“So you embarrassed Ramirez, ay?” Stu asked. Kitts could tell he was forcing his tone to be light, hoping Kitts wasn’t still mad at him. Good, Kitts thought. As long as he stays worried, I’m okay.
“Yeah,” whispered Kitts. Follow the scolding with a little soothing, he thought.
“What’d you say, hey?”
Kitts smiled as he remembered, then let it drop since stretching his face even that much caused him pain. “I said he had a small dick,” he said. “In front of his woman.”
“Ooooo,” started Stu, and Kitts shushed him down. Stu went on laughing, but Kitts could tell he had his face shoved in a pillow.
Jesus, if he don’t get us both beat for talking . . .
Kitts cocked his ear toward the cell bars, listening for any echo of footsteps on the stone floor outside. After a minute Stu caught his breath and said, “Oh man, you good. You got balls wi’dat one, Kitts. Oh man, balls wi’dat one.”
Kitts half smiled again, ignoring the pain this time. The beating was almost worth it. Even if halfpennies like Stu were the only ones impressed, it was almost worth it.
He lay on his bunk, staring up at the gray stone. He heard the wheels of Stu’s brain cranking to come up with more conversation. He could hear the little gerbil churning away in there, wheel spinning, axle squeaking from lack of maintenance.
“Well, don’t worry ’bout de beatin,” said Stu. “It wurd it to get ole Sarge in public like dat.” Kitts could hear the self-satisfied smile. He cleared his throat, though not too loudly, so Stu could hear for effect.
“You ever been beat, Stu?”
Stu had been in the joint forever. He’d been beat when beating didn’t make the news exposés. He’d been beat when beating was the way you woke inmates up in the morning.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I seen my share.”
“Then shut the fuck up,” said Kitts. “Next time you take on Ramirez. Tag, you’re it.”
“I sorreh, Kitts, I didn’t mean nuthin . . .”
Kitts blew out a warm, soothing breath. Best not be too hard on him, he thought. Else they find out about those kids and you’ll get more than a baton from Ramirez. The fucking bastard. All of ’em. Every last goddamned one. Including this shit-for-brains here.
“Go to sleep, Stu,” he said. “It don’t mean nothin. Go on to sleep.”
“Yeah, okay,” whispered Stu, as quietly as he’d spoken in their whole conversation. “G’night, Kitts. But you got balls, man, you got—”
“Yeah, yeah, g’night, Stu.”
He heard Stu turn over in his bunk and exhale once, long and loud. Kitts stared up at the blackness above him, tried to make out the cracks in the ceiling he knew were there. Just for something to do to pass the time because now, thanks to Numbnuts Metzger, he wasn’t sleepy. Stu’s mention of Kitts’s other reason for being in the joint had riled him, got the juices flowing again. The throbbing ache had finally beaten back the painkillers. His mouth pounded.
I’m getting out of here, he thought. Come hell or high water, I’m getting out of here. A little patience, a little planning, that’s all it’ll take. I’m getting the fuck out of here.
He thought about turning over to relieve the pressure on his back, decided against it, and closed his eyes.
And I’m gonna kill that motherfucker Ramirez. And that cunt he’s with. If it’s the last fucking thing I ever do.
Chapter 12
Theron was walking—bounding, really—ahead of David. Every few steps he would turn around, throw his hands up and say, “Oh man, that rocked!”
For his part, David was still shivering. He thought about the hairlipped maw of Old Suzie standing over him, her great bulk blocking his escape, her iron grip clutching his cape, reeling him in
(you’re pretty small, boy)
like a fish on a line, closer and closer
(but I won’t throw you back, no sir)
until finally the material had ripped and he’d pulled free and run for his life onto the porch
creakcreakcreak
and into the night.
“Did that rock or what?” Theron’s voice seemed to plead for a little support. A little recognition. Hey, buddy, help me out here. Did that rock or what?
“Yeah,” said David. “I guess so.”
“You guess so?” Theron stopped dead in his tracks and David walked into him.
