In the Shape of a Man

by Paul Clayton

  In the Shape of a Man

  —by—

  Paul Clayton

  Copyright 2013 -- 2018 Paul Clayton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 1

  The San Francisco Bay Area of California, June, 1999…

  1015 Skyview Drive. Reynaldo Collins’ eyes opened when he heard the radio alarm go off in his parents’ bedroom. The music went away suddenly. A few moments later came the running of water in the sink. He knew the sounds by heart. Next would come the click of the medicine cabinet, the buzz of the shaver. As Reynaldo lay in bed he realized that the fog was outside. When the fog came and surrounded the house, little sounds seemed louder. He looked around. Gray light seeped into the room from around the edges of the shades on his window. He could see the rectangular shape of his Power Rangers poster on the wall, but could not see the Rangers’ brightly colored outfits or read the words on the poster.

  Reynaldo heard a door open. He slid out of bed and knelt, pressing his ear to his bedroom door as Daddy passed in the hall. He heard Daddy fill his water bottle at the kitchen sink. The refrigerator opened and shut. A few minutes elapsed and he heard the squeak of the handle on Daddy’s briefcase, then the rattle of the chain lock coming off. The door closed and locked and Reynaldo slipped out of his room. He crept into the living room and parted the curtains slightly, his face curling into a smile. Daddy walked down the drive, fog swirling about him. Daddy opened the van door, then shut it with a hollow metallic clang. The engine started and the van slowly drove off, disappearing like magic into the cloud of fog. As the sound faded, so did the smile on Reynaldo’s face. He heard a sound behind and turned. It was Mommy.

  “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Sorry, Mommy.”

  “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I wanted to see Daddy go to work.”

  “What did I tell you about getting out of bed before I get up?”

  “You said that you would put me down in the garage.”

  “Yes. Come on.”

  Reynaldo remained where he was. “Sorry Mommy. I won’t do it again.”

  Mommy grabbed him by the arm and pulled him across the rug. “Sorry, Mommy,” he said over and over as he held back.

  Mommy’s voice grew louder and her face turned bright red. “I told you, damn it!” She yanked the door to the garage open. It was dark. She pushed him down the three steps. “Now stay down there till I tell you to come up!”

  He ran to the door as it closed, the darkness engulfing him. “Mommy! Mommy!” He pounded on the metal door with his fists, the sounds small and dull. “I won’t do it again, Mommy. Please, Mommy, I promise!”

  There was no response. There was nothing but his cries. In a few moments his eyes adjusted to the dark and his cries subsided. He went over and sat on the little throw rug in front of the bookcase, pulling his knees up to his chest. To his left, faint light lit up the frame around the door leading to the yard. He looked at the other end of the garage at the dark shabby door. There was a lock on it and every time Mommy put him down in the garage he wondered what was locked up in there. Monsters, maybe. His eyes focused on the padlock on the latch. He watched the door for a few minutes, afraid he would see it moving. It didn’t and he calmed some. He wished Daddy didn’t have to go away to work every day. He wondered for a while what Daddy did all day at work, and then he fell asleep.

  A noise woke Reynaldo. The light was on and he rubbed his eyes. Mommy stood at the top of the steps. He could see his sister Christine sitting at the kitchen table eating something.

  “Are you ready to be a good boy now?” Mommy said.

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “Come up and brush your teeth. Hurry up.”

  Reynaldo went up the stairs. His favorite show, Power Rangers, was on the TV. Christine watched without seeing him as she chewed her food. Reynaldo went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He returned to the table. His sister said nothing to him, nor did she look at him. He knew she was afraid to talk to him or acknowledge him when Mommy was mad at him. She would talk to him later.

  Reynaldo turned around in his chair to see the TV. It was behind him. His sister could see it head-on, but he had to turn around in his seat.

  Mommy poured milk into his glass and he turned around to her.

  “I never wanted to adopt you, Reynaldo,” she said. “Do you know that?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “Your Daddy did, but I didn’t. I always thought there was something wrong with you and when your sister was born I knew it. She is a good girl. Not bad like you. Do you know that?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “You are always naughty, always making work for me.”

  “Sorry, Mommy.”

  “Now eat, and when you’re finished, go do your work in your room.”

  Allen Collins drove the smooth expanse of Northbound 280 automatically. It was late Saturday afternoon. He hoped Reynaldo had not misbehaved today. Tina had seemed stressed lately, what with all the changes at her job and taking care of two kids. Allen noticed a red sports car racing up behind. He knew the driver intended to swing around him and then back into his lane to take the upcoming exit. As he watched the car draw closer, he did not turn his head to see it in the side mirror. When the car disappeared from his rear view mirror he jammed the gas pedal down hard, down-shifting the van into second gear. The van leapt forward, the car appearing beside him, racing to overtake him. The driver, a teen, stared intently at the rapidly approaching exit and then, realizing he’d never make it, turned his attention to Allen. Allen could tell from his peripheral vision that the driver was gesturing, probably flipping him the bird. At the last minute, the driver dropped back, beeped his horn, and took the exit, disappearing.

