The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  His skin now a deep shade of red, Toby turned off the taps and hopped out of the shower. The bathroom was swimming with steam and after wrapping the towel around his waist, Toby grabbed his toothbrush and tube of toothpaste and brushed his teeth for the second time that morning. Then he headed into his bedroom, where he looked at his reflection in the wall mirror. He saw red, puffy eyes and a pallid face staring back at him.

  With a sigh, he started dressing.

  “Feeling better?” his mom asked when Toby entered the kitchen.

  “I guess.”

  “Too much junk food.” She was sitting at the table, sipping her tea, alone.

  “Where’s Frankie?” Toby asked as he shuffled over to the fridge.

  “Out with your father learning how to box.”

  “Boxing?” Toby took the carton of orange juice out and poured himself a glass. How Frankie could manage any sort of physical activity this morning confounded Toby. He took a drink and winced. Orange juice and mint toothpaste weren’t a match made in heaven, that’s for sure. The second mouthful was better, and by the third, all trace of the toothpaste was gone.

  “So, did you boys have fun last night? Didn’t get up to too much mischief?”

  “Aside from eating too much junk food, no,” Toby said and offered his mom a sickly smile.

  “I warned you, didn’t I?”

  Toby shrugged.

  “Pastor Wakefield asked after you at church this morning. I told him you weren’t feeling well. He said to give you his best and that he hoped you were feeling better. I don’t suppose you feel like any breakfast?”

  Toby finished off his orange juice and shook his head. “Think I’ll pass.” He rinsed out the glass and then dumped it in the sink.

  “I want you two to take that tent down today,” his mom said.

  Toby sauntered towards the back door. “Sure,” he answered and stepped outside.

  He squinted against the glare, though the sunlight no longer felt like nails driving through his eyes and into his brain. He made his way to the garage. Inside, his dad was punching the heavy bag, puffing, sweat teeming down his face. Frankie was sitting on the garage floor, red-faced, looking like he had just run a marathon.

  “Here he is,” his dad said, stopping his workout. “How you feeling, champ?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “You wanna have a go? I’ll teach you some moves.”

  “Another time,” Toby said. “I’m feeling too... tired.”

  “What? I spent all yesterday morning setting this thing up and you boys are too tired to use it?”

  “Hey, I’m just getting my breath,” Frankie said.

  “You know it ain’t good,” his dad said.

  Toby sighed. “What isn’t good?”

  “When a man almost three times the age of two teenagers is fitter than the both of them.”

  “Sorry Dad, I promise I’ll have a go another time. Just not today.”

  His dad walked over and put a sweaty arm around Toby’s shoulders. “Hey, that’s okay kid. I know what it’s like the morning after a party.” He chuckled. “Believe me, I understand. How late did you boys stay up, anyway? Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mom.”

  “I don’t really remember. I think it was around one o’clock.”

  His dad humphed. “That’s not late. One time when I was a few years older than you two, I camped out in the woods with some friends. We all told our parents we were sleeping over at each other’s places. Anyway, the only sleep we got was one induced from too much beer. I think we fell asleep around four or five in the morning. When we awoke we were not only sick, but covered in mosquito bites. We didn’t realize it at the time, but we had camped near a swamp. Well, needless to say, our parents found out. Couldn’t exactly hide all that itching. Let me tell ya, I got the hiding to end all hidings. My ass was sore for a week. What made it even worse, was that one of my friends, Michael, brought along his younger brother, and we got him drunk.” His dad shook his head. “Strange kid, as I recall. Very quiet, would sometimes just sit and stare at us. What was his name? J-something. Jason? Johnson... Jackson! That’s it, Jackson. Wondered what happened to him.”

  “And the point of the story is?” Toby asked.

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Just felt like reliving old times.”

  Toby sighed. “Come on, Frankie, we’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do.”

  Frankie struggled to his feet, pulling off the old gloves he was wearing and tossing them to the concrete.

  “Hey, watch it. Those old gloves won me a championship.”

