by Unknown
Finished, he left the seat up and didn' t flush, afraid that the sound would wake his mother. Then he opened the medicine cabinet. The door squeaked, but his mother slept on. He dry swallowed two Tylenol caplets to help ease his pain. Then Barry doctored his wounds as best he could, wincing when the hydrogen peroxide hit his cuts, and nearly screaming when he put it on his split lip. The disinfectant bubbled and fizzed like acid. Pain coursed through him like liquid fire. But this pain was different. Good, somehow. Better. Because this was the last time he ' d ever allow himself to feel pain like this, and knowing that strengthened his resolve for what was to come. Several months ago, Pat Kemp and some of the other older kids had gone to see Quiet Riot and Slade opening for Loverboy at the York Fairgrounds. They' d been there for the opening acts and left when Loverboy took the stage. A few days later, Pat had told Barry, Doug, and Timmy all about it when they ran into him at Genova ' s Pizza. As a result, Barry had picked up a Slade cassette. Experience had taught him that if Pat Kemp liked a band, he probably would, too. Slade had been no exception. Now, as he bandaged his cuts, his favorite song by them ran through his head. He sang it softly, whispering the chorus. It hurt his mouth, but he did it anyway.
"See the chameleon lying there in the sun… Run, run away. Run, run away…" He'd overheard the cops when they' d come to the door and questioned his father earlier. He knew what had happened to Pat. Barry had always looked up to him wanted to be him. The whole thing sucked.
"Run, run away."
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He grinned, and doing so reopened the gash in his bottom lip. Fresh blood dribbled down his chin. Despite the searing pain, his smile didn' t fade. He liked the way it looked.
"Run, run away… Run, run awayyyyy…"
That was what he was doing. Running away. He' d made up his mind. Never again would he allow this to happen. Never again would his father lay a hand on him. Because if he stayed around, and it did happen, Barry was sure he ' d kill the son of a bitch. His fateful punch earlier in the evening had missed. Next time, he wouldn 't. He could get a gun, easily. He knew where his father kept his pistol. Timmy' s father had a gun cabinet full of hunting rifles, and the boys could get access to the key. If he stuck around, next time his father came after him, he ' d squeeze a trigger rather than his fist. And that would be murder, and they put people in jail for that. Put people to death for it, too. Barry did not want to die, especially now. He felt reborn. He wasn't sure where he'd go next, or what he' d do, but it felt like the whole wide world was open before him. Anywhere was better than here. He never wanted to see this house or his parents or the cemetery and church again.
After the worst of the pain had subsided, Barry turned off the light and tiptoed back out into the hall. He peeked in on his mother.
She lay on her back, mouth open, snoring softly. He felt the urge to go to her, to kiss her forehead and tell her he was sorry, but he squashed it down. Pulling her bedroom door shut behind him, he made his way back to his room and rummaged through the closet until he found his book bag. His bare foot came down on a Star Wars action figureGreedo, complete with blasterand he bit his lip to keep from hollering, which hurt him even more. Fresh blood flowed. He wadded a tissue against it. Barry slipped on his shoes and went into the kitchen. He began gathering items he' d need. The combination can and bottle opener from the utensil drawer, along with a single fork, knife, and spoon. Then he raided the cupboard. He stuffed his backpack with potato chips, Twinkies, Hershey ' s kisses, and Fruit RollUps, along with canned goods
peas, corn, baked beans, succotash, tuna fish, sauerkraut, Vienna sausagesand some Ritz crackers. He tested the weight and was surprised to find that the backpack was still relatively light. He added some more Twinkies, then closed the cupboard door and moved on to the fruit bowl, which was sitting out on the counter. He selected a few small apples and dropped them into the book bag. He avoided any of the citrus fruit, worried that it might go bad before he had a chance to eat it.
