Penance

by Rick R. Reed

  “Good.”

  Little T lowered himself down, putting his hands behind his back so Dwight could tie them together.

  As he lowered his face into the food, he prayed that this time, Dwight would not want to take him upstairs after he finished eating. There was pain upstairs—Little T’s scabbed-over chest throbbed with the memory—and offers of salvation (at what price? mutilation? death?). Little T preferred the solitude and relative peace of his box.

  Out here, in the bright light from the bare bulb, it was hard for Little T to entertain hopes of escape.

  As Little T feared, Dwight wanted to take him on a “detour” upstairs once he finished eating.

  Now, he found himself being led by a leash up the stairs. Ahead of him, Dwight’s sizable form blocked out the light from the top of the stairs. Little T’s stomach turned at the prospect of once more having to succumb to this man’s needs, of once more having to pretend to enjoy it. All the while, listening to the guy’s lame rationalizations of how this was “good” for Little T, how the punishment would “cleanse” his soul.

  Did the guy even believe his own bullshit?

  Once they got to the kitchen, Dwight turned and looked at Little T. He ran his fingers through the red curls and stared into his eyes. He undid his wrists, took off the collar and leash. “My little angel,” he whispered, stroking his hair, his face, “this I do for you.”

  Little T grew cold and stiff as he felt the man’s fingers cross his face. But he smiled anyway, shyly whispering his thanks.

  “I think it’s time I brought you to the bedroom.” Dwight’s face had become serious as he stroked Little T’s face. “Come on,” Dwight said, his voice hoarse, as it was when he was really horny. Little T shuddered.

  He followed Dwight into a bedroom. The kitchen was the farthest he’d ever gotten in the house. It always felt strange to be out of the basement, to be able to breathe air that wasn’t marred by mildew and the scent of perspiration and shit.

  The room was as barren as the rest of the house. There was only a double bed with a maple, Early American headboard. A Rubbermaid clothes basket in one corner was piled high with assorted laundry. Clean? Dirty? Little T couldn’t tell.

  A desk lamp on the floor gave the room a weird, disorienting light. Dwight looked ghastly.

  “Nice room,” Little T said.

  Dwight only snorted in return: a derisive laugh. “You can cut the shit with me, kid.”

  Little T could only manage to smile back at the man. The way he felt right now, Little T knew the smile was a true definition of success. He tried to think of other things: the pound of the surf at his old house in Florida, the Chicken Arms and the good times he had shared there with Jimmy, Miranda, War Zone, and Avery, anything to go somewhere else, anything to avoid being here for what was about to happen.

  Dwight crossed the room and took a key out of his pocket, inserted it into a dead bolt lock on the door, and turned it. He came back to Little T. “You can’t get out now,” he said, “so we can take that collar and leash off.” Dwight turned his head to look at Little T as he undid the collar. Dwight set the collar and leash on a corner of the bed. Turning back to Little T, Dwight stared at him, as the boy stood naked before him.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed flesh. He ran his hand down Little T’s back, stopping at his buttocks, ignoring the encrusted residue there. “You’re one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” He took Little T’s wrists in his own and said softly, “We can’t be too sure, now can we?” Before Little T had a chance to respond, Dwight stooped over and reached under the bed. A pair of handcuffs glinted in the dim light, rattled.

  Little T felt himself getting sicker and sicker. The handcuffs, he knew, would hurt, digging into his wrists. But their pain had a more subtle edge: they represented, in the slim shape of the metal and its little chain, imprisonment. Even though he was now completely imprisoned, this symbol brought it all down on him in concrete terms. They made him vulnerable, removing all choice. He tried hard to hold down the bile he felt rising up within him. Mutely, he extended his wrists.

  “Good boy,” Dwight said, snapping them on.

  Dwight took off his clothes, revealing the rolls around his middle, the scar down his stomach, the hair sprouting out of his shoulder blades, and the veined red erection sprouting up from a nest of matted brown pubic hair. Little T closed his eyes, finally, to shut it all out, but whispered, “Hurry.”