  “Sorry. Say, thanks for the lesson Mr. Fairchild,” Frankie said as he and Toby left the garage.

  “Anytime, Frankie. But next time, try to get more sleep...and try not to drink so much booze.”

  The boys froze. Toby felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. He glanced at Frankie; his face was all squished up, like he had the runs.

  Toby’s mind whirled with excuses, pleads of ignorance, and heartfelt apologies. He was mere seconds away from having his summer taken from him - no more staying up late, no more staying over at Frankie’s, no more campouts. He knew he had to come up with something good to worm his way out of this, and fast.

  He and Frankie turned, faced his dad, but instead of seeing a stern look of disappointment, his old man was laughing.

  Laughing?

  “It’s okay, guys. Relax, you look like you’re about to face the firing squad.”

  Toby and Frankie frowned at each other. Was this some sly adult ploy to try and get them to confess to more than they would otherwise?

  Toby’s dad strolled over to them, sporting a wide grin. “For a full year I was fourteen. Bet ya guys didn’t know that. Hell, I had my first drink when I was twelve. Puked it all up, just like you two. Felt horrible the next day, and the day after that, come to think about it.” He glanced back at the house. Facing the boys, he whispered, “Your mom doesn’t know about it. I didn’t tell her. She’s a bit... naïve when it comes to matters such as these. Doesn’t understand what being a young man is all about.”

  “You mean, you’re not mad?” Toby said.

  “Nah, not really,” his dad said. “It’s all a part of growing up. As long as you don’t abuse it, get hooked on the stuff or start stealing bottles, one night of drinking isn’t the end of the world.”

  “You can be cool sometimes, Mr. Fairchild,” Frankie said.

  Toby’s dad threw back his head and laughed. “Gee, I’m glad you think so, Franklin.”

  “So you won’t tell Mom?” Toby said.

  “Or mine?” Frankie put in.

  His dad shook his head. “Secret’s safe and all that. Go on, get going. You’ve got a lot of cleaning and packing up to do.” He turned around and headed back into the garage.

  “I can’t believe that just happened,” Frankie said. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, neither can I,” Toby said. It didn’t seem right—or real. His dad knowing about them drinking, yet acting like it was no big deal. It was very strange. Hell, he didn’t even punish Toby. Very strange indeed.

  “Well at least he doesn’t know about the smoking,” Frankie said.

  “And I want to keep it that way, so keep ya mouth shut,” Toby said. “Come on, let’s clean the tree house.”

  An hour later, Toby and Frankie had disposed of all the empty candy wrappers, chip packets, soft drink bottles, cigarette butts (Warrick had neglected to take them with him; it was lucky Toby’s parents hardly ever ventured up into the tree house), had stowed away all the leftover junk food, and were in the middle of taking down the tent. It was slow going, not only because of the heat, but because they both still felt like it had been them hanging up inside the garage instead of the punching bag.

  They were taking a much-needed break under the shade of the elm tree, when Toby’s mom came walking towards them, arms folded—her usual ‘not happy’ pose.

  “Here comes trouble,” Frankie whispered.

 
“Shut up,” Toby said. So much for his dad keeping his promise of not telling her about them drinking.

  “How’s it going?” she said, stopping just short of the two boys.

  “Slowly,” Toby said.

  “Lunch is almost ready,” she told them. “You two hungry?”

  “Starving,” Frankie said. The day Frankie didn’t answer “starving” to that question, even after getting drunk for the first time the night before, was the day that Frankie was well and truly sick.

  “Yeah, a little,” Toby said. The thought of food no longer made him want to throw up.

  “Can I ask you boys something?”

  Here it comes.

  “Earlier when I walked to the store, I noticed that Mr. Joseph’s windows were broken. Both front windows. He was out there cleaning up when I walked back. Poor man, he looked so...awkward. I was just wondering if either of you saw or heard anything last night?”

  Toby was relieved she didn’t come out here to lecture them about the evils of alcohol, but he couldn’t relax—he was worried Frankie would let it slip that they were the ones responsible for the broken windows.

