Boy on Hold

by J D Spero

  Breathe.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

  The water, like black ink, seemed bottomless. The spinning top eased in his chest. Calm blanketed him as a line of sunlight crept over the mountains. As the sand warmed in the sun, cradling him, he fell asleep to the song of blackbirds.

  Out of respect for the son, Officer Clapp allowed Bernie into Sally Hubbard’s home, but not into the living area. The crime scene. Bernie wouldn’t want to see it anyway, Clapp assumed. Families got touchy about that stuff.

  To Clapp’s surprise, Bernie was impressively clear-eyed, his questions careful and smart. He described his mother without the teary sentimentality Clapp found annoying. On the contrary, Clapp took a liking to the guy. So much that after they covered the nuts and bolts investigation stuff, Clapp felt drawn to hang around and chat it up. If Bernie was game.

  He joined Bernie in the kitchen, and his stomach betrayed him with a hungry, rolling grumble. He craved a Leon’s Reuben and had a hard time thinking of anything else. Maybe Bernie would join him?

  “I can make coffee?” Bernie offered.

  Clapp petted his gut. “All right.”

  The aroma of raw coffee grounds triggered another growl from Clapp’s stomach. He paced to the other side of the kitchen to wait. Something on the floor in the entryway caught his attention: a rudimentary craft—a kid’s token—of pipe cleaner and beads.

  “Kids?” He raised his eyebrows at Bernie.

  “Oh, that would be Hen’s. Henry. Ma takes care of him after school. He lives next door.”

  Clapp widened his stance, tapping his gun belt with his fingers—his signature move. The coffee percolated. Clapp’s mouth watered. He stared at the beaded bracelet smack-dab in the middle of the crime scene. Seemed depressingly out of place.

  “Do you think…could I bring it to him?” Bernie asked sheepishly.

  Clapp nodded once. “Don’t see why not.”

  “He’ll be happy we found it.” Bernie folded the bracelet into his pocket and then went about filling their mugs.

  The first, bitter sip scorched his throat. “Ah, good man.” Clapp couldn’t contain himself. He started to pull out a chair as Bernie inched toward the back door.

  “I’d rather not hang here, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Right.”

  Bernie had a point. It didn’t feel right to sit in the woman’s kitchen as she sat in a coma. Clapp followed Bernie out. Steaming mugs in hand, they crossed the backyard to the small brown house next door. Bernie mumbled about helping out a single mom who lived there, a dopey grin taking up his face. They sat in her orange kitchen, which was comfortably sparse and smelled vaguely of lemons.

  “Giants are kind of a mixed bag this year,” Clapp offered, trying to make small talk.

  “Yahp,” Bernie said. “Don’t think we’ll be seeing them in the playoffs.”

  Clapp let out an extravagant sigh and rested an ankle over a knee. This day was turning out to be quite enjoyable. As he breathed in his next sip, the front door opened.

  “There’s Hen,” Bernie said.

  Curious, Clapp turned to receive him, expecting the usual child-like antics, though his natural instinct would be to ignore. For the second time today, he was taken by surprise.

  The kid didn’t run into the house, traipsing mud on the floor, demanding a sugary snack. No. This boy quietly removed his shoes and let his backpack fall to the floor in an absent thud.

  “Hi there, Hen! How was school?”

  The boy flinched from Bernie’s animated voice. He stared at the men. His wise, hazel eyes seemed to have grown up without the rest of his body. He lingered in the foyer. The light shining from the window behind him made him appear almost saintly.

  “This is Officer Clapp.” Bernie’s efforts felt painful. “Come in and say hello.”

  “Hello.” Barely audible.

  Clapp stared at the youngster. This certainly was an odd boy. He was at a loss as to what to say. Still, the boy’s intense gaze made him want to say something. He cleared his throat. “You like guns, boy?”

  Hen reared back, eyes wide with horror. Bernie scrambled toward the child, holding out the beaded bracelet. “Look what we found today.”

  When Hen didn’t reach for it, Bernie’s smile waned. “It’s yours, ain’t it?”

