The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  His dad sighed. “Toby, keep your voice down. Your mom’s upstairs, resting. This last month has been tough for her.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. Mr. Joseph is a kind old man. Why do people seem so against our friendship?”

  “It’s complicated...”

  “I don’t understand why Mom told me I can’t go over and see him.”

  “She worries about you, that’s all.”

  “But there’s nothing to be worried about. He’s our neighbor. Don’t you talk with Mr. Klein? Go over to his house and, what is it you say, shoot the shit?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “We’re both adults. We’ve got stuff to talk about. Mr. Joseph’s an old man, you’re just a kid.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Toby said.

  His dad, looking pale and gaunt in the bright kitchen light, nodded. His shoulders slumped. “Right. I know you’re not. You’re growing up. But still, what have you got to talk about? What could you two possibly have in common?”

  Toby could’ve argued with his father about how Mr. Joseph was an interesting person with an interesting past, that talking with him had helped ease the pain of Frankie’s death. But that wasn’t the real issue here. “It’s because he’s black, isn’t it?”

  His dad blinked—noticeably, almost comically, twice.

  “If Mr. Joseph was an old white man living across the street, you wouldn’t think anything of it if I were to go over and spend time with him. You’d think it a kind gesture. No one would have a problem with it; not you, Mom, Gloria’s parents, or even the kids in town.”

  “You... you think I’m a racist?” His dad spoke softly, breathlessly.

  Toby wasn’t sure if his old man was more shocked or saddened by Toby’s startling remark.

  “I never thought so before, but now...I’m not so sure. Are you?” It was a bold move to ask his dad outright.

  “No, I’m not,” his dad said. The look of shock was still etched on his face. “My thoughts concerning you and Mr. Joseph have nothing to do with him being black.”

  Toby was tempted to say, “Are you sure?” but he didn’t want to press his luck. Besides, he wanted to believe his dad was telling the truth.

  “Okay, I’m sorry.”

  His dad half-smiled. At least he wasn’t angry. He shook his head. “Don’t be. You can talk to me about anything, you know that. No secrets. But I can assure you one hundred percent, I’m not a racist.”

  Toby nodded. He had his doubts.

  His dad wandered over to the fridge and grabbed a can of Coors. He cracked open the lid and took a healthy swig. “Your mom and I just want you to be happy and safe. That’s all. So I want you to respect our wishes, even if you don’t agree with them.”

  “Sure, whatever,” Toby said. “Anyway, I’m tired. I’m going up to bed. Good night.”

  “Night, Toby. And I am sorry about Gloria. Her parents are probably doing what they think’s right, but for the record, I agree with you—I think it’s bull. And unfair.”

  Toby sauntered out of the kitchen.

  “Oh, and Toby?”

  Toby turned and faced his dad.

  “You know I love you, right?”

  Toby shot his dad a half-cocked smile. “Sure. But twenty bucks would show me even more.”

  His dad gave him a tired smile. “Go on, get out of here.”

  Up in his room, Toby threw off his clothes and wearing only his boxer shorts, hopped into bed.

  It was only half-past-eight, but he hadn’t been lying when he told his dad he was tired. His mom would flip if she knew he had gone to bed without brushing his teeth, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.

  After today, Toby was glad he hadn’t told his parents the truth about Mr. Joseph. He’d feared they wouldn’t understand—it seemed those fears were justified.

  Can’t trust anyone. It was a cold, sobering thought.

  He was in darkness.

  He felt around. Cold, hard wood.

  Not again, he thought. How the hell did I get in here?

  This time, his hand fell on something small and hard. He picked it up. Judging by its size and shape, it was a cigarette lighter, similar to the one Warrick had when he and Frankie had camped out in Toby’s backyard a hundred years ago.

  He flicked it on, managed to ignite a flame first go. He screamed.

  Frankie was lying in the cramped box beside him, his neck bent at an impossible angle, a large open wound running the length of his face, yellow and red pus seeping from the fissure. He was wearing an old battered black hat and dark sunglasses. Blood was seeping down his face from under the rim.

