by Platt, Sean
His smile was back, a straight line across the page of his face. “They say that the daylight is safe. But don’t go out at night. Then it’s the opposite of safe.”
“Why are we safe in the daylight?”
“Because they come out at nighttime.”
“Who comes out in the dark, Junior?” Liz asked, feeling herself tip into an unreasonable panic.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT!”
“I’m sorry,” she sputtered her apology, taken aback not by the strength of his bellow, but because of how much it sounded like Anderson losing his shit. “What do you want me to call you?”
“I told you before. My name is Andy. From now on, call me that.”
“Okay, Andy. I’m sorry for calling you the other name. It won’t happen again. Now can you tell me who comes in the dark?”
“I don’t know who they are. But the trees say it doesn’t make any difference whether we’re good or bad. Because in the dark, it doesn’t matter.”
“Let’s go back to the cabin,” she said.
Without another word, they did.
There was no reason to venture out unnecessarily. Not with her sprained or torn ligament. Not as worried about Junior as she was. It was smarter to stay put.
They had plenty of food and water. Shelter was shelter.
Cell towers would be back up soon.
Colette would come and get them tomorrow if nothing else.
Unless she’s waiting to hear back from me? She wouldn’t just not show up if I didn’t respond, would she?
Colette wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t afraid of confrontation or Anderson. If she felt that he was standing in the way of Liz leaving, she’d show up anyway. No doubt about it.
Junior sat on the couch, and Liz turned on the TV, reciting a silent prayer for something to be on. She would empty her checking account for anything, including Thomas & Friends, to keep Junior occupied while she thought of a way out of whatever this was.
But the TV was static.
She tried switching channels, which led to a terrible clicking, a mechanical but also almost animalistic clicking. Liz wondered if that was the sound Junior had been talking about. She turned it off, and for ten long seconds, the TV screeched.
She wanted to ask, Why is it doing that? but was afraid to hear his answer.
So Liz said nothing, just lay down on the couch and tried to ignore her throbbing pain.
Junior sat at the edge of the love seat for around fifteen minutes, though Liz wouldn’t have been surprised to find that it had been precisely that, thanks to his weird (according to Anderson) and impressively accurate (according to Liz) internal clock.
He stood, probably at the sound of some ding that only he could hear. “I’ll go. I can find the nearest neighbor by myself. I remember how to find the cabin.”
“No, Andy. I don’t want you to leave me.”
“I need to go. It’s time for me to man up. Stop being a pussy.”
He grabbed his father’s rifle and was out the door without another word.
Liz tried to stand, screamed in agony despite trying to hold it in, then collapsed back onto the couch where she had no choice but to stay put where she was, both afraid and alone.
Eight
Four months ago …
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Coombs. I wish I had something better to say,” Miss Bledsoe finished with a smile.
Another principal, in yet another principal’s office. Liz longed for this one of her life’s echoes to stop. “I know that he can be difficult …”
Bledsoe raised a hand to stop her. She offered Liz another smile and a sad little shake of her head. “I can understand how hard you’ve been trying, and I sympathize with your situation, Mrs. Coombs. But we both know this has gone far beyond difficult.”
“I understand the gravity of—”
“He stabbed another child with a pencil.”
“The situation …” Her finish couldn’t have landed any flatter. “There’s no excuse for what he’s done … I understand that. But you can’t blame him for snapping. He’s been bullied every single day. This has been a problem every year of his academic life.”
Liz had expected some empathy, but Bledsoe’s smile turned brittle. “Then perhaps that should tell you something, Mrs. Coombs.”
“That public education in this country routinely fails students who don’t fit the mold?”
“I invite you to our next school board meeting, where you are welcome to voice your concerns about how we allocate our resources, but I can only do so much to help you.”
“Help me? Is that what you’re doing by suspending my son when—?”
“I think this is about more than suspension.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Liz asked.
“I’ve spoken to Oliver’s parents, and they’ve agreed—”
“To keep their son from being a little dickhead? Sorry.”
“—that they wouldn’t press charges.”
“Do they feel bad because they know their son is a bully?”
“I can assure you that Oliver’s role in the incident has been thoroughly explained to his parents. As has the fact that Andy is a special student with some rather unique needs.”
“Junior,” Liz corrected her. “My husband really doesn’t care for the name Andy.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Coombs. That’s what your son has been insisting that we call him.”
“I understand.” She looked at the carpet, then back into Mrs. Bledsoe’s eyes. “Maybe we just don’t call him that … if Mr. Coombs and I are ever in here together.”
The principal offered Liz her saddest smile so far. “I don’t anticipate that being a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I strongly suggest that you start homeschooling … your son.”
Liz shook her head. “Homeschooling isn’t going to work. He’s—”
“Not fit for public school until he gets evaluated.” Bledsoe leaned forward and gave Liz a different smile, sympathetic, and knowing. “Maybe this can be the nudge that helps you and your son to get the help you need.”