  “Oh, you’ll get yours, little one, you’ll get yours,” Dwight said. He began whispering to himself. “Little piece of shit likes it. You see that? Fifteen years old, fifteen years old and wantin’ it so bad. Should be wanting a new catcher’s mitt. But not this one, not this little sicko. I’ll teach him…yessiree.”

  Little T made himself a rag doll as Dwight came close and slid his tongue in Little T’s ear. Dwight hooked his leg in the crook behind Little T’s knee to push him over backward onto the bed. Little T turned his head and looked out the window, out into the night, and put himself out there, in the cradle of an oak tree, which reached up nakedly into the starless winter night.

  Out there, he could just watch, an observer, not a participant.

  As Dwight stretched himself out on top of Little T, the boy barely heard the man’s whisper: “Pray with me now, son.”

  * * *

  Later, Little T lay stiffly beside Dwight, waiting to be taken back, back to the comfort of his box, where he could be alone. Dwight breathed soundly beside him. Little T felt a tear form at the corner of his eye, well up, then trickle down the side of his face and into his ear. It felt like he’d never be able to walk again: it hurt everywhere and the slightest movement sent sharp pain through him.

  Little T would have liked, very much, to die.

  Dwight’s voice startled him. “So tell me about your friends.”

  “What?”

  Dwight sat up and leaned against the headboard. He reached under the bed and brought out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. Little T watched the tip glow orange as he inhaled.

  “You gonna tell me about your friends or not?”

  “I don’t have any friends.” Little T tried, without much success, to put some emotion into his voice.

  “You know a kid named Jimmy?”

  Little T tensed. How did Dwight know about Jimmy? Was he going to be next to fill one of the boxes in the basement?

  “You waited too long to answer, kid.” Dwight took another deep drag on the cigarette, his cheeks almost collapsing as he inhaled. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils and shouted out, “The kid claims he doesn’t know anything, Aunt. Should I believe him?” Dwight listened for a moment, nodding and smoking, then laughed. He turned once more to Little T. “I know you know him. Don’t you?”

  Little T had thought things could not possibly get worse.

  Dwight spread his hands apart. “Well?”

  Little T swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “There are a lot of Jimmys out there.”

  “How ‘bout the one peddles his ass on Lawrence Avenue? Green eyes? Cute?” Dwight smiled at him and spoke softly, his voice just one notch above a whisper. “Help yourself, kid. Help yourself to heal.”

  Little T felt everything in him slow down, numbing. “Don’t know him,” he whispered.

  “Maybe this’ll refresh your memory,” Dwight said, dragging deep on the cigarette. He put it on Little T’s thigh. Little T cried out, bucking against the bed, the heat scorching, solidifying his pain.

  Dwight laughed. “Now, about Jimmy…”

  Little T’s words rushed out. “I told you, I don’t know him. You gotta believe me, man.”

  Dwight’s expression, one of mild disdain combined with amusement, didn’t waver. He dragged deep again and this time brought the lit end of the cigarette to Little T’s testicles, held the burning end against the sensitive flesh of his scrotum there for seco
nds that seemed like hours.

  Little T shrieked, the pain and heat shooting through his body like a barrage of needles. He struggled, but Dwight held him down firmly, a hand pressed hard against his chest.

  Dwight removed the cigarette and left Little T gasping, the waves of pain only slightly receding. The smell of burnt flesh made him gag.

  “Remember now?”

  Little T squinched up his eyes and shook his head from side to side: no.

  He felt Dwight’s hand prying his eyelid open. “Unless you want this goddamn thing put out on your eyeball, you’ll talk to me.” Little T looked up to see Dwight grinning at him, the cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “His name’s Jimmy Fels and we…”

  Little T began to talk.

