The '49 Indian

by Craig Moody

  “Mom,” I whispered, my voice dry and cracked.

  My vision cleared as I watched the face of my mother absorb the site of me, a nervous wariness dominating her expression.

  “Dustin,” she whispered, her voice breathless and worried. “My baby boy.”

  Our hands locked. Instantly, a warm feeling of protection blanketed over me.

  “Oh, Mom.”

  Squeezing her hand tighter, I didn’t attempt to stop the flood of tears that began to stream down my face. The vivid memory of what had occurred danced through my mind like a demon on the shores of the lake of fire. The smell of the chlorine, the stark coldness of the tile floor, the smell of Eddie’s breath, even the feel of his skin next to mine, it all surrounded me as if finding its way from the recent past and into the present. I began to sink deeper into the memory, when my mother’s voice broke the nightmarish trance.

  “The police told me that they found you on the sidewalk,” her voice quivered, the obvious stress of the ordeal still heavy on her heart. “What happened, dear?”

  She didn’t say it, but I knew the question that was to come next. More than likely, the police had also mentioned just where on the sidewalk they had found me and the establishment it was in front of. I prepared myself for the inevitable interrogation.

  “They said they found you outside of a building, Dustin,” she continued, an obvious strain hovering over her words as she attempted to control her emotions. “Do you know what sort of building it was?”

  I could only glare at her, half in physical pain and half in disbelief that my own mother wasted not one second at satiating her need for control. Even the police had yet to question me.

  “A bathhouse, Dustin,” she replied flatly, obviously uninterested in any reply. “A gay bathhouse. What were you doing in front of that place?”

  I watched as her motherly gaze of concern melted into a stare of fear and rage.

  “Answer me, Dustin.”

  I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have proof that I was in the bathhouse, yet she was positive that I was. Every fiber of my being could feel her angered certainty. It felt as though she were only seconds from pouncing from the chair and onto the bed, physically exhausting her obvious discontent onto my body. I swallowed and held my breath as the words began to form just beneath my quivering lips. Before I could speak, the door to the room burst open, revealing the chatter of the hallway beyond and the presence of my father. In his hand was another balloon, this one far larger and more colorful than the first.

  “Hey, son!” he exclaimed, his face beaming with relief as he closed the door behind him and quickly made his way to my bedside. “I am so glad to see you awake, my boy.”

  A rush of relief and sorrow melted over me as I felt my father wrap his arms around my shoulders. He pressed his head onto my face, the smell of his hair and skin a lifetime familiarity.

  Beneath the chatter of the hospital machinery, I could hear him softly sobbing.

  “Hey, Dad,” I choked, my voice drier and more sore than before. “I’m okay.”

  I caught a glimpse of my mother through the intertwinement of my father’s arms, her expression frozen and terrified. I could tell it was taking every bit of inner strength she could muster not to burst out with her continued line of questioning.

  “Your mother and I have been worried sick, son. You have been in here for hours.”

  It was then that I noticed the lack of sunlight beyond the hospital window. It was obvious that a vast chunk of time had passed since my last conscious memory.

  “I brought you some food,” my father announced, quickly moving to the corner of the room.

  I kept my eyes glued to his back, the burning sizzle of my mother’s glare searing into my skin like a laser. I managed a nervous, dry gulp, which taunted the piercing thirst of my throat. I kept my gaze centered on my father, absolutely terrified to even casually glance at my mother.

  “Here we go,” my father boasted cheerfully, displaying a massive hoagie on the tray before me. “I just picked it up from Sub Center, so it’s good and fresh.”

  I stared at the sandwich as if glimpsing a humane form of sustenance for the first time after being stranded on a deserted island for years. I didn’t know if I should simply admire its existence or scarf it down like a stray dog discovering a chicken bone with a bit of cold, cooked flesh still attached.

  “We should tell the detective that he is awake,” my mother stated flatly, her stare still fixed on me yet her words directed at my father.

  I watched as my hands collected the hoagie and lifted it from the wax paper it rested on. Saliva began to pool beneath my tongue as the oversized sandwich neared my starving mouth.

  “We should let him eat and get some more rest before we do that, Teresa,” my father replied, busily tying the latest balloon to the foot of the bed.

  “No, Nathan,” she shot back immediately. “They asked us to contact them the moment he came to. The boy is a victim of an attack, and I am not just going to sit here idly while—”

  “Okay, okay,” my father whispered, interrupting my mother’s plea with his arms. I watched in silence as my parents embraced, the sheer terror of their energy as palpable as the hoagie to my now satiated taste buds.

  My mother stood from her chair, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater as she made her way to the door. She didn’t hesitate or look back as she frantically exited the room. The blast of cold air from the hallway shot through me like a cannonball as she closed the door firmly behind her.

  “You have to forgive your mom, son,” my dad stated, breaking the sudden silence. “She is just scared out of her mind.”

  He leaned closer, the unmistakable scent of his cologne aftershave wafting under my nostrils like a welcome spring breeze over a wintered field.

  “You are still her baby boy, you know.”

