Mr Hands

by Gary A Braunbeck

  This was the worst part, coming across one at night like this. Ronnie had never really liked the dark—not that he was afraid of the dark like some kind of cry-baby sped ree-tard, no…it just seemed to him that the dark always made people think about dying, how dark it was in the coffin, buried under the ground, and maybe being reminded every night that you were going to die was kind of mean. He wondered how long the child’s body had been out here. If it had been left less than two or three hours ago, it still carried some ghost, some remnant of its final minutes, and Ronnie Knew that he didn’t need even that much, all he needed was a few seconds, or one; a single second of memory contained unseen threads connecting it to the countless memories and sensations that the child had carried since the moment memory and sensation had first registered. One second of memory unfolded countless times, revealing the entirety of their existence. So much, hidden inside so little.

  He moved the flashlight’s beam toward the child’s face…or what was left of it.

  The beating had brutal, monstrous, and vile. The little boy’s head was almost pushed in at a couple of spots, and both his hair and skin were lacquered with blood. And he was still alive.

  Ronnie lay down the flashlight and flexed his fingers, wincing as he heard the tiny bones crack.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered to the little boy.

  One of the child’s eyelids spasmed, then began to lift, making it only halfway. Beneath was an eye so filled with blood that it appeared almost black, except for the smallest, thinnest ring of white right in the middle. Ronnie had watched a cop show on TV one night and heard one of the characters refer to this as an “…eight-ball hemorrhage…” (at least, that’s what it sounded like); it had sounded funny at the time, because the only eight-ball Ronnie had ever seen was the Magic kind, the kind you asked a question to and then shook it real hard and then turned it upside down to read the answer. But there was nothing funny about this.

  He reached down and took hold of the child’s upturned clawed hand.

  “I’ll stay right here,” said Ronnie.

  The eight-ball quivered in its socket: …please…

  The child’s hand closed on Ronnie’s.

  And Ronnie Knew.

  Oh, it took a few seconds before the Knowledge started to filter into him; there was such a thick, sour, thrumming, heavy miasma of cold wet pain that Ronnie almost lost consciousness, but he hung in there for Jimmy’s sake—for that was his name, this blood-lacquered broken mass of meat and bone, Jimmy Stiles, and today had been his seventh birthday but Daddy had come home drunk this morning without any presents or the cake Mommy had ordered from the bakery, and when Mommy started yelling at Daddy (“What? You spend all night buying drinks for your buddies or did you lose it hustling pool games again?”) he’d hit her jaw with the back of his hand (“I don’t need this shit from you, you fat-ass, miserable, ball-breaking, castrating, son-of-a-cunt BITCH!”) and she’d hit back, and then Jimmy, he’d started crying because he hated it when they yelled and hit each other, that’s why he didn’t have any friends, nobody ever wanted to come over to his house because of his parents, and most of the time that was okay, it really was, because he had his drawing pad and his charcoal pencils and his watercolors and comic books and his records and record player, so he’d draw friends and set their pictures all around and then they’d listen to music together and later everyone would ask him to read from the comics, and they all said he was a good reader, that he ought to be an actor on TV or in the movies, and that made Jimmy feel good, so he’d drawn a whole bunch of friends for today’s birthday party, even drew goofy hats for all of them, so he was real disappointed when Daddy didn’t come in with the cake or a present—all he’d wanted were some new comic books to read to everyone after they’d had cake—but he couldn’t say anything, especially now that Mommy and Daddy were really screaming and hitting each other—fists, now, and there was a little blood at the corner of Mommy’s mouth—but he couldn’t help himself, Jimmy couldn’t, and he started crying because he’d been looking forward to a nice birthday and now he was gonna have to hide up in his room with his head buried under the pillow trying to make the yelling and screaming and thumping and sounds of breaking glass and all of it go away—he’d gotten real good at doing this, even though it scared him because he never knew what he was going to find after it was all over and everything was quiet for a while and he chanced to sneak downstairs to see what had gotten broke or snapped in pieces or see if maybe Mommy needed him to help her patch up her face or if there was blood on the rugs that he was gonna have to help wash out…for a little while he could make most of that go away with the pillow over his head and pressed against his ears while he hummed “Hello, Goodbye,” his favorite Beatles’ song ever—but right now he wasn’t scared, or even angry, he just felt bad, felt awful, like this was all his fault, and so he ran into the room and shouted, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t yell, I don’t need a cake or anything, we can just have mac & cheese, that’ll be a good birthday, it will!” and both Mommy and Daddy stopped and looked at him and Jimmy saw it in their eyes, saw that all of this was his fault, all of it, every fight, every scream, every slap and punch and broken dish and the crying and the bruises, it was all because of him, and it scared him so much he couldn’t move, couldn’t turn to run upstairs to his room and lock the doors and make it all go away with the pillow, and the next thing he knew Daddy had let go of Mommy’s throat and Mommy just sort of dropped to the floor, her eyes staring at her son, not blinking, and Daddy reached under the sink and pulled out the big pipe wrench he kept down there to fix the plumbing when it started to leak ‘cause it always leaked under the sink, Jimmy had helped Mommy clean up water from the kitchen more times than he could count, and Daddy walked over to him and smiled and said, “A birthday boy gets birthday smacks before cake and presents, remember?” and he lifted up the wrench with both hands like a baseball player with a bat at home plate and then Daddy swung down and then—