  Frankie opened his mouth and with blood trickling down his chin, said, cackling, “Hey scaredy-cat, how’s it hanging? Have you remembered yet?”

  Toby jolted awake. He sat up, heart thumping, sweat flicking off his body.

  Only a dream, he thought.

  But it had felt so real, and that costume Frankie was wearing had seemed so familiar.

  As did his laughter.

  But it wasn’t Frankie’s laughter; not his belly-laugh, but a nasty, grating high-pitched cackle.

  Remembering the sound made his gut clench tight. Though he wasn’t sure why, or even why the laugh seemed familiar.

  He glanced at the clock. A little after three. Swinging his legs off the bed, he placed them on the floor and walked over to the open window, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He gazed down at the street. Not surprisingly, his light was the only one on in Pineview, so it stuck out like a fireball.

  Toby moved his gaze from the old house across the street to the shed behind. He could only make out a small portion of it, but staring down at the make-shift vodou temple, which too had seemed so familiar, its façade looking so ominous in the tranquil early morning haze, Toby shivered.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Toby was woken the next morning by his parents’ voices. They carried through the house, up to his bedroom; loud, angry talking.

  Sitting up in bed, Toby wondered—were they having a fight?

  It wasn’t like them to fight.

  Toby wiped the sleep from his eyes and turned to the clock-radio. It was just after 7:30.

  As Toby eased himself out of bed, he thought, I bet they’re arguing about me. Maybe Dad has had a change of heart, but Mom doesn’t want to back down on the Mr. Joseph issue.

  Toby slipped on yesterday’s shirt and shorts that were flung over his desk chair and headed for the bedroom door.

  In the bathroom he drained his bladder, splashed cold water on his face and then headed downstairs. His parents’ voices grew louder and clearer, and he realized they weren’t fighting—they were angry, but not with each other.

  When he stepped into the kitchen, his mom, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, and his dad, leaning against the bench, mug of steaming black coffee clenched in his hand, stopped talking and shot their gaze towards Toby.

  “Good morning,” his mom said, face creased with worry.

  “Morning, champ,” his dad said and took a quick sip of coffee.

  “What’s going on? I could hear you guys from upstairs.”

  “Sorry, did we wake you?” his mom said.

  “No,” Toby lied. He headed to the fridge, took out the orange juice.

  Silence filled the room and when Toby turned around, he caught his parents trading shifty eyes.

  Toby filled a glass with juice and after taking a thirsty gulp, said, “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  His dad sighed. “We may as well tell him, Nancy. He’s gonna find out soon enough.”

  Toby’s gut clenched. His first thought was, Oh God, they’ve found Warrick’s body.

  His mom nodded. “Toby,” she began, “there was some vandalism last night.”

  “We only just found out about it, and were discussing whether or not to call the police.”

  “You mean vandalism to our house? What kind?�
��

  “Graffiti,” his mom said.

  “I saw it when I went out to get the paper.” His dad shook his head, muttered, “Damn monkey-fuck kids.”

  “David,” his mom said, though her displeasure at her husband’s comment didn’t carry much bite. He had simply voiced what his mom was too embarrassed to say.

  Toby set down his half-finished glass of juice and strode out of the kitchen.

  “Toby,” his mom said, getting to her feet, but his dad said, “Leave him, Nancy. He’s old enough to see it for himself.”

  As if you guys could stop me, Toby thought as he made his way down the hall and out the front door.

  With bare feet, he stepped across the lawn, noticing some of the neighbors across the street were gawking at his house. When he reached the edge of the lawn, he turned around.

  Staring back at him, in two-foot-high black letters painted on the left side of the house, was: COXSUCKING NIGGA LOVA

  “Why don’t you take a picture,” his dad shouted at the neighbors as his parents stepped outside.

  “Toby, come inside,” his mom said.

