by Rick R. Reed
The man stood and left the room. In a moment he returned with a tray. Jimmy couldn’t see from where he sat what was on the tray, but the man was beaming at him. “Close your eyes, son,” he said, his voice giddy with excitement. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Jimmy shut his eyes, feeling his stomach drop. A light sheen of sweat broke out on him.
Hot breath in Jimmy’s ear: “Open ’em.” Jimmy opened his eyes and looked down at the tray on his lap. Eggs, bacon, biscuits, a little bowl of strawberry jam, milk. Fine…except a cigarette had been extinguished in the eggs, which looked hard and old. The bacon sat in a pool of congealed grease. There was a blot of what looked like come in the jam and the milk smelled sour. Three or four cockroaches scurried around in all of this, feasting. He looked at the man, and completely unbidden, tears began to roll down his cheeks. Angrily, Jimmy lifted the back of his hand to wipe them away. He set his lips in a line, swallowing the sorrow, determined not to let the guy see him like this.
The man grabbed his face and squeezed so hard Jimmy was afraid his jaw would break. The smile disappeared. “Don’t cry, kid. I hate that. Didn’t your daddy ever say, ‘Don’t cry or I’ll really give you somethin’ to cry about’?” The man paused for a moment, thinking. “Hell, you probably don’t even know who your old man was. Your mom probably doesn’t know, either.”
Jimmy stared at the plain white walls. He was right.
How did he know?
“You gonna eat?”
The question hung in the air, suspended. The words, dreaded, seemed to linger, almost echo. Jimmy wanted to go back to the time before the man had said them and somehow make him not say them.
Jimmy’s breathing came a little quicker. “I can’t eat that. I can’t.”
“Then wear it, you ungrateful little shit.” A handful of eggs came at his face, and Jimmy closed his eyes. “And then we’ll give you something to eat. Something I know you like to eat, you little slut.”
Jimmy tried to curl into a ball, to not feel the sticky wetness of the food as the guy shoved it into his face, his ears, his hair, and rubbed it into his naked body. He could only wait, at this point, to find out what the cockroaches would feel like on him. The assault stopped, and Jimmy opened his eyes.
The man stared at the wall, his eyes fixed on a point. He mumbled, “Gotta get him out of here, don’t I, Aunt? Marianne and Becky will be back in a couple days and I gotta get him away, so they won’t know.
“Don’t I, Aunt?” The man’s eyes almost looked glazed. Jimmy felt that the guy didn’t even know Jimmy was in the room with him. There was a dead quality to his voice. No emotion.
Jimmy turned over, drawing his knees up to his chest. He didn’t want to hear any more.
*
Darkness. He had to get away. The empty room was lit only by the silver from the winter moon outside. Jimmy knew that if he didn’t get away, this man would kill him. He wondered how he had come so far so fast. Three years ago he’d been stealing candy from the corner drugstore. Hide and go seek. Wondering about sex.
Now, he knew too much.
Footsteps outside the door. Jimmy tensed, drawing his freshly bound ankles and wrists to him, curling, trying to protect himself.
The door opened and Jimmy closed his eyes. He felt the man drawing near and heard the creak of his knees as he knelt. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep he’ll leave me alone. A hand, clammy and warm, ran down the length of his body. Jimmy shuddered.
“I know you’re awake.” The voice was expressionless, cutting through the darkness. The deadness of tone made Jimmy’s skin crawl. “So you can open your eyes and look at me.”
Jimmy did as he was told, rolling over to face the man. He had brought a candle into the room. Squatting naked beside Jimmy, the man looked paunchy. His stomach hung in folds between his legs, covered with a thick matte of black hair. His dick, red and hard, jutted upward. No, please, sir, no more. On the floor was the same can of Crisco. Jimmy whimpered, trying to wet the inside of his mouth with his tongue, but suddenly, there was no spit.