  Allen smiled slightly, returning his gaze to the picture-postcard, tan colored summer hills of the San Andreas Wildlife Preserve on his left and the large expensive homes of Woodside on his right. Sometimes Allen entertained the fantasy that he had already died and that this life was a dream. I-280 became a viaduct over the abyss of Crystal Springs reservoir. To his left, Allen was aware of the blue of water. Just before the highway viaduct rejoined solid ground, Allen glanced to his right as he always did at the adobe monstrosity of a dwelling that someone had tagged as the ‘Flintstone’s House.’ With its tan-colored
mound shapes connected by tunnel-like corridors, it looked to Allen more like a futuristic lunar house than some sort of cartoon-themed attraction. The odd house marked the homeward stretch of his commute and he sighed inaudibly.

  Allen had made this commute so many times over the years that it seemed almost as if he went into a trace the moment he got on the freeway. He would notice one, maybe two landmarks like the adobe house, and then he would ‘come to’ in time to take his exit. More huge mansions passed in and out of view as Allen listened to the college jazz station. He had a sudden, bright thought about something important that he should do. He felt in his shirt pocket for his note pad while keeping his eyes on the road. By the time he got the pad out to write it down, the bright and shiny thing was gone, having sunk back down into the swamp of his mind. He attempted to pull it up, but it slipped below the surface and disappeared.

  Allen was exhausted. He doubted it would kill him like it reputedly did the Japanese salarymen who suddenly and inexplicably collapsed, supposed victims of death from overwork. But his exhaustion wasn’t trivial either, being somewhere in between, and severe enough that it was beginning to leach the color out of his life. He told himself that he really had a great life—if not for the long hours on the job. He’d been married ten years to an attractive, loyal wife, a competent mother to his kids. After a barren stretch of about eight years, they had decided to adopt a beautiful son, Reynaldo, now seven. And then, almost miraculously, a beautiful daughter, Christine, now five, had come along in the regular way. FMC Aerospace, where he worked, paid well and they lived in a nice, three-bedroom house in a decent neighborhood. They owned a van and a car. All he needed was a little rest. He would make time for that Sunday, he decided.

  Allen half-listened to a discussion of the latest Clinton scandal and then found himself in the mob of cars exiting the 380 interchange. He merged to the right and onto Westborough Boulevard. Two blocks up he turned onto Hillside. The houses along Hillside were smaller and more modest than the mansions of the techno-riche along I-280, but it was a good community, Allen thought, crime free, with good access to the freeways.

  Allen did not like working Saturdays, but if you worked in Silicon Valley, the much hyped Center of the technological universe, Saturdays were just another day. Allen sighed and turned his gaze to the iridescent red flags and fences of yellow netting that had recently been strung across the pristine canyons and tan grass-covered slopes of San Bruno Mountain. The little mountain range was the last stretch of open space between San Francisco and the peninsula bedroom communities, and Silicon Valley to the south. Now, after a very close vote in the South San Francisco City Council, they had allowed the sale of some of the mountain to developers. The plans were extensive—300 houses, 500 condos, a fire station and a small business park—enraging the open space advocates. A demonstration was planned; a lawsuit filed. Allen had mixed feelings about it. He would miss looking up at the hill and seeing nothing but tan or green grass, depending on the season, chaparral, jagged gray granite outcroppings, and red-tailed hawks hovering in the east-flowing air currents. But, he mused, like the crude bumper stickers proclaimed, shit happened, like old age and taxes. They had been lucky to have had the view for the last ten years. It had always only been just a matter of time. People were jamming into the San Francisco Peninsula like there was no tomorrow. And they needed houses to live in. And they had money, lots of it, to pay for them. Some of them even paid with suitcases full of cash. But for now, the mountain was quiet and untouched, with no bright yellow tractors and earthmovers in sight.

  Allen turned down Skyview Drive. He tried not to stare as he passed the rental at 1030, but couldn’t help it. The house hadn’t seen a coat of paint in, probably, ten years, and the lawn had devolved into a square patch of smooth, hard earth, devoid of any living thing, even crab grass. Allen had written City Hall to find out who the owner was. Whoever they were, they had rented it out to a couple of twenty-somethings—punks, Allen guessed they’d prefer to be called—of the blue-haired, nipple-ring variety. Only, these two had red hair, or more accurately, hair that had been dyed the unnatural bright orange color of a Raggedy Ann doll’s hair.

  The girl—Allen had nicknamed her, Ann—sat on the steps of the house, filing her nails. They reminded Allen of the iridescent green Japanese beetles he would find clinging to his mother’s roses when he was a boy. She appeared about twenty-five and filled out her jeans nicely. She would be quite pretty if she got rid of all the metal in her face and reclaimed her hair. Her skateboarding boyfriend, whom Allen had named Andy, wasn’t in sight, but his pickup truck was. Painted battleship gray primer, it sat, hood up, without wheels, atop four cinder blocks, where it had been for the past two months. Allen tried not to stare as he coasted down the street to his driveway at 1015. Parking, he stared at the dashboard. Let it go, he told himself. At least his miserable excuse for a neighbor hadn’t rented the house out to the local chapter of the Hells Angels. He turned the engine off and got out of the van.