David rolled his eyes. I should’ve just played along. Like with Dad.
Turning around, Theron said, “Man, that was the most fun I’ve had in this shithole of a town in a long time!”
David nodded, looking down at his shoes. They had mud on them. Old Suzie’s mud. “Yeah, I g—I mean, yeah, it was a blast!” He tried to animate the word to make it sound like what it said.
“So, what’s up with you?” asked Theron. His voice had a sarcastic quality to it, like he was pissed David had dared to spoil the most fun he’d had in this shithole of a town in a long time.
“Dude, I don’t know,” said David, dropping the pretense. “But that old woman scares the living shit outta me. Always has. And when she had hold of me and was pulling me toward her—dude, I could smell her breath. It smelled like cigarettes and beer, pouring out on me like she was trying to gas me or something. I can’t explain it better’n’that. But I don’t ever want to go back and do it again. Scared the shit outta me. I’m telling you, I came this close to being Batman stew. I just know it.”
Theron looked at him for a moment. He had his Spider-Man mask on top of his head again, like a hat. He cocked his head to one side, and it reminded David of Queenie. Then Theron burst out laughing. It wasn’t slow in coming. It didn’t bubble up. It gushed out of him like a dam bursting.
David stood there and let it flow over him, his head lowering, his eyes looking out from under his brows at his friend. “It’s not funny,” he said softly.
Theron draped one hand onto David’s shoulder for support, as if he might fall over otherwise. David sloughed off the hand. “Aw . . . come on, man . . . you’re not serious?” Theron managed between breaths.
“You know I’m serious, you fucker.” David’s voice was barely audible. Like it was challenging Theron’s ears to hear it.
The other boy’s laughter tapered off after a few more jerky breaths. His Joker’s grin faded into a stern wall. “Hey, don’t call me a fucker. Just because you’re a coward.”
David stared at him. Coward? Did he just call me a coward? “Why not? That’s what you are.” David’s voice was heavier, somehow, though still low and slow. A lion stretching a rope taut. “Fucker.”
Theron pushed him once in the chest.
“Don’t push me,” said David. “Fucker.”
Theron took a swing. David ducked, wondering somewhat seriously, How would Batman handle this? Theron’s weight carried him through. David caught his friend’s swinging arm and used the other boy’s momentum to turn him around, wrapping Theron’s arm behind his back. With Theron off-balance and facing him side-on, David planted the sole of his right foot in the back of Theron’s right knee, forcing the hinge to buckle just like he’d done more than once to ornery folding table legs at school picnics. Before he knew it, Theron was on the ground, screaming “Heeeyyyyyyy,” and trying in vain to get up. But David’s weight was on him now, so whatever the other boy did only brought pain to his knee or his right shoulder. “Heeyyyy, get off me, you shithead! That hurts!”
“I’ll get off you when you say you’re sorry,” said David matter of factly. It was only now dawning on him what he’d done. He hadn’t even realized he’d put Theron on the ground till he’d demanded an apology. Then, suddenly being quite aware of what he’d done, he had no idea what to do next.
“Screw you!” said Theron in a burst of prideful testosterone.
Now it had sunk in. He had Theron down. And Theron was pissed. And David was scared again.
“You weren’t caught, Theron,” he said trying to explain himself. “You didn’t smell her breath. Yo
u didn’t see inside her mouth.”
The pain was getting to Theron now. “All right, all right! I’m sorry, dude. Let me up, goddammit!”
David released him and backed up, ready for the fight to continue. He really hadn’t meant to hurt Theron. But he couldn’t stand that goddamned laughing at him. Couldn’t stand it.
Theron pushed himself up off the ground, massaging his shoulder. “Damn, David! You really hurt me, man!”
David put out his hands in front of him to ward off the coming fight. “I’m sorry, dude. You shouldn’t have laughed at me.”
Theron stared at him a moment. David waited for the real fight to start. And he wasn’t sure if he’d fight back, either. He wasn’t sure he deserved the right to fight back. He really hadn’t meant to hurt his friend.