“Like what you see?” A smile, brief, flickered across his face, then died. “You must…or you wouldn’t be in the line of work you are.” The man leaned close, so close Jimmy could smell his breath, fetid. “But this can help you, son. I hope you can see that.”
His face then twisted up, without warning, into a grimace of rage. “You know, it’s kids like you who have just about ruined my marriage, ruined my life in fact. If it weren’t for the likes of you—” The man’s voice had risen. He stopped to calm himself, then continued in the same dead tone. “If it weren’t for the likes of you, I’d be happy. A good family man, not having to sneak out behind my good wife’s back and try to help the trash like you that grows on those streets down there. It’s my calling. I have to help. But I’ll fix things.”
Jimmy stared at him, waiting for the pain, not sure what kind of response might stop what he was certain was coming.
“Well now you can let me help you, or at least try to.”
He rolled Jimmy over on his side, away from him. Jimmy felt heat at his back, then the drip of hot wax on his skin. He winced, more out of surprise than pain. The wax dried quickly. The man rolled Jimmy over and dripped the hot wax on his penis. Jimmy flinched and the man pressed down on Jimmy’s stomach. “Hold still. It’ll go better if you cooperate.” He continued dripping the wax until Jimmy’s dick and balls were encased in it. “I’m gonna untie this rope,” he whispered, “so we can take care of your lessons more freely. No tricks, or you’re one dead kid.” The man backhanded Jimmy across the face. “Understand?” “Yeah.” Just let it be over soon.
The man took Jimmy’s calves and pressed them to his chest, so that Jimmy’s ankles rested on his shoulders. The man moved in close, and in his mind, Jimmy went somewhere else.
*
Later, the man came back, looking tall and menacing in the light from the candle. He was wearing a long, hooded robe and holding a plate in his hand. “I brought you something to eat.” He set the plate down next to Jimmy. The smell hit Jimmy first. It was a plate of shit. “You’re going to eat this time, young man. Don’t you want to grow up to be big and strong?”
Jimmy looked at the plate and his stomach churned.
“Go on, eat it up.”
Jimmy reached out and touched the plate. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He implored the man with his eyes, but the stare he got in return was dead. There was no life in those eyes, no light, not even the reflection from the candle.
The candle! Jimmy wondered if he could make it his salvation. If only the man would turn around, maybe he could light the robe, maybe…
But why would he turn?
His answer came from outside. There was a swatch of light that rode over the opposite wall, the sound of a car engine. “What the hell?” the man said and turned toward the door.
Jimmy tipped the candle so its flame touched the bottom of the robe, scared that if this didn’t work, the man would kill him. He watched as the robe flickered and then the flame, bright, burst upward. For long enough, the man didn’t feel it. In the brief time before discovery, Jimmy managed to slink along the wall in a sitting position to a corner. He got up on his haunches, poised for flight.
All at once, with a whooshing sound, the entire back of the robe went up in flame. The man screamed at last, a scream torn from his throat, high-pitched and etched with pain. There was the smell of burning flesh in the room. “Son of a bitch!” the man screamed and fell to the floor, rolling around trying to put out the flame, trying to avoid the stacks of newspaper.
Jimmy darted for the door, gagging on the smell of burning flesh and smoke. His hand was on the doorknob when he felt the grip on his shoulder. He turned the knob, trying desperately to wriggle away, an animal caught in a trap. “No!” he screamed.
Another hand came up and pinioned itself onto Jimmy’s other shoulder.
All at once, Jimmy fel
t himself being flung backward into the room. He grunted as he landed on the floor, on his back, nothing to break his fall. His head slammed into the desk, making him lose his breath, his chest tightening. Silver specks swarmed before his eyes.
“Ungrateful little sleaze.”
The air was filled with the smell of burnt fabric and a sweeter, more sickening burnt smell that Jimmy could only imagine was the odor of burnt flesh.
But the man’s burns couldn’t have been too severe. He looked unconcerned standing above Jimmy, his mouth straining to form words, his anger peaking. “After all I tried to do…” The guy looked away. “After all I tried to do for him. I only wanted to help him. You can understand that. I know you can. I—”
Suddenly he stopped. Outside, two car doors slammed at the same time. A woman’s voice, her words unclear, rose up to them.
