The Pale Thane

by M.R. Hyde

the boy—tall, spindly and sallow—standing among the giants of the field. But it would intrude upon his mind time and time again.

  He worried until the day it finally came to pass. He could no longer shift the blame to Hannah’s pampering. On the way to the track he gently instructed the boy to stand tall, keep his shoulders back and pick up his feet. Even then this boy was less of a boy. The champions gathered around him quickly looking forward to seeing the promise that rested inside this child. Once the encounter was over Leif knew the truth had been revealed and he could move on. So he did. Just like any good coach can recognize the lack of drive and passion in a junior athlete, Leif let his son go early. From that point forward his colleagues rarely inquired after the boy.

  There was a firm knock on the door. The interior of the apartment was still. Again came the knock, loud and sure. Carolita turned off the entryway light before she slid up to the peephole in the door. She did not want her shadow to be seen. At first she could see no one. And then the top of a woman’s forehead tipped into the round frame. The woman knocked again.

  “Carolita Gonzalez. This is Gloria Romero from State Services. We had an appointment today.”

  Carolita listened for one minute more.

  “Ms. Gonzalez?”

  Carolita unlocked the door knob and the deadbolt, but kept the chain lock in place. She looked the woman up and down quickly, listened carefully for anyone else in the hallway.

  “Can I see some I.D., please?”

  “Sure. It’s right here.” The woman’s voice was very calm and she seemed legitimate. The chain bounced against the metal door as it swung open. Gloria entered the modest apartment. It was clean and bright in the late afternoon sun. A little boy, no more than one or two, came rolling out of the bedroom with a bright smile on his face and drooling from his nearly toothless mouth. Gloria smiled back.

  “Well, Ms. Gonzalez, you know why I am here. But let me just clarify again. I am here to verify your income and living situation to make sure that you qualify for the assistance we have initially given you. Could we sit down for a few minutes?”

  Carolita was embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t had time to get furniture.” Gloria could see that the dining and living rooms were completely bare except for the half dozen toys strewn across the floor.

  “Let’s just go stand by the window. At least it’s a little bit cooler there.”

  “I would be more comfortable if we just leaned against the counter here.” Gloria capitulated and the interview proceeded.

  After getting answers to the necessary questions and seeing bank records and the child’s birth certificate Gloria needed to look at the apartment and make sure it was safe and sufficient for the child. What she found was the bare minimum—a few cheap dishes, a decently stocked refrigerator and a clean bathroom. In the bedroom she noted the neatly constructed pallet and the bare closet.

  “Haven’t you had time to get some furniture?”

  “Uh, no,” Carolita said quietly.

  “We’ve given you enough to at least go buy a couple of things.”

  Carolita’s eyes widened with some fear and anxiety and she stumbled over her words. “I—I just haven’t had no time.”

  Gloria sensed Carolita’s fear and bent her head down a little lower so that she could catch Carolita’s eye.

  “Carolita Gonzalez, it is clear to me that you have been through some terrible stuff. I’m going to do my best to help you, o.k.?” Carolita faintly nodded, but the fear was still in her eyes.

  “Please, Mrs. Romero, I don’t really need nobody’s help. Me and the boy we’re doing alright. I just want to live simple.”

  “Carolita Gonzalez. I want to offer you some help, o.k.? I’ve got some very close friends at the Salvation Army and I know that they could bring some furniture by for you soon. Would you let me at least give them a call? Please? They are very close by and it would not take much for them to come by on one of their runs.”

  Carolita was slow to respond. Gloria could see a thousand thoughts chasing through her mind. She was quite certain what kind of thoughts Carolita was having. She had had them herself many years ago.

  “I need to think about it. Is that o.k.? I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Gloria drove away from the apartment building with sadness in her heart again. She understood how a woman so young and so precious could live in such fear.

