The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  “Bonswa means good afternoon.”

  Toby swallowed. “Oh.”

  Mr. Joseph had a surprisingly high voice, not feminine, just not the deep, thick voice Toby would have expected. Also, he spoke with an accent—kind of like those guys in that movie, Cool Runnings. The accent wasn’t strong, had probably lessened over the years, but to Toby’s all-American ears, it stood out like the hairs in an old man’s nostril.

  “Can I help you?” Mr. Joseph said.

  Toby blinked. “Um...”

  “Looks like you’ve got something for me. Come closer. I won’t bite.”

  Toby almost laughed, but thankfully the laugh got stuck in his throat. He managed to take a step forward, followed by another. He shuffled up the path, up the porch steps, stopping in front of Mr. Joseph. Wearing cheap, grimy tennis shoes, loose fitting jeans and a long white shirt, Mr. Joseph looked less frightening up close, but Toby’s hand still shook as he handed him the envelope. Toby just hoped the old man didn’t notice his trembling hand.

  Taking the envelope, Mr. Joseph said, “Mèsi, Monsieur Fairchild.”

  He knows who I am? Toby thought. And then, Of course he does.

  The old man flipped open the envelope, pulled out the money, then the note. He held the piece of paper at a slight angle and his eyes flicked over the words.

  Toby watched nervously; he desperately wanted to turn and run.

  When Mr. Joseph was through reading the note, he looked at Toby. He was frowning, and though it wasn’t a mean scowl, more of a confused look, his expression still sent chills down Toby’s back. “You broke my windows?”

  Toby muttered, “Yes.” He wanted to tell him the truth, but really, what purpose would that serve? And would he believe Toby even if he did tell him the truth? After all, Toby was the one giving him the money. “I’m sorry. Really. It was...an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  Toby nodded.

  “Well, boys will be boys. Here.” He held the money out. “I can’t take this. You must have worked hard to earn this.”

  Toby didn’t know what to do or say.

  “Go on,” the old man urged.

  Toby took the money. For a fleeting moment, their hands touched. The old man’s skin was like ice. Toby jerked his arm back and clumsily pocketed the money. “Ah, thanks,” he said.

  “Well, thank you for coming around,” Mr. Joseph said. “Orevwa.” Flashing a brief, melancholy smile, the old man turned and headed back inside.

  So that’s the man we’ve been scared of for all these years? Toby thought. Still a little shaken from the encounter, Toby left Mr. Joseph’s and headed home.

  That night, Toby dreamt he was on stage. The stage reminded him of something out of one of those old black and white movies he and his parents often watched Saturday nights—old wooden boards, heavy curtain behind, balconies on either side, and rows upon rows of hard, creaky seats before him. But these seats were empty. Suddenly the lights blinked out, there was momentary darkness, and then a spotlight flicked on, hitting him square in the eyes. He squinted, went to shield his eyes, but found he was unable to. It was like his arm was tied to something. He tugged, but his arm wouldn’t move. He tried the other, but it, too, wouldn’t budge.

  Music started playing, some jazzy number, and Toby expected clowns to appear on stage, or a line of dancing girls.

  But he remained on the stage, alone, squinting against the bright glare of the single light.

  “Dance!” someone cried out from the audience. “Go on, Dance!”

  It sounded like Miss Wilson.

  But weren’t the seats empty just a moment ago? he thought.

  “Yeah, come on, give us a good show!”

  Was that Dwayne Marcos?

  There was an audience out there now?

  Suddenly his left arm started jiggling.

  Huh? Toby breathed, and then his head was turned to the left. He saw his mom off stage, pulling on a string that was tied to his left wrist. She was smiling, gaily moving the string up and down, side to side. Toby wanted to stop her, but it was like he didn’t have any control over his own body.

  His head was moved to the right, just as his right arm started to flail, not of his own accord. He saw his dad maneuvering his right arm. He too was grinning, seemingly lost in his own enjoyment of making his son’s right arm dance.