“All right, man, I’m sorry. Geez. Remind me to stay on your good side.”
David exhaled.
“I’m going home,” Theron announced, turning toward his house.
David looked after him, tempted to apologize again, then grew mad at himself for being such a pussy. Theron had laughed at him.
He walked the rest of the way home. David hated feeling like he was two people all the time. One, the boy he wanted to be, tough and strong and nice and thoughtful, all at the same time. The other: angry, just angry, everything about him red with rage and ready to fight over anything. Maybe he should’ve gone as The Hulk, he thought. Bruce Banner never remembered what he did when he got angry and went crazy either. He thought again about attacking Theron and how he didn’t even remember how it happened, just remembered standing there, unsure what to do next. The Hulk had gone back into hiding, and David in his Batman costume had come back, scared and unsure. And that just made him angry again, this time at himself and not even knowing why.
He stalked quietly up to his house, making his way through the garage. Tiny padding sounds came at him, and he hurried the large garage door down, trying to be as quiet as he could. Behind him a growl sounded.
“It’s me, girl,” he said. “Shhhh.” Queenie began wagging her tail. Her mouth dropped open in a welcoming pant as she looked up at him with those big eyes. He bent down to pet her on the head and scratched behind her ears. She took it in with a moan of contentment. Petting her always made him feel better, Hulk or no Hulk.
“You still got food?” he asked, and she perked up her ears and turned her head slightly at the question. It was like she’d trained herself to respond in certain ways when the humans made certain sounds and used certain tones. This sound was one she recognized. She wagged her tail faster.
David walked through the door leading from the garage to the small breezeway that connected it to the house. He noticed her empty bowl, just outside the back door. Picking it up, he dipped it in the bin of Ken-L Ration dry food. She waved her tail more excitedly at the sound. As he set the bowl down, it made a satisfyingly heavy, grainy landing on the cement.
“Water?”
But she was too busy snuffling the contents of the bowl. She looked up at him, seemingly disappointed.
“No scraps tonight, girl,” he said. “You’re stuck with what you’ve got.”
She exhaled rather loudly, then thrust her snout into the bowl again.
David walked over to the hose and began to fill the large water bowl. He hadn’t remembered to do this before running off to light firecrackers under Old Suzie’s broomstick.
Dumbass, his brain said in his father’s voice. First things first and second things second, and that’s if you have time for them. This was another of his father’s life lessons that plagued him from time to time. He knew Queenie was his first priority compared to Halloween shenanigans, as his father would’ve called them. But sometimes he forgot.
Dumbass.
He finished filling the tub and turned the water off. Fed. Watered. Ears ruffled. And it was late. “Time to brave the old man, girl,” he said as he walked to the back door. Being busy with more important things, she didn’t raise her head.
As he walked into the kitchen, he heard the television going in the living room. He glanced at the oven clock, which read 9:38. By now his father would be on his second six-pack, which meant he didn’t leave his chair except to urinate and go to bed, right after the sports on the ten o’clock news. David walked past the oven, turned left immediately, and went down the short hallway to his room. He wanted to get out of his costume before his father heard him and came looking for him on one of his bathroom jaunts. If his father found the costume ripped, he’d take David to task for not being more careful, for being wasteful. Then he’d take him to task for buying the thing in the first place. His father’s parents had grown up in the Depression, and like all Depression-era children, thought it better to eat a rotten apple than let it go to waste, because you just never knew if you’d have food tomorrow.
David made it to his room unmolested. Base! he always thought at this point in the game of hide-and-seek he often played with the old man. When he made it to his room he felt safe, though he’d learned more than once that the feeling was just an illusion. But at least in this house, his room felt the safest. The most his.