  *

  Perhaps on some subconscious level, War Zone heard. After all, Little T was his best friend, perhaps the person he had found to be closest to in his short life, and not to hear his whimpers, just a few feet away, seemed unlikely. But, for the most part, War Zone no longer saw or heard, felt or tasted. War Zone no longer even smelled.

  War Zone didn’t exist anymore.

  There was someplace deep within him to which he had retreated. Perhaps it was a place where his friend Randy was still alive. Perhaps it was a place where his mother still cared about and nurtured him…before his father started in with his closet games. Wherever it was, War Zone had gone there, leaving shortly before he witnessed the murder of his friend. All he had left behind was a black shell, which grew more and more insubstantial every day.

  He didn’t even see his captor standing above him, imploring him to rise and eat, telling him that soon he’d be too weak to even breathe.

  But all War Zone saw was darkness. Even in the blinding light of the hundred-watt bulb that swayed in the basement, casting shadows and light.

  Darkness.

  Chapter 16

  Carla Fels looked out the window. Streaked with grime, the windows gave her a northern view: Loyola University in the distance, closer in, more apartment houses (run-down, going to seed) like the one she occupied, on traffic-clogged Kenmore. She brought a cigarette to her lips and wished her hands didn’t shake so. Could it be the vodka that caused the shaking? Or was it the downs? Either one should make her not shake, not the other way around.

  The snow from the night before had abated. Streets were wet, slicked with water and dirt. The mounds of snow banked against the sides of streets were dirty grey, wearing a film of mud and soot.

  It was a little after nine on a weekday morning (who knew what day it was anymore?). Carla splashed more of the vodka into her glass and sipped it, taking in her view.

  The buzzer startled her and she spilled some of the vodka on her pink quilted bathrobe. “Shit,” she whispered to herself, wondering who it could be. If it was that bastard Tim, she wasn’t going to talk to him, not today, not again. This last time, she’d promised herself when she’d thrown him out that was it, for good. Kaput. She’d had enough of his tomcatting ways and abuse.

  She got up, casting a glance at the intercom, wishing it would work so she’d have a choice about buzzing in whoever was out there.

  But it might be Jimmy.

  And she always made time for her son.

  She pressed the button.

  * * *

  “Hi, Carla,” Jimmy said, standing outside the door.

  “Well, c’mon in.” Carla hoped the toothpaste she had hurriedly eaten while he climbed the stairs had masked the alcohol on her breath. She took her son in her arms, feeling the frail bones press against her. “Are you losin’ weight or what?”

  Jimmy walked past her. “Keepin’ busy, you know. Burns up a lot of energy.” He plopped down on the couch and leaned over to light a cigarette.

  “I wish you wouldn’t smoke.”

  “What’s that you got in your hand?”

  Carla looked down at the cigarette, burnt almost to the filter. How many did this make? She had only been up an hour or two. “Well, I’m older than you.”

  “Right. And so much wiser.” Jimmy smirked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” How did this thirteen-year-old son of hers always seem to get the upper hand?

  “Nothin’.” Jimmy leaned back into the couch, dragged on his cigarette, examined the ceiling.

  Carla sat beside him and brushed the hair away from his face. “So, how you been doin’, huh? You gettin’ by all right?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” “You ain’t hustlin’ no more, are you?” “I been tryin’ to cut that out. Ain’t done it in a long time.”

  “That’s good. That’s good.”

  The two sat in silence for a long time. Carla wished she could go back in the bedroom and get the tumbler of vodka she’d left sitting on the windowsill, but she knew Jimmy wouldn’t approve.

  Every time she saw her son (and the times grew further and further apart), she expected him to look older. Here he was, making his way in the world without her…he should look like more of a man. But next to her on the couch was the same little boy who used to sit in the middle of the living-room floor with a deck of cards, patiently building a castle. She reached over and ran her fingers through his hair, thinking, My God, I don’t know what to do with him, anymore. She watched him smoke, his gaze roaming the apartment.

