The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set

by Jeremy Peterson

  “Wake up, you little…” I recognized that voice. Mr. Bleaker sounded drunk and a little like my mom’s boyfriend, Cliff. I didn’t respond and I tried to hold myself motionless.

  “I said wake up.” It was Cliff all right, and he was drunk. He flipped on my bedside lamp and sat (more like dropped) on the edge of my bed. He grabbed my leg and shook it. He pinched it too, or maybe that was my imagination. I knew at this point that I had no choice, so I finally stirred.

  “What are you doing, Cliff? What do you want?” I rolled over to face him but I refused to sit up. I would insist on this small rebellion.

  “You need to get your shit together.” He had never sworn in front of me and it got my attention. Dad had once called his truck a piece-of-shit-whore while fixing the brakes or something, but he didn’t see me standing there, so in my book, that didn’t count. Cliff continued, “I’m not made of money and it don’t grow on trees. Your mamma can’t afford those shrink sessions she’s sending you to, so it’s time to stop that baby shit once and for all.”

  I wanted to say something, defend myself or call him an asshole, but I didn’t. I was too afraid. Instead, I just stared up at him pathetically.

  “I’m sorry your dad died, I really am,” he said, “but you need to get over it. He’s gone and he ain’t coming back. Do you understand that? And your dad, for all that money he was supposedly making, didn’t exactly leave you guys rolling in the dough, you know? You two are gonna have to make some cutbacks and that quack you see every Thursday has gotta be the first to go. When I’m not here, you’re the man of the house, okay? I can’t always do it. So, no more of this, I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m afraid of my own goddamn shadow, bullshit, okay?”

  He bore his dull, watery eyes into me, and suddenly I realized he wasn’t asking a rhetorical question. He actually wanted an answer.

  “Listen,” he continued, “those doctor sessions cost a fortune and you guys just can’t afford it. If they don’t stop, your momma’s gonna lose the café and your house and I don’t want no cry-baby living at my place. You understand?”

  That question I did understand. I would rather die than move in with Cliff. “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he said, smiling, “cause nobody likes a pussy.” He laid his hand on my ankle as he boosted himself off the edge of my bed. He pressed down hard and this time I knew it was no mistake. He approached the door and then paused. He looked back at me and said, “Don’t tell your mom about this … talk. She can be dense about these things as I’m sure you know. It’ll be our little secret, okay? Good.”

  I didn’t respond, and I don’t think he cared. He opened the door and then turned back to look at me. A meager light shone around him but his face remained shrouded in darkness. I knew it was Cliff. I had spoken to him and he had spoken to me, but it could have been Mr. Bleaker. I know that’s stupid now, but not then. At that time, in the dark, it didn’t seem stupid at all.

  Finally, he snuck out and latched the door behind him. It took a while, but I did finally sleep. It was short lived; however, as the sun, shining through the window, woke me up.

  Was Cliff’s visit for real? I sat up in bed and looked around my room, searching for something missing or disturbed. Some type of concrete proof that someone (or something) had been here. Everything looked normal and I lied back down. Eventually, I decided it didn’t matter. Cliff was a jerk. It was disappointing that mom couldn’t see that, but I could, and I didn’t need some creepy, middle of the night ass chewing to confirm it.

  In the living room, I could hear the television. Cliff’s donkey laugh assured me that he had stayed the night. Great.

  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stay in bed any longer. I slept on my arm wrong and it tingled all the way up to my shoulder. Despite not being able to use my left arm, I knew it was time to wake up. God, I didn’t want to see that pile of crap this morning.

  “Fine,” I mumbled under my breath, resigning myself to the task. I crawled out of bed, one armed, and waited patiently for the blood to return to all my extremities. Once I finally had the use of two good arms, I put on a pair of clean jeans and a shirt I found at the foot of my bed. I stared at my closet door, which was open a crack, and thought of Mr. Bleaker.

  I shut that door didn’t I?

  Maybe not. I reached for the knob and held my breath. Stop being a baby, I thought. I swung the door open and stared into the shadows of the closet. The horrible scent of rotten meat like road kill left to bake in the summer sun, wafted over me. I backed away and covered my mouth, but a moment later, the smell was gone. Probably hadn’t been there to begin with, I thought.