  I closed my eyes as my father gently pressed his open hand over my cheek. The touch of his skin seemed to cool and extinguish the sputtered flames of trauma and stress that still burned inside me. A tear escaped one of my sealed eyelids, slowly inching its way down my upper cheek and onto my father’s weathered hand. The moment seemed to suspend time as I focused on the sensations the simple touch conjured within me.

  The cannon-like blast of the hallway air again flooded the space around me as my mother reentered the room, this time, a burly man in a brown corduroy suit trailing her fevered pace.

  “This is Detective Sherman,” she breathlessly declared, her words shaken yet firm. “He is here to ask you some questions.”

  I looked at my father, who still stood beside me, his expression worried and uncertain by the sudden appearance of the detective. I returned my slow gaze to the stranger, taking in his stern appearance the same way a kitten curiously paws at a lizard.

  The man stood tall, his dark brown hair slicked back, a bushy mustache accenting his upper lip. His eyes matched the color of his hair, his glare as glazed and hard as the matted brown helmet atop his scalp. A bit of some form of pastry clung lifelessly to the lower right corner of his impressively thick mustache, its volume and bulk reaching at least a half an inch from his skin. He was both attractive and odd, his appearance both enticing and nerve-wracking.

  “It is good to see you awake, Mr. Thomas,” the detective stated, his expression motionless and controlled. “I know your parents have been very

  worried.”

  He nodded toward each of my parents as he spoke, pausing for what appeared to be a calculated attempt at genuine concern and sympathy, and then returned his expression to its unmoving resting place.

  “I have some questions that I am going to need to ask you, Mr. Thomas,” his voice now stronger and more direct than before. “Some of these questions may make you uncomfortable, so I will understand if you would like to ask your parents to leave the room while we talk.”

  Unsure how to respond, I could only stare at the detective. My pulse began to quicken as my imagination contem
plated the possible questions he was about to ask. With my breath now shallow and stuttered, I swallowed hard and looked at my parents. My father nodded slightly before approaching my mother. He placed his hands softly on her shoulders and pulled her toward him. I could see my mother hesitate. Her need to be involved and inevitably control the situation was overwhelming her. Still, she followed my father’s lead and exited the room.

  “Now,” Detective Sherman began, clearing his throat and pulling a small notepad from his jacket pocket.

  I was amused at how comically accurate his appearance, demeanor, speech, and actions were to that of the stereotypical police detectives I saw on television. The only elements missing were a cigarette and an obnoxious theme song.

  “I need you to recount for me every detail of what occurred at the bathhouse, son,” he continued, flipping the pages of his small, worn notebook to what I assumed was a blank page.

  I watched as he struggled to find his pen, it too tucked deep within the labyrinth of his inner coat.

  “I need for you to be explicitly accurate, Dustin. Every single detail is vital if we are going to locate your perpetrator.”

  My heart was deafening now. It felt as though the blood-pounding organ had somehow relocated itself into the confines of my skull, pushing my brain down into the hollows of my inner core, replacing my thoughts with its pulsating beat.

  “Let’s go, Dustin,” Detective Sherman commanded impatiently. “I can’t be here all night.”

  “Okay,” I started, my words falling into the room as broken and heavy as the Titanic descending into the abyss.

  The detective didn’t react or pause as he carefully listened and scribbled onto his pad. It was as if he already knew the entire story before I told it. Nothing seemed to faze him, not even the violently explicit details of the assault.

  “Mr. Thomas,” Detective Sherman sighed after I concluded my statement, flipping his notebook shut and replacing it with the pen into his jacket. “Do your parents know that you are a homosexual?”

  The question paralyzed my heart. The feeling of the beating organ’s presence in my head sank back down into my hollow chest cavity. I was holding my breath, frightened and unsure as to how to reengage my lungs.

  “Son,” he continued, my hesitation the obvious answer to his question, “I am only asking you this because I am trying to figure out a way to inform them of the details without causing some sort of upset or friction between you.”

  He paused a moment, taking in what I assumed was my horrified expression before closing his eyes.

  “Dustin, your personal business is not the focus of this investigation. You were attacked and sexually assaulted, and that is the crime that has been committed. Not your sexual orientation.”

  I felt my lungs fill and then collapse under the sudden arrival of the detective’s reassurance. A warm, comforting wave crashed over my body as I realized the conversation I dreaded and feared most in my entire life was not about to take place as I lay helpless in a hospital bed.

  “I am going to bring your parents back in,” he announced, moving to the door. “I will call them in a few days. When I do, I am telling them that the investigation will require more interviewing. I plan to speak with some of the bathhouse employees and other patrons. I will not disclose anything further.”

  He stared at me cautiously before turning the doorknob.

  “What you decide to tell them is up to you.”

  With that said, he pulled the door completely open, nearly spilling my mother into the room.

  “Mrs. Thomas,” Detective Sherman nodded, his expressionless stare unbroken.

  I watched in silence as the detective exited the room while my father and mother rushed back inside like two eager cattle returning to the barn to feed.

  “Well?” my mother asked, resuming her position next to the bed. “What did he say?”

  I could only stare back at her, uncertain as to how to form any words.

  “Dustin?” she continued, her look of concern fading into impatience and frustration.

