Bad Man

by Dathan Auerbach

  “I had an accident when I was a little kid. Littler than you, even.”

  “Oh,” Ellen said, considering Ben. “I got mine from a boy.”

  “Oh, no,” Ben said. “Was it an accident too?”

  “We gotta go, Ellie,” the sister said.

  “Everyone says so, but I don’t think so.” Ellen put her face close to Ben’s and whispered, “Aaron’s brother is a mean boy.”

  Ben leaned back and followed the line of Ellen’s outstretched arm. She was pointing at the aluminum foil window. “Who, Marty?”

  “No,” Ellen said, walking backward as her sister pulled her toward the house. “The other one!”

  Ellen waved and shouted a farewell to Ben, who replied so faintly the girl couldn’t possibly have heard. Ben’s eyes were fixed on the bright shine of the taut foil. There was a tightness in his stomach that he didn’t understand.

  And wuh-when he found it, he tried to be like it. But he couldn’t. Nuh-now his knees were bad. His ssstomach. His chest. There weren’t no muh-m-more room at all for nothin but bad.

  So you know what he did to the guh-good thing he found?

  He did bad things.

  23

  After a few days, Ben had made it to almost half the spots where he remembered posting flyers. More than forty were missing.

  At home, each time he tried to draw in his sketchbook, he wound up doodling the symbol. Five strokes. Four curves and a line and there it was: a child dancing before a smiling moon. Jacob didn’t recognize it. Clint didn’t know what it was. No one seemed to. In middle school Ben had learned about hieroglyphs. He’d always wondered how people figured out that the symbols meant what the books said they did.

  His shifts at work were mostly spent walking around the store, hoping it would show him something. When he arranged boxes and cans on the shelves, he’d sometimes push them aside to scrutinize a spot of rust that might have been something more.

  When he was alone, he wandered the back room. Taking his time to ascend the metal steps, Ben walked the upper corridors and checked the few rooms that were unlocked. It felt like crawling into the attic of an enormous house and realizing that the world below hasn’t stopped. Something might have happened while you were tucked away. Something might be waiting for you.

  Of course, nothing ever was. If there had been, Ben would have shown it the symbol and asked it questions. He’d seen it before. Somewhere in or on the store, he’d seen it. He glanced at the copy he carried in his pocket so often it bordered on compulsion.

  He walked the outside perimeter a few times. Both sides of the building were graffitied, but only with girlfriends’ names and tags for imaginary gangs. When he was back inside, Ben would look at the symbol, doubt his eyes, and go back outside to check.

  It didn’t take long for Frank and Marty to notice. They helped, or at least they said they were. Ben couldn’t tell whether they were looking for or just at things. It was tiring work. Even Ben sometimes zoned out as his eyes searched for something that might not even exist.

  There was someone out there who knew more about what had happened than he did. Ben had always known that. But now that person had touched Ben. If all this was real, that person had grabbed Ben by his throat and screamed, Look at all the things you don’t know! And Ben’s imagination was not kind to him when he wondered what those things might be.

  He knew that he wasn’t on any kind of trail. Not really. If he’d first seen the symbol on a wall, then his journey would end at that wall. Marty seemed sure they’d find something, and Ben stayed close by while they looked. He glanced at Marty’s face a lot. He wanted to be watching if Marty found the symbol, to see just how surprised his friend really was.

  “The other one!” Ellen Cotter had said.

  But Ellen was young, and children get confused about simple things. Marty was the one who suggested he and Frank help. And Marty seemed to search more doggedly than anyone. They were always mindful of the clock, though, stopping before they could hear the chimes and clattering of register tills, stopping even before they could smell fresh bread in the air. It was far too early for either of those things as they stocked the cereal aisle. And that’s probably why none of the boys moved when they heard the scream.

  Ben looked at Marty and Frank, who looked back with distressed uncertainty, until a loud crash shook them from their stupor.