“I don’t understand …” But really, of course, she did.
“I’ve sent you an email with some resources I recommend you look into.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Coombs.”
Liz left the office shaking. Feeling the uneasiest déjà vu of her life, she went up to Junior, sitting on the bench and staring down at his lap. She offered her hand, and they left together in the usual silence.
Liz waited five minutes into the drive before talking, then blabbed for six minutes straight, explaining that he would be homeschooled for a little while and that maybe it was time to see someone so they could figure out the unique — and exciting! — ways his brain worked differently.
Junior replied with a lonely sentence. “My brain makes people hate me.”
Followed by four minutes of silence, until the Subaru dipped into their driveway.
Getting out of the car and walking toward the door, Liz felt a bluster of hope. Maybe Mrs. Bledsoe was right, and this was just what Junior needed. She couldn’t afford to take the time off of work, but on the other hand, maybe she couldn’t afford not to.
She held onto that hope while making dinner, then at the table while the three of them dug into their chicken and rice. Anderson was predictably furious and did his share of bitching about how the bills would start piling up now, without a single suggestion about how he could maybe spend less, or be present more.
He finally graced her with a grunted offer. “Go ahead and homeschool him if you can do it without turning him into a pussy, and be prepared for what might happen to him and you both if things don’t go like you expect them to.”
Liz wasn’t sure what Anderson meant by that and didn’t want to push, at least before bedtime, when he was so obviously on edge.
His words sounded like a threat, even though she told herself
over and over that it was only her paranoia as she tried to fall asleep.
But that didn’t stop her from softly crying to herself.
* * *
The new reality was rough from day one. A week in, and Liz felt like she was starting to lose it. At almost a month, she was going out of her mind.
She couldn’t get Junior to do anything. He was in the deepest, darkest place she had ever seen him, barely willing to talk. Liz was lucky to get a sentence out of him. Mostly he stared out the window.
But he did talk to Harley a lot. Junior was always whispering to the dog, though Liz had yet to hear a single thing he’d said so far. She was glad he had someone to share his secrets with, but it ate away at her stomach that her son’s only confidante was a Golden Retriever.
This last week was the worst. Junior had been completely despondent. Anderson had banished Harley to the backyard after he realized that Harley had been chewing on the couch almost the entire time he’d been watching The Shining on HBO. By the time Jack Nicholson was running through the hedge maze, Anderson saw what the dog had done.
Junior had locked himself in his room, but it was one of the rare times when he did so without his canine companion. Liz sat on the couch because she didn’t want to deal with Anderson pouting about her not wanting to watch a movie with him.
She saw the whole thing as it happened. Harley shit blood because Anderson kicked the dog in his stomach, although he swore he hadn’t later.
Liz could tell by the way Junior looked at him, he knew his father was full of it.
Anderson kept showing lower and lower parts of himself. He still hit Liz hard enough to leave a visible bruise a few times each year. Maybe it was his way of marking the seasons. She didn’t really care. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t happening. But even after all that, Liz never imagined that she’d see her husband hurt an innocent animal. She could hear Colette’s voice, like a chorus of therapists in her head: You don’t mind if he beats you, but a dog is your line? What does that say about how you see yourself?
Liz felt like she was living in a trash compactor, Anderson and Junior compressing her soul from either side. Her emotions were always raw now. She needed solutions but was trapped instead. Anderson was “fine with the homeschooling bullshit or whatever” — always said like he was doing her a favor. But he still refused to get Junior the help he so desperately, so obviously needed. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Anderson’s own mood was worsening all the time.
He was drinking more and more, popping painkillers even though his accident had been more than a year and a half ago.
Coming home at the end of what was apparently a tougher-than-usual week on the street, he walked into the living room and saw a stack of Junior’s drawings strewn across the carpet.
“Where is that fucking kid?” Anderson asked.
“Are you drunk?” Liz hadn’t realized it when he walked through the door, but she could sure smell it now.
Anderson didn’t answer or even look at Liz as he stomped past her, down the hall to Junior’s room.
He opened the door without knocking and looked inside as Liz came up behind him. “Where the fuck is he?”
“That’s two fucks, and you’ve been home for a minute. Are you drunk?”
“I bet he’s outside waiting on his goddamn starship.”
Back down the hall. Into the kitchen and out the door.
He grabbed the frame before it finished slamming and looked back at Liz. “You stay in here and keep out of this. This here is firmly in the Turning-a-Boy-Into-a-Man Department.”
Junior was sitting by the Chinese wisteria tree — Liz’s favorite among the few the home association allowed her to plant — staring straight ahead, with Harley lying beside him.
She kept telling herself not to go out there. That Junior would be fine.
But it had barely been a moment, and Anderson was already visibly belligerent.
Harley was on his feet, haunches raised.
Liz went to the door and opened it.
“—alien retard? I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Harley growled.
Anderson got in Junior’s face.
