Boy

The pudgy officer closed the rear door of the car, tapped on the glass, and waved before settling behind the steering wheel of his Martinsville County patrol car. “Dispatch,” he said while adjusting his sunglasses, “I got the boy. Gimmie about a half hour and we’ll be in.” “Roger that, Sheriff,” a voice replied. “Take your time. He’s been through a lot.” The sheriff flipped it into drive, slung some gravel, and gained speed on Route 60 south. “Hey. Boy. You hungry?” the sheriff called through the screen to the backseat. The boy stared catatonically out the window, watching the trees go by and trying to remember the last time he had eaten. Maybe it was the day before, or maybe the day before that. He had lost track of time as well as occasional muscle control, often slipping into convulsions and involuntary cries for help. Sometimes he’d even open his mouth, trying to ask for help, but nothing discernable was produced. At a red light, the sheriff looked back through the screen as the boy’s eyes slowly closed. Although sleep was his only good time of day, his dreams were sometimes too close to his reality. All he wanted to know was what he did wrong and why the man with the boots used them so often. Came the boot when he was too close to the table. Came the boot when he was asleep at the wrong time. Came the boot when he was either outside or inside too long. Came the boot if he interrupted when the man was watching television. The boy didn’t understand and tried to ask, but before he could make more than two sounds, something would happen to make him sorry he opened his mouth. “Shut up, ya little shit! I’m trying to watch!” The boot knocked the boy to the floor where he landed awkwardly and crawled to another room. The man laughed both at the television, the boy, and the fifth can of beer that bounced off the wall near the boy’s head. “Boy,” said the sheriff, “ya look thirsty. Let’s git you something.” He pulled the car off the highway into the dirt lot of the Dawg Howse, a roadside place he’d been to a hundred times just that year. “Hey, Sheriff,” said the girl who drew more customers than the product ever could. “Two dogs and a root beer, right?” “Make it three, one plain, one root beer, and one water. Soda prob’ly be too much for the boy.” He tipped his hat back and leaned his elbows on the wooden shelf outside the service window as the August sun found its way across his chubby cheeks. He left the car running so the boy would stay cool in the air conditioner, something that Arnie was sure the boy had never felt before. “Where is he?” asked the girl as she handed the sheriff a cardboard tray with three hotdogs, one plain and two with sauerkraut, spicy mustard, and onions. “Lyin’ down,” said the sheriff just before taking his first bite. “What’s wrong with him?” “Somebody was beatin’ ‘im up.” “Oh, no way!” she said. “Can I see ‘im?” “Yeah, but don’t wake him.” The girl walked carefully to the car as the sheriff almost tried his best not to gawk at her tight shorts. She was young enough to be his daughter. He thought about how many times he had caught her mother behind the counter of the Dawg Howse after closing and realized she might actually be his daughter. The girl looked through the window and first saw the boy’s heaving chest, such short breaths even while asleep. She turned and half whispered, half mouthed, “I think he’s having a bad dream.” The sheriff wiped the mustard from his lips with the back of his hand as he strode to the car. He watched as the boy breathed too quickly and his legs twitched. “He’s trying to run,” she said. “Don’t doubt it,” whispered the sheriff. He took half a step back and watched drops of sweat form on the girl’s tan neck, exposed because her natural blonde hair was piled in a bun on top of her head, just like her mother always wore it. He stepped back to his second hot dog as the girl traced a heart on the squad car window. Through the imaginary heart she could see the boy’s matted, unkempt hair. She took her place back behind the counter as the sheriff tried again not to look as she leaned forward, much like her mother had. “Where’s he going?” she asked. “Belongs to the county now.” “You just took him away from his home?” “Had to. Boy’s been kicked so much I had to carry him out. Couldn’t hardly walk on his own.” “How can somebody do that? He’s so little,” she whined. “He won’t be doin’ it again,” said the sheriff, again wiping mustard off his face. “Poor thing. Look, you can see his ribs.” “I broke a few.” “Huh?” she asked. “Nothing.” The sheriff flipped the girl a $10, picked up the third hot dog and cup of water, and headed to the car. He left the plain hot dog near the boy on the back seat and put the water in a cupholder in front of the boy, if he had the strength to reach for it. They hadn’t driven more than two miles before the sheriff smiled at the sound of chewing and drinking. His smiled dimmed, only for a few seconds, as an ambulance sped by in the opposite direction. “Sheriff, this is dispatch,” cracked an older woman’s voice over the radio. “What is it?” “What the hell did you do?” barked the woman. “Picked the boy up. Stopped to feed him. I’ll be at the county office in about ten minutes.” “Then why did I get a 911 from that location?” “I think the man fell,” smiled the sheriff. “Really? Fell? That’s the best you got?” “Swear to God he fell. We were talking. I told him why I was there. The boy limped out of the bedroom, couldn’t even walk straight, one eye swollen so bad he couldn’t see. Man yelled at him to get back in the room. Shortly after that, the man fell.” “Fell because you knocked him down?” “Like I said, he fell.” The sheriff sped down Route 