  Tucked far in the back, peaking out of the shadows, I spotted my shoes. Just perfect. I reached for them. Nothing grabbed my arm or bit off my fingers. Aside from all of my crap, the closet was empty. I slipped on some socks and my shoes and opened the window facing the woods. I crawled out and dropped to the small flowerbed below. It was just dirt. Mom wasn’t much of a gardener.

  I ducked my head and stole a glance in the living room window. Mom sat on the edge of the couch while Cliff lay down, his feet on her lap. So damned comfortable, I thought. It made me angry. Sometimes when I got angry, my stomach would twist into knots and a sharp stabbing pain would poke into my head just behind my ear. This was one of those times.

  What did that sonofabitch know anyways? He wasn’t my father, and he never would be. What the hell does he care how much money we have. That was our problem. My problem and mom’s, not Cliff’s.

  Screw Cliff and Mr. Bleaker. I had a new friend, and that was just what I needed. Ignoring the never leave the yard without telling mom rule; I sprinted down the road to the end of the block, keeping to the west side, opposite the woods. Better safe than sorry, my dad would say, or would have, had he still been alive.

  One block down, one more to go. I continued with my head down, kicking the larger rocks from the dirt road when I found them. One of them caught my eye. It lay poking out of the dirt like a tiny, blackish-gray finger pointing towards the sky. A few well-placed kicks finally set it free. I picked it up and ran my fingers over its smooth edges, scraping the dirt away with my fingernails and polishing it on the seat of my pants. It was black with swirls of gray and white like smoke. It had been beautiful once, I thought, but years of traffic had worn it down. How long it had been there, I wondered. It was neat. I stuffed it into my pocket and continued walking.

  Two minutes later, I reached the south end of the woods. I turned east down Harlow Street and headed towards Brandon’s neighborhood. I didn’t know which house was Brandon’s, but I figured I could find it once I got there.

  With the trees passing slowly on my left, I reluctantly raised my head and stole a glance into the woods. After the first few rows of trees, everything disappeared into shadows. Look at that, Petey, my dad would have said, pointing at some animal, plant or random rock formation that caught his eye. The random memory made me smile. I missed him.

  From deep in the woods, I could hear birds calling and a warm summer breeze ruffling the leaves. It sounded like the hiking trails behind our old house but at the same time, it didn’t. Somehow, it was too small … too simple.

  Without realizing it, I stopped walking and stared at the forest. “You in there, Mr. Bleaker?” If he was, he didn’t answer. I was twelve years old and no longer a baby, but I thought he might be. The sound of screaming tires woke me from my trance. A couple of high school kids in a rusty orange Dodge Dart sped down the road towards me, their back tires fishtailing in the loose gravel. I jumped out of the way and turned to watch them speed off. Someone inside the old Dodge laughed maniacally, and a lit cigarette flew out of the passenger window. I saw it disappear into the woods. Maybe it’ll burn down, I thought and smiled. It was dry that year and damn hot, but the woods didn’t burn. Things would have been a lot different if it had.

  Without another look to the woods, I
ran the rest of the way to Brandon’s neighborhood.

  I had never seen so many houses crammed into one block before. It turns out these are called duplexes. Each home housed two families and they were packed. The yards were dirt brown with small patches of weeds mixed in with the dying grass. Each home seemed to have a mangy Dog chained to a fence post where it would walk back and forth; patrolling it’s semi-circle of trodden dirt, where not even the weeds could grow. Most of these dogs heard my approach and greeted me the only way they knew how. They barked madly and struggled against their chains, whether in anger or excitement, I couldn’t tell. If the neighborhood wasn’t awake yet, they would be now, I figured.

  I walked down the sidewalk of Harlow Street, staring at the tiny houses. Even at my age, I could tell these houses were too full. Too full of people, and too full of junk. I dodged an abandoned tricycle in the sidewalk and kept walking.