Then the dog lunged and bit him on the arm.
Anderson cried out, reeled around, and gave the dog its second kick to the stomach that week. Much harder this time, sending Harley flying across the lawn with a whimper.
Junior was already sobbing.
And Anderson walked away, shaking his head in disgust and holding his bleeding arm. He muttered in disgust while passing Liz on his way back inside.
“See what you made?”
She didn’t know whether to see if Junior was okay or yell at Anderson. “How could you do that?”
“Figures you’d care more about a dog than your husband.”
Then he walked away from her, grabbed his car keys, and headed out. Probably to the bar, to get drunker.
Liz went to comfort her son.
Junior cried for a while, then they went inside the house and ordered a pizza while watching Thomas & Friends.
Anderson wouldn’t be back for a while, and hopefully, they would both be sound asleep when he was.
Junior was snoring fifteen minutes before the last episode in their marathon finally ended. Liz carried him to bed, wondering how many more times she still would be able to do that. He was small for his age, but eventually, he’d be too big and heavy.
Harley followed them into the bedroom, then lay at the foot of his bed.
She tucked Junior in, kissed him on the forehead, then left him sleeping.
Liz was on her phone and calling Colette before she reached the end of the hallway.
“You’ll never believe what he just did,” she said before Colette could finish her hello.
“I believe it, and you don’t even have to tell me your story. What I have a hard time believing is that an intelligent woman like you needs years of convincing before she’ll do what’s best for her.”
“What you say is best for me?”
“I’m tired, Liz. Your husband is an unrelenting asshole, and you tolerate it.”
“You’re not even listening to my—”
“I’ve seen your story, and your personal network seems to be airing it a lot more often lately. You keep bitching and bitching, but you never do anything to change your life.”
“You’re my friend, Colette. It’s—”
“My job is to listen to you bitch, and I will. I love you. But I’m also going to tell you when you’re being stupid. And when it comes to your husband—”
“I know how to deal with Anderson. I’m much more worried about Junior.”
“It’s like you have a blind spot, Liz. We keep on talking and talking about this. It’s all related. Junior needs to change his environment. Whether you want to use the word or not, Anderson is abusive. I would have already called CPS if I thought you would forgive me and not lie to cover his sorry ass.”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
“Says the hostage.”
“I’m not a hostage.”
“Okay,” Colette said.
“I know you’re right … about most of it.”
“Make a plan, Liz. I’ll help you with whatever you need, but this is starting to feel like gossip. Like you’re always just waiting to tell me the latest. But you need to take ownership. This is your life. You need to make a plan.”
“I will,” Liz said. “I’ll make a plan soon.”
“I wish I believed you.”
“I mean it this time.” Then she hung up before Colette could get the last word in.
She checked on Junior, but he was so sound asleep that he almost looked like part of the mattress. Harley had moved up to the bed and was now snoring beside him.
Liz closed the door and got ready for bed. It was early, but she needed the sleep.
Maybe she wouldn’t feel so sad by the time she woke up.
Colette was right: she really did need to do som
ething. She couldn’t bring Junior up in this environment any longer, nor could she keep blaming her lack of progress on Anderson. If their son needed help, then Liz needed to get it for him, whether her husband thought therapy was a crutch or not.
She finally fell fast asleep with a comforting thought.
At least he has Harley.
* * *
Liz woke up to dueling chainsaws.
The snoring was even worse when her husband was hungover. Anderson was passed out in the bed beside her, but he wouldn’t be getting up for a while. Nor would he need to. Anderson wasn’t working until noon, and he had the uncanny ability — like so many highly functional drunks — to sleep it off or play it off or walk it off; however he needed to. Even when he got sauced and raged at home, so far as she knew, it never affected his work.
Liz wanted her morning coffee but felt a pressing need to check on Junior first.
It was after seven, so she wasn’t surprised to find his room empty.
He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, or anywhere else she looked. And Liz didn’t hear any noise in the house to suggest either his presence or Harley’s.
He might be walking the dog or feeding him. Maybe they’re playing together in the yard.
She went to the rear window, and sure enough, Junior was outside, but he was just sitting in front of the dog house.
She stepped outside, “Good morning, hon—”
But then she stopped. Swallowed. Thought this must be a nightmare in the second she spent desperately wishing it was.
Harley was dead, with blood everywhere. Junior’s eyes were wider than she had ever seen them. Drool dripping all the way to his chin.
“What happened?”
No response.
“Junior, tell me what happened!”
Still nothing.
Anderson couldn’t have done this. If he did … Liz might have to kill him.
“Honey … please …” Liz waved a hand in front of his face and got the non-response she expected. “Just blink or something.”
A minute later, she was shaking her groggy husband. “Anderson … I need you to wake up … Now, Anderson.”
He grumbled something unintelligible, then spoke in a clearer voice. “I’m not in until noon today.” He grabbed her pillow, hugged it to his body, and turned over.