  Chapter 2

  1030 Skyview Drive. Tawny sat on the front step in the shade of the house, filing her nails. Tawny’s real name was Judy Pulaski. Her dad had given her the nickname Tawny for her brown hair. She had dyed it red two years ago, the day after he died, and now she wore it cut close against her head, punk fashion. Her nose and lower lip were pierced and sported silver posts. Tawny pulled her pocket watch out and checked the time: 4:30. Her boyfriend, Rad Anderson, would be coming home in half an hour and she couldn’t wait to run her hands up his muscled back, to kiss him.

  Tawny looked up the street at the velvet-like tan flanks of San Bruno Mountain as a big 747 lumbered across the blue sky almost directly overhead, headed toward the Pacific and Asia beyond. Tawny felt contentment. This was the best part of her day. After finishing cutting hair at KoolKuts down at the Tanforan Mall, she arrived home around four every day, Tuesday to Sunday, to sit and watch the world go by.

  Up the hill a gray minivan made the turn off of Hillside Boulevard and slowly drove down Skyview. It was the yuppie guy that lived down the block at 1015. He came home the same time every day, sometimes even Saturdays, like clockwork. He glanced at Tawny and then checked out Rad’s truck, which was up on blocks. Rad was going to fix the brakes and suspension, but they needed about two hundred dollars for parts. But the rent was due in a couple of days and there wouldn’t be much left over for the truck. That was why Rad took the bus to work and back. Tawny wished they could put the truck in the garage where it wouldn’t be such an eyesore. But that was where they kept Ketsel.

  The van parked down the block. The yuppie got out carrying his briefcase and went in his yuppie house. Tawny continued to work on her nails. The Mexican woman came around the corner and started up the street. Tawny realized that, despite her thinking of this female as a ‘woman,’ she was probably the same age as herself. And yet Tawny didn’t think of herself as ‘a woman.’ Not really. It was probably because she’d never had a kid, and here was this ‘woman’ with two of them and another one on the way. Tawny was pretty sure the woman worked at one of the houses around the corner as a domestic. She would be getting on the same bus that Rad would be getting off of, and Tawny felt a tingle deep down. The bus would be coming in exactly five minutes.

  The Mexican woman and her two girls drew closer. Tawny noticed that the woman’s belly seemed to bulge more than it had in the last month or so. She was about six or seven months along, Tawny guessed. The woman’s two girls walked behind her. The older one, maybe seven, led her younger sister, three, maybe four years old, by the hand. It was cute to watch. Tawny wondered if she and Rad would ever get so far along with their lives that they would have a baby. She would have to get off the pill though. Then, every time they did it, it would be like a pull on the handle of a slot machine at Reno. She sighed. Didn’t matter now. There was plenty of time. Tawny had never had a lover like Rad. He was so sensitive and warm. Her period still hadn’t come, probably tomorrow, so they could make l
ove. She smiled at the thought. They were young—she was twenty-seven, two years older than Rad—and they were having way too much fun to have babies. They didn’t have a lot of money either. They rented, and they both had to work to pay the bills. But, she told herself brightly, they went where they wanted, when they wanted. They were enjoying their lives and in no hurry to acquire material things and deplete the planet’s resources like the baby boomer yuppies.

  A roar came from the top of the hill and she looked up. The big red, white and blue SamTrans bus pulled away from the corner. Then Rad came into view, crouching as he rode down the pavement on his skateboard like a surfer riding a wave to the shore. Spotting her watching him, he suddenly stood straight up and folded his arms campily. He leaned to the side and shot out into the street, turning in a wide arc. Brows furrowing in concentration, he crouched low and jumped, bringing the skateboard up with him as he cleared the sidewalk, then setting it back safely to earth. He jumped off and ran, kick-flipping the board and catching it with flair.

  Tawny stood and Rad put his arm around her and deep kissed her. “Tawn!” he said upon pulling back, “how’d it go today?”

  “Real good. Twenty in tips. How about you?”

  Rad frowned. “The owner was in today and made us turn the sounds down. But other than that, it was gnarly.” Rad worked at the custom skateboard shop inside Stokes Sporting World putting together and repairing skateboards. The job didn’t pay much, but Tawny knew he loved it and so she never said anything about the money part of it. They got by.

  “How’s everything in the neighborhood?” Rad added.

  “Oh, fine. You want to barbecue tonight? I picked up some chicken wings.”

  “Yeah. I’ll fire it up.” He pulled her closer. “But later, after I fire somethin’ else up, you know what I mean?”

  “Umm,” she smiled, allowing herself to be led toward the door. “By the way, Mister Peepers drove by. You know, the yuppie in the van. It was like, what part of ‘don’t stare’ don’t you understand? His little beady eyes almost fell out from checking out the truck.” Tawny laughed, but there was concern in her voice.