  Then his legs began to jerk and he wanted to cry out for it to stop, but his mouth no longer worked. His head was shifted down, to where Suzie and Leah were lying on the floor, pulling his legs to and fro. All his limbs were now moving independently of one another; flailing in an uncoordinated dance number.

  The audience he couldn’t see clapped and laughed and whistled, seemingly enjoying Toby’s bizarre dance routine.

  Toby wanted to scream let me go, stop making me dance, I look like an idiot, but he couldn’t.

  His parents, Suzie and Leah continued to pull the strings.

  Suddenly his head was jerked down, and if it were possible, Toby would’ve gasped at the sight of his naked body.

  More laughter from the audience.

  Oh my God! Toby screamed inside his head, mortified.

  His pale, skinny body jumped and jerked, the jazz music kept on playing, and just as the drummer started his solo, a syncopated rhythm on the tom-toms, Toby noticed there was a string tied around his member. It, too, was being pulled, though it didn’t appear to be in time with any music; it was simply tugged for the sole purpose of getting him hard.

  Toby didn’t want to see who was on the other end of this string, but he had no say in the matter. Just as the drummer crescendoed into the wild crashing apex of his solo, Toby’s head was maneuvered a little to the left and he saw Gloria squatting on the stage, a shy grin on her radiant face, tongue poking out, tugging on the string.

  Nooooooo!!! Toby cried and as the drummer finished his solo and the band came back in with the chorus, Toby’s head was lifted, up, up, and he knew he was about to see who it was that was controlling his head.

  While his body continued to dance, Toby’s head was pulled back as far as it could go, and he stared up at rafters high above, but darkness lay beyond, swallowing the person sitting up there, pulling on the head-string.

  Who are you? Toby cried

  But the dream ended and Toby never got to find out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The day that was to change Toby’s life forever started out like any typical summer morning.

  He slept in till almost ten and then unhurriedly made his way downstairs (with images from the truly bizarre dream last night rolling around in his head).

  There was a note on the fridge door from his mom. It read:

  You looked dead to the world, hon. Didn’t want to wake you. When you do finally get up, can you please see that the front and back lawns get mowed sometime today, preferably before your dad and I get home? Thanks a bunch.

  Love, Mom.

  Recovered from the hangover and feeling back to normal, he’d had a relaxing breakfast of pancakes (made from a pre-mix of course; Toby didn’t have the slightest clue how to make them from scratch), toast and orange juice and afterwards relaxed in front of the TV for an hour, watching cartoons. It was during this time his dad called and told him he was not only to do the mowing today, but sweep the leaves from the gutters and tidy his room. When Toby had protested, in his sulkiest little boy voice he could muster, his dad countered with, “If you don’t want your mom to know what happened Saturday night, then you’ll do these chores, and you’ll do them with a smile. And if they’re not done by the time I get home from work, then your summer may not be as fun as you had hoped. Understand?” His dad usually wasn’t one to resort to blackmail, but Toby figured he had gotten off lightly regarding the drinking, so if this was his only punishment—one day of chores—then he could count himself lucky.

  When midday came without any sign of Frankie, Toby figured he also was having a lazy morning, so Toby decided to get the mowing over and
done with. That way, when Frankie did show up, he could maybe talk him into helping tidy his room and clean the gutters.

  Dressed in old sweatpants and a ragged Metallica T-shirt that was more holes than fabric, he headed outside and over to the shed. He loved going into the shed. It was a whole other world, full of familiar smells such as old oil, grass, petrol, paint; they all merged to form one great big nostalgia-fest of a smell, one that reminded him of long weekends as a kid helping his dad with the gardening or the mowing. The shed had seemed a thousand times bigger back then, a massive tome where spiders lay in wait for little boys, but where his daddy was always there to protect him.

  Now, it was just a shed—small, murky and completely harmless.

  Still, Toby couldn’t help but grin as he entered the shed and pulled out the mower. There was a time not so long ago when he wasn’t allowed to help his dad with the mowing unless supervised; the pouring of the gas into the tank; the starting up of the mower’s engine; the whirring of the blades underneath—these were all potentially hazardous for a young boy, and positively terrifying for any parent.

