My suitcase was already packed, my essentials tucked within its pockets. I rolled it into the living room.
My stepfather saw me, ready to leave in under a minute, and seethed.
“You planned this. He’s already ready, you planned on leaving me.” I heard him stand and push my screaming mother against the wall. “You—“
His voice was cut off by a curt knock at the door, followed by the click of the handle as someone let himself in.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”
Pete walked into the room uninvited, and our couch springs creaked as he eased himself down.
“What do you want, Pete?” asked my stepfather, releasing my mother who fell back against the wall.
“Word on the street is you’re out of a job. At least, words that floated out into the street,” he gloated. “Without a job, you’re not likely to be making any more money. So I think you know damn well what I want, Irad.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been gambling again,” breathed my mother.
“Shut up,” said my stepfather. “I’ll get you your money, Pete.”
“How much?” said my mother. Her anger was gone, replaced by desperation. “How much?”
“One hundred and fifty smackaroos,” said Pete, drumming his legs, “owed directly to yours truly. Didn’t think I’d pull that three-of-a-kind last week—sure beat your pocket aces. Heh, knew I should’ve bet the river being a six.”
“I’ll get it to you next week.”
“Damn well you won’t. You’ll get it to me right now.” Pete knew he had my stepfather cornered between himself and my mother. “I can wait right here. Go on, I know you keep it in the breadbox. Showed me last time you needed a pack of cigs.”
“You used our emergency cash for cigarettes?”
“Not just cigarettes, honey,” continued Pete, and I heard my mother backhand my stepfather again.
“Get out,” he said to Pete. Then louder, “Out of my house.”
“I want my money.”
“Out!”
“Money first,” Pete sang as the figures around him danced with joy to the tune. “Money, money, money.”
My stepfather took two steps to the kitchen, and I heard my mother’s cooking knife slide out of the wooden block.
“I’m not leaving ‘til you pay,” insisted Pete, the mirth gone from his voice, and the couch springs creaking again in anticipation. My stepfather kicked the backrest and the couch tipped backward, cracking the cheap plywood supports and sending a cursing Pete sprawling toward the door.
“It’s mine Irad. Come at me with the knife and see what happens,” he said, back to the door.
Good decision making for my stepfather came with difficulty when sober, and never when drunk. Pete’s judgement calls on the actions of a cornered man proved inaccurate.
My stepfather charged, his heavy footsteps clashing across the linoleum, and he slashed the knife toward Pete.
Pete yelped and scrambled backward into the door, but the latch caught on the frame, trapping him inside as my stepfather’s hand swooped downward.
With the desperation of a dying man, Pete sunk to the floor, and his shoulder blades raked against a long metal tube before coming to rest on the door frame. In one smooth motion he whipped out my stepfather’s loaded shotgun, safety unlocked and finger on the trigger.
With no hesitation, he fired.
The buckshot exploded into the trailer, shattering windows and punching holes through the siding and into the winter air.
Two bodies fell in the darkness, the impact from the shot throwing them to the floor.
To my left there was an explosion of red energy, much like a fireball, and the figures latched onto it, dragging it down through the floor of the trailer. There was a thunderclap, and a fissure opened with the force of an earthquake. Cold seeped from the hole, and I heard wailing and noises like the sound of metal being rent in half. The fissure slammed shut, but not before more red figures rushed outward and swarmed about Pete.
Then there was silence, accompanied only by the smell of iron, until Pete laughed.
“It wasn’t my fault. He came at me. You saw that, right? Didn’t you?”
I shook my head, and he laughed. “Who am I kidding? You didn’t see anything!”
He left, running out the door, but not before rummaging around the breadbox above the fridge, the majority of the figures following him.
“Caleb.” I heard my mother’s weak voice from her position on the trailer floor.
I crawled over to her, bumping into pieces of the wreck left by my stepfather and Pete, and took her hand.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Caleb, I’ve done everything I could for you. I’m sorry things turned out this way.” I felt a tear fall onto my wrist.
“It’s okay, Mom. I understand.”
“Be like your true father, Caleb. Don’t be like Irad. Live up to everything you can be—for me. Promise me. Promise me you’ll be good.”
“I will, Mother. I promise.”
“I love you, Caleb, son of Michio, a great man. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mother. You did the best you could.”
A single tear fell from my face, and I swallowed as I felt her presence leave.
Then there was an orb of blue, accompanied by the tinkling of wind chimes, that winked out above the roof of the trailer. And as it left, I heard the singing of my mother—a sound I had not heard since a young age, when her smiles came more frequently and she hadn’t yet started working at the diner.
Some figures remained, and they circled around me, though they kept their distance. And I knew this was the day I had felt coming and had dreaded for months, had already grieved over for months.
When child services came, I was sitting on the front porch, my suitcase ready and face dry of tears.