  Hen’s face blanched. His jaw clamped shut. He stared at it, his brow rumpled.

  Bernie shook the thing in front of the boy, who reluctantly took it. “It was in Ma’s house—”

  The front door flung open then, and a gorgeous specimen of a woman appeared beside the boy, who was visibly relieved.

  Clapp straightened in his chair, his senses perked. He’d seen this woman before. He once nearly ran into her in the plumbing aisle of Ames—a memorable moment despite the unfortunate fact he’d been carrying a plunger.

  This woman. The one who turned every head in the Schroon Lake area. Heck, the entire Adirondack region at that. The one that looked like she’d been plucked out of a magazine, a cover girl come alive. He couldn’t believe he sat in her kitchen. In her house. His tongue gripped the roof of his mouth as he flat-out stared at her.

  “Hi, sweetie.” She set a pale hand on the boy’s hair. Clapp noticed she didn’t wear a ring. He pushed his shoulders back.

  The beauty looked from Bernie to Clapp, confusion crimping her flawless skin. He shot up out of his chair as if he’d been summoned by dispatch. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Officer Clapp.”

  “Oh,” Bernie fumbled. “Clapp, this is Marcella Trout. Marcella, Officer Clapp.”

  Marcella. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

  When she didn’t shake his outstretched hand, he widened his stance and tapped his gun belt again. “I’m the lead investigator for the incident next door.” His usual officious tone faltered. “Bernie here was—”

  “What are you doing here?” Her words were clipped.

  “As I said, ma’am, I’m investigating the incident that took place—”

  “I heard what you said.” She hugged the boy to her slender thigh.

  A wave of jealousy coursed through him.

  “I want to know what you’re doing in my house,” she said.

  Bernie stepped between them. “He, uh, we were next door and it was…” The poor guy spewed nonsense. “We thought coffee. Something didn’t feel right about, so, we came here and, ah, thought we’d be done before—”

  It was clear as crystal. Bernie was in love with this woman. It was endearing, kind of. This average Joe-on-a-stick had no chance with this stunner. Clapp felt for the guy. Tried to send him a smile. All covert-like—

  “What on earth is so funny?” Marcella’s bold eyebrows darted together, narrowing on him. “Do you have any idea how traumatic the past forty-eight hours have been? For Hen?” Her almond eyes glistened with fury. The dimple on her chin trembled. She went on with her rant, her shapely lips pursing. Her delicate hand danced in the air with the authority of an orchestra conductor. Hot damn, she was gorgeous. He didn’t catch one more word she said.

  Silence. All eyes were on him. Even the boy’s. Bernie had to translate. “She’s asking you to leave.”

  Clapp nearly jumped. He turned on his heel to the door from which they came, realized it would lead him into the backyard, and pivoted back, stopping short. How to exit this house where he suddenly wasn’t welcome? Never welcome. He would’ve laughed had his face not been burning with shame.

  Marcella gestured to the front door—a ballerina’s movement—flashing the pale skin on the inside of her arm. It was all Clapp could do to get outside before his ribcage imploded on his lungs and heart and whatever else was inside his chest.

  Outside. Inhale the cool afternoon air. Replace his Top Gun shades. Finally able to walk to his cruiser at a healthy clip. Only then did his body finally relax enough for him to process what just happened.

  No, it wasn’t the woman. Sure, she was the mo
st gorgeous thing he’d ever laid eyes on and he would fantasize about her all night and probably for the next several weeks. That wasn’t what struck him, though, as he folded into the cruiser and settled behind the wheel.

  It was the boy. Clapp took in a satisfied breath as he pulled away from the curb. Yes, he certainly wasn’t an ordinary boy. That’s for sure. When Bernie showed him that piece of garbage pipe cleaner with the beads. It was there in the boy’s eyes. He knew something.

  The beads were slick in his hand and Hen knew he was sweating. He squeezed them in his fist, squishing the pipe cleaner into a ball. Sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring his Goldfish after-school snack, he stared at his book about nocturnal animals wishing Miss Sally were around to read it to him.

