“Hey, don’t speak to your mother like that,” his dad said, deepening his voice. “She’s only asking because she cares.”
Toby really wasn’t in the mood for a lecture or an argument, so he said, “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
“Too much basketball,” his mom said with a kind smile.
Toby shrugged. “Yeah.”
“You do look tired,” his dad said. “Okay, you’re free to go.”
Thank you!
Toby stood up from the chair.
“Good night,” his mom said.
“Night, champ,” his dad said, turning back to the TV. The commercial break was over. “Get a good rest. Big day tomorrow. Have to set up the tent.”
“See you guys in the morning,” Toby muttered and he shuffled out of the icy-cool family room, up the stairs and into his stuffy bedroom (while the family room, living room and kitchen benefited from air conditioning, the upstairs relied on the old fashioned method of cooling—opening the window).
It was true; he was tired, but he wasn’t sure how much sleep he would be getting tonight—he had a lot on his mind, aside from the campout tomorrow. There was Dwayne and the water bombing incident, Mr. Joseph and his blood-drinking, chicken eating ways, and of course the unsettling events at Jinks Field; but mostly it was Gloria who occupied his mind. He knew he would lie awake in bed daydreaming about the events of today, wondering what, if anything, might happen during the next three months of summer vacation.
Toby jerked awake, momentarily confused. It didn’t take him long to realize that he was in his bedroom. He lay in the darkness, heart pounding, until he was orientated enough to sit up.
What woke me up? The dream?
In the dream he had been in darkness. He had felt around—cold, hard wood. He realized he was in a box of some sort; a box that was as narrow as it was high. He had pushed, tried kicking, but he had little room for movement, and nothing gave way. He had screamed, but no sound came out. He was trapped, and then someone grabbed his hand, and that’s when he woke.
Toby wiped his brow. His forearm came away wet.
He turned and the red numbers on his digital clock told him it was 2:28.
He was about to lay back down and try and get back to sleep, when he heard the sound of an engine outside; a deep, familiar growl.
Toby drew in breath. His genitals shriveled and his brain screamed one word: Dwayne!
Toby hopped out of bed and, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, stood at the bedroom window and peeled away the curtains.
Moonlight shone in the clear, starry sky, a pearly orb that streaked light into Toby’s room. Any other night and he would’ve thought it a beautiful sight, but it wasn’t the moon Toby was interested in. It was the car, cruising up and down Pineview, like a shark stalking its prey.
A blue Chevy, the white stripes that ran along its hood and trunk dull gray in the moonlit night.
Bruce.
Toby’s insides went all squirmy, perspiration rained down his face and body—there was no air drifting in through the open window to cool him.
Shit, Toby thought. Dwayne found out I was involved in the water bombing, and now he’s come to pay me back!
Should I wake up Dad? Call the police?
But when the Chevy stopped a few houses down, on the other side of the street in front of Mr. Joseph’s, Toby’s worries eased and he remained by the window, still cautious, but curious.
The Chevy’s passenger door opened. Scotty Hammond hopped out, then three more figures followed.
One was Sam Bickley. The scrawny, buck-toothed high school senior was wearing dark shirt and pants, similar to Scotty, and in one hand he was holding a cage, which contained a clearly distraught chicken. The bird was savagely flapping its wings and hopping around inside the cage. In his other hand, Sam was carrying an axe.
The other two figures that had emerged from the car, also wearing dark clothing, were Debbie Mayfour and Leah Wilmont. Both girls appeared to be holding small canisters of some sort.
Oh no, Toby thought. What’s Leah doing with these guys?
The driver’s side window remained rolled up, and Toby pictured Dwayne sitting behind the wheel, dragging on a Marlboro.
As Sam and the girls hurried across Mr. Joseph’s front yard, Scotty reached into the car and when he emerged he was holding some kind of long, thin box. He placed the box on the roof of the Chevy, then he leaned back against the car and struck up a cigarette.
