Strange Children

by Sadie Hoagland

  Man, someone is touchy tonight, Christ, are you on your period or something? Jimmy looked around at the other boys, they were all giving the same laugh now. Not Duke, though. Not Jeremiah. Flynn, too high in his sound again. Jimmy laughed again, louder now, trying to force the room to relax. Brett leaned back, and Jimmy, brimming, reached over and clapped Jeremiah on the back. Just joking—

  Jeremiah felt the touch and then felt his body push against Jimmy’s as hard as he could. He didn’t remember thinking he’d been touched again, and his brain deciding to do anything. It was like Jimmy’s handprint had just moved his muscles automatically, his muscles not being told but knowing what to do.

  He plowed both hands into Jimmy’s chest until Jimmy fell backwards into the cheap wall, right into the laminated sign that read No Shoes in the House. Jimmy’s eyes were wide and Jeremiah kept one hand on his chest and pulled the other one up to punch him when Flynn, little Flynn, swung onto his arm. Jeremiah went to grab Flynn’s thin face when he saw Brett leap at him from the side, his large arms catching Jeremiah as he tackled him, and Flynn too, to the ground, Flynn landing on Jimmy, and Jeremiah’s face landing next to Jimmy’s socked foot. So much weight on his body but his neck and head were free, Brett turned to slap at Duke, who was trying to pull him off Jeremiah, Flynn now shrieking: He’s fucking crazy!

  And so Jeremiah made good on that and went for Jimmy’s baby toe. Jimmy caught, too. He got his molars just below the knobby bone and bit down as hard as he could.

  The scream was loud and shrill and othered.

  The boys’ motion on top of him now froze, the bodies taut. Listening.

  Jeremiah felt the little ball of flesh in the most satisfying way in his mouth, and worked fast when he hit bone, grinding his teeth into it, wanting to finish what he started, to tear the knubby meat in his mouth free, he could feel a salty desire working his jaw clenching harder as Jimmy tried to pull his foot away. The boys still stopped by the scream.

  He’s got my foot, the shithead has . . .

  Jeremiah could taste blood now, a warm wet.

  He’s trying to bite my fucking toe off, stop him, stop him!

  Brett’s hand was the size of Jeremiah’s whole head, and used it to press Jeremiah’s face down, Flynn pulling on Jimmy’s leg to try to free his foot, Jimmy swatting at him.

  Jeremiah felt the heft of Brett’s hand press into his skull, felt the way his skull could give, but he didn’t care. He would not let go, couldn’t at this point, his body long since acting now without him, without his own mind.

  This, maybe, is revelation. Divinity. Watching from outside, inside.

  Jimmy’s blood, a toe gone, could be an atonement maybe. The bone finally beginning to crack now.

  And then he felt two big fingers push into his nostrils, smashing his nose up into his brain, his airway blocked, his eyes turned to meet Brett, who had a wild smile now. He remembered now two weeks earlier, sitting on the couch, Brett telling him about his father working oil in Florida, a gator grabbing a kid’s leg, the kid getting free by stuffing his fingers into the gator’s nostrils until the creature had to open his mouth, and as Brett pushed his fingers in deeper to Jeremiah’s nose, his body again without consulting him released his jaw so he could get a breath.

  He did it, he did it, Jimmy was screaming but Jeremiah knew that the toe was still on. Barely, maybe, but still there. Brett released Jeremiah’s head and it slapped to the dirty linoleum, smeared now with blood, his cheekbone pressed into it. Jeremiah spit out a mouthful of blood, a red foam.

  Boys were pulling Jimmy up, carrying him to the sofa, Flynn was now yelling about ice, a bag of ice for the severed toe and pawing the ground around Jeremiah’s face, Where is it? Where is it? Is it in his sock still?

  Jeremiah could feel his own ribs bend with Brett’s breath, their two chests still pressed together. He felt Duke kneeling behind, unsure whether he was there to make sure Jeremiah didn’t escape Brett, or there to make sure Brett didn’t hurt him. Jesus Fucking Christ, he heard Duke say. The wicked.

  Jeremiah relaxed under Brett’s weight, breathing hard but suddenly almost overcome with indifference. Let them kill me.