  —Ronnie felt the tears running down his face as he squeezed Jimmy’s hand, because he Knew that this time was different, this time he had to take the Hurting away like a sponge absorbing water, slow and steady, not with a quick bird-snap, Jimmy was moving beyond the pain now, he couldn’t feel anything except Ronnie’s hand in his, and it was good, this feeling, it was nice and warm and gentle, it made him happy, but he was getting cold, so Ronnie sat down in the mud and cradled Jimmy’s head on his lap, stroking the boy’s blood-slopped hair back from what was left of his forehead, rocking him back and forth, back and forth, a mother with her newborn in a rocking chair, back and forth, back and forth, shhh, there, there, it’ll be okay, it’ll be gone soon, you won’t Hurt anymore, just close your eyes and I will sing you a lullaby…but then Ronnie realized that he didn’t know any lullabies, no one ever sang lullabies to unwanted sped ree-tard babies, so he did the next best thing; he leaned down and pressed his lips close against Jimmy’s remaining ear and began to hum “Hello, Goodbye” hoping that he stayed in tune because he’d never been much of a singer, and for a few brief moments they remained that way, the two of them in that cold, muddy, dark, filthy alley, surrounded by garbage and rats and the deepening shadows of uncaring night, but they were neither of them a part of it now, they were untouchable, separated from the Hurt and loneliness, outside and above all harm: one ree-tard sped humming an old Beatles song (in tune) and a little boy who closed his eyes a few minutes before midnight on his seventh birthday, feeling no pain, not afraid, not anymore, and trying to smile because it was nice to have a friend who wasn’t just on paper, and that made this the best birthday ever.

  Ronnie continued to sing and to rock Jimmy for several minutes after the boy had died before he simply…stopped, just sitting there, the two of them a tableau amidst the trash.

  There were still tears in Ronnie’s eyes, but these were different than before; where before he’d been weeping from the overwhelming pain and loneliness he’d felt from Jimmy,
now Ronnie wept in rage, for the very last thing he’d seen as the Hurting passed from Jimmy to him was the face of Jimmy’s dad. And it was a face that was going to be easy for Ronnie to remember, because he’d seen it before. (“Excuse me, friend—can you shine some of the light over here so’s I can read this goddamned paper? Or maybe I could borrow it for a few minutes? Yeah? Hey, thanks. I owe you a beer.”)

  Three days in a row he’d worked alongside Jimmy’s dad; and it was Jimmy’s dad who was always suggesting to everyone that they go “…grab a few brews…” after work.

  Tomorrow night, Ronnie was going to go along whether he was invited or not.

  “I love you,” he whispered in Jimmy’s ear. “And I’m sorry.” Then he kissed the dead child’s cold forehead, lay back the boy’s head on a pillow of mud, and rose to his feet.