  Now, he often mowed the lawn on weekends while his mom and dad went about their daily chores, or his dad watched baseball on television. He didn’t mind doing it; if truth be known, it was probably his favorite chore (except when it was cold or raining; then mowing was the worst chore on earth. But on days like today, when the sun was a round burning flame in the clear blue sky, then it was his favorite chore).

  The tank was full, so, slipping on the protective goggles that were dangling from the handle, Toby started up the mower. It took him two pulls of the cord to get her going. As exhaust spewed from the engine, Toby started pushing the mower over the green and yellow grass.

  As he mowed, his mind floated from Gloria, what she might be doing right now, to Mr. Joseph and what Toby had seen two nights ago while staring into another person’s private world.

  He was almost finished mowing the backyard when Frankie came strolling over.

  He was looking much better than he did yesterday; he had a spring in his step and his face had regained its color.

  Toby killed the engine, slipped the goggles off his face and said, “Hey.”

  “So am I allowed to see you today?” Frankie said with a lop-sided grin.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I really wasn’t feeling that great. But you must’ve been feeling the same way? You looked sick enough.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I feel all right today. So, whatcha doing?”

  Toby huffed. “What does it look like?”

  “No, I mean, what are you doing after you’re done with the mowing? There’s a baseball game starting at two o’clock. You wanna come and play?”

  Nothing said summer vacation like an all-day game of baseball. Toby loved baseball, even more than he did basketball. But he sighed. “I really should get this done.”

  “Come on, do it later. Or tomorrow. Hell, you’ve got all summer to mow the lawns. But there’s not a game of baseball on every day. It’s gonna be a big one. Guys and girls from junior and high school are playing. Come on Toby, you gotta come. After Leah, you’re our best pitcher.”

  Toby sighed again, a heavy, ‘woe-is-me’ sigh. Sure it was vain, but no teenage boy hated being told he was a great baseball player and the team would be worse off without him.

  “Sorry dude, no can do. I have to clean the gutters and tidy my room after I’m done with the mowing. It’ll probably take me the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Since when did your parents become slave drivers?”

  “Since my dad found out about us drinking Saturday. This is my punishment. He said if I don’t do these chores, not only will he tell Mom, but he’s gonna make this summer hell. Which probably means not letting me out after six and no staying over at your place. Which means no watching late night creature features.”

  Frankie sighed. “That sucks. I thought your dad was cool with us drinking?”

  “Yeah, well, my parents aren’t as cool as your mom.”

  “Are you kidding? If she ever found out about the drinking, she’d pound my ass raw and then ground me for the next ten years.”

  Toby smiled thinly. “Anyway, as much as I would love to come and play baseball, I just can’t. If I get these chores done by this afternoon, then I’ll be a free man for the rest of the summer. And I’m sure there’ll be more games. Hey, you never know, I may get the chores finished quickly, and then I’ll come over and watch the rest of the game. See you fumble the ball and lose it for your team.”

  “Screw you. Are you sure you don’t wanna come and play? Risk getting grounded for a week? It’s gonna be a killer game. Oh, and, ah, Gloria’s gonna be there,” Frankie added.

  Toby blinked. “Gloria?”

  Frankie nodded. He smiled; a smug, ‘I’ve got you now’ smile.

  Why Frankie didn’t offer up this vital piece of information earlier Toby didn’t know. Still, Gloria or not, if he didn’t get these chores done by the time his dad got home, there’d be hell to pay. “Sorry, you’re gonna have to play without me. Say hi to Leah for me, and tell her to hit a home run for me.”

  Frankie nodded. He looked disappointed. “Only if you’re sure.”

  Toby considered his options one last time; the thought of seeing Gloria for the whole afternoon was mighty tempting. But so was a summer free from strict curfews and his parents breathing down his neck. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll try and get these chores done as quickly as I can. Unless you wanna help and then I’d get it done in half the time?”