Debbie and Leah crept up to opposite ends of Mr. Joseph’s house and, shaking the canisters, started spray painting over the white walls of Mr. Joseph’s house.
While the girls went about their business, Sam opened the cage and pulled out the chicken.
Toby’s stomach twisted.
No way. Sam’s a weird guy, but surely he isn’t that sick.
It seemed he was.
Sam crouched, and holding the chicken down on Mr. Joseph’s lawn, drew back the axe and with a single motion, chopped off its head.
Toby flinched. The headless bird twitched and flapped its wings, blood gushing from its neck-stump, until finally it lay dead on the bloodstained grass. Toby noticed Leah had stopped and was watching Sam; Toby could almost hear her thinking, How in the hell did I ever get mixed up in this?
Sam crept up the porch steps and placed the headless chicken by the front door. He dangled the head through the metal bars of the screen door, and then hurried back to the car. Leah and Debbie followed soon after. Once they were back in the Chevy, Scotty took the box from the roof and started throwing small white objects, and it came as no surprise to Toby to learn that those small objects were eggs.
He pelted them at the dilapidated house hard and fast; egg missiles that smashed against the house in slimy yellow bursts.
When the porch light flicked on, Scotty ducked into the Chevy, along with the carton of eggs, and the car sped away, tires squealing.
The front door opened, and old Mr. Joseph, wearing cream-colored pants and a white shirt, shuffled out. He gazed down at the dead chicken oozing blood on the boards, then at the head hung through the screen door. He stepped around the chicken, walked down the steps and shuffled to the edge of his lawn. He looked both ways down the street, looking almost comical due to his crooked neck, like his neck was locked in the one position, and he had to move his whole body.
Realizing there was nothing to see, that whoever had carried out this act of vandalism was gone, the old man turned towards his house and examined the mass of broken eggs that littered the lawn and peppered the front of the house, windows and even the roof.
The old man’s shoulders slumped when his eyes fell on the areas where Leah and Debbie had written the graffiti. Gathering up the dead chicken and its head, Mr. Joseph headed back into his house.
Toby remained at his bedroom window until the porch light flicked off, then he hopped back into bed, where he remained awake for a good twenty minutes before finally drifting off to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
It was only a shade after eight o’clock, and already Toby was showered and dressed. Usually on Saturday mornings he didn’t get up till at least nine, shuffling downstairs in his pajamas, eyes half-open and crusty from sleep, hair sticking up like he had stuck his fingers in a light socket.
But he’d had a restless night, so at around seven-thirty, wide awake and unable to fall back to sleep, he decided to get up and get ready. His restlessness was mostly due to the events of last night, but he couldn’t deny that his excitement over getting ready for the campout was also part of the reason.
Also, he was still plagued by the dream.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped, of being confined within a dark space and unable to escape. The feeling lingered with him like a bad smell.
“You’re up early, champ,” his dad said when Toby entered the kitchen. The Saturday paper was spread open on the table in front of him, open to the sports section. Next to the paper sat a plate of waffles and
a mug of black coffee.
“Have a good night’s sleep?” his mom asked. She was sitting opposite his dad, munching on her usual breakfast of toast and honey, sipping a cup of tea. Like Toby, she disdained coffee. To him, it tasted like runny, bitter mud.
Toby considered answering “No” and telling his parents about what he had seen Dwayne and the others do, but decided against it. His mom would only worry, and that might hurt the camping tonight. He could hear her now: There will be no fooling around after eleven o’clock. You didn’t get a good night’s sleep, young man. So there’ll be no late night talking!
They were bound to hear about it anyway and besides, no real harm was done (aside from the killing of an innocent chicken). Also, Frankie’s sister was involved, and he didn’t want to get her into trouble.