  —Suzanne?

  He just got here, Ronnie. He’s fine—he’s a little confused, but he’s fine.

  —Please tell him I’m sorry he didn’t have any cake.

  I will, Ronnie, I promise.

  —Does he look happy?

  Oh, he sure does. He’s got so many new friends to meet. He looks like such a nice boy.

  —Don’t never let him be lonely, okay?

  No one here is lonely Ronnie. We’ve got you to thank for that.

  —I love all of you so much. You know?

  Of course we do, Ronnie. And we love you, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got a belated birthday party to throw for a certain someone…

  And so here he was, part of the Gang (along with Jimmy’s dad, who acted no differently tonight than he had last night or the night before), heading into the bar down the street.

  Ronnie thought he might actually have an extra beer tonight—not that he had beer all that often, but this place didn’t ask for I.D. and, besides, Ronnie could pass for twenty-one even though he’d just turned seventeen.

  He sat at a large table with Jimmy’s dad and the other men from that day’s crew and listened to them talk about the fucking economy and the fucking energy crisis and the fucking gas lines and that fucking Carter the fucking peanut farmer president and their aching fucking backs and how they’d like to fuck this waitress or that one who was serving them.

  “Doggy-style,” Ronnie said, because it seemed polite to join in the conversation. All of the men burst out laughing, a few of them slapped him on the back and said things like, “You’re okay, kid,” or “I like the way you think.” Jimmy’s dad—everybody called him “Slugger” but somehow Ronnie figured that wasn’t his real name—put an arm around Ronnie’s shoulder and slurred, “Damn straight, doggy-style—that way you don’t have to cover their head with a paper bag.” Ronnie smiled because he wanted everyone to think he felt like One Of The Guys.

  In a way, it made him sad that he’d never see any of them again after tonight. A couple of them had been real nice to him.

  After about an hour most of the men left, but Ronnie stayed behind along with three or four others, including “Slugger” Stiles, who was now on his second game of pool. For this game, he’d gotten the biker-type he was playing against to make a “…small wager—just to make it more interstin’, y’know?” Both men had placed twenty-dollar bills on the edge of the table.

  One of the other men tapped Ronnie on the shoulder and leaned in. “Now, you watch this asshole fall for old Slugger’s hustle. See how Slugger’s kinda wobbly on his feet? He’s a bit drunk, but he ain’t that drunk. He’s gonna lose this game—not by too much, mind you, but enough that the other fellah’s not gonna think twice about upping the next game to fifty bucks. I seen Slugger come in here on a busy night like this and walk out of here at closing time with damn near a thousand dollars in his pocket.”

  Ronnie smiled and nodded, and then watched as Stiles did, indeed, lose to the biker, but in such a way that you’d have to know he was setting up the other guy. The biker turned to his friends and laughed behind Stiles’ back, then faced Jimmy’s dad again and said: “I feel bad about taking your money. What say we grab a piss-break and play one more? Double or nothing, winner takes all.”

  Stiles blinked, wobbled a bit more, then said, “That’s…w-what? Shit, never could do math in my head once I had that second pitcher started…lemme see, that’d be…eighty dollars?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Stiles looked confused, then said: “How ‘bout making it an even hundred?”

  The biker looked at his friends and gave them a quick wink, then faced Stiles again. “A hundred sounds even better.”

  The men shook hands, the biker heading for the restroom, and Jimmy’s dad heading out the back exit into the alley.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Ronnie.

  “This’s part of the hustle, kid,” replied the other man at the table. “See how he made sure the biker’s friends saw him stumble out the door? In a minute, he’s gonna start making sounds like he’s back there puking his guts out, then sit down and have a smoke. Biker comes back from the restroom, his friends are gonna tell him that Slugger’s out back being sick, and the biker, he’s gonna take it for granted that he’s already won the next game. Won’t play as well as he did the last time ‘cause he figures Slugger’s too sick and too drunk to give him any kind of game.” The guy pressed a fist against his chest, let fly with a loud, wet belch, then finished off his glass of beer. “Speaking of taking a piss, seems the lizard needs draining. Do me a favor, will ya? Order us up another pitcher while I’m in there. I think I may be a few minutes—that damn Italian sub I had for lunch has finally found the escape route.” He patted Ronnie’s back. “Be back in a few.” He rose from the table, weaving and zigzagging through the crowd.

