“Why are you doing this, Dusty?” Kyle asked.
DC expelled a burst of air from his mouth in an explosive pahhhh sound, as if the use of his given name had punched him in the stomach. “Who’s asking?”
“You know who’s asking,” Kyle said, struggling to keep his voice gentle. “I’m right here, wanting to know. Why are you doing this?”
Bran the Man snapped his head DC’s direction and snarled. “Don’t listen to him, man. Don’t let him talk his way out of this one.”
“What do you gain?” Kyle asked. “We’re not in high school anymore, are we Marty?”
He glanced over at Marty Segerstrom, and Marty did not meet his eyes. Kyle knew he had already won that third of the battle, so he turned back to DC.
“You do this,” Kyle said, “and no one will see you. No one who matters anyway. Oh, sure, Molly will see, but I have a feeling she won’t be too impressed.”
“Doesn’t matter,” DC said. “We get her.”
“Get?”
“Soon as this is done, we’re supposed to get her, isn’t that right Brandon?”
“Geez, DC, will you shut your mouth?” Bran the Man spun on his friend with hands out in an exaggerated shrug. “You don’t have to tell the faggot everything.”
“I don’t like that word,” Kyle said.
Brandon hunched his shoulders and twisted his head back around to look at his intended victim. “How’s that?”
“I said I don’t like that word. I’d prefer if you didn’t use it.”
“Oh, you’d prefer?” Bran the Man turned his whole body toward Kyle and took a step. “Maybe you don’t like me saying faggot because that’s what you are.”
“Whether I am or I’m not,” Kyle replied, “It’s a stupid word. My father doesn’t like it, and neither do I.”
Bran the Man’s right hand shot out and snatched Kyle by the shirt. He jerked Kyle forward until their noses were an inch apart, and his left hand joined the right, clutching a handful of t-shirt and jerking hard. Kyle heard a light zipper sound as the threads of the shirt tore somewhere on his right shoulder. Bran the Man’s eyes were wide enough to explode, and his fist trembled against Kyle’s chest as he bunched the fabric of Kyle’s t-shirt in his fingers. “Maybe we stop using words,” Bran the Man growled. “Maybe we start using something else.”
Here it is, Kyle thought. Indeed, it was three against one. He had predicted that should it come to this point, where Brandon finally followed through on his threats of violence, there would be little he could do to defend himself. He would fight, of course, and do as much damage as he could, but in the end they would take him and they would hurt him. For some strange reason, he was not bothered by this.
He stared into the abyss of Bran the Man’s eyes, widened black pupils like tiny monitors into another world. There was nothing in there, nothing to fear or respect, for Bran the Man did not even respect himself. Whatever horrors Brandon felt the need to inflict, Kyle realized just then that he himself could take them. He was, in fact, bigger than this.
He was his father’s son.
But then there was Molly to think about.
“Molly?” he said, his voice crisp in the night air.
“Right here.”
“It’s about to go down,” he said.
“I can see that.”
“I want you to get away.”
She was silent. Kyle waited, half expecting the tear-filled exclamation of I will never leave you! that occurred in those countless bad movies, movies he now realized offered very poor blueprints for life. But Molly was anything but a two-bit heroine.
“You sure about that?” she said.
“This is my war,” Kyle said. He could still feel Bran the Man’s fist vibrating against his chest. “I’ve got to fight it.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “The moment it goes down, I’m out of here.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He looked deeper into Bran the Man’s eyes, and something took over his body, the chilling, awful rage that had possessed years earlier.
“Hear that, Brandon?” he said. “She’s out of here. No matter what you do to me, you’ll never get her. Do you understand?”
With one swift motion, Kyle took a step back, and his hands shot up before he knew how to control them. His palms flattened. The hands came together as if in prayer, a thin blade of fingers and bones. He drove them hard against Bran the Man’s right forearm, breaking Bran the Man’s grip on his t-shirt. The ripping sound at his shoulder returned, louder, spreading its crevice in the fabric all the way down the t-shirt’s short sleeve.