So Toby answered “Yeah” to his mom’s question as he headed to the refrigerator. There, he took out the orange juice and milk, poured himself a glass of juice, and took the juice and pitcher of milk over to the breakfast table. He sat down and grabbing the packet of frosted Cheerios that was already out on the table, tipped a mountainous level of the sugary cereal into the bowl that had been set for him, then coated it with icy cold milk. Lastly, he spooned a heap of sugar over the cereal.
“Isn’t that cereal sweet enough without sugar?” his dad said, mouth full of waffles.
“You’ll rot your teeth,” his mom said.
“I will not,” Toby said and shoved a heaped spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth. The cereal was sufficiently sweet. He washed it down with some juice.
“Toby, I was speaking with Suzie this morning, she told me about some trouble last night, over at Jinks Field. Do you know anything about it?”
Toby shrugged. “No.”
“Well, apparently the police picked up a bunch of teenagers. They were drinking, bottles were smashed all over the ground, and the kids had been driving their cars all over the car park, causing all sorts of mess.”
“Haven’t heard anything about it,” Toby said. “Did anyone get arrested?”
His mom shook her head. “Suzie didn’t know, but she said most of the kids got away. Must’ve been a big party.” She sighed. “I worry sometimes about the kids of today. No respect for public property, and too much alcohol.”
Toby’s dad huffed. “So some kids were drinking and playing around in their cars. That’s nothing. Back in my day...”
“David,” his mom said, shaking her head. “You’ll give Toby bad ideas.”
“All right, all right,” his dad said. “So, you ready for the big campout?” he asked.
“You bet,” Toby said, and the words had just passed his lips when there was a rapping at the back door.
“Gee, I wonder who that could be,” his dad said, and forked the last of the waffles into his mouth.
Toby remained seated and continued to crunch away at his cereal. He figured his mom, who was sitting closest to the door, would get up and let Frankie in.
But his mom remained seated as the knocking continued. Toby glanced at his parents. Both were trying, though not very successfully, to refrain from grinning.
Annoyed at the interruption of his breakfast, Toby stood up. “I’ll get it,” he huffed.
“Would you?” his mom said. “I’m still in my dressing gown, and I haven’t a clue as to who it could be. Why, it could be George Clooney for all I know.”
“Or Catherine Zeta-Jones,” his dad added.
Shaking his head, Toby ambled over to the back door, flicked the lock, then swung it open.
“What took ya so long?” Frankie said, panting. His face was a round red ball, teeming with sweat.
“No one wanted to let you in,” Toby said and he turned and headed back to the table.
“Very funny,” Frankie said. He picked up the backpack and sleeping bag that were sitting on the ground and stepped inside.
“Another atypically early riser,” his dad said. “What is this, morning of the living dead?”
“And how are you this morning, Frankie?” his mom asked.
“Ah, you know. Can’t complain.”
“Then don’t,” his dad said, sipping his coffee. “We get enough of that living with Toby.”
Toby ignored his father’s remark and continued to plow through the gradually diminishing mountain of Cheerios. Frankie dumped his bulging backpack and sleeping bag on the kitchen floor and headed straight for the fridge. He flung open the door and pulled out the bottle of Coke.
“Yeah, help yourself,” Toby mumbled through a mouth full of Cheerios.
“Thanks, I think I will.” Frankie took down a glass from the cupboard and filled it with the cola drink. “Damn, it’s already hot out there. I’m so thirsty I could drink a gallon of donkey piss.”
“That’s just charming, Frankie,” his dad said. “This coffee tastes so much better now.”
Frankie grinned and took a long drink of Coke, draining the glass in one hit.
“You know, you should be drinking water when you’re thirsty,” his mom said. “It’s much better for you than that sugary stuff.”
Frankie burped. “I can’t stand water. It has no taste. I hate things that have no taste.” He set the glass on the counter, then wandered back to his bags. “Where do you want these, Mrs. Fairchild?”
“Just put them in Toby’s room,” his mom said.
Frankie nodded, scooped up his bags and sauntered out of the kitchen, into the downstairs hallway and started up the stairs.