Finished with scavenging the kitchen, he moved on to the living room. It was littered with empty beer cans, dirty coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays. His mother had never been much of a housekeeper, and it had only gotten worse as his father got worse. Barry found just over ten dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels in the large dolphinshaped ceramic ashtray his parents used to hold loose change. He remembered the day they 'd bought the souvenir, during a family trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. He' d had a good time. Thought the day might turn out okay. Then, on the way home, his father had backhanded him for talking while he was trying to drive. Frowning at the memory, Barry dropped the coins into his pockets. His jeans sagged a bit from the weight. His parents wouldn 't miss the money. Lately, his father had seemed to have more cash than usual. After seeing Dane Graco's Freemason' s ring on his father 's hand tonight, Barry suspected he knew how his father had gained these new riches. Grave robbing.
Barry returned to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He opened his Baltimore Orioles bank and dumped out his life savingstwentytwo dollars and ten cents
then added the bills to his pockets. Combined with the money he'd stolen from the living room, he assumed he' d have enough to live off of for a while. If money and food ran out, it was summer, and he could always eat by raiding people ' s gardens at night. He debated Page 114
on whether or not to bring his fishing pole, but decided it would be too cumbersome. He also grabbed his flashlight, a pocketknife, his BB pistol, extra COj cartridges and BBs for the pistol, and his jean jacket from the closet. It was warm outside, but he didn ' t know where he was going, and he might need it sooner or later. Plus, he could use the jacket as a pillow or blanket. He tied the jacket around his waist and stuffed the pistol behind his back, making sure it was snug inside his waistband. Then he dropped the other items into his book bag. Finally, he opened his dresser drawers and grabbed several pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, and another ' pair of jeans, and crammed those into the book bag as well. Stuffed to the brim, the bag 's fabric bulged at the seams, and he had a hard time zipping it shut. When he slipped the straps over his bruised shoulders, the extra weight pulled at him, magnifying his pain all over again.
He patted his jingling pockets and glanced around his bedroom, trying to decide if there was anything else he was forgetting. Barry wondered if he should feel sad or nostalgic. After all, this was the last time he 's see his room and all of his stuff. But he didn't feel sad. He didn' t feel anything, other than an urgency to leave. The stuff was just that
stuff. Bought for him by two parents who smiled when they handed it to him, despite the nightmares that would follow. None of it meant anything to him. Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him.
He left no note. He had no goodbyes to say.
Except for two.
He couldn' t run away without saying goodbye to Timmy and Doug. They were his best friends, the only good things that had ever happened to him. What had happened today, out behind the shed, had broken his heart. He had to see them one more time. Taking as deep a breath as he could without hurting his sides, Barry crept to the front door and slipped outside. There was no need to go out his bedroom window, the way he usually did when he snuck out at night. His father was gone, his mother was passed out, and he was in too much pain to crawl through the window, anyway.
A chorus of crickets greeted him. The stars sparkled overhead, and the yard was bathed in moonlight. The church loomed across the streetdark, gloomy and menacing. Beyond it, the cemetery sprawled out into the darkness.
Barry wondered if his father was in there somewhere, beyond the shadows, even now looting another grave as he 'd done with Timmy's grandfather's. Barry thought it over. Dane Graco had been buried with the ring on his finger. He'd seen it before they closed the casket. The funeral procession went out into the graveyard. The casket was lowered into the ground. The mourners tossed in flowers and the first few handfuls of dirt. Everybody left. Barry and his father had gone home, chan
ged clothes, and then returned to fill in the grave. They ' d been together the whole time, so there was no way his dad could have stolen the ring then. His father had been in a hurry to leave. He remembered thinking it was as if the old man didn ' t want to be in the graveyard after dark. But maybe it had been something else. Maybe he ' d just been anxious for the sun to go down, eager for night to fall, so that he could dig Timmy 's grandfather back up under the cover of darkness. Barry had noticed other trinkets and baublesnew jewelry, much to his mother' s delight, and the extra cash in his father 's pockets. Now he knew where it was all coming from.
The thought filled him with dread. It was horrible. Sick. But so was his father.
All he had to do was look in the mirror to see the proof of that.