Kyle’s arms made a sweep out and up, came back down, and pushed Bran the Man hard in the chest. At the same moment, he took another step back, dropping his hands by his side, cocking one foot back, posturing for the beating that would soon commence.
Bran the Man staggered backward, flailing his arms, and caught himself upright before he fell on his backside. He flapped every limb to stay upright, and when he at last succeeded, he shook his wavy Sundance bangs out of his eyes (out of style these days, Kyle thought) and stretched his grimacing mouth back from gritted teeth.
“That was stupid,” Brandon said. “That was real stupid.”
Brandon’s legs bent, and one foot went back in a coiled crouch. He brought his fists in front of his face and sprang, coming hard, floating in the air as he swept his right fist down, a swiping blow at Kyle’s head.
Here it is, Kyle thought in that last instant before impact, and he was calm.
The fist hung there in space, falling in extra slo-mo, driven like a piston as Brandon’s wide-mouthed coyote jaws spread in a primal scream. Kyle could see flecks of foam in the corners of Brandon’s lips, more rabid and monstrous than ever.
Kyle closed his eyes and waited for the blow …
It never came.
A solid, body-sized thump, and a smack as something hit the pavement. A groan and scream, and the sounds of a scuffle. Kyle opened his eyes. Brandon was on his back next to the gas pump, and Marty was atop him, holding him fast.
“Get off me!” Brandon screamed. “Get the hell off me!”
“For God’s sake, keep it down!” DC said. He was crouched next to the other two but looking back and forth over each shoulder. “You’re going to wake up those truckers and then we’ll really be in it.”
“Let me up!” Brandon roared. “I’ll kill that little faggot, I swear!”
Marty reared up with all his weight and sat on Brandon’s stomach. Brandon thrashed with his fists, but Marty caught them easily in the air, like an outfielder snagging fly balls. He slammed both wrists against the pavement. He arched his back and bent his face down until he was inches from Brandon, pinning him to the concrete. Brandon glared up into Marty’s face, and his mouth hung open, silent.
“We’re going to get in that car,” Marty said. “We’re going to turn around and drive back home. Do you understand?”
Brandon’s chest heaved, and his lips fluttered with each exhalation. “What about … shooting the rapids?”
“I don’t want to shoot the rapids,” Marty said. “I only came along because …” He paused, turned his head to the right, and gazed up at Kyle. “Never mind. I want to go home.”
He released Brandon’s hands and then pushed himself up until he was standing. He extended a hand, offering it to his former teammate, but Brandon lay on the concrete, staring at him.
“Just like that?” he said. “You’re going to walk out on me?”
“I guess I am,” said Marty.
“What about that faggot? You’re going to let him get away with what he said?”
“Holy crap, Brandon.” It was DC talking now. “He didn’t say anything. Do you really want to do this? I mean, look at the guy. He’s crazy.”
Brandon did indeed look, and so did Marty, and Kyle realized in that instant that he no longer felt anything. No fear, no triumph, no hatred or love, no concern nor apathy … just a sense that t
his was the moment, and maybe for the first time he was getting a sense of what it was truly like to be his father’s son. It was nothing he could put into words, and no one would have understood anyway, but it was there, it was a part of him, and without feeling elation or regret, he still knew that it was good.
“He’s not crazy,” said Marty. “He’s not anything. He’s not doing anything, man.” He glanced up at DC. “I don’t want any part of this. I know you don’t either, huh, DC?”
“No,” said DC. “I’m out.”
“That leaves you,” Marty said, turning his head back down to look at Brandon. “If you want to finish this, give me the keys to your car and we’ll leave you here. But we’re going home, DC and me. We’ve got better things to do than this.”
Brandon did not move, did not rise from his position prone on his back on the pavement. But he watched Kyle, studied him, took him in, and he did this for what seemed like a very long time. Kyle held Brandon’s scrutiny, but from the corner of his eye, beyond Marty and DC, he could see Molly, still standing there against the car with arms crossed and her sexy half-smile, and he realized that no matter what happened, she had no intention of going anywhere.