  Mom’s voice reached through his gloom. “Oh, my goodness, Bernie. It’s the hospital.” Mom had the phone clutched to her ear. Hen hadn’t heard it ring.

  The next few moments were a blur. Mom and Bernie rushing around. Hen clambering into his jacket and shoes again. They hustled Hen into Bernie’s truck.

  “Where are we going?” He still held tightly to the beads.

  “To the hospital,” Mom said.

  “We’re going to see Ma. I mean, Miss Sally.” Bernie almost choked on the words.

  Hen pulled on his seatbelt and stared at Miss Sally’s house through the window.

  It had turned into something from a scary movie. Some kind of trick leftover from Halloween. Bright yellow tape made a big X over her front door. It trailed around the porch—a mummy’s wrap. One loose ribbon flew in the breeze like a cautionary flag. It draped the three wooden steps Hen had climbed a zillion times to get into Miss Sally’s home. The other day, he’d eaten an apple on those steps in the sunshine.

  “I don’t like that yellow tape,” he said, a hollowness filling his chest.

  “I don’t like that yellow tape, either.” Bernie’s voice was so soft, Hen almost didn’t hear him.

  They seemed to pass by the taped-up house in slow motion. Hen couldn’t look away. The robbers had taken something from him, too. His second home.

  Hen had never been inside a hospital before. It wasn’t what he expected. He always thought people got better there. It was where babies were born. A happy place. As soon as they stepped inside, he felt cold. Like the air conditioning was on too high. It smelled like vinegar. Nurses rushed around in cloud-colored uniforms, their shoes squeaking on the tiles. No one smiled. No one looked at him. The place seemed full of secrets.

  Hen wanted to leave, but Mom held fast to his hand. Too tightly. She didn’t let him push the elevator button, either. As it went up, Bernie mumbled into his hands. A prayer? His breath got gaspy and loud. Hen hoped he wouldn’t cry. He’d never seen Bernie cry.

  “Where is she?” Bernie asked the sky.

  Mom took Bernie’s hand and they walked in a three-part chain to Miss Sally’s room. Hen stayed by the door while Mom and Bernie went to her bedside.

  Hen wasn’t ready for what he saw. As he stared, his insides trembled.

  Miss Sally was so small in the bed. White bandages covered half her head. Her hair shaven off. One eye was huge and puffy and purple. The other, open slightly, an eerie sliver of white. Tubes came out of her nose.

  He loved Miss Sally. He did want to see her. But he didn’t want to see her this way.

  The room was huge and echoey. Wires went from her chest to a beeping machine at her bedside—one that blinked numbers in lights, like the clock in his room.

  Bernie folded over Miss Sally’s bed and sobbed into her shoulder.

  Hen went rigid with fear.

  Mom gathered him in her arms. “Come on.” She brought him into the hallway. “You okay?” She tried a smile, but tears trickled down her face. “There’s a vending machine down the hall. Let’s get you a chocolate bar.”

  His stomach turned at the thought of it. “Miss Sally’s going to be okay, right?”

  Fresh tears filled her eyes. She hugged him hard and whispered into his hair. “Oh, Hen, sweetie. We think she’ll be going to heaven very soon.”

  Ty awakened with the book cradled to his chest like a security blanket. His sleep had been hard and dreamless. His back cracked as he came to. The sand had hardened beneath him, bruising his ribs.

  Throughout his interrogation and then his long walk to the beach, the book was tucked into the kangaroo pocket of his drug rug. Ty didn’t know why he’d kept it with him. He hadn’t read a single word. And it wasn’t until he faced the new light of day that he felt safe enough to read about the man who turned into a bug. He stayed there on the beach, reading, until the sun went high in the sky. It was slow going. That dude Kafka used some big words. But Ty got the gist.

  Fascinated, haunted, Ty wrestled with conflicting emotions. Something about Gregor Samson’s situation brought him comfort. He wasn’t alone. Gregor had become imprisoned in a hard, scaly shell—his itchy, slick legs pilling the blanket.