“Marianne.” The guy stared down at Jimmy, his mouth open, as if the boy would have some answer. “I—I gotta get rid of him.” The man crossed to the desk and rummaged around inside.
Jimmy got to all fours, watching him, trying to push down the dizziness so he could stand.
“I have to make sure she doesn’t know, don’t I?” The man brought out a hunting knife encased in a leather shield. He undid the snap and pulled out the knife. It glinted in the silver of the moon’s light.
“This’ll be over quick,” he whispered. “I can stuff him in a closet and get rid of him later.” He giggled. “She’ll never know.”
Jimmy scurried backward, crablike, into a corner as the man began to approach him. He was smiling.
Downstairs, a door opened. A little girl’s voice rose up the stairs. “Daddy? Daddy?”
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll go to heaven now.”
Jimmy put up a weak hand. “Please, man, you can’t. You’ll get caught.”
There was a thunder of footsteps as someone rushed up the stairs.
A woman’s voice: “Becky! Take it easy on those stairs.” Then: “Dwight? Are you up there?”
The man raised the knife, but the footsteps were coming closer and now they both heard a second set of slower footsteps ascending the stairs outside. “Dwight?”
The man looked at the door, back to Jimmy, back to the door.
The door opened. A girl, about twelve looked into the room. Jimmy saw frizzy red hair, thick glasses, a bent posture.
Dwight whirled. “Becky, get out of here!” he yelled. The little girl’s face collapsed into tears as she backed out, slamming the door behind her. “Why is Daddy mad at me?” she shrieked, her voice bordering on hysteria.
“Dammit,” Dwight said, dropping the knife to the floor. He hurried from the room.
Outside, Jimmy could hear the arguing. The woman’s voice rose tearfully, asking over and over what was going on, what had burned, and the little girl screamed in the background, “Why is Daddy mad? Why is Daddy mad?”
Jimmy opened a closet door and found his clothes in a heap there. Barely able to stand, he managed to reach down inside himself and find the strength to put the clothes on. Once dressed, he opened the door.
The three people in the hallway froze, staring at him. There was a fat woman, with a stiff upsweep of blond hair; her mouth dropped open when she saw him. She turned to the man.
“Dwight? Who?” She couldn’t seem to form the words.
Jimmy wanted only to get away. “Later,” he whispered, brushing by them.
“Who’s that boy?” the little girl said as Jimmy made his way down the stairs.
Jimmy didn’t wait to hear the answer as he hurried to the front door and out, into the cold December air and freedom.
Chapter 3
Marianne Morris was unable to tell a soul why she stayed on with her husband, Dwight, in a miserable, long-sexless union. Was it because of Becky, their twelve-year-old daughter, asleep on the seat beside her? Was it because she was afraid an existence alone would be worse than what she endured now?
As she drove up to their house, tired after the nine-hour drive from Youngstown, Ohio, she realized what she did and didn’t feel and how that should make things clear for her.
What she didn’t feel was glad to be home. The white bungalow rose up before her, bereft of Christmas decorations. Unlike so many of the other houses on the street, it was dark and empty-looking. A house, not a home.
She wondered if Dwight was inside and, if he was, what he was doing. Since his aunt Adele, protector and substitute mother, had died two weeks ago, Dwight had taken to sitting in the dark for long spells. Once, she had caught him whispering and, when she listened, realized he was talking to his dead aunt. She could tell from the way he phrased things that he understood Aunt Adele was dead, but still it chilled her, made her wonder, as she so often had, who Dwight really was.
As Marianne shut off the car, all she felt was tired. Weariness had settled into her bones, into her spleen, filling her up so completely she wondered if she had the strength to get out of the car and carry her own and Becky’s bags inside the door.
* * *
She smelled smoke as soon as she swung the front door open. Marianne looked over to Becky, who had her nose raised up, sniffing the air.
