with neither of us speaking. My head was sweating and the room was spinning. I was going to pass out if I didn’t breathe soon. Simon broke the curse.
He pulled out his left hand and smashed the blunt object wrapped in his fingers against the wall. The first strike dented the wall. The second put a hole in the thin wood.
“Get up!” he shouted.
He didn’t bother flicking on the lights. They didn’t work anyway. Simon believed you didn’t need it to do the work that needed doing before the sun came up. Sleepy heads bobbed up out from under their sheets as the boys tumbled out of their beds and hurriedly got dressed.
Simon continued to watch me as they got dressed. They began to form a single file line near the door, in numerical order. I was number thirteen, so I fell to the back. We left an empty hole where Trevor should have been. This only aided in the reminder that he was never coming back. Simon escorted us out without another word.
I glanced at the Black Room as we descended the stairs in silence. There was no sound coming from the room. Did Simon actually kill Trevor? Trevor hadn't been in the dormitory when Simon woke the boys up, nor was he downstairs.
None of the other boys seemed to notice the dirtied sheet strewn over the banister, but I did. It was the one that I had brought to Trevor a few nights prior. Goosebumps spread along my skin when I saw red stains on the fabric.
We filed through the living room and into the kitchen. The kitchen was on the east wing of the mansion while Simons' bedroom and our dormitory were on the west. The living room was only one of five rooms that spanned the space between.
It took us fifty-eight seconds to reach the kitchen. I knew because I had counted it the first day I was here. Unlike the rest of the mansion, the kitchen was small. Only five by ten feet, but it connected to a larger breakfast nook and had a separate room where I imagined slaves used to do the cooking and laundry.
There weren't any slaves now, nor any housemaids, unless you counted us. The smaller of the two kitchens is where we went. Number one circled around the large rectangular table to his designated seat. We each did the same until we were all seated.
We kept our eyes on the table and our hands in our laps until Simon instructed us to do otherwise. Simon did not sit down with us. He instead busied himself in the kitchen.
“Four and seven,” Simon said.
Both boys shot out of their chairs like ground squirrels in the wild plains of Africa and hustled to the kitchen. Both snapped their heels together and stood at attention. Simon was in the Army during the first World War. He had been medically discharged after a stray mortar took a chunk out of his leg. He walked with a permanent limp now, though he did a good job at hiding it.
He had been only seventeen at the time. His mother had to sign him over to the Army. Simon had gone off to fight the Germans, only to be discharged five months later. Some families might say that was an act of God and blessing. But for Simon, it had been a curse. The town and the family had looked upon him like he was a reject, a coward who had deliberately stepped on the bomb.
People were ignorant and would do and say the most heinous things when they were scared. And who could blame them?
Even though Simon had been discharged from service, the Army never left him and he never left the Army. It was in his blood. He bled green through and through. Thus, our daily training in the yard and obligatory yes sirs and no sirs.
Number four and seven both shouted, "Yes, sir!"
And waited for Simon's instruction.
“Cook breakfast,” Simon said.
“Yes, sir,” they said again.
“And don’t burn the toast this time or you’ll have extra duties today,” Simon added.
I was seated with my back to the windows leading out to the backyard and could see the boys’ reactions. They were lucky Simon didn’t see them roll their eyes. If he had, they’d be the next ones dead upstairs. I had already made up my mind that Trevor was gone. Why else would he not be present at the table?
Simon came and sat down at the table with the rest of us while number four and seven prepared breakfast. Breakfast usually consisted of toast and potatoes. Once we had bacon, but number six had an allergic reaction. We all suffered and never had bacon again.
Eggs were a more frequent occurrence when Simon went to town. We had run out of eggs and a whole slew of things a week ago, but Simon had skipped his routine Friday visit. I was hoping he didn’t skip today’s for more reasons than just the food.
The back of my neck itched. If I had eyes in the back of my head, I’d be staring through the windows at the barn. Maybe Simon had taken number five back to the doghouse during the night. Maybe that’s where he was right now. I hoped that was the case.
“Simon will be going to town today,” Simon said, breaking the silence.
I heard the pop of the toaster come from the kitchen, as two slices of seared bread flung into the air and two more were secured in the slots. Number four went to spreading the raspberry jam across the hopefully not-burnt-for-their-sake toast while number seven flipped potatoes in the frying pan.
“Simon wants this place spotless before he gets back. It’s filthy in here,” Simon said.
We all sat with our heads bowed. You never spoke unless Simon told you to. My eyes wandered along the table to the floor. There wasn’t a single freckle of dust anywhere in the house. Simon saw to it every day when we did our chores. I usually was responsible for helping number one with laundry, but today was different.