  Ben peered out from the end of the aisle. Nothing. He took a few cautious steps behind Marty, who was moving with the confidence of a much bigger man. Frank was in the party only in the sense that he followed in its general direction.

  The sound had come from the front of the store. Ben could see that the doors were closed, that there was no sign of anyone at all. Marty stopped at Customer Service and stood on his toes as he leaned over the counter. Ben kept walking until he reached the main doors. He tugged on the lock cylinder and they slid apart.

  “It’s unlocked?” Frank asked.

  “It’s always unlocked.”

  “Go on out there, Frank,” Marty said. “See what you can find.”

  “Eat my ass.”

  Ben limped just a little behind Marty, who moved away from the doors and toward the bakery department. The area looked empty. Marty made his way behind the glass display in front of the counter.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Marty said.

  “Don’t say that,” a weary voice replied.

  Ben stepped behind Marty. Beverly lay slumped against the back of the counter, clutching her forearm. A dozen or so rolls were scattered on the floor.

  “Ms. Beverly? You alright?” Marty asked.

  “What happened?” Frank called, stretching his body as if he might see from his faraway vantage.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” the woman said with an embarrassed smile, a moderate tremor in her head. “After thirty some odd years, you’d think I wouldn’t be so stupid. It’s these damn shakes.”

  She moved her hand slightly to look at her arm. Ben knelt slowly so that he could pick up the steaming rolls and toss them onto the baking sheet by his knees. He glanced sidelong at Beverly and saw the red scalds on her arm mingling with bruises that never seemed to heal.

  “Does it hurt?” Marty asked.

  “No. Not yet, anyhow.” She let out a timid laugh.

  Marty supported the back of her forearm with his palm and examined the red streaks. She looked at Marty with soft, tender eyes.

  “I’m alright,” she said. She clasped his fingers in her trembling hand. “You really are an angel, boy. Thank you. I wish my oldest grandson was more like you.” Her voice was calm and sincere.

  “Can I get you anything?” Ben asked with a grunt as he struggled to his feet, his dark shirt covered with flakes of brown and white bread.

  Beverly’s eyes lingered on Marty’s. A warm smile spread over her thin lips.

  Ben adjusted his shirt away from his stomach. “Ms. Beverly?”

  “Hmm?” she said. “No. No, I think I’ll be alright.”

  Marty squeezed Beverly’s hand a little tighter and stood, helping her up.

  “I’ll be just fine.” She looked at Ben and then back at Marty.

  “Go get some bandages, Frank,” Marty said loudly. Frank nodded and hurried off into the store.

  Ben grabbed a rag off the counter and picked up the now cool baking sheet. He slid the bread into the garbage can before setting the metal tray on the counter behind him. The three of them stood there for a moment.

  “What’re you doin here so early?” Marty asked.

  “I haven’t been getting my things done on time. Figured if I can’t work faster, then I can just work earlier.”

  “You need any help?” Ben offered, looking around her department.

  “No. Thank you, though. And I owe you an apology, Benjamin.”

  “What for?”

  “
My grandson. That night in the store. I told that boy he couldn’t go out, but the way that one acts, you’d think no one ever let him do nothin at all.” Her spotted hand shook along her forehead as she closed her eyes. “Got shook awake sometime after he left. Didn’t even realize I wasn’t dressed for leaving until after you did, I reckon. I just wish that I could open that boy’s head up and shovel some sense in there sometimes. But he’s my boy, so that makes it my fault.

  “I’m sure you already went and told everybody about it,” she added, and laughed. “But I never did say anything to you, and I should have.”

  “No, ma’am,” Ben said. “You ain’t got nothin to say sorry for.”

  “You should see the kinda hell my brother gives me,” Marty said. “Sometimes you just gotta put the hurt on ’em, Bev.” He smacked his palm with the back of his other hand.

  “ ‘Bev,’ ” the woman echoed, and rolled her eyes.

  “You sure you don’t need anything?” Ben offered again.