  He felt his nose bleeding down his face, the heat of it, and only half listened as they figured out that the toe was still attached. Fought over how to treat Jimmy, Jimmy just wanting someone to drive him to the hospital, or maybe not, the pharmacy maybe. Flynn high and panting.

  Jeremiah half listened and felt his jawbone anchored to the floor like a piece of furniture for the earth. He felt as if he and his whole body were only that one bone, all else vanished.

  An avenging angel. Maybe Pa would say that if he saw. Jeremiah let himself think of them, his family, seeing him. Proud of him, Pa would be.

  But Pa left me.

  Flynn, now, Jeremiah could see, was curled up on the floor crying, holding his ears. Duke was whispering to Brett.

  Time stretched again, the closed hand of the room loosened with a kind of fatigue.

  He watched Jimmy finally stagger over to him, held up on each side by the brothers. Out, you fucking freak, out, Jimmy said, I want you out of here right now. But his voice was shaking.

  No. If Pa.

  Jimmy looked at the other boys. You hear me? Get him out.

  And the door slammed and the room was open and flat again. After a minute Brett gently rose from him, Duke’s hands went under him, pulling him up to sitting. He took a breath, looked up just as Flynn came at him, digging his nails into his cheek.

  Jeremiah let him, felt nothing.

  He had dreamed it. He had done it. I once cut out the heart of a calf.

  Brett flicked Flynn off Jeremiah like a fly. Duke pulled him all the way up and the three stood there. The other boys facing them now. Jeremiah wondered for a moment if it was not over yet.

  Shit, shit, shit, Flynn looked like he was going to attack again, he was pacing, Shit, you fuck head, what if he kicks us all out now? Huh? Where we supposed to go then, huh? If you think I’m going to back to that redlight shit because you’re a fucking idiot . . . He had his hand up against his one hearing aid, pressing, as he started crying.

  One of the older boys, a skinny redheaded kid named Taylor who had come in the room halfway through it all, sat him down, tried to hush him. You’re rolling, Flynn, it’s just Jeremiah that has to leave, then it will all be back to normal. He rubbed Flynn’s back in circular motions.

  What? No? Let’s stand by Jeremiah, Duke said, jumping up and down a little, Think about it, and I have, if we all agree, and Jimmy can’t come over, then what’s he going to do? If he kicks us out, then we’ll tell the police. You know, we’ll tell them. We’ll tell them what Jimmy is and . . .

  No one believes a fucking bunch of runaways.

  Think, Duke said, he didn’t want us to take him to the hospital. Because he knew there would be questions.

  I ain’t talking to those pigs, one of the brothers said.

  But a few nodded. Looked at Jeremiah, like he knew the answer. Was the answer.

  Whatever, he finally said. Whatever you want me to do.

  It doesn’t matter. Every place is just as much a no place.

  Fucking have that beer, that’s what I want you to do. Duke tossed a can of Keystone Light at him.

  Jeremiah sat down on the couch and for a moment it was quiet except for Taylor shushing Flynn.

  Dude, were you really going to bite his fucking toe off? Brett motioned for Duke to hand him a beer as well.

  Jeremiah shrugged. Remembered the bone in his teeth, how good it felt.

  You are one sick puppy, Brett laughed and his laugh was echoed by the brothers.

  Jeremiah wiped his bloody nose on his shirt, avoiding Flynn’s gaze.

  That night he got drunk. All of them did. No one could decide what to do. They talked in circles, Flynn crying so much that for the first time Jeremiah realized how young he was. Fourteen, maybe. Duke had told him he’d been on the streets a long time, maybe alw
ays.

  When the cooler was empty and the boys began to fall asleep Duke and Jeremiah went into their room. Nothing was certain, but it looked like Jeremiah had better be ready to go in the morning, just in case. Duke watched as he put the few things he owned, a change of clothes Jimmy had bought him, in his pillowcase.

  Dude, if you leave, and you shouldn’t, because that’d be a pussy move, even for a fag like you, where will you go?

  It doesn’t matter.

  I don’t know. Jeremiah flung the pillowcase in the corner. Turned off the light. Flopped down on his bed.

  Man, I know I’d get out of here, go to Arizona . . .

  Why did you let him?

  Duke didn’t answer.

  Why did you let him do whatever the fuck it is he does?