“You’re in a bit of a grumpy mood this morning,” his mom said, turning to Toby once Frankie was out of hearing range. She took a bite of her toast. “Are you sure you got enough sleep last night?”
“Yes. I slept fine.”
“Then are you feeling all right?”
Leave me alone. Jeez!
“I’m fine.”
“Well you can’t blame it on PMS,” his dad said with a chuckle.
“David,” his mom sighed.
“Nothing is wrong,” Toby said. “Honest.”
His mom patted his left hand. “Okay. If you say so.”
Heavy footsteps thudded throughout the house as Frankie made his way back down the stairs.
“Is it just me, or is that kid getting bigger by the day?” his dad said.
“David,” his mom snapped. “Don’t be so rude. He might hear you.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right, Dad,” Toby said, smiling for the first time that morning.
“Both of you! Cut it out.”
Frankie practically skipped into the kitchen; it seemed he was a lot happier with a belly full of Coke and no bags to carry.
“Come and sit down,” his mom said.
As Frankie took a seat between Toby and his dad, his mom said, “I suppose you’ve had breakfast?”
Frankie nodded, and when his eyes fell on Toby’s bowl of cereal, his eyes widened. “Jesus, that’s more than I have.”
“Yeah. Disgusting, isn’t it?” his dad said.
“Yeah, well, speaking of disgusting, did ya hear what happened to old Mr. Joseph’s house?” Frankie said.
Heat swept through Toby’s body. His heart began to pound.
Why did he have to bring it up now? In front of my parents?
He knew they were going to hear about it sooner or later, but he would rather it have been later, when he wasn’t around.
“What happened?” his dad asked.
“Somebody egged his house. There were eggshells all over his front yard. Also, there was graffiti all over his house.” Frankie grinned, as if remembering some dirty joke.
“That’s horrible,” his mom said, a frown creasing her face. “Why don’t kids just leave that poor man alone?”
“How do you know it was kids?” Toby said.
“Yeah, maybe it was that old bum,” Frankie said, eyeing Toby.
“You mean that derelict everyone’s been talking about?” his dad said.
“Now how do you know he’s a derelict, David?” his mom sai
d. “Have you seen him?”
“Well, no, but from all accounts, he looks like a bum.”
“Probably just a drifter, someone backpacking across the country.”
“He sure looked like a bum,” Frankie remarked.
His mom frowned. “Have you seen him?”
“Yeah, me and Toby saw him down the street yesterday when we were sitting in front of Barb’s. He looked dirty, he carried this old bag; he looked homeless.”
“Well what did he do?”
“Nothing,” Toby said. “He just walked past us.”
“He was funny looking, though,” Frankie said.
Toby tried to get Frankie’s attention, wanting him to stop this talk; it was causing his mom needless worry. But Frankie was too caught up in the moment to notice Toby staring at him.
“Funny, how?” his dad said.
Frankie shrugged. “Just...strange. Kinda like Mr. Joseph.”
Toby shivered, remembering the way the stranger had looked at him. He hoped no one noticed his tremor. “Anyway, like I was saying, why do people always blame these pranks on kids?”
“Because they always do things like that,” his mom answered. “Especially to poor Mr. Joseph.”
“He ain’t nothing but a weird old freak,” Frankie said, casually.
“Frankie,” his mom said. “I’m ashamed to hear you say that.”
“Well it’s true.”
“You do have to admit, he is a bit...unusual,” his dad said. “He’s basically a hermit. Never talks to anyone. I don’t think we’ve exchanged more than a few words in all the years he’s lived here.”
“And he looks funny,” Frankie added. “He just stares at you with those eyes, real creepy like, and the way his neck is all bent; and that scar...he is a freak.”
“It’s people like you two that make him too scared to come out of his house,” his mom huffed. “No wonder he’s a hermit.”
“Have you ever talked to him, Nancy?” his dad asked with a smirk.
The Awakening Page 6