  When was the last time he’d been here? Had it been months? She couldn’t remember. Guilt stabbed at her; she knew she didn’t really give him much thought when he wasn’t around. She was too caught up in her own problems to wonder how her son was doing…out there on the streets, peddling his ass to strangers.

  She wondered if the day would come when he just stopped coming, never to return.

  She wondered how long it would be before she noticed he was gone.

  “Jimmy?”

  He looked over at her, and she could see in his green eyes the little boy she’d raised. The little boy who always seemed to be in the way of her meeting the right man, getting the right job…the list went on.

  But she loved that little boy.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Carla. You told me before.”

  She was about to feel hurt, but he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I love you, too.”

  “You don’t hold it against me because I ain’t been able to take very good care of you, do you?”

  Jimmy didn’t say anything, but continued looking at her.

  “I think about you all the time, Jimmy.”

  “I think about you, too.”

  Again, they lapsed into silence. Carla finally got up and went into the kitchen. She called back to her son, “I’m makin’ some coffee. You want some?”

  “Nah. Got anything to eat?”

  Carla called back, “Jesus, honey, I’m sorry. The stamps ran out and I’m just about bare. I got some saltines, you want some?”

  Jimmy looked down at the scarred floor, his stomach growling. “That’s okay.”

  After a few moments, Carla came back. She stirred the instant Nescafe in a cup of hot tap water. “Sure you don’t want any?”

  “Yeah.”

  She sat down beside him, drinking the coffee, arranging her robe around her, running her fingers through her hair and then smoothing it. “I got a job. Did I tell you?”

  Jimmy smiled. “No. What’re you gonna be doin’?”

  “You know that little diner over on Granville? By the el?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I got a job there. Waitressing. The boss is real nice.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah, it is. Boss says the tips are pretty good. A lot of commuters.” Carla sipped her coffee, turned her head to look out the window when she heard a siren. “You need anything? Need any money?”

  Jimmy laughed. “I always need money.”

  Carla got up from the couch, came back holding out a ten-dollar bill. “I kno
w it ain’t much, but maybe after I get goin’ with this job…”

  “Sure. I appreciate it.” Jimmy stuffed the bill into his jeans pocket. “I’d better be goin’. I just wanted to see how you was doin’.”

  Carla stood up, smoothing her robe. “Well, I’m glad you came over.” She smiled at him, suddenly feeling awkward, and pulled Jimmy’s jacket up tighter around his neck. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “I won’t.”

  Jimmy started to cross toward the door. “Jimmy?”

  He looked back to see his mother, standing there, waiting.

  “Don’t I get a hug?”

  “Sure.”

  The two came together like a couple at a high school dance: awkward with too much distance between them.

  But then Carla took a deep breath and took what she wanted: she pulled her son close.

  He was stiff in her arms and she felt, in this one hug, that she’d lost him. But then his arms came around her and he was squeezing her tight. She lowered her face to his blond hair, which seemed to grow darker every time she saw him, breathing in his essence, feeling the silkiness of it. My son. She pulled him tighter, trying to let him know with this simple touch that even though she hadn’t been there for him, she loved him. Wished she could be the kind of mother he deserved.

  Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Gotta go,” he said and pushed her away.

  Carla turned and put her forefingers to the corners of her eyes, wiping away the tears. When she turned back, she said, “Well, now, you be sure and come back soon, okay?”

  “Sure, Ma.”

  Carla felt a lump in her throat as she took in his smile. She thought for a moment that maybe things could be different, maybe this job would work out, maybe there was a man out there who’d help her. Maybe one day, she and Jimmy would be a real family, like the ones she’d seen on TV.

  Right, Carla, she scolded herself. She watched him go out the door.

  *

  Jimmy hurried down the hall, toward the stairs. He had hoped Carla would give him some money and she had. He felt sad and didn’t know why. He wanted to get to the Chicken Arms, and crawl under the mound of blankets, kick back, and get some more sleep. Maybe for hours.