  Ronnie was glad the place had gotten this crowded.

  He flagged down a waitress and ordered two more pitchers of beer and some onion rings, gave her a five-dollar tip, then asked the remaining guys at the table to save his seat.

  Making his way through all the people, Ronnie walked past the pool table and the cue rack. No one was paying any attention to him or the table area, so he grabbed the opportunity to take a couple of items. No one noticed. The biker’s friends were too busy talking about the “…stupid motherfucker…” who was “…puking his lunch up in the alley…” and how Oz (that must be the biker’s name) was going to “…clean him out…” when they played the next game.

  Ronnie guessed that Jimmy’s dad must have been doing this for a long time, and that he was pretty good at it…at least most of the time. (“What? You spend all night buying drinks for your buddies or did you lose it hustling pool games again?”)

  Ronnie stepped out into the alley, making sure to close the door behind him—but not too fast, and making as little noise as possible. Not that anyone could hear it over the loud music from the jukebox.

  Jimmy’s dad was at the far end of the alley, half in shadow, sitting on a crate that was just barely outside the glow of light from a single bare bulb hanging over another door across from the back of the bar. He was smoking a cigarette and humming to himself.

  It wasn’t until Ronnie was closer that he realized what song the man was humming, and when he did realize what song it was, the burning fury that had been roiling in his stomach and chest all day long became suddenly cool, comforting, almost peaceful.

  “What song is that?” asked Ronnie as he came a little closer.

  “What? Who’s—? Oh, hey, it’s you. The song? I dunno. Some goddamned Beatles’ song my shit-for-brains kid used to sing to himself.” And then he laughed.

  It was the “…used to…” and the laugh that did it. Ronnie dropped the second object he’d taken from inside the bar and wrapped both his hands around the skinny end of the pool cue, pulling back like a baseball player at home plate readying to take a swing. “Hey, Slugger.”

  Jimmy’s dad had crushed out his first smoke and was lighting another. “Yeah…?” he turned and saw the raised pool cue. “Hey—what the fuck you doin’ with that?”

&nb
sp; “Jimmy wasn’t dead when you left him in the alley.”

  Stiles’ eyes narrowed for a moment, and then grew wide as he jumped to his feet and raised his arm to ward off the oncoming blow, but that was exactly what Ronnie wanted him to do because instead of swinging down, Ronnie faked to the side and then swung upward with all he had, smashing the fat end of the cue right into the center of Stiles’ Adam’s apple and enjoying both the sound it made and the look of shock that froze Stiles’ face into an expression of complete and utter terror.

  “You know what? He loved you, Jimmy did. He really loved you and your wife. Is she really dead?”

  Stiles tried to make a sound but all that emerged was a soft, wet, strained gurgling noise. He staggered forward, both hands now clutching at his throat, then dropped to his knees.

  Ronnie flipped the pool cue around so that he was now gripping the fat end. He didn’t speak again for the rest of it.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled back the cue, got his footing, and then ran forward like those knights always did in the movies when they were having a jousting battle. The business end of the cue went straight through Stiles’ left eye and pushed another inch or so into his skull before the man fell back. Once he was on the ground, it was easy for Ronnie to just stand on the man’s chest and put all of his weight into pushing the cue even deeper. It was a lot harder than he thought it would be, ramming the thing all the way through Stiles’ head, but Ronnie kept at it until he felt the end of the cue burst through the back of Stiles’ skull and hit alley-floor mud. Yanking the cue out of the bloody mess, Ronnie threw it aside and then retrieved the second item he’d taken from the bar.

  This time he sat on Stiles’ chest, one leg on either side of the still-dying man. Before finishing things, Ronnie grabbed Stiles’ left hand and took something from him—he’d always suspected that he might be able to choose what he took and what he didn’t, but he’d never tried before because with the kids, he wanted to take it all away.