Marianne closed her eyes, leaning against the door frame, keys in hand. What now? Upstairs, she heard Dwight’s voice; it sounded low and threatening.
Did he have a boy in the house? Again? Marianne closed the door and put her keys down on the table by the door. She had thought about calling from her sister’s before she left Youngstown, to warn Dwight, hoping she could at least avoid seeing him with another young boy.
But she thought that lately, with his going to his Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings and the therapist at St. Francis in Evanston, he was beginning to overcome what they discreetly referred to as “his problem.”
Marianne also knew she wanted to surprise him, to see if she could catch him, to know for sure if his dedication to helping himself was more than just an act.
“I wanna see Daddee!” Becky sang out. Marianne looked at their retarded daughter, shaking her head. Twelve years old and no signs of maturity, no signs of growth. Twelve years they had struggled with the girl, hoping she would one day be independent.
Mildly retarded was what the specialists had said.
What did mildly mean?
Marianne looked up the stairs, at the blue haze of smoke she saw hanging high up when she turned the light on. She wondered just what had gone on, what she had interrupted.
Before Marianne could stop her, Becky raced ahead and clambered up the stairs, shouting for her father.
Marianne put a hand to her forehead. She knew she should try to stop the girl.
But Marianne was just too tired.
She called out to her daughter, “Becky! Take it easy on those stairs.” Taking a breath, she started up the stairs herself. “Dwight? Are you up there?”
As Marianne reached the top of the stairs, she heard Dwight yelling for Becky to get out of the room. She saw her daughter retreat, the tears welling up, magnified by the thick lenses she wore. She turned to look at her mother, her lower lip trembling, and screamed, “Why is Daddy mad at me?”
Marianne went to her daughter and put her arms around her, wondering what she had seen. Dwight came out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He smelled bad. His robe hung in charred tatters around his shoulders. His hair was a mess. And he wore an expression of absolute terror on his face. Sweat trickled down his forehead even though it wasn’t warm at all in the house. His eyes darted around, looking everywhere but at his wife.
Marianne took her arms away from her daughter, gently moving her aside. “Dwight? Dwight, what the hell is going on here?”
She started toward the closed door of the study and Dwight moved to block her path. “It’s not what you think, honey.”
“I don’t know what to think. What was going on, Dwight? My God, were you trying to burn the house down?”
Just then Marianne heard some movement from within the room. She looked at Dwight, questioning.
“What are you doing back?” Dwight asked. “I thought you and Becky were staying through Christmas.”
“Don’t, Dwight. Who’s in that room?”
Dwight grinned. “Nobody. Why don’t you go on and take Becky downstairs? I’ll be right down, soon as I get things cleaned up.”
“I don’t think so.”
Just then, the door opened and a young boy, thirteen or fourteen, emerged from the room. He looked scared and weak, hardly able to walk properly. He gripped the wall for support. Marianne turned to her husband. “Dwight? Who?”
The boy brushed by them, whispering something Marianne couldn’t understand.
“Who’s that boy?” Becky yelled as he descended the stairs. The front door closed behind him.
Marianne turned to Dwight, and tears welled up in her eyes.
What was she doing here?
Dwight blurted, “I guess I have some explaining to do.”
“Why is Daddy mad?” Becky screamed once more, then choked on a sob.
Marianne turned to her daughter. “Honey, why don’t you go downstairs to your bedroom. You need to get your things unpacked. You’re a big girl. I know you can do it all by yourself. Can’t you?”
Becky, proud to be given some responsibility, lifted her glasses to wipe the tears out of her eyes, then turned and went down the stairs.
“You don’t need to explain anything,” Marianne said. “I have eyes.” She pushed her husband aside, glad for once she weighed considerably more than he did, and went into the study. Her eyes took it in all at once: the rope, the can of Crisco, the overturned candle, the hunting knife, and the charred patch of carpeting on the floor. The room reeked of smoke.