“Fine,” Brandon said, and his voice croaked as he tried to give the word as much force as he could. “Let’s go home then. This little faggot’s not worth my time, and come to think of it, neither are you.”
Arrival
Molly kissed him, just once, before they got on the road. He had been coming around the back of the car, and she had stepped in front of him, throwing her arms around his neck, pushing herself up on her tiptoes, and pressing her mouth against his. It was long and it was sweet, and her lips and tongue darted and played. Wyoming melted away, and they were on that beach of Kyle’s dreams, and the embrace was all the sweeter because for the first time in his life he felt that he was worthy of it.
When it ended, Kyle went to the passenger-side door for Molly and held it open, and once she was inside and secure, he went to the other side and crawled in behind the wheel. He started the car, and let it idle, closing his eyes to hear the engine. Whatever strength he had felt in his moment of truth, it was ebbing now, and in an instant he witnessed a different ending to the movie. He saw—felt—Brandon’s fist connecting, and he was on the pavement as three bullies towered over him, driving their shoes repeatedly into his face, groin, and torso. In the midst of the agony, he peered out between the flying legs of his attackers, and Molly’s legs were gone. The Impala was revving, and its rear tires chirped as it peeled out of the filling station, and Kyle smiled, knowing at least that she was safe.
He opened his eyes, and the dream dissipated.
“Where are we going?” Kyle asked.
“You drive,” said Molly. “I’ll navigate.”
Kyle grabbed the gear shift along the steering column, and something came over him. His hands began to tremble, and in his gut was a strange, wriggling sensation, as if he had swallowed a spider whole and it was struggling to crawl back out. He flipped the door handle and swung the door outward, then leaned out and retched. What came out was dark and thin, remnants of the bottles of Coke he had consumed. When he was finished, he spit and wiped his face, than sat up and closed the door.
“Okay?” Molly asked.
“Hold on.”
He flipped off the switch, pulled out the keys, and stepped out of the car. He gave his pool of vomit a wide birth. He peeled of his torn t-shirt and wiped the last bit of vomit off his chin. He flipped the tattered and now filthy rag off into the night. He then went to the back of the car, popped the trunk, and rummaged in the duffel bag he had packed for the journey. Seconds later, he returned to the driver seat, this time wearing a white jersey-style shirt with a Henley collar and forest green sleeves. Emblazoned across the chest were the words K-SOUTH.
“Now I’m okay,” he said.
In seconds they were back on I-80, rolling west.
“You did all right,” Molly said. “Of course, there are always things you could have done better.”
“Is this the part where you mark up my class essay with red ink?” He felt his father’s ornery grin spreading on his face, but it was forced all the same.
“The best way to avoid a fight is to make the other guy think ending it is his idea.”
“Who are you supposed to be now?” Kyle asked. “Master Yoda?”
Molly chuckled at this and stared out the windshield. Kyle shook his head to calm himself and kneaded the steering wheel in his clenched fists.
“You need to remember something else,” Molly said. “Your fight back there, it wasn’t with Brandon and it wasn’t with his friends. It was with something else.”
“What’s that?”
Molly sighed and put her hand on his leg. “You’ll know soon enough.”
* * * *
Sarah had seen him again in the night. She had found herself on the sprawling road again, all alone save the lanky silhouette of the boy as he approached from a distance. The light behind him was greater now, the bluish tint of the sun rising in the east to greet the day, and at first she thought that the boy had left and this was something else, something large and unfamiliar. Her heart beat out a tom-tom rhythm hard inside of her chest, and she almost turned to run. But then she looked again, and it was indeed the boy, only something had changed.
What am I missing? she thought. Why am I not seeing it?