Simon pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table. It was the list. If we didn’t finish everything on that list by the time he got back and precisely to his liking, we’d have to do it again.
My hands were still sore from the last time we had to wash the clothes by hand and refold them for the tenth time because Simon found a wrinkle on one of the sleeves. Neither number one or I could see the same wrinkle, but it didn’t matter. We stayed up all night redoing that laundry before Simon was satisfied.
My fingers had cracked along the knuckles and had started bleeding. This had gotten me out of laundry duty for a week, but now that they were healed, I suspected I’d return to my previous chores.
Simon left the paper on the table and leaned back in his chair.
“What’s taking so long?” he asked to the two boys in the kitchen.
“Sorry, sir. We ran out of jam,” number four said.
H
e was standing with the plate in both hands, half the toast coated in red raspberry jam and the rest golden brown. He hadn’t burnt the toast, but he was sure close. I wondered if Simon would make number four redo it.
Simon yanked the plate from the boy’s hand and tossed it on the table.
“Sit down,” Simon said.
Number four skirted around the table to his seat. He drove his head to his chest and didn’t dare lift his eyes. Number seven joined us two minutes later with a steaming pan of garlic potatoes. If there was one thing we had plenty of, it was minced garlic and garlic powder. Simon loved garlic. Everything had to be doused in it.
Fortunately, I liked garlic, so it didn’t bother me. But some of the boys had to resist the urge to gag when eating their bites covered in brown dust. Number seven set the pan next to Simon and went to his seat.
We all waited. None of us got food or ate unless Simon said so. He always ate first. Simon dumped half the potatoes onto the only plate on the table and grabbed two pieces of non-jammed toast. My stomach growled as my ears pricked with the sound of crunching. The delicious aroma of garlic wafted into my nostrils and activated my saliva glands.
I shifted my eyes carefully and stole a peek. Simon devoured the plate of potatoes and two slices of toast, then reached for more. He nearly dumped the remaining potatoes on his plate and took two more pieces of non-jammed toast before he kicked his chair back.
“Dish it out,” Simon said.
Distributing the food was number eight’s task. He had to be at least fourteen and had long ago learned not to disobey. His upper lip still held the scar from one such confrontation. His left eye always seemed to stare off on its own.
Number eight picked up the plate of toast and handed it out, then did the same with the remaining potatoes. There was not enough for all of us, so some went without. Once I tried sharing my dinner with one of the other boys. He was punished for my altruism while I was made to watch.
Sharing was not permitted unless we had company. And company rarely came. No one seemed to want to adopt troubled boys—not the old ones at least. Families wanted young, white babies. And half of us were either black, brown, or tanned by the many hours in the yard.
Bobby was the whitest of us all and even he hadn’t been adopted. I thought his blue eyes and dimpled cheeks would have done the trick with the last couple who had come to Oakwood Valley Home for Boys, but they had left after a short stay and never returned.
You got used to families coming and leaving as if they feared they’d catch the plague. I guess we had that effect on people. It hurt in the beginning, seeing all those potential mothers and fathers leave without so much as a goodbye or a glance back. But if you wanted to survive at Oakwood Valley, you had to rid yourself of hope.
The orphanage was all there’d ever be for us. And if one of us ever succeeded in getting out, he’d be severely scarred for life. Some of the other boys said one boy got out years ago, but the adopted family returned him a week later. Something about a troubled mind. The boy left when he turned eighteen before I ever got here.
I assumed he was living an okay life on his own now. Number eight got to me and poured my portion on the table. Simon was a clean freak but he never allowed us to use silverware or dishes. I assumed it was because he didn’t want to give us any ideas. But I suspected the truth was much less exciting.
I reached for my morsel of food. My fingers just barely touched the surface of the garlicky goodness when Simon called for me.
“Thirteen. Come with Simon,” he said.
I glanced at my breakfast.
“Leave it,” he said.
My stomach lurched as I climbed out of the bench and walked around the table. I licked my fingers when Simon turned away. It made the hunger pangs worse. Right about now I was regretting ever rationing my food and taking it to number five.
What a waste, I thought, but quickly felt remorse for thinking such a thing. At least I was still breathing. The front door closed with a snap behind me. The other boys would sit at the table for several minutes until they were absolutely certain Simon wasn’t coming back. One of them would sneak to the window overlooking the kitchen sink and watch him as he walked down the street.
Then they'd fight over my morsel of food before they got to their chores.
I followed in step behind Simon, not having a clue why he had me coming with him. Maybe this was how I was going to go out. He had killed number five and now it was my turn. At least I got out of chores. My fingers still ached from last week's laundry despite the skin having healed.