  Frankie huffed and he kicked at a pile of mowed grass. “Yeah, right. And miss out on the game of the summer? Have fun Toby. Oh, and I’ll be sure to say hi to Gloria for you, too.”

  “You do that,” Toby said and reaching down he scooped up some of the freshly cut grass. It felt like cotton wool in his hands. He dumped the bundle over Frankie.

  “Hey!” Frankie cried.

  And they spent the next ten minutes scattering mowed grass all over the lawn as they waged a fierce grass-throwing battle.

  Toby worked harder and faster than he ever had in his life. By four-thirty the front and back lawns had been given the short back and sides treatment; the gutters were free from leaves and grime; and his room was neater than it had been in years. Toby could picture his parents’ faces when they got home—they were probably expecting him to do a half-assed job. But there was no way Toby was going to let his summer be ruined by something silly like not doing some simple chores properly.

  So the way Toby saw it, he was free. He had paid his debt for Saturday night.

  And so, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, he rode his Schwinn over to Jinks Field.

  When he arrived, the game was at the top of the ninth inning—the blue team, which included Frankie, Leah and Warrick, was down by two runs, losing to the red team, which included Paul Rodriguez, Rusty Helm and Scotty Hammond.

  Toby rested his bike alongside the others against the chain link fence and then strolled over to the bleachers, glancing over at the parking lot as he walked—it seemed all bottles and broken glass from Friday night had been picked up, leaving no trace of what had taken place.

  The stands were crowded with kids and teenagers, all cheering for one side or the other. Toby smiled at the familiarity of it all: the roar of the crowd, the smell of grass, dirt and sun block; but the smile was tainted with a touch of sadness as he looked out at the make-shift baseball field, wishing he was out there, playing. Leah was currently pitching, the reds were two out. He spotted Frankie out in left field, and when Frankie noticed Toby, he waved. Toby waved back, then turned to the bleachers.

  His spirits lifted when he spotted Gloria sitting about halfway up the stands. She was sitting with Emma and Danielle, two of her best friends, and she looked a picture of beauty—her hair was tied back in a ponytail, she was wearing a baby-blue sleeveless top, which showed off her slender, lightly tanned arms, and light-colored shorts.


  Toby’s breath was sucked back into his throat. Suddenly the sun was too bright and his mouth too dry.

  Get a grip. She’s only a person. No need to get so worked up.

  Toby looked around, saw plenty of empty spots where he could sit. There was one beside Emma, or there were plenty behind the three girls.

  He desperately wanted to be near Gloria, but there was no way he could sit next to Emma—he’d have to make small-talk, and he just knew he would fumble and make an idiot of himself. And besides, Emma was a rude, stuck-up cow. So that left either behind Gloria—or somewhere else entirely.

  His decision was made easier when Emma and Danielle got up, said something to Gloria, then started down the bleachers.

  Toby swallowed.

  This is it. Come on, make a move.

  Toby waited until the two girls were gone, then he started up the stairs, walking casually, scanning the rows of seats like he really was looking for somewhere to sit and didn’t already have somewhere in mind.

  He said absent hellos to some of his classmates as he walked up the concrete stairs, and when he reached the bench where Gloria was sitting, alone, he took one more step, and then turned into the row above her.

  He walked in front of kids and teens, all screaming, either in joy or disappointment, depending on who they were rooting for—Simon Hunter had fallen prey to one of Leah Wilmont’s trademark fastballs, making the reds three out.

  When Toby reached the appropriate spot, he sat down.

  Just below him Gloria was sitting with arms in her lap, her blonde hair like spun gold in the afternoon sunlight.

  Beside Toby were two kids, both slightly older than him, and to his left were a few empty spaces; so if he made a fool of himself, there wasn’t too many people around to witness his humiliation.

  Waiting for the cheering, clapping and booing to die down, as the teams swapped over for the second half of the last innings, Toby sucked in the hot June air and said, “Hey Gloria.”

  Gloria flinched and when she turned around, she had a look of surprise on her face. Then she smiled and said, “Oh, hey Toby. How are you?”