She awoke in the late hours of morning, the sky still dark through the row of south windows, with both cats still at each side. Strawberry was curled against her head, purring softly in her sleep, and Tom was still there at her hip, sleeping with his front paws and chin resting on her thigh. She reached down and stroked his head, and she felt the cat stretch and purr.
“It’s okay, Tom,” she said. “I’m okay.”
She slid her legs out of bed, trying to avoid disturbing the cats, but they were already up and at the alert, strutting to the edge of the bed.
“No,” Sarah said. “I don’t want you to come with me. I’ll be okay.”
She went through her clothes and found a pair of shorts and then put on a t-shirt and her sneakers. She opened the bedroom door and tiptoed down the steps, walked lightly through the dining room to the kitchen, and then opened the front door. She heard the guitar twang of the door spring and cringed, hoping it would not wake Trudy, and then stepped onto the porch, easing the door shut so it would not slam.
It was a warm morning, and the sun had yet to rise. Sarah went to the edge of the porch and sat dangling her legs over the sides. She heard movement in the grass, under the porch, all around, and she knew she was not alone, but this was a good kind of company, the soft, glowing eyes of a tribe of cats, moving in the shadows but always at the ready.
There was very little wind.
Sarah let her mind drift, and she thought of the place from where she had come, that awful world on South Tacoma Way she thought of as the Nightmare House. Her only regret was that she had to leave her brother Little Bud behind. In spite of everything, she missed her brother, and she even sort of missed her mother but not in the same way. Her mother had been AWOL from Sarah’s life for a long time, working those late shifts, never there when Sarah came home from school but arriving long after Sarah had gone to bed … after “play time” with Big Buddy were finished.
Sarah shuddered and wrapped her arms around her chest. It disgusted her when she let the memories come. Even now, after her tortuous adventure that had led to this place of safety, the stench of Big Buddy hung heavy on her skin. Trudy’s shower may have washed away a week’s worth of sweat and road grime, but it would take something much stronger to cleanse Sarah of the residue of her stepfather.
The air seemed to grow cold, but just then something nudged Sarah’s elbow. She reached out in the dark and felt the broad and bushy head of a very large cat. As she ran her fingers down his back and through his fur, she was certain that she knew which cat this was—the large Siberian that had come out
and sat by Trudy’s feet when they first arrived at the farm.
“Hey, you,” Sarah whispered as she stroked his head. She felt the cat’s purr in her palm as she laid her hand on the back of his neck, and then something seemed to buzz in the Siberian’s pelt, tickling her palm and sending a prickle of voltage up her arm. Her first instinct was to draw away, but something deeper inside fought against the urge. She let her hand remain, took in the quivering buzz that coursed through her flesh, and at last she understood.
“You’re one of them,” she said. “You’re part of The Glaring.”
The cat purred louder and pressed his head against her leg.
“What do you look like when you’re human?” she asked. “I bet you’re big.”
She felt the cat flop on the porch, heavy enough to make a soft whup! sound, and he rolled under her hand and batted at her fingers with his front paws.
“How many more are here?” Sarah asked.
The purring suddenly stopped. The Siberian went rigid and rolled back until he was crouched on his belly. The tickle in Sarah’s arm grew stronger, filling every cell with a soft burn as if her muscles were doused in a strong liniment.
“There aren’t enough,” Sarah said. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me.”
The Siberian growled softly like a squeaky hinge. Sarah felt his back press against her palm as he leapt off the edge of the porch. She could hear his ample body crush the lawn below, and then there was the whish of grass as he scampered into the night.
Sarah was alone. She closed her eyes. It was dark enough outside, but for some reason she was seeing things now, and closed eyes somehow blocked out distractions from even the other senses.
She knew she was facing south, for the house’s façade was a southern exposure. She listened for the sounds of the night, but on this early morning even the crickets were silent. It was as if she had fallen into a vacuum, and she strained to sense the comforting presence of the other cats in the yard, waited for movements or gentle purrs or even an irritated humph! like Tom sometimes made. But all was still, and in the rawness of the moment, she sensed it all again—
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