He walked in, shut the door, and turned on the light. He hoped his father wouldn’t need to pee before he got his costume off and his bedclothes on. Otherwise, he might notice the closed door and light underneath, and then he’d just come barreling through it without knocking and lecture David on airflow and how the electric bill was too high because David had to have his goddamned privacy. Old Man Jackson would say it in a tone strikingly similar to how the kids at school, including David, taunted Regina Va-jeena. But for now, he could hear a rerun of an old show his father loved called Hunter mumbling through the door from the living room. As usual, the old man seemed to prefer the volume up louder when he drank.
David shed the Batman costume quickly, not much caring if he ripped it any more in the process. His father had opened all the windows in the house, so the airflow thing might be a real problem if he had to pee anytime soon. The cool air of October’s final evening kissed David’s cheek as he stood there only in his underwear. It tickled the sweat he’d worked up in Old Suzie’s house and the fight with Theron. He opened his closet and sifted through the huge box of comic books (Batman, of course, but also Superman, the entire Justice League, and his personal favorite, the reprints of the late 1960s’ Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos). He lifted a stack of those, went one level deeper and pulled back the one issue each of Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler Theron had given him last year as a birthday present—which he guarded dearer than just about anything else he had—and stored the costume underneath. He would dispose of it in the morning. His father never went through his closet, so it should be safe till he could get rid of it.
Smirking at himself, he pulled out an Incredible Hulk T-shirt and put it on. He decided he’d better change his soggy underwear, which he peeled off and tossed on a pile of dirty clothes. Something in the back of his mind suggested he might’ve showered before putting on a fresh pair of underwear but, oh well, too late now.
David looked around. All the evidence seemed to be taken care of. And wonder of wonders, his room actually looked in good order. Let the old man bitch about that, he thought. He turned on the black-and-white television in his room and found the tail end of an A-Team rerun. With that providing light to see by, David went back to his door and turned off his room light, then cracked the door slowly. Hunter’s husky voice filled the house, then two gunshots. He cocked his ear for his father’s tread, which sometimes he could hear even on the carpet. David particularly appreciated the air conditioner’s intake vent in the hallway. He could tell from the change in the airflow when his father walked past. That was his two-second warning. Tonight, of course, the A/C was off and the windows were open. “Let mother nature do what she’s supposed to do,” his father said when it was cool like this. “Save me a buck or two for a goddamned change.”
But the old man was nowhere to be heard. David
retreated to his bed to lie down, staring intently at the screen. His cover was secure. If his father walked in now, there was nothing out of place. On base! he thought to himself again.
He watched the jeeps fly through the air and the A-Team shoot about 10,000 rounds of machine-gun fire at the bad guys without ever hitting anyone. He always wondered how trained, elite soldiers could be such bad shots. After the show ended, he got up to go to the bathroom and used that as an excuse for reconnaissance on the old man. The television in the living room was still blaring, slivers of light dancing on the ceiling and carpet. He closed the door to the bathroom and took a leak. When he was finished, he opened the door again slowly and cocked an ear. The ten o’clock overture had begun with a man’s deep voice introducing the newscasters. His father must’ve fallen asleep. Usually he grabbed a last beer from the fridge to finish off the evening. Yep, he was asleep. David could hear his rumbling snores as the music faded out and a woman started talking about the president and Congress. So it was a “B”-night. Good, David thought. Could’ve been worse.
Recognizing patterns, David had learned to categorize his father’s behavior. An “A”-night would’ve seen that final beer lasting through the sports; then his father would’ve raised himself up out of his chair, paused to fart or burp or both—it varied—and stumbled to bed. A “B”-night meant he was already asleep by the time the news was on and might very well sleep till morning in the chair, or at least until his bladder woke him up. A “C”-night meant he’d gotten bored with the television fare and decided to amuse himself in other ways. David didn’t like C-nights. On C-nights, David thought of his father as the devil incarnate, sent down by God to punish the boy for his sins. So by comparison, B-nights were fine, although sleeping in his chair often hurt his father’s back, and that made him irritable the next day. A-nights were great . . . David didn’t have to talk to him at all—also a bonus of B-nights—and his father was usually able to sleep off the beer, until he woke up early the next morning and started again before heading to work.
Shadows Burned In Page 14