  Silence.

  Is it sucking? Is that what he wanted? Jeremiah sat up in his bed.

  Silence.

  Jeremiah realized by little sounds, like animal sounds, that Duke was maybe crying.

  Dude, I’m sorry.

  Maybe because I’m a fucking fag, maybe that’s why I did it.

  No, man, don’t let him get inside your brain like that. Where I am from . . .

  Jeremiah stopped. He lay back down on his bed.

  Tell me, Duke sniffled.

  Where I’m from, the crime stays in the body of the person, like in their blood. And if you get to be a victim, you could stop being a victim, maybe, by stopping the crime. So say, a lady cheats on her husband, like real bad, the crime is in her blood, and see like the people where I’m from they know that Christ died for our sins and all that shit, but sometimes they say, Christ’s blood isn’t enough. Sometimes the blood of the crime has to be spilt too. So if you kilt the lady, and spilt her blood, you help her atone for her sins.

  Wait, you would fucking kill her? Why?

  ’Cause think about it man, it’s much nicer for her to be redeemed and have an eternity of good stuff than an eternity of hell. What’s the rest of her life compared to that? It’s like . . . an act of charity or something.

  Seems fucking extreme.

  What the fuck do I know? Anyway . . .

  Wait are you saying I’ll feel like better, like less of a fucking fag, if I kill Jimmy?

  No. Maybe.

  ’Cause I ain’t fucking killing anyone . . .

  No, I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s not your fault, I guess that’s what I’m saying. It’s his blood that would need spilling, not yours.

  Wait, so did this actually happen? Where you’re from? Did they fucking kill ladies for cheating on their men?

  No. Jeremiah put his head in his hands. Remembering. It didn’t have to be a lady.

  Huh, so it was just like, a theory, or something?

  No women ever cheated on their husbands.

  Oh, but like, if they did?

  How the fuck would I know?

  But he did know. He knew what his Pa had told him about Manti’s dad. He pressed two fingers into each closed eye until flecks of light appeared. The pressure made him feel more there than here.

  Sorry, man, Duke’s voice was muffled now by his pillow.

  Jeremiah lay there trying to remember. It was back when he was younger, just starting to be let in on man’s work and man’s talk. Maybe thirteen. It was a real hot day.

  We should get the fuck out of here though, if Jimmy comes back. Duke’s voice sounded sleepy.

  We will. I will.

  He had been mucking the stables when his Pa came in and stood in the doorway. Jeremiah just thought he was checking to see that the work was being done the way he wanted it to. He waited for some correction. But instead his Pa said, Leave that, boy, and come on with me now.

  But then his Pa just stood there, like he was surprised by his own words. He didn’t even bat at the flies about his face. Jeremiah watched one land on his brow and he wanted to reach up and shoo it. His Pa was staring at the wall where the tools hung, until finally he grabbed a shovel and left the barn.

  Duke was snoring now and Jeremiah turned on his side, buried his head under his pillow so that he could barely hear. Barely breathe.

  Jeremiah had followed his Pa to the truck, where he threw the shovel in the back. They got in and Jeremiah thought they were maybe going into town, maybe picking up feed. But then they only drove toward the dump, so Jeremiah thought for a minute maybe they were going there, but the bed had been empty and Pa didn’t slow at the turn in. They drove past the red mounds of waste, and out to Manti’s small rambled house and Pa stopped there—a ten-minute walk at most. The Prophet’s car was already there.

  The Prophet and Emma’s Pa, Brother Downs, were standing at the back corner of the house, arms folded. That woman with the raven nest hair, Beth was her name, who people said was crazy, sat rocking her little baby, little Manti curled around her feet like a dog. She was mumbling and looking far past them. Beyond the men, in the field, he could see their one skinny horse. And something else, something on the ground. A person.

  Jeremiah’s Pa had told him to open the truck bed and wait there. He and the two others walked to the body and Pa and Brother Downs lifted it. Pa got under the arms, and Brother Downs the legs. The Prophet stood and watched.

  They carried him toward Jeremiah and the truck. Jeremiah kept looking for the face, not thinking dead but ill, and wanting to see who, who it was. His brain was moving slow. It was hot for a fall day. He felt the sudden light of not being still in the dark stables.