  This place must have been crammed with kids, I thought. So many toys strewn about the yards and sidewalks. I didn’t understand low-income housing at that age, but I understood that these folks lived a different life than the one I had lived in Colorado. It dawned on me that maybe I should get used to this lifestyle. If Cliff was right, maybe this is where mom and I were doomed to end up.

  “Hey, Pete! Whatcha up to?” Brandon appeared at the door of the last house on the corner. He jumped from the top step to the sidewalk, letting the screen door swing in the wind. There were no baby toys in this yard but there was a dented white cargo van in the driveway. It was old and someone had used it as a work truck at some point because the words, Peterson Custom Painting were still visible, even though the sticker had been scraped clean many moons ago.

  I opened my mouth to answer him and realized I didn’t know what to say. What was I up to? “Uh … nothing. Just checking out the neighborhood I guess.”

  “Admit it, you missed me.”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “Jesus, man. I’m just busting your balls.”

  This kid was definitely going to take some getting used to.

  “We should get outa here before my brother wakes up.” He looked over his shoulder nervously and then leaned in to me and spoke softly, “He can be a dick. Did I tell you I was adopted?” I didn’t know if he was joking.

  “Are your folks home?” I asked.

  “Mom is but she’s still sleeping. She won’t be up for a few more hours, probably.”

  I nodded. “Your dad?”

  “He’s gone, but he’ll be back tomorrow … or maybe the day after. Come on, we should go.”

  “Alright,” I said, “where we going?”

  “I gotta mow Mr. and Mrs. Kolb’s yard today. If you wanna help me, I’ll split the ten bucks with ya.”

  I’d never had a job before, Hell, I’d never evened mowed a yard before. Dad did the yard work in Colorado, and after he disappeared, a few of the neighbors pitched in and kept the place from going to hell. I figured I’d have to learn sometime.

  “Yeah, ok. I guess I could help.”

  “Great! The yard is huge and half of it has this giant slope to it. It’s like mowing the side of a mountain. It’s a bitch, but they let me use their mower so that’s pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool,” I agreed.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The Kolb’s lived three blocks south on fourth and Sycamore. Both Mr. and Mrs. Kolb are dead now, the Mrs. from cancer, and a few months later, Mr. Kolb from natural causes, or a broken heart if you’re the romantic type. But back in ’89, they were both still kicking, and someone needed to mow their yard.

  Brandon showed me to the Kolb’s garage where they kept their old Lawn-Boy. The garage was dark and smelled of old gasoline and mouse shit. The mower sat in the back corner next to a stack of paints and a Bush/Quayle yard sign. Brandon showed me how to mix the correct ratio of gas to oil and then we mowed. I had a feeling it took longer with him constantly giving me instructions but he insisted I did great and was a big help.

  Afterwards, we collected the money (five dollars each) from Mr. Kolb along with a few helpful tips.

  “Try to mow straight next time, Brandon,” Mr. Kolb said. “You boys are too young to be drinking, but if I didn’t know any better …” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “Sorry, Mr. Kolb. I think the sun got to me a bit this morning. It won’t happen again. I’ll make it up to you. Promise,” Brandon said, clutching his five-dollar bill tightly.

  “We’ll see about that,” Mr. Kolb said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Now go on.”

  He waved us off and we did as we were told, five dollars richer. Two blocks later, we celebrated our accomplishment at the Sweet Retreat. Two chocolate dip cones. This time, my treat. We sat at the table closest to the street. It was officially Main Street but it was never busy. Rush hour didn’t exist in Chaplin Hills.

  “We should get some more mowing jobs, man. We make a pretty good team,” Brandon said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure,” he said. “We could make a killing.”

  I finished the ice cream and licked my fingers. It was only a quarter after one but I was getting tired. Thanks to Cliff, I didn’t sleep well, and my first mowing experience was taking its toll.

  “You okay, man?” Brandon asked. He gobbled the last of his cone and tossed the napkin towards the trashcan. Right down the middle.

  “What?”

  “You look like shit,” he said. “Did someone knock your dick in the dirt?”