"Good riddance," he whispered. His busted lip throbbed. Barry winced. He walked through his backyard and started down over the hill to Timmy's house. The lights were out, but he figured he'd just knock on Timmy' s window and wake him. He went slowly, his body still aching. He pulled the bloody tissue from his lip and tossed it onto the Page 115
ground. He readjusted the book bag so that his bruised shoulders wouldn 't chafe more from the straps. He was carrying a lot of weight.
But the heaviest burden of all lay behind him.
Barry did not turn around.
He smiled again, and this time, it didn't hurt as much.
Timmy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His alarm clock said it was a quarter till three in the morning, and he still couldn' t sleep. His father had finally gone to bed about an hour ago, after sitting in the living room by himself, crying his eyes out. Timmy had heard him through the walls, weeping and talking to God, but he hadn' t cared. Let his father cry. Timmy was finally out of tears. He ' d shed enough. He would shed no more. He was emotionally spent. Nothing mattered now. His grandfather 's death, Katie Moore, Pat's body, what had happened to the others, the ghoul, Mr.
Smeltzer, Barry and Doug's problemsall seemed to pale in comparison to what had happened down in the basement that evening.
His childhood, his fondest memories, the very things he loved the most, were ripped to shreds and lying in a cardboard box. And he still didn' t understand the reason for it. Timmy had seen enough afternoon talk shows to know that this would scar him for the rest of his life. He wasn ' t being melodramatic. It was the simple truth. Surely his parents must have known that, too. They knew how much those comic books meant to him. So why mete out such an unjust punishment? Why punish him at all? He 'd told the truth. Instead of disregarding what he' d had to say, they should have investigated his claims. After all, these were the two people who had always told him he could come to them with any problem. That he could tell them anything. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Whatever the problem, they ' d assured him time and time again that they would listen to him. Be there for him. That he didn 't need to be afraid of talking about it.
But they'd lied.
Lying there in the dark, he was no longer filled with sadness. He was consumed with rage.
After the very last comic book, an old Classics Illustrated adaptation of Ivanhoe, was destroyed, Timmy's father had sent him to his room. As he' d slunk through the living room, Timmy looked at his mother for support, for a condemnation of what her husband had just done, for some inkling that she disagreed or felt sorry for her son. But instead, his mother had merely dabbed her eyes with a tissue and turned her head away. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Go ahead and cry, he thought. Both of you. Just wait until I prove you wrong. I' ll show you. I 'll prove I wasn't lying. Then you'll really have something to feel bad about. He' d show them all. He might be grounded now, but when that was over, he 'd get the proof he needed. If it wasn't too late by then…
He thought about it some more. It probably would be too late by then. He couldn't wait. He' d have to sneak out at night, after his parents were asleep, and get the proof he needed. Maybe he could get a picture of the ghoul. That should be enough to shut everyone up. But not tonight. It was too late, now. He ' d have to wait one more day. And besides, he couldn 't do it alone. He'd at least need Doug with him, and preferably Barry as well, especially since his father was involved.
His thoughts focused on Barry. Timmy closed his eyes. He was wondering how his friend was doing, and how he was coping with everything, when there was a light tap at his window. Timmy 's legs jerked in surprise, and his eyes popped open. The tap came again, still light, but more urgent.
He slipped out of bed, went to the window, and opened the shades. Something that looked like Barry stared back at him, but it couldn't actually be Barry, Page 116
unless he'd just gone ten rounds with the XMen's Juggernaut. His friend's face resembled a package of hamburgerraw and pink and bloody. Despite this, Barry smiled. Timmy put a finger to his lips, advising his friend to be quiet. Then he opened the window and the screen.
"What happened," he whispered. "Are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?" Barry's voice sounded funny. Slurred. "I've had better days."
"Your dad did this." It wasn't a question.
Barry nodded. It looked like he was about to start crying.
"Jesus Christ, man." Timmy ran a hand through his hair. "You need to go to the hospital."