  Toby pried his eyes away from the graffiti. He turned and gazed down the street, towards Mr. Joseph’s house. He wondered if the vandals had targeted his house as well.

  He started walking.

  “Toby,” his mom said. “Please, don’t.”

  Toby ignored his mother’s plea.

  “Let him go,” his dad said.

  Toby crossed the street and pushing past nosy neighbors, made his way to Mr. Joseph’s. When he arrived, he saw that the vandals had indeed defaced Mr. Joseph’s house. Sprayed in red graffiti on one side of the wall was: COXSUCKING NIGGA CHILD MOLESTA

  “Jesus,” Toby muttered. He started down the side of the house, heading for the kitchen.

  At the back door, he knocked. “Mr. Joseph? It’s Toby.”

  Silence. Then: “Come in.”

  Toby pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  A familiar sight greeted him. Mr. Joseph sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of Barbancourt white rum.

  “I saw the graffiti. I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Joseph nodded. “Did they get your house, too?”

  “Yeah,” Toby said. “Bastards. My parents are trying to decide whether or not to call the cops.”

  “They needn’t bother. The police have never caught the culprits in the past.”

  “I think I know who’s responsible.”

  Mr. Joseph angled his head and gazed up at Toby. “You do?”

  Toby nodded. “I’m sure it was Dwayne Marcos and his gang.”

  “Dwayne Marcos? Why do you suspect him of the graffiti?”

  “I probably should have told you this sooner, but with everything else that’s been happening, I guessed it sorta slipped my mind. I saw who graffitied your house and left the dead chicken that night about a month ago. It was Dwayne and his friends.”

  Mr. Joseph, still clutching the bottle of rum, said, “You know about that?”

  “I watched the whole thing from my bedroom window. I couldn’t sleep that night. I saw Deb Mayfour and Leah Wilmont graffiti your house, Sam Bickley kill the chicken, and Scotty Hammond throw the eggs.”

  “And Dwayne?”

  “Sat in his car and watched.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone about this?”

  “No,” Toby said. “I was scared. Scared that if I told, Dwayne would find out who squealed, and then I’d be in trouble. Also, I didn’t want to get Leah in trouble. She’s always been like a big sister to me. So you see why I suspect Dwayne?”

  Mr. Joseph nodded. His eyes narrowed, his lips drew tight. “Yes, I see. Did you want to sit down?”

  “No, I really should be getting back. Mom will probably have a heart attack if I don’t come home soon.”

  “So they know?”

  “Yeah,” Toby sighed. “The whole town does by now.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They reckon it’s best if maybe I don’t see you at the moment. Until all this blows over.”

  “I doubt it ever will,” Mr. Joseph said.

  Toby paused to contemplate that statement. “Yeah, well, they can’t tell me what to do. They can’t stop me from coming over and seeing you.”

  “You shouldn’t go against your parents’ wishes, Toby. You saw what was written on my house. I’ve caused you enough problems as it is. Maybe you should only come back when your parents say it’s okay.”

  Toby was taken aback. “You agree with my parents that I shouldn’t come around anymore?”

  Mr. Joseph seemed to choose his words carefully. “Like I said, you shouldn’t go against your parents’ wishes.”

  “What if I told you that my parents just suggested it might be for the best I didn’t come around, rather than specifically ordering me not to?”

  “Well...” Mr. Joseph took a swig of rum. “If that’s true, then I guess it’s okay. I guess then it’s up to you and me to decide what we’re going to do about this situation.”

  “I want to keep coming around,” Toby said. “I don’t see anything wrong with it, and I won’t let others intimidate me.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  “I just don’t want an angry father on my doorstep, threatening me to leave his son alone.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  Mr. Joseph nodded. “Okay.”

  “I should probably get back. But I might be by later in the afternoon. Again, I’m sorry about the graffiti.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Mr. Joseph said, and Toby left the old man’s house.