  “We didn’t hear anything,” Toby said. “Must’ve happened after we had gone to sleep. Right, Frankie?”

  “Ah, yeah, we didn’t hear nothin’.”

  His mom nodded slowly. “Well, just thought I’d ask. I think it’s awful what the kids in this town do to that man. Now he’ll have to pay for the windows to be replaced—and he doesn’t look like he can afford to replace two broken windows.” She sighed. “Let me know if you boys need anything. Lunch will be in twenty minutes.” With arms still folded across her chest, she turned and walked away.

  Once she was inside the house, Frankie said, “I don’t know how she can feel sorry for that freak.”

  “Don’t you feel bad?” Toby asked. “You broke one of his windows.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The severed arm in the trashcan.”

  “You got it.”

  Well, at least I know the old man is still alive. Yeah, and cleaning up the mess we made.

  “Okay, let’s just get this tent down,” Toby sighed. “I’m hot and I feel like crap.”

  They left the shade of the elm and continued dismantling the tent.

  After lunch, the tent dismantled and packed away (stuffed would be the more accurate term, considering the way the bags bulged), Toby and Frankie were lazing up in Toby’s room, Toby relaxing on his bed, Frankie slumped in the chair by the desk. Their bellies were full of tuna and salad sandwiches and iced tea.

  “You don’t think your mom could ever find out who smashed the windows, do you?”

  “Nah, of course not.” Toby paused. “Unless somebody saw us last night.”

  “You think somebody saw us?”

  “I don’t think so,” Toby said. “But it’s not out of the question.”

  Gently swiveling in the chair, Frankie furrowed his brow. “I don’t think anyone saw us. I mean, they would’ve told your mom or Mr. Joseph by now. Right?”

  “Sure,” Toby said. He hopped off the bed and wandered over to the open window. It was from here, just two nights ago, he witnessed Dwayne and his goons deface Mr. Joseph’s house and kill a chicken. Now as he looked down, he saw Mr. Joseph outside, body hunched, methodically going through the bushes, presumably picking out broken pieces of glass. Watching him, Toby felt sad, angry, and responsible. He may not have thrown any rocks, but he let Warrick lead them over there. He didn’t try to stop Frankie or Warrick from smashing the windows.

  How did Mr. Joseph sleep last night? Toby wondered. It was a warm night, sure, but still... maybe he didn’t sleep. Maybe he sat up all night with the gun in his mouth...

  The image of Mr. Joseph sucking on the gun barrel flooded Toby’s mind. He closed his eyes and literally tried to shake the image from his head. He heard his mom’s voice: I think it’s awful what the kids in this town do to that man. Now he’ll have to pay for the windows to be replaced—and he doesn’t look like he can afford to replace two broken windows. When he opened his eyes, the image was mercifully gone, but he knew what he had to do.

  “Is he still out there cleaning up?” Frankie said.

  Toby turned from the window and faced Frankie. “Look, I’m still not feeling well. Matter of fact, I’m suddenly feeling quite sick. Maybe you should go.”

  “Go? But...it’s summer vacation.”

  “Yeah, I know, but all I feel like doing is sleeping. And maybe some more puking. No point in you hanging around for that.”

  Frankie, looking a little wounded, muttered, “Okay. Sure, whatever.” He stood, picked up his backpack and sleeping bag.

  Toby rarely lied to Frankie. The few times he had, he had felt terrible afterwards. But now, as he looked at Frankie’s melancholy face, he felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt. After all, it was Frankie who had instigated the rock throwing, so really, it should be him going over to Mr. Joseph’s instead of Toby. But there was no way Frankie would conceive, let alone carry out, what Toby had in mind.

  “Sorry, Frankie, but I don’t think I’d be much fun today.”

  Frankie, backpack slung over one shoulder, said, “Well, guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  Frankie shuffled out of the bedroom. Toby closed the door, laid back down on his bed. Soon he heard talking and then the front door bang shut. Then, just as he expected, he heard footsteps pattering up the stairs. There was a knock at the door.