"No way." Barry shook his head. "No doctors. No adults. I'm out of here, dude."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm leaving. Running away."
"You're hurt. You can't just run away."
"Well, I am. I can't take any more of this shit." And then Barry did start crying, and somehow, that scared Timmy worse than his appearance did. His split lip quivered and tears spilled from his swollen eyes. Timmy sighed. "Hang on. I'll be right out. Just stay quiet. If my parents wake up, we're both screwed."
Sobbing, Barry nodded again, and then slipped off his book bag and crouched down by the side of the house.
As quickly and silently as possible, Timmy changed out of his pajamas and into some clothes. He checked on his parents, making sure that they were both asleep and their door was shut. Satisfied that they were, he grabbed a flashlight and then climbed out the window. He left the screen and the window open a crack so that he could sneak back in. He stared at Barry. Barry stared at him.
Then they hugged. Spontaneously. Uncharacteristically. But the gesture was real all the same. Timmy patted his friend's back, and Barry winced, and then pulled away.
"Ouch."
"Sorry," Timmy apologized. "He messed up your back, too?"
"He messed up my whole body. Even my bruises have bruises."
"You really should see a doctor, man."
"No. That would just be one more delay, one more excuse. And then I'd be stuck here again tomorrow night. If I don't leave now, I might not ever."
"But your face…"
"I'll be okay. It's not as bad as it looks."
Timmy disagreed with his friend's diagnosis, but didn't argue.
"What set him off? Was it what happened earlier, at the shed? If so, I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have gotten smart with him."
"No, it wasn't that. Who knows? It started because I didn't want to finish my dinner, but if it hadn't been that it would have just been something else." Despite his friend' s obvious suffering, Timmy felt an immense surge of relief. Finally, after all these years, they were actually talking about the abuse. It was out in the open. No more excuses. No more pretending that it wasn 't going on. Now, maybe they could finally get Barry some help.
"Can I ask you something?"
Barry nodded. "Sure. What's up?"
"How long? How long has this been going on?"
Barry looked at the ground. "As long as I can remember."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
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"Why didn't you ever tell somebody?"
"Who would I tell?"
Timmy shrugged. "Well, on those after school specials, kids tell their teachers. You could have told Mrs. Trimmer."
"Mrs. Tri
mmer hates us. No way I was telling her."
"You could have told me and Doug. We kinda knew about it anyway."
"You guys couldn't have done anything. Not really. It just didn't seem fair to get you involved. And besides, Doug's got his own problems."
They sat in silence, huddled together against the side of the house. Elizabeth' s wind chimes rang softly. The notes seemed melancholy. A dog barked, far away into the night. After a few minutes, Barry said, "You know what the first thing I remember is? I mean my very first memory? I was like two or three years old. I was sitting on the kitchen floor, underneath the table, playing with one of those plastic telephones. Remember the ones with wheels on the bottom, and the smiley face and eyes that moved when you pulled it on the string?"
Timmy nodded, smiling at the memory. He'd owned one, too.
"Well, I'm sitting there playing with that thing, calling Daddy on the telephone and pretending to talk to him. And then my old man comes home. He' d been working all day. Back then, I was too little to understand that he just worked across the street. All I knew was that I missed him. So he comes in and sits down at the kitchen table, and he 's talking to my mom. I think they were arguing. I'm not sure, but they probably were. And meanwhile, I'
m trying to get his attention. Trying to get him to pay attention to me, because I'd missed him all day. I'm still under the table, tugging on his leg, and he's just ignoring me. So I bit him."
"You bit him?"
"Yeah. Like I said, I was just little. I don't remember why I did it. Just seemed like a good way to get his attention, to let him know I was down there. It wasn' t hard. I mean, I just had baby teeth, right?"
"And what did your old man do?"
"He kicked me across the room. I can still see that very clearly. He hollered something and then kicked me across the room. And that's my very first memory."
"That's messed up."
"Yeah, it is. And every day since then has been the same. I'm not putting up with it anymore. I can't."
"And you're really planning on running away?"