Chapter 10 - Sodom
A woman with high-heeled boots and leather gloves led me away from my trailer and into the back seat of a car still fresh with new car scent. The police had already taped off the lot before spending half an hour questioning me about the details of the deaths over a cup of steaming hot cocoa.
“Son,” said the chief, “we’re going to need to know exactly what happened. Can you describe what you saw?”
“Nothing,” I said, taking another sip of my cocoa. The officer had sent one of his subordinates to fetch it after my uncontrollable shivering caused my answers to come out in garbled stuttering.
“’Scuse me young man, but we are going to need some answers. Surely you saw something.”
“Nope.”
“You blind or something?”
“Yes, officer, I am.”
There was a long pause, followed by an uncomfortable cough from the officer.
“Right, sorry. Can you share any details of the situation?” I heard him him scratching away at a piece of paper. I imagine his face flushed.
“Sure. Dad went crazy, came back from some party drunker than usual and pissed. Mother called him a worthless sack of shit, which he was. They got into it, mother started crying. Father snapped. Shot them both. Anything else I can tell you, officer, so you can undo this situation and bring my parents back to life?”
The officer tapped his pen and sighed.
“No, son. That will do. We’ll do everything we can for you in this situation.”
“I’m sure you will.” The words came out bitter as he retreated. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but that did not change what had happened. From behind the officer came a voice—feminine and full of confidence, deeper than most women I had ever heard, and with an authority that reminded me of Mrs. Derundi.
“Officer, I believe that’s enough questions for him. I’ll be taking Caleb from here.”
“Who exactly are you, miss?”
“I’m his godmother, and well within my rights to take custody of the boy.”
I heard her zip open a purse, withdraw an object, and hand it to the officer.
“Y
ou’ll find everything you need to know in that envelope, officer. I advise that you follow it to the letter.”
I heard the seam of the envelope being ripped open, then heard a whistle from the officer.
“Pleasure doing business with you, miss. You’re sure about this last bit on here?”
“Positive. Or would you rather hand the envelope back to me?”
“He’s all yours,” responded the officer, then walked away. The woman gripped me by the shoulders, pushing me to an automobile.
“Front seat,” said the woman when I opened the back car door, “we need to talk.”
I climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door behind me as the engine revved to life. Heat poured out of the vents, and I felt my seat beginning to warm underneath me. By far, this was the nicest car I had ever been in. This one had heat.
“I know what you did back there,” said the woman in her low voice.
“What are you talking about?” My arms were crossed over my chest, feet crossed under my seat, and voice cross with indignation.
“I know your stepfather didn’t shoot himself. He wasn’t the type. And your mother wouldn't have let him take her out. She was too strong for that.”
“What do you know of my mother?”
“A lot, in fact. But no, somebody killed them. And you’re not telling the police who it is. Why are you protecting them?”
“I’m not,” I spat. “Jail is too good for him. He deserves to stay here. Along with the rest of them.”
“Does he now?” She stopped the car and reached across to touch my shoulder.
“Caleb, is there anyone here that you think doesn’t deserve to stay here? Anybody you would like to take with you?”
“No. Wait, yes. There is one.”
Ten minutes later, Shankey’s tail wagged against the back seat of the car, his particular odor replacing the new car scent with a blend of wet dog and bad breath. He had came running to my call, knowing the voice that had been feeding him for weeks. He bounded into the car and quickly sniffed out some peppermints that were under the seats—they did little to improve his breath.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Someplace where you’ll be cared for and given a proper education.”
“I already was cared for. And Mrs. Derundi already was giving me an education.”
“Caleb, you know you can’t go back. And with your condition, you’ll be needing specialized care.”
I frowned but said nothing more. I knew she was right, and she knew that everything I said was out of spite.
Liz, as she had introduced herself, pressed down on the accelerator, and we sped away from the trailer park. Beside her I ate a pack of pretzels that she had pulled from her glove compartment, leaving a salty taste in my mouth. I never looked back.
I sensed what was coming. Pete would pay.
Chapter 11 - Away
We stopped at a restaurant three hours into the drive after Liz heard my stomach rumbling.
Liz rolled down her window, allowing a barrage of snowflakes to sweep into the car.
“Leave the keys in the ignition,” said a voice from outside as my car door opened.
“Take care of her,” said Liz, “she’s my baby.”
“Of course, madam. Not a scratch.”
Even without sight, I could tell this was unlike any establishment I had ever experienced.
“Coat and gloves, madam?” asked a doorman as we entered and warm air, contrasting the winter night, billowed out.
“No, thanks, I’ll leave them on. Table for two,” Liz responded.
“As you wish, madam, this way.”
He directed us toward the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen, from which the smells of garlic, herbs, and various dishes too expensive for me to ever imagine wafted out. Weeks of diminished appetites and half dinners collapsed as my mouth began to water.
“Order whatever you want,” Liz said, settling into a chair. It was late, and the place was deserted save for the waiters counting the minutes until the end of their shift. She drummed her fingers on the table, and I noticed that she had still not removed her leather gloves, nor had I heard her take off her coat.