60, slightly more agitated and took it out on the gas pedal. He had lost the image of the girl behind the counter. “Eat up,” he called to the back seat. “Never know when it’s your last meal.” The boy wanted to answer but didn’t. He flinched at the sound of the sheriff’s voice, then looked back through the window at the trees, houses, trucks, and other colorful sights that he had never seen in all his time living with that man with the boots. Things were different out here, but things were different about him too, both inside and out. The man with the boots always treated him like he was different, especially compared to the other boy. The boy was very different from the one who was usually called “Kid” by the man with the boots. The boy noticed how his legs didn’t grow the same as Kid. He didn’t walk the same way and often lagged behind only to get yelled at to “hurry up!” He did not have their coordination, so he was not allowed to eat at the table with the man and the kid. The few times he tried, more food was on the floor than was eaten. Instead, his food was often thrown to him, sometimes thrown athim. He didn’t get nearly as much food as they did. He believed that if he were given more to eat, he might have grown up like them instead of being so different. He remembered when the kid first arrived, how he’d waddle around and fall on his bottom. He didn’t cry though, because he had that soft wrapping on his bottom. The wrapping that sometimes smelled really foul. The boy had different hands and couldn’t open doors himself, although he tried very hard to learn so the man and the kid didn’t have to do it for him. When they talked to him, he tried to listen and understand, to match the words with what they were doing, but it didn’t always match because things were different inside his head. He believed he knew what they were telling him to do, but he didn’t always get it right. He tried to talk to them as they talked to him, but it just didn’t come out right. Usually they either laughed or told him to shut up, but he didn’t understand “shut up.” If he kept going, he usually felt the boot. In the beginning it was just the man’s boot, but eventually the kid joined in. The boy often looked to the kid for help, hoping they would talk about it. “Hey,” he might say. “I know what you’re going through. I was like you once, couldn’t talk or do anything, but now things are different. Here’s what you need to do …” If the kid would just tell him, let him in on the secrets, maybe he could do it and not have to feel the boot. Back when the kid was shorter, they would often play together. When the kid used to read books to him, the boy tried to figure it out so he could read on his own, but those black curves and lines didn’t make any sense to him. The kid even asked the man if he could take the boy to school, but the man said, “Hell no.” After a while, the boy didn’t get any smarter, and the kid stopped trying. The man and the kid often went places, but the boy was usually locked in the house alone while they were gone. When the boy got older, they left him outside instead where he would huddle on the porch if it was rainy or cold. The boy thought that maybe they didn’t trust him around the food because he had occasionally reached for theirs when they weren’t looking. Came the boot. He tried to tell them that it wasn’t going to happen again, lesson learned, but they didn’t seem to believe him. They were happy to see him when they came home, but it didn’t last long. Occasionally they would leave him outside when they would go in. When they did that at night, he would cry and then get the boot. They recently left him outside at night and he cried, but there was no boot because the man and the kid had gone away for a few days. He had gotten his leg stuck in the fence. The neighbors heard him crying and called the sheriff. It was not the first time they called about the boy, but it was definitely going to be the last. The sheriff passed the county office and made a phone call before making a detour. His wife was waiting on the porch as he pulled up the driveway, and she was almost at the car before it came to a stop. He held up a finger for her to be quiet as he got out. “He’s asleep,” he whispered. She tip-toed to the window and peered in. Her first tear was for the scar where there was no eyebrow. Her second tear was for the empty spaces where teeth were missing. Her third tear came when she thought about the boy they had lost a few years back. She remembered how he would lie on the sofa with her, look up at her teary eyes when they all knew he didn’t have many days left. “Why’d you bring him here?” she asked, clutching the sheriff’s hand. He glanced over her shoulder, at the street, and around. “I think we should keep him,” he whispered as he hugged her. She didn’t answer, but her sobs were enough. “It’s too hot out here,” he said. “I wanna get him inside.” He scooped up the boy carefully and made his way into their home as his wife held the door open for him. The coolness of the shady house startled the boy, and he looked around in wonder. “Relax,” the sheriff said. “I gave him some water, but I think he’s still thirsty. Honey, go get him something.” She was moving before he finished asking and back before her husband could finish wrapping the boy in a soft blanket on the sofa. They sat on each side of him with comforting hands on his back. “Dear,” she said. “You see this all the time. Why him? Why not any of the others?” He huffed as he put his hat in its usually corner of the oak coffee table. “You know how I am.” He smiled. “I got a thing for beagles.” Article © Richard Voza. All rights reserved. Published on 2010-06-07