  Back home, Toby wandered into the kitchen. His mom was by the phone, his dad was sitting at the table finishing his second—or maybe it was his third—mug of coffee. “I called the police,” his mom said, “they said there wasn’t much they could do, but they’re sending someone out.” She added, almost as an afterthought: “How was Mr. Joseph?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Toby, be nice,” his dad said, and he stood, picking up his briefcase. “Okay, I’m off. Toby, after the police have been, I want you to clean the filth off our house. We’re out of turpentine, so you’re gonna have to go to the store to buy some more.”

  “Chores?” Toby said.

  His dad kissed his mom on the cheek, then ruffled Toby’s hair as he walked past. “Yes, chores. See you guys tonight.”

  “Bye, David.”

  After his dad had left, his mom said, “So, did the hoodlums graffiti Mr. Joseph’s house, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh dear. Well, remind me to tell the police about Mr. Joseph’s house as well.”

  “Don’t bother,” Toby said. “Mr. Joseph doesn’t deal with the police.”

  His mom strolled over, put an arm around him. “I know you’re upset, but try not to let all this get to you. It will all blow over soon.”

  “Yeah? Try telling that to Gloria’s mom.”

  “Your father told me about what happened. I’m sorry, Toby. You may think I’m being unfair, overprotective, but even I think that’s going a bit far. Want me to have a word with Helen?”

  “God, no,” Toby said.

  “Okay. Hopefully Gloria’s parents will see sense.”

  “This has been the worst summer ever,” Toby muttered and the comment earned him a long, tight squeeze from his mom.

  “Well,” she said, taking her arm from around Toby’s shoulder. “I should probably call work and tell them I’ll be in late.”

  “Why?”

  “I should wait for the police to arrive. Did you want me to make you some breakfast?”

  “No, I’m not hungry,” Toby said, and sauntered out of the kitchen.

  An hour later—and with no sign of the police—Toby headed off to the hardware store. He took his time walking, but when he reached the township, he ducked in and out of Tim’s Hardware. He was crossing over Main Street, bag containing the bottle of turp
entine dangling from one hand, when he spotted Rusty Helm and Scotty Hammond up ahead.

  As Toby stepped onto the sidewalk, he kept his head down, hoping they would pass him by.

  No such luck.

  “Well, looky what we got here,” Scotty said. “If it ain’t the nigger lover. Hey there, nigger lover, sucked any nigger cocks lately?”

  Toby stopped as the two older teens blocked the road ahead.

  “Scotty asked you a question,” Rusty said, his tall, muscular body towering over Toby.

  “Whatcha got there?” Scotty said, his short-cropped blond hair glinting with sweat.

  “Nothin’,” Toby answered, heart racing.

  “Give it here,” Scotty said and grabbed for the bag.

  Toby pulled the bag away. “It’s just turpentine,” he said. “Just leave me alone, okay?” He started forward, but Rusty put out an arm and gripped Toby by his T-shirt.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, a mean smirk on his face. “We’re just being friendly.”

  “Yeah, it’s not like we want to hurt you or anything,” Scotty sniggered.

  Rusty eyed his chunky friend with thuggish glee. “So,” he said, turning his gaze back to Toby. “Tell me something. What does nigger cock taste like? Chicken?”

  Scotty chortled, proud of his friend’s remarkable wit.

  “Why don’t you ask Warrick,” Toby muttered, and hoped—prayed—they hadn’t heard him.

  “What did you say?” Rusty said, leaning forward.

  “Nothing,” Toby said, turning his face towards the fence to get out of the firing line of Rusty’s hot stinking breath.

  “What the fuck has Warrick got to do with anything? What do you know?”

  Rusty nodded to his cohort. Scotty moved behind Toby and grabbed his arms; the bag of turpentine dropped to the ground.

  Toby struggled, but a swift punch to the gut from Rusty put an end to that.

  It wasn’t a hard punch, but still Toby doubled over, straining for breath.

  (the sound of gravel crunching as feet kicked him in the stomach, screaming, laughter—laughter?!—and white hot pain)