“What’s on the menu?” I asked.
“Right. Let’s see. There’s foie gras, filet mignon, trout almond dean—any of that sound good?”
“Do they have burgers?”
“Ah, no. Not exactly. They have steak, do you want that?”
“Sure, I’ll take that. No onions though, I hate onions on the bun.”
“Bun? No, there’s no bun on this. I’ll go ahead and order for you.”
The waiter arrived, and Liz began ordering.
“I’ll have a vodka, on the rocks. Top shelf–I’ll be able to tell if you sub it out for something cheap. Chilled as cold as you can get it. He’ll have a lemonade, appetizer of calamari, and the filet mignon with puréed potatoes. Crème brûlée dessert. I’m not hungry.”
“Yes madam,” said the waiter, and he shuffled away.
At the time, I understood nothing of what Liz ordered me, but I could tell it was an abundance of food. And judging by the smell, I knew I would like it.
Our drinks arrived, and Liz began to speak.
“Due to the inevitable absence of your parents, I will be your new guardian. I have decided that the best possible place for you at the moment is a school known as Elm’s Ridge, in Philly. They’ve had disability cases before and handled them well in the past.”
“Glad you gave me an option,” I responded.
“At this school,” she continued, ignoring my comment, “you will receive a better education than anyone else in the country. In my opinion, schooling nowadays is a lost art, but they seem to have brought it back from the dead. You’ll receive a well rounded education—math, sciences, literature, history, and religion. I have already contacted the headmaster and instructed him upon which classes will be most beneficial to you. In addition, you will have a private tutor to supplement your knowledge in areas you may have fallen behind.”
“I’m not behind,” I objected, preparing an argument that was eradicated from my thoughts as the waiter placed hot calamari on the table.
Liz sipped on her vodka as I downed the appetizer, leaving only crumbs left on the plate. It reminded me of a mixture of chicken nuggets, left out overnight so they were a little chewy, and pizza sauce. As these were two of the major components of my diet, I found calamari to be acceptable to my taste buds.
The steak was not nearly so good. Like Liz mentioned, there was no bun, plus there was no cheese. I left that halfway for the mashed potatoes, which I found to be much softer than the variety included in tv dinners.
“Like it?” asked Liz as I started on the crème brûlée.
“Tastes like they tried to cook ice cream. It tastes like vanilla, is it white?”
“White like pudding, but blackened like a blowtorch on the top. Soft on the inside, hard on the outside, but sweet through and through.”
With each round of food, Liz ordered another vodka, plus an extra one while waiting for dessert. But unlike my stepfather, whose words began to morph into each other around his third drink, Liz’s speech stayed sharp and unhindered through her fourth.
When I finished Liz rustled in her purse for some bills and left them on the table before the waiter had a chance to deliver us our check. Within moments her car engine purred back to life and we were on our way, snow crunching underneath the tires. Shankey was devouring his own filet mignon that Liz had brought to him in a to-go box upon my request.
The car ride lasted another hour and a half, and in the last thirty minutes, Liz began asking questions.
“Caleb, how did you become blind?”
“I was born blind,” I said
“You may have been able to lie to that officer earlier, but I’m no idiot. You asked me earlier if your dessert was white, and someone born blind would neither know the difference nor care.”
“Two
years ago, then. I fell and hit my head funny, and like a light switch, my vision went out.”
“And where were you when this happened?”
“The hospital, visiting my grandmother before she died.”
“Ah, yes, I see. How do you feel about being blind?”
“Are you kidding? I hate it. I used to be able to do so much on my own. I could explore, run, bike, or whatever I wanted. I could get away. But now I can’t. I feel like something is always trying to trip me up. And it would be better if I was completely blind, but I still see—,” I stopped myself, realizing I had almost mentioned my visions for the first time to another person.
“Go on,” she prodded.
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing when you see things that aren’t there? Nothing when they haunt your waking dreams? When they follow you, and you know that they’re waiting there, waiting for you to slip up so that they can pull you under? And every day you try to convince yourself they aren’t real, but you know they are, know you’ve always felt them there but now you can actually see them. I wouldn’t call that nothing.”
I swallowed.
“How, how did you know?” I asked as I felt the car pull into a parking lot and Liz turn the key off.
“Because I see them too,” she said, opening my door, “and they are very real, but they’ll never find you here.”
I then asked the question that had been lingering on my tongue for the past few hours, but I had never asked out of feigned disinterest.
“Liz, who are you?”
“An acquaintance of your father. Your real one. And a friend.”
We walked up a short stone path, with salt that crackled underneath my shoes. Around me I could hear cars. Behind us Christmas music played, and I could smell the mixture of garbage and cooking food that crowded cities exhumed. Shankey trotted beside me, and his breath warmed my palm.
“Caleb,” she said as she opened the door to the school, “don’t you ever take that necklace off.”
Eden's Eye (The Gates Book 1) Page 4