  “I am,” she replied, shooing them away with a rag. “Go on and get back to work.”

  Just then, Frank emerged from the end of an aisle, jogging back toward the group with a box tucked under his elbow like a football. He handed the package to Marty, who studied it briefly before shoving it back into Frank’s arms.

  “These are fucking tiny-ass bunion bandages.”

  Frank shrugged.

  “She sure seems to like you,” Ben murmured to Marty. Frank trailed behind, reading the box.

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess? She called you an angel.”

  “Yeah, but that’s true, man.”

  For the rest of the night, Ben made sure to glance Beverly’s way every so often to make sure she was okay. The woman moved slowly, humming as she worked. Ben asked Marty if he’d ever heard the tune before, but he shook his head.

  It was still dark outside when the doors rattled and screeched open—too early for a cashier and way too early for Bill Palmer. But there he was. He didn’t seem to notice Marty’s sarcastic salute or how silly he looked bounding forward like a cartoon general. But the man was far from disengaged. Ben could see a sparkle somewhere in the bogs of Palmer’s eyes. They almost seemed to dance when he told Frank and Marty to take a hike.

  Marty glanced at Ben and then gestured toward the back. “Find me when you’re done. I’m gonna go real slow, so I don’t do all the work.”

  “Sorry,” Ben said after Marty and Frank took their leave. “We was rotating some stuff to put the old dates in the back of the shelf.”

  Palmer wasn’t listening. He seemed excited for his turn to speak. “When I hired you, I asked you if I knew you from somewhere. You remember me asking you that?”

  Ben felt a rolling in his stomach, but that reaction wasn’t all that uncommon whenever Palmer spoke. There was nothing objectively wrong with Bill Palmer’s voice; it wasn’t unpleasant in itself, but every word it intoned seemed to be.

  He nodded.

  “You said that I might have known you from around the store, from just shoppin. But I tell ya, it bugged the hell outta me every time I had to put your name on the schedule. Where do I know him from? Where do I know him from?

  “Had you pegged as a shoplifter, but you weren’t in my files—and believe me when I say that I looked through them files about fifty times. I didn’t find nothin.

  “But then,” Palmer continued as he reached behind his back, “I found this.”

  He produced a piece of paper and unfolded it, studying it with his muddy eyes for a moment before abruptly jabbing it into Ben’s chest. Ben pulled the piece of paper away from his body and looked at his brother’s face.

  “You’re fired.” Palmer said.

  The creases were thoughtless and uneven, the paper dirty and wrinkled and torn.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “You listenin to me? I don’t know what you came back here for, but it’s over. Clock out and get out.”

  “Okay,” Ben replied. “But did you hear me? Where did you find this?” He turned the flyer so the man could see it.

  Palmer reached for Ben’s name tag, and Ben swatted his hand away.

  “Get the fuck out of my store!”

  “You can’t fire me for this,” Ben shrieked, rattling the paper.

  “Well, I’ll be. A lawyer on the stock crew!”

  There was a flash of heat at the base of Ben’s skull, and he did everything he could to dowse it. He was fired. That was done. But there was still more of the store to check. Not much, but some. And if Ben couldn’t restrain himself now, then whatever fleeting chance there was that Palmer would say where he got the flyer would be blown away on the wind of Ben’s anger.

  Ben could see Beverly looking out from the bakery. She held his gaze until he unclipped his name tag, ready to place it in Palmer’s hand.

  “Lemme—” His words clogged his throat; he cleared it with a grunt. “Lemme work through Christmas.”

  Palmer let out a loud laugh that died after one syllable.

  “The trucks are real big until the end of the month. It’s all Christmas stuff.”

  Palmer sighed. “You shouldn’t have lied to get this job. You slow everyone down. Trucks ain’t never finished anymore and I think that’s because of you.”

  “You been watching me since I started,” Ben muttered. “You know I been workin.”