  He craned his neck then, stepping up a little to see the face and then he wished he hadn’t. No face but half a face. The other half blood and some other gore. Jeremiah later thought brains, a bit of white bone.

  Jeremiah didn’t throw up. A little that he swallowed, maybe. He knew it was important not to throw up.

  They tried to lay the body down gently in the truck bed, but some heave was inevitable. Brother Downs covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow after the body was in.

  Get in, his Pa said. Even Pa was white, a sweating moon. He had a big red splotch on his sleeve that Jeremiah tried not to look at.

  He sat between Pa and Brother Downs as they drove to the town cemetery. Not the House to be laid out, then. No laying out.

  They drove in quiet and got there and then it was clear to Jeremiah that they didn’t really know what to do. That was why Pa brought him along. He didn’t know not to, maybe. They all got out of the truck and stared at the red mounds of graves. There was no waiting bed for the body but Pa opened the back of his truck and then stood another minute. Then he got out the shovel.

  When Brother Downs spoke, words sounded odd. We’re going to need more shovels.

  Yep. Pa had said.

  And maybe a few more hands.

  Pa threw Jeremiah the keys, Go get a shovel, we got one more. Pa looked at Brother Downs.

  Yep, go by my house, get Levi and Jenna’s boy Willie and tell ’em to grab three shovels and hustle on down here.

  Jeremiah nodded and quickly got in the truck, getting the saddle blanket off the floor to sit on so he could see better. It wasn’t until he heard his Pa close up the back that he realized the body was still in the bed.

  He drove down the road and told the boys all right, but he drove away before they got back from shovel hunting so that they wouldn’t try to jump in the back of the truck. For some reason, Jeremiah realized, he felt some ownership over the grotesque vision, the man he’d been entrusted to take on a ride to gather up the means for his own burial. He drove carefully, and slowed for the potholes.

  When he got to their own barn he looked around for a minute before realizing the one more shovel was the one he’d been using to muck. He grabbed it from the lean he’d left it in, then took it to the pump and tried best he could to rinse it off. It came pretty clean, though it was hard to tell with the roughed up rust of the blade if it was really without no shit on it.

  He walked back to the truck and waited just a minute before he leaned over and set the shovel gently
in the bed. Focusing on the man’s feet. But he couldn’t help but see the few rivulets of browning blood that had run down the hollows of the ribbed bed.

  He had only spoken to Manti’s Pa a few times, he was almost always gone. He drove a truck and Pa had made it clear that this was maybe not an honest way to live, away from the land like that, so Jeremiah had felt this man was bad, but interesting, too.

  When he got back the Prophet was there and pointing out a far empty corner of the cemetery and the other men were nodding. Pa waved Jeremiah over and he drove the truck slowly through the narrow part between graves.

  It wasn’t until Pa started digging the thin grave that Jeremiah realized they meant to put him here. Not by his family. That they really meant to do it with no laying out. No meeting. No coffin, even.

  Brother Downs grabbed the other shovel and looked at the blade. It was already almost dry. He looked at Jeremiah and then said, Why don’t you go meet my boys on the road, make sure they find us?

  Jeremiah nodded and walked to the edge of the cemetery, but the boys were already coming down the pink clay road on bareback horses. They had hurried. A dead-body hurry, and they met him at the bleached iron gate.

  Jeremiah let up the pillow over his head. Duke was quieter now. But still he kept it lying loosely over his face.

  It took a couple of hours. More men and boys had shown up. Taken turns shoveling. The Prophet hadn’t even said any words when they put the body in even though everybody paused when it lay at the shallow bottom and waited.

  He only said, Proceed.

  When it was all done the Prophet said, Let his blood run into the earth, and run into Christ’s blood, and shore up his atonement for his earthly sins.

  And then they all backed away leaving a grave but no stone, a body but no coffin.

  When they got back Jeremiah grabbed the shovels and went to get back to mucking.

  Wait, Pa had said. I’ll take those. You get the hose and wash out the truck. Jeremiah nodded and handed him the shovels and turned back toward the truck. As he did he heard the shovels drop and felt Pa’s large hand as he grabbed his arm hard and spun him around.

  So you not afeared of death, boy? Not afraid of blood? Is that it?