  “Toby?”

  “Yeah?”

  The door opened and his mom came in. “What’s wrong? Frankie told me you weren’t feeling well. That you told him to leave.”

  Toby sighed. “I didn’t tell him to leave exactly. I just suggested that it would be for the best. It won’t be much fun for him to watch me sleep all day.”

  “Are you feeling that bad?”

  “Just tired. And a bit headachy. Nothing serious.”

  His mom wandered over to the bed, placed a hand across his forehead. “You do feel hot.”

  That’s probably because it’s a hot day, and my room is like an oven, Toby thought.

  “Maybe I should call Doctor Hampton.”

  “No. I’m fine, really. I just don’t feel like climbing any mountains today, that’s all.”

  His mom smiled. “Okay. Well, get plenty of rest and drink plenty of water.”

  “See, who needs a doctor when I’ve got you.”

  She patted his arm. “Smart guy.” She kissed his forehead then left.

  Toby waited for his mom to walk back downstairs before hopping off the bed and shutting his door completely (his mom never closed his door all the way). Then he went to his closet, pushed away clothes and putting aside his tennis racquet, baseball gloves, and pairs of shoes, he pulled out the old shoebox. He sat down on his bed, flipped off the lid and gazed down at all the money he had left in the world—$120. He thought of all the lawns he had mowed, fences and walls he had painted, and he hesitated. Was it really his responsibility? Was any of it his fault? What if the old man really was some kind of pervert or devil-worshipper? Did he really want to give away all his hard-earned money to such a person?

  Damn Frankie and Warrick. They should be the ones paying for the windows.

  But he knew they would never give a cent to the old man.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached in and took out one hundred dollars. He figured he should keep some back for himself—after all, he needed some spending money for the summer. That left him with twenty dollars. Twenty measly dollars. He pocketed the money, placed the lid back on the shoebox, then hid the box back behind the tennis racquet and shoes.

  I’m gonna have to work all summer to get that money back, he thought, and his shoulders slumped.

  Next Toby grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote—

  To Mr. Joseph.

  I’m sorry about your windows. Here is 100 dollars so you can pay for the replacements. I hope 100
will be enough.

  Toby left the note unsigned, though he was tempted to sign either Frankie’s or Warrick’s name.

  He folded the note and placed it inside an envelope, along with the money. He scribbled Mr. Joseph on the front of the envelope, tucked it into one of his pockets, then headed for the bedroom door.

  Toby managed to avoid his parents as he slipped out the front door—he heard his mom in the kitchen and he figured his dad was still out in the backyard.

  Back out in the sunshine, he crossed the street and made his way down Pineview. As he passed the Klein house, he chuckled to himself about their close encounter last night with Sheeba the killer terrier.

  Wasn’t so funny at the time, Toby thought, and then he was at the old single-story. He looked out for any sign of the old man. He had decided that if Mr. Joseph was still outside cleaning up, he would walk casually on by and keep walking and maybe go to the corner and wait until the old man went inside.

  But there was no sign of him, so Toby stopped. Nerves pecked at his stomach.

  Why am I so scared? Toby wondered.

  All he had to do was drop the envelope in the mailbox. Simple. It should take no longer than a few seconds.

  In the sober light of day Toby could see the broken windows; both front windows had large holes in them, with cracks spider-webbing around them.

  Toby looked around, just in case someone was watching. He didn’t want to be associated with the broken windows.

  But the street was empty, so Toby reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. With slippery hands, he aimed the envelope at the narrow mail slot.

  He was just about to slip it in, when Mr. Joseph’s front door began to open.

  Toby gasped. His hand froze, his grip tightened on the envelope. He was too scared to run. Instead he just watched the door widen until there stood old Mr. Joseph.

  Toby’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Bonswa,” the old man called.

  “Huh?” Toby breathed, and was amazed he could say anything at all.