The orphanage sat three miles from the nearest adjoining street and another two miles before another home came into view. Town was about five miles from us. It would take all day for us to walk to town and come back. It would be dark before we returned. My legs were wobbly as I walked. The most I had ever gone was fifty feet, back and forth, in the yard. Walking a mile seemed like an eternity, let alone ten.
My legs were already burning and the rest of me felt weak. I blamed it on not having breakfast, but it was much more than that. The street was blanketed in uncorrupted snow. Simon’s black boots dug into this perfect masterpiece with brisk, jagged strides.
My short strides hustled after him, the snow halfway up my ankles. I tripped several times as we went before I tried walking in Simon’s footsteps. I don’t know how I made it to town but I did. We walked up to the market. There was an old pickup truck parked in the parking lot and one other car. I didn’t know what kind it was but it looked just as ragged as the truck.
I figured they were the store owner’s and maybe one customer.
“Stay here,” Simon said.
He pointed to a bench pressed up against the brick wall of the store. I obliged without rebuttal. My body collapsed in a heap as Simon entered the swinging doors. A bell chimed as he went in. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes.
It was frigid, colder than it had been the last few days, but I was drenched in sweat from head to toe. Steam billowed off my head and chest like puffs of smoke from a choo-choo train. As snow began to fall again, I drifted off.
5
My eyes shot open.
I lunged from the bench to see the car smashed against the light pole in the parking lot. Smoke billowed from the hood. A woman wearing a fur coat and heels stepped out and was shouting into a payphone along the side street. She paced the curb.
The shop’s bells dinged again. I glanced over to see Simon exit the building with a stack of brown paper bags in both hands. I immediately wondered how in the world we were going to make it back to the house carrying those. Coming here was tough enough and it was downhill. Going back would be ten times worse.
My thighs buckled as I turned to face him, but managed not to collapse. Simon was staring out at the lady by the car that had crashed. She must have slid on the ice in the road and lost control. Simon had a funny expression on his face as he looked out into the parking lot. Was he smiling?
He took three strides in my direction, dropped the bags on the bench, and said, “Take this to the house.”
He then headed through the parking lot toward the woman and the burning car. I watched him go until he was standing by the hood speaking with her. She flailed her hands in the air as if she were swatting bees. Simon just nodded his head with that awkward grin on his face.
I glanced at the bags and sighed. I wrapped my arms around the bunch of them and lifted. My arm muscles strained with the weight, but I blocked out the pain and began my long trek back to the house.
It was well past dark by the time I stumbled up the front steps to the porch at the Oakwood Valley Home for Boys. The lights were off inside except for the candle sitting on the kitchen window. It was all Simon ever allowed unless he switched on the lights.
My body was covered in sweat despite the cold. My legs ached beyond reason as if someone had yanked them free of my body, pummeled them against sharp rocks, then reattached them. And then did it over and over.
How I made it back in one piece shocked even me. I had had to stop over a dozen times to catch my breath, shake my hands to get the blood flow back to my fingers, and stretch out the stiffness that had formed in my neck, shoulders, and outer extremities.
I never put much thought into my own physique or fitness over the years until now. There had never been a need to hike five miles with heavy sacks in your hands. It’s important to emphasize, I’m no Hercules. And while the items in each of the bags was light—comparatively—when combined together on a long uphill trek, in the scrawny arms and hands of a child who had barely walked more than fifty feet in any given direction, they were heavy as boulders.
My body all but crashed headlong into the front door. The bags dragged along the floor as I slid toward the kitchen like a hunched over slug perched under a magnifying glass as a small child poured salt on my shriveling body. The other boys were upstairs in our room. Eleven heads popped over or through the railing above.
Simon would have entered first, but Simon was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Simon?” one of the boys asked.
I hurt so bad I couldn’t make out what he had said until he repeated it three more times. All I managed was a grunt before I collapsed on the kitchen floor. The bags split and the carton of milk skidded along the laminate tile and thudded against the floor cabinets. I eyed the eggs and was relieved not to see any slimy residue leaking out of the corners. If I had broken one of them, it would have been my head that Simon would crack.
A few cans of beans spun along the floor and bumped into the refrigerator. Most of the items remained in the bags. I laid there panting for a while before I crawled to my knees and began scooping up the scattered groceries.
My hands fell upon the crumpled loaf of bread. The top looked like someone had lain on it. Probably my butt when I had fallen. I tossed it on the counter. I was done caring. If Simon wanted to kill me, he didn’t need the squashed bread as a reason to do it.