  Yeah, someone did, but did I want to explain that to this kid? I’d never had a real friend before and this whole concept was new to me.

  “My mom’s boyfriend is a jerk.”

  Brandon nodded his head. “Shit, man. That can be rough. My folks split for a while last year … or was it the year before … anyway, mom brought home this guy from Sidney named Rick.” Brandon shook his head in disgust at the memory. “You ever been to Sidney?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You ain’t missing nothing. It’s a shithole. Not quite as bad as this shithole, but still a shithole. Anyway, Rick was this short little dork with these puffy cheeks. A complete dick, for real. Just plain mean, ya know? My brother called it little man’s complex or short man’s complex, or something like that. I don’t know what it’s called, but what an asshole!” A humorless chuckle escaped his throat. “And then there was this one time, after mom finally let dad come home, Rick, the stubby little dickhead stopped by … half drunk, pounding on the door and talking nonsense.” He smiled wide at the memory. “Dad went to the door and kicked the living shit out of him. Seriously! He put the little shitbag in the hospital. Mom wasn’t too happy but I thought it was great.”

  “Wow!” I said. “What did you do?”

  Brandon leaned back on his bench seat. An eighteen-wheeler rolled by, its diesel engine growling.

  “What did I do? I helped dad kick his ass. Then I grabbed him a beer. He shared it with me.” Brandon leaned back further and looked into the sky. “He shared his beer with me. First drink I ever had.”

  “Cool, was it good?”

  Brandon shrugged his shoulders. “The beer? It wasn’t bad.” He broke eye contact with me and turned his head the other way. “Too bad your dad can’t come home and kick your mom’s boyfriend’s ass, huh?”

  Too bad indeed, I thought.

  It was early afternoon but it had already been a long day, and thanks to Cliff, I didn’t get much sleep last night.

  “I’m tired,” I said, and as if I needed to prove it, I yawned.

  “Not used to all that manual labor, Petey?”

  That hurt my feelings, but I didn’t know why. Probably because it was true, I suppose. I turned away from him and stared down Main Street. It was empty save for a set of taillights heading east.

  “Do you live in the poor house?” I asked him.

  “What?”

  “Cliff said you and your family live in the poor house and if I don’t grow up, me and mom will have t
o move into the poor house too.”

  “He said that?”

  I nodded my head. I had a pretty good idea what the poor house was and I’m not sure why I brought it up. Well, maybe I do, Brandon hurt my feelings and the question just popped in my head.

  “Your mama’s boyfriend probably shouldn’t worry about my family. We ain’t worrying about him.”

  “Forget Cliff,” I said, “he’s a jerk.”

  Brandon stood up, and I joined him. “Yeah … right,” he said.

  We walked home without saying much. My legs ached, and I could feel a blister festering on the back of my foot. I refused to limp in front of Brandon, denying him the satisfaction.

  Finally, we reached the stop sign at the edge of the woods. My house laid straight ahead, Brandon’s, a couple blocks to the right. We stopped there and stood under the sun, heads down and not talking. Eventually, like always, Brandon broke the silence.

  “Thanks for your help today.”

  I glanced at him, but only briefly and nodded.

  “Well, I better get going,” he said.

  With that, Brandon turned and trudged down the dirt road towards his house. I watched him go and almost hollered after him, but I didn’t. I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say. Brandon, on the other hand, always knew what to say. “See ya later, Petey. I’ll stop by after dinner. Mom’s making sloppy Joes. I can’t miss it. It’s the only meal she doesn’t screw up,” he said it without looking back but with a bounce in his step. “Tell your mom hi … and tell Cliff to—” his voice trailed off. I’m sure that was for the best.

  9

  The next morning, with our hard feelings a distant memory, Brandon showed me the fort he built underneath the overpass. It was really just a hole dug into the side of the hill where the dirt meets the concrete and steel of the bridge. We would sit up there, cars speeding by just a foot over our head, and watch the trains fly by below us, wondering where they were going and where they were coming from. We would set coffee cans and beer bottles at the bottom of the hill, and from our perch under the bridge, would throw rocks at the targets, pretending we were defending our castle from charging marauders.