  “You know I drove past the store one night. Saw you sittin outside, and I did watch you. I watched you sit out in that chair for two and a half hours. Not smoking or eatin. Just sitting and staring into the parking lot. I was watchin just to see how much time you was stealin, and then I was just watchin. That ain’t just slow. That’s…what was that?

  “This place ain’t no good for you, but more important to me, you ain’t no good at all for it. You can finish out the week, and then that’s it. I don’t want to see you in here no more, even as a customer.”

  Bill Palmer turned, looking satisfied with himself, the fluorescent light shining on his poorly concealed bald spot.

  “Mr. Palmer,” Ben started, “can you just tell me where you got this?” He held up the flyer.

  “I found it. It was just lyin on the floor.”

  Ben nodded and clipped his name tag back on to his shirt. He watched Palmer walk away and wondered if the man knew what a bad liar he was.

  24

  Ben woke up and stared at the red numbers on his clock. He didn’t have to move to know that it would hurt. It was a lucky break that he was off tonight, though soon he’d be off every night. Strange as it was, Ben was relieved. Almost from his very first shift, it had felt like he would stay at the store forever, like almost every night for the rest of his life would be spent in a place that loomed so heavily over him he could barely breathe. It was hard not to embrace what had happened with Palmer. He hadn’t left. He’d been kicked out. It was out of his control.

  And his parents would be happy. After his last shift, he would tell them that he’d quit. For them.

  He could hear their voices floating through the house. Clint did most of the talking. Ben listened for hours, until everything was quiet. Only then did he force himself out of bed.

  Frank would be alone at the store tonight. Ben stood in his room holding his pants in his fists, still undecided.

  Opening his door slowly, Ben stepped out into the black hall. Eric’s room was empty. The bed was neatly made: sheets nicely tucked, the pillow round and uniform. It smelled cleaner in this room than it did in the rest of the house. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was just his imagination. Ben set his pants on the comforter and sat on the bed. Light flirted with the ribbons on the presents that encircled the room.

  Tomorrow was his last night at the store. His last night working with Frank and Marty. His last night parsing lies and truth.

 
And that was the core of it all, wasn’t it? If Ben just assumed that Marty was a liar—that he was not just a bad friend but a bad person—then everything fell right into place. If Ben could summon the energy, he could walk to the store and have a chat with Frank alone. Not about everything. Just about Marty. A nauseous tingle danced in Ben’s stomach. Maybe Marty knew Bob Prewitt too. Hell, maybe they were related.

  Ben ran his eyes over the green stars on Eric’s ceiling as he pressed his head against the boy’s pillow. Marty didn’t have any love for Ty Cotter, never mentioned being related to him. Only love he seemed to have was for his brother. Ben tried not to think about Ellen Cotter.

  Lightly, Ben tapped his knuckles on the wall behind his head.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Ben could feel the pressure in the air change. Or maybe he’d heard something. The crack of a door down the hall. Naked feet sweeping against old carpet. Whatever it was, Ben moved as quickly and quietly as he could. Because someone was coming.

  He hardly thought he’d fit, but he did, right between the wall and the bedframe. Gravity did most of the work. Ben sank as far down as he could, breathing lightly and peering through the narrow space between the bed and the floor.

  The longer he waited, the stupider he felt. And there was the pain. He’d lain on his right side, but that didn’t spare his bad leg entirely. The angle was wrong. Getting up was going to be rough. If he could just move his leg out a little, straighten it. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. Because he could see Deidra’s feet in the doorway.

  She stepped into the room and then didn’t move for a while. She was whispering something. Ben strained to make it out, but he couldn’t. The hushed words continued as she moved toward the bed.

  Ben’s heart thundered in his ears. His pants. He’d left them on the bed. Deidra’s feet turned away from him and the mattress squeaked under her weight. Biting his lip, Ben slipped his hand onto the comforter and felt for his clothes. He reached until his arm hurt. He had to be careful; he couldn’t pull on the bedspread. There. Ben squeezed the jeans in his fist and inched them into his hiding place.