  Ty had also felt trapped in an exoskeleton of sorts.

  Another part of Ty felt oddly violated. As if this author, this Franz Kafka person, had insight into his psyche. Read his mind, or something. Exposed his secret.

  The high sun told him it was past noon. He was mildly surprised no one had called him out for trespassing on the beach. Although it was off-season. He dug into his pockets again, a reflex. He was jittery, jonesing for something that wasn’t there.

  When he dunked his feet in at the shore, the cold went right to his bones and stayed there. He couldn’t shake the chill after that. He pulled his hood over his ears. Sucked on his cigarette for warmth. Always chillier at the lake. The huge, auburn sun offered no warmth, like it had turned against him, too.

  He didn’t feel like being alone anymore.

  Ty didn’t try to hitchhike back home. He wasn’t that far anyway. Still, he walked slowly, finishing the rest of his pack, stretching each cigarette a mile. It was meditative. Walking. Smoking. Everything else had fallen away. Even the girl. Or whatever. It seemed silly now. Trick of light or something.

  No one was home when he got there. That was weird. He paced in the orange kitchen. Where the hell was everyone? Was Marcella pissed? Did she know he skipped school? Was she trying to find him? He thought of her searching for him at the station.

  Oh, no. Maybe she saw Derek and cornered him and he told her—

  What would he tell her?

  This wasn’t good. He was getting all angsty. He didn’t like being in the house all by himself. That tingle of shame intensified. Not just about the stupid bracelet. It was bigger. Serious. It felt like he’d done something horribly wrong. Not just wrong—disgusting. Unspeakable. He couldn’t shake the feeling. He felt excruciatingly hot, like his blood was set to boil. Guilt nearly swallowed him.

  He stared out the kitchen window.

  Rotting scum. I know what you did.

  Slowly, he turned toward the voice, which had come from the living room. A few steps in, and he heard it again. Followed by laughter. Evil scientist laughter.

  Then, a knock. Accidental, like a fall. Eyes on the coat closet as it flexed and bulged. A knee? Who was hiding there? Holy shit. Someone was hiding in there.

  He clutched the fireplace poker and, holding it overhead, approached the closet. His heart roared in his ears.

  “Say it one more time.” His voice trembled. “I dare you.”

  Rotting scum. I know what you did.

  Screw this. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Ty flung open the door with a howl. Whoosh. He brought the poker down. Again. He kept swinging. He kept slashing.

  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. His blows were met with more laughter. Loud and relentless.

  “Shut up, shut up,” he repeated as he slashed down again. And again and again.

  Boom. The laughter cut out. Everything stopped. Like a switch had flipped.

  Ty studied the contents of the closet: summer jackets that had yet to be put away. The khaki trench Marcella used only in downpours. His and Hen’s winter coa
ts from last year. Snowpants. Black streaks—coal smears—marked each piece.

  The fireplace poker clanged to the floor. Ty sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

  What the hell? What’s wrong with me?

  He wanted to cry. Begged for tears to come. But everything was snuffed out. His emotions were so lost inside, he wasn’t sure how to get at them. He shook, rocking and whining, wishing they would leave him alone.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, curled up in the middle of the floor.

  At dusk, Marcella’s Impala pulled into the driveway. His relief was profound. He ran out to greet them, a child again, his eager steps light.

  Then he saw their faces.

  He stopped. “Where have you guys been?”

  Marcella went to embrace him. “Oh, Tyler.”

  He dodged her. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  Marcella looked away. Something was seriously wrong. A heavy silence came between them. Bird wings swatted at Ty’s chest—his windpipe shrinking, narrow as a straw.

  “What?” His voice was laden with attitude. “What?”

  Hen appeared at his side. His huge eyes gazing up like twin, endless pools. “Miss Sally’s going to heaven.” He said it so simply, in the voice of an angel.

  Ty’s knees buckled and he fell against Marcella’s car. “What did you say?” He clutched at his chest, tangling his drug rug straps in his fist. His throat filled. “No,” he whispered. “No.”

  Marcella hugged herself. Hen reached for Ty’s hