The Twelve-Fingered Boy

by John Hornor Jacobs

  I have a brother. Name’s Vigor. The little dude doesn’t come to see me—too young. He’s stuck with Moms. Dealing with her, I guess. And by the time I get out of here, he won’t be a little dude anymore. He’ll be a piece of old charcoal. He’ll be hard-eyed from mopping up Moms’s puke, putting out her cigarettes before they burn down the trailer park. He’ll be crusty from cooking and cleaning. From doing all the things a mom blotto from Ancient Age or nipply vodka isn’t able to do for herself. And he won’t be my little dude anymore. He’ll sound like Jack.

  I pat Jack on the shoulder. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do to let him know he’s done good. He looks at his food, then looks at the boys surrounding us, each one nose-down in his cafeteria tray. Jack snatches up his fork and scoops up some eggs, pops them in his mouth, drops the fork and brings his hands into his lap. Like a bird darting in for breadcrumbs, fast and inconspicuous. He waits, watching, and then grabs a biscuit and takes a huge bite, drops it and places his hands in his lap. It’s kinda amazing, really, how practiced his movements are. Everything is done quickly, like a turtle’s head snaking out to nab a passing fish, then back into the shell.

  There comes a jangling and footsteps.

  “You boys smell that?” I say, loud enough for the room to hear. “Smells like they’re cooking another batch of bacon. Mmmm. Pig.” I rub my stomach.

  I look behind me, dramatically.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Assistant Warden. I didn’t realize it was you.”

  Reasoner, Ox, and the rest snicker. Booth’s little pencil-thin mustache quivers with anger.

  “Jack, I need you to come with me.”

  Behind Booth is a nondescript man in a black suit. I say he’s nondescript because I can see that’s what he wants me to think. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. He’s not tall, not short, not thin, not fat. Sandy brown hair. Clear complexion. Totally unremarkable. But I’m remarking on him. I see him; I see through what he wants everyone to see.

  He’s holding a briefcase and looking at Jack, looking at him hard. I glance from the man back to Jack. Jack’s twisted in his seat to stare at the new arrivals. But his hands are hidden.

  I look back to the suited man—he’s got a keen stare, and he’s not paying attention to anything or anyone except Jack.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Not your business, Cannon.” Booth snaps his fingers, as if that means anything. Another one of his little, impotent gestures. “Jack, Mr. Quincrux needs to speak with you.”

  Quincrux. The name comes to my mouth, and I whisper it to get the taste. A strange name. But when I look at the suited man, I know—don’t ask me how—I know this is his true name. It’s like I’m tuned into a certain frequency, the same frequency he’s broadcasting, and I just know like a radio knows crappy country music or windbag sports announcers.

  Jack stands, puts his hands in his pockets.

  I have a bad feeling about this. This Quincrux, he has the same stillness as Jack. He holds his body motionless, hands dangling along with the briefcase at his sides. The only movement of his body is the rise and fall of his chest and his eyes scouring Jack.

  “You don’t have to go, pard. You can refuse, demand a lawyer or psychologist. They can’t make you.”

  Quincrux’s gaze shifts, clicking over to me like machinery, cold but now mildly interested. Mildly.

  I look back. I try to give him the grin that I’ve worked on for so long, the one that says, I know something you don’t. The one that makes Booth livid. The one that makes Moms outraged when she’s desperate and drunk. I try to give the smile to Quincrux, but it curdles under his gaze and I feel a kaleidoscope of emotions and images rising in me. I want to laugh, to cry, to rage and hit someone. I close my eyes, and my mother swims up from the deep. I see my old girlfriend Coco, my brother Vigor. Then our trailer, my old school, our dog, Cookie—the puppy that was pancaked on the interstate. Like cards being shuffled, they come to my mind’s eye. For a moment, I worry that the food I’ve eaten has gone rancid and is causing hallucinations.

  When my eyes open, Quincrux stands motionless, looking at me. The images continue to come, like ghosts overlaid on top of the visible world. Ox. Booth. Anderson. A phantom image of Jack hovers over Quincrux, superimposed and insubstantial.

  I close my eyes again, and this time I push back with all my might. I try to think of something hard and unbreakable.

  A bright blue jawbreaker.

  I imagine teeth trying to crunch it, to tap its sweetness. But it’s diamond-hard, and the teeth scrape and then crumble away.

  I open my eyes and see Quincrux’s eyes widen, just a little. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I see. I see him. And he saw me. More than I’ve ever let anyone see.

  Booth says, “Mr. Quincrux is from the Department of Health and Human Services. Sorry, Shreve, but he’s allowed to interview all wards of the state. It’s law.” Booth gives me a smile, and the kicker is he’s not being smart or smarmy or snide with it. He’s just smiling at me because, I don’t know, he’s happy.

  Jack looks at me, eyes wide, and nods in a way that’s part acceptance, part thanks. He smiles, too, and this time his smiling doesn’t seem to take an effort.

  “It’s okay, Shreve. I’ll be all right.”

  I’ll be damned. The kid is reassuring me.

  He pulls his leg from the cafeteria bench and walks, straight-backed, to where Quincrux and Booth wait. They turn and head back to Commons, Jack in tow.

  FOUR

  On the inside, getting what you want requires giving up something you value. I guess that’s the same as the outside, but I can’t remember exactly. “Ox, I need to get into your room. You’ve got to get me in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they’re gonna question Jack, I’ve got to hear.”

  “Nah. It’s almost time for English. Mr. Allenby will be pissed if we’re not there. Demerits. And I don’t want to work the kitchen again this month.”

  On the inside, like the outside, you can do what you can get away with, but eventually someone will make you pay.

  “Listen. It’s weird, son. That Mr. Quincrux is … he’s different. He made me … I don’t know… feel weird.

  ” “He turn you on or something?”

  For a split second, I imagine punching Ox right in his fat mouth. But the anger goes away quick enough, replaced by the urge to continue breathing—which I wouldn’t be doing if I punched him in the face.

  And my teachers say I’ve got poor impulse control.

  “No. Listen. Listen. He looked at me and read my mind. He just picked my history right out of my head. Until I stopped him.”

  “That right?” Ox picks up his tray, waves at Reasoner and the boys, and heads toward the slop bin. Not much slop left on his tray.

  “Dammit, Ox. Listen to me. If they question Jack in our cell, I need to be able to listen.”

  “Nah. Mr. Allenby’ll give me demerits.”

  “He’s got twelve fingers, man.” It just pops right out there, without me even thinking. It’s like my mouth is disconnected from my brain. It doesn’t even make any sense. What does that have to do with anything?

  So much for impulse control.

  “The dude in the suit?”

  I pause. I’ve said it, and there’s no way to take it back.

  “No. Jack. And that’s why I think Quincrux is here to question him. I need your cell. So I can listen.”

  “You telling me the fish has twelve fingers?”

  “Yeah, man. Twelve fingers.”

  “Wow.”

  Ox turns and begins shambling, not toward Commons but toward the classrooms.

  “Ox! I’m not messing around here. I need in your cell.”

  “Nah. Mr. Allenby will be pissed.”

  “Two Blow Pops.”

  “Nah.”

  “Two Blow Pops. Two Heath bars.”

  “Two more Heath bars. On top of escort pay.”

  “Right. Agreed.”


  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I don’t know if I’m more pissed at Ox for outmaneuvering me or at myself for spilling the beans on Jack.

  “Ox, don’t tell anybody else about Jack. Please. He’s just a kid.”

  “What? Oh. Yeah. That’s fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Anyone what?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?”

  Sloe-Eyed Norman waves us back through after the metal detector grants us passage. Silence means assent. I bound up the stairs, three at a time. Ox takes them one by one, so I’m waiting for a minute before he gets to the second floor. Norman, who’s neatly enclosed in a windowed booth, watches us. I wave.

  Norman waves back, picks up a magazine, and starts to read. But he doesn’t turn back to the Commons.

  We reach Ox’s room. A couple kids, Miller and Smetana, are futzing around at the end of the walkway, most likely playing craps. I can’t understand why Norman lets them toss dice against the wall all morning and watches us so closely.

  All the cell doors are open except for one. Mine. Jack’s.

  They’re here, not in some Admin office or classroom. They’re here.

  I peek through the wire-crosshatched window. There’s Jack, sitting on the bed. Quincrux sits across from him, at the desk. Booth stands facing the door.

  I duck my head back, hoping Booth didn’t see me.

  But something’s wrong. When I peeked into the room, Booth didn’t react. In fact, he looked … I don’t know. Vacant. Somewhere else.

  I peek again.

  “You gonna use my room, Shreve? What’s up?”

  I hold up a finger for silence.

  Booth stands in the room, off to the side, looking at the window in a thousand-yard stare. His mouth is open, and drool is spilling from his bottom lip.

  What the hell is going on here?

  I turn, dash into Ox’s room, and jump to the top bunk, putting my ear to the vent.

  FIVE

  On the inside, in the quiet of the morning, sound can travel. All it takes is a listener to give it meaning.

  “An unfortunate occurrence, yes? But luckily for you, your former foster brother will live. It’s possible he will walk again, too, after years of painful therapy. Does this make you happy?”

  “No. Yes.” Jack is quiet for a bit. I’m trying to picture the way he looks, to imagine myself in the room, sitting next to Quincrux and looking at Jack on the bed. He’s tamped down his hair, and his hands are between his knees. Not exactly hidden, but out of sight.

  Silence and rustling echo down the dull metal walls of the vent.

  “You are not a vocal youth, this I will say.”

  More silence.

  “I’d like to ask you to do something for me. Observe this glass of water. You see?”

  “Sure. It’s right there.”

  “Please move it, if you will.”

  There’s a pause, and then Quincrux says, “No, no. From over there.”

  “How can I move it without getting close to it? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No matter. Here I have a series of cards with symbols on them. I am going to hold them up, and I want you to tell me what the symbols are. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  I hear the clasps of the briefcase and then the ruffling of poster board.

  “First card.”

  “You’re not going to show it to me?”

  “No. You need to divine the answer.”

  “Divine?”

  “Perceive, then.”

  “How can I know what’s on the card if I can’t see it?”

  “That is a good question. A very good question. How indeed?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try.”

  “Um … is it a … square?”

  “No.”

  “A triangle?”

  “No.”

  “A circle?”

  “No.” The cards ruffle again, and Quincrux sighs. “Well, this isn’t working. Is it, Mr. Graves?”

  “No, it isn’t. I don’t understand what you want.”

  “Obviously not. Let us move on to other matters. The word you’re searching for is polydactyl. Indeed, it is a word you’ve been searching for all your life. It is my honor to present it to you.”

  “Polydactyl? I don’t understand.”

  “Supernumerary digits. It’s a congenital condition that occurs once in every five hundred births. However, multiple instances of polydactylism in one person, well … this is considerably rarer. Exceedingly rare, occurring in less than one in one hundred thousand births.”

  “You’re not really with the Department of Health and … whatever … are you?” For a moment my heart goes out to the little dude. He’s showing backbone, he is. Get him, Jack.

  “Ah!” Quincrux talks in the same inflectionless way Jack does. His “ah” sounds like a sigh. Like he doesn’t care one whit about what’s going on, he’s just doing his job. Or maybe he wants to die and all life is just misery. Misery and unhappiness.

  That’s frightening to think about.

  “No, Mr. Graves. No, I am not affiliated with the Department of Health and Human Services. Should anyone wish to contact the DHHS to confirm my employment, I say to him, feel free to exercise your curiosity. My employment will be confirmed. However, you have guessed correctly. I have never once entered the DHHS building.”