  The next morning Gloria got a message that Carolita was willing to receive the furniture, but that they would be out of town for the next two days. She asked if it was possible to ask the manager to let them in. He had a key and her permission. He was the pale man sitting at the red desk in the office.

  Reggie Osborn was high. He probably had been high for two or three years. His family and friends wondered just exactly how much his body could take. But they did not wonder enough to get near him. When Reggie was high he was mean. He slept with a sawed-off shotgun under his bed—when he slept. He had cooked enough methamphetamine that he could do it in his sleep. And he had carefully built worker bees, demanding their loyalty, so that he could make more than enough cash to buy whatever he wanted. He owned a home, although he never permitted the “industry” there. He would prep and cook in other homes—in old neighborhoods and new—moving rapidly so that the cops could not find him. His most effective practice was to move some of his worker bees into a new purchase, let them get high at one of his meth houses on the other side of the tracks, but make them live clean while in the new neighborhood. This they would do for about six months, just long enough to seduce the neighbors into thinking things were copasetic. Then he would quietly move the industry in and began producing for that region. Six warrants for his arrest, five simultaneously rotating meth labs, countless meth addicts and multiple women frequently impregnated, beaten and abandoned—these were his trophies.

  This was the man Carolita lived with for three short months. Those months were exhilarating and terrifying. The highs were like nothing she had ever experienced. But, all the good relationships with men in her life—her father, her three brothers, and great co-workers—were nearly wiped from her memory by the violence and the meth. When she discovered she was pregnant, she valued the baby’s life enough to get out. And she had worked hard to do that.

  At first Reggie would have nothing to do with her, but then his paranoia kicked in. He began finding her at random places—the grocery store, the park, her apartment. Reggie made it unmistakably clear that if she squealed to the cops she and that peanut inside her would be dead soon. Just weeks ago he had given her “one more, good beating” and that in front of the child. Then she fled.

  Now she was in a town far enough away she felt like he might not find her. But the idea that she should have any friends or connections terrified her. She dared not let anyone see her too often or too much. If Reggie got wind of this—and she didn’t know how he would—but if he did, she would have to flee again.

  Thinking about the furniture delivery the next day, she felt that it was imperative that she and the baby slept in the car. She could not risk the movers being able to identify her to anyone. Reggie had ways of finding her that were uncanny and unnerving. This was most likely driven by his extreme paranoia and his meth-induced insomnia that permitted him to drive freely throughout the county for several days at a time. Carolita stuffed a garbage bag with enough clothes, food and diapers for two days. Then at dusk she and her baby drove until they found a decent place to park. In the morning she would treat him to a fast food breakfast with a new toy. He would play all day in the indoor playground and then they would find another corner of the world to curl up that next night. Only then could they return home.

 

  Herbert Spencer stood in the manager’s office in as little clothing as he had deemed possible. A threadbare, blue terry cloth robe was barely pulled around his diminished muscle shirt, the gap exposin
g his striped and sagging briefs. His white-socked feet were shoved into slippers that were just a bit too small for him. He had found them in the back corner of the Salvation Army store. It didn’t matter to him one little bit what anyone thought of the way he looked. He needed resolution to his problem immediately.

  When the young woman and her baby came through the door he knew he would get nowhere fast. He had just begun to explain for the third time that the showerhead in is bathroom was plugged up. He hated baths. And he had been bathing in the tub for three weeks now. His first call to the office was three days after it gave out. He thought he would try to fix it himself, but had failed to sever the crusty showerhead from its pipe. For three hours he had wrestled mightily with it and it would not budge. The next day he went to the dollar store and found a promising cleaning agent which did not live up to its promise. The following day he beat against the pipe so vigorously neighbors had called in to complain.

  When he heard the knock on his door he knew exactly who it was and he rolled his eyes, despite the fact that there was no one else there to acknowledge his disdain. The door opened up to the pitiful figure of the apartment manager. Herbert loathed him.

  “Mr. Spencer, I’m going to have to ask you to stop banging on the pipe in your