  “Dear,” my father said softly, approaching her from behind. “The boy has been through so much. Let’s just leave him be for now. The police will do their job.”

  My mother snapped her head at him as though he had just blasphemed the name of Christ.

  “How dare you tell me to relax!” she shot. “This is my child we are speaking of. My child who was found outside of a…a…”

  Her words faded into an insecure void, her angered expression falling with it.

  “He said they were going to interview some of the witnesses nearby,” I stated with confidence. “There were some. Witnesses. On the street. They saw me get attacked.”

  My parents simply stared at me, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions obvious through the windows of their loving eyes.

  “There,” my father replied, gripping my mother’s tense shoulders with both of his hands. “The police are going to take care of this, darling. I promise you.”

  My mother could only stare, her eyes spiraling in a mix of colors fueled by confusion, suspicion, and rage. She knew there was more to the story, and I knew she would not rest until she got it from me.

  “Fine,” she stated flatly. “Fine.”

  She took her place in the seat next to my bed and began fumbling through her purse. My father patted my knee, smiling at me as though I had just managed an unlikely win at some Boy Scout sport competition.

  Slowly, either from the medication dripping into my veins or absolute mental and emotional exhaustion, I slipped beyond the darkness behind my eyes and into a deeply peaceful sleep.

  ***

  It had been exactly one month since the attack. There was no word from the police. No calls, no visits. Only silence. I didn’t mind, as I would rather not relive the details of that day, but my mother was slowly teetering on the edge of her already frayed emotional ledge. Nearly every dinner conversation reverted to the subject, usually ending with my mother berating my father for not being more proactive by harassing the police or Detective Sherman on a daily basis. I never contributed to the conversation. I would only lock my gaze onto my delicate dinnerplate and wait for the discussion to meet its usual end.

  Other than that, my life was slowly returning to its paralyzed state of normality. Without falter, the common summer days slipped in and out of my existence like grains of sand blowing on the beachside. Aside from the trauma of my bathhouse visit, absolutely nothing of importance or worth any sort of memory-capture transpired. My life had become an endless cycle of flipping through comic books, skimming my mother’s massive collection of tacky romance novels, and hours of staring at pointless daytime television. Besides the occasional telephone call from my cousin Ruby in Tennessee, I had limited contact or communication with anyone outside of my parent’s house. Slowly each day, I could feel my boredom seep beyond the fading limits of my spirit and into the inner depths of my soul. A part of me was secretly fantasizing about how much better it would have been to have never woken up in that hospital bed after the attack.

  “Mom!” I yelled into the distance of the house beyond the foyer. “I’m gonna go ride my bike.”

  Silence.

  I turned to the front door and began to make my exit when I heard my mother’s post-nap vocals echo down the stairway.

  “Don’t go past the cul-de-sac,” she croaked, her voice soggy yet parched from slumber. “And be home when the streetlights come on.”

  I slammed the door behind me, irritated and annoyed that her response to my bike riding at age twenty was no different than it had been when I was only eight.

  As I moved in the direction of the garage, the full view of the street opened beyond the manicured hedges of our lawn. Neighbors peppered the scenery as I strolled toward the side of the house where my bike was stored. It was clear that the soft, warm Florida evening breeze had lured the residents from their caverns of air- conditioned shelter, where they hibernated from the extreme midday heat
. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the warm, humidity-thick wind to swirl and align my lungs. Exhaling, I opened my eyes, my vision clearing but my heart ceasing to beat.

  I stood in complete silence as my body began to adjust to the sight it was viewing. Raven- haired, glistening skin, a myriad of colorful tattoos adorning the arms, a gorgeous human male glided past the hedges, the sound of a gas-powered lawnmower leading the way. My heart found its pace, jumping from what felt like complete stillness to a racing, deafening pound. My breathing shallowed as the summer wind I had only recently captured now expelled and fled back into the air around me. I could only stare, my gaze transfixed and bewildered.

  I watched as he reappeared and then disappeared behind the limited view of the hedges. He moved methodically, focused and dedicated to his laborious chore, oblivious to my trance-like presence.

  Catching myself, I moved to my bicycle, pulling it from its place behind my father’s meticulously-lined gardening tools, and hopped onto the seat. Peddling frantically for the street, I kept my eyes trained on the sidewalk before me, excited yet terrified to gain a closer look at the mysterious lawn man.

  Rounding the corner of the hedges, I watched in unexpected horror as my bike’s front tire slammed into a person’s pant leg.

  “Sorry!” I shouted, absorbing my shock and looking up toward my victim’s face. “I didn’t mean to—”

  It was him, the mysterious lawn man, shirtless and glowing like a 1940s film star.

  “Hey, man, it’s okay,” a voice boomed, its depth and power vibrating the airwaves around me.

  I watched as my reflection slipped and fell into the darkness of his pupils. It was then and there that I lost myself.

  “I’m Gauge,” the voice continued, a hand reaching up from the distance below his waist. “This is my aunt’s new place. We just moved in last week.”

  I could only stare, my voice completely frozen and locked beneath the now tense flesh of my throat. Instinctively, I too reached out my hand, my blood racing in my veins as my skin connected with his.