  There’s a shifting, a cough. A grunt.

  “My apologies. One moment. Allow me to readjust Mr. Booth.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  It’s Quincrux’s turn to remain silent.

  “Why’s he just standing there like that?”

  “In your case, perfect postaxial polydactylism. Perfectly symmetrical. Now, may I ask you a few personal questions? Yes?”

  “I … I guess.”

  “How many toes do you have?”

  “Twelve.”

  Holy crow. Jack’s got stuff sprouting everywhere.

  “Are they postaxial? Do you have two pinkies or two big toes?”

  “Pinkies.”

  “Postaxial, then. Any malformations? Will you remove your shoes so I might see?”

  After a moment, I hear the clop of a shoe dropping. In my mind’s eye I can see Jack’s bare feet bristling with angry toes.

  “Ah! That looks uncomfortable.” Quincrux chuckles, a dry sound. “Diphallia?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have more than one penis?”

  The way Quincrux asks this, with a little trill at the end, surprises me. The suit’s been deadpan this whole time, but with that question he showed his interest. He’s not bored anymore.

  Creep.

  “I’m afraid silence is not a suitable answer. Please disrobe so that I might observe.”

  “No.”

  “I can compel you.”

  “No.”

  Don’t do it, Jack. I’m going to get Norman.

  Something is happening now. I can feel it through the cinder-block walls. A struggle is going on in there, even if I can’t hear anything. I’m about to jump down and get Norman when Quincrux says, “So, you are not as docile as you seem.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve seen them already, in the cafeteria. Let me examine them.”

  “No.”

  Something is building in there. Something like an electrical charge, the feeling you get standing near a transformer during a thunderstorm. It’s like the walls are vibrating without moving, streaming with unseen energy.

  It builds. It surges, crests, and recedes. It’s like a tidal pool, sinking back into the ocean. I hear a sigh, maybe of relief, but I can’t tell which of them it comes from. The man or boy.

  “Hmm. Your special condition seems to … to … prevent me from usin
g my normal methods of investigation.” There’s a rattle, and the clasps of the briefcase snap.

  “It’s regretful you are such a recalcitrant young man. I would like to leave you something. I want you to read it. Think about what it might mean, not in and of itself, but as a gift. Gifts always reveal something about the giver, do they not? I hope this gift will reveal something about the giver and the recipient.”

  More silence. I’m worried the AC is going to kick on and make a tornado of the vent.

  “I’ll let you think about it, Mr. Graves. When I return, maybe you will be more … how shall we say this? … more commodious. Yes. Commodious.” I can hear Quincrux rustle, hear the clack of his wing tips as he stands and walks to the door.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Booth, thank you for your time and hospitality. Mr. Graves seems to be in good psychological and physical condition.”

  There’s another cough. Then Booth mumbles, “Huh? Wha?”

  “Ah. I realize this interview must have been exceedingly tiresome for you, Mr. Booth. It’s completely understandable if you drifted off.”

  “Yeah. Well. I.”

  “No matter. Young Mr. Graves and I have completed our interview. I shall return to the office and finalize this report.” Quincrux makes a weird little clucking in his throat. Then he says, “However, I intend to return in a week or so with a … colleague. A colleague with a special skill set.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Okay. I’ll give you the form back in my office, on your way out. You’ll need to have him cleared before he can have access to Jack.”

  “Of course. All the t’s will be crossed, and the i’s will be dotted.”

  “Right.”

  There’s a jangling, and the door clicks and swings open. Quincrux’s wing tips clack and diminish as they move down the walkway, toward the stairs and Norman.

  I drop from the top bunk. Ox draws on a legal pad at his desk. I can’t imagine what things Ox might draw. Unicorns? Wizards? Flowers?

  “I’m done, bigun.”

  “Okay. When will I get paid?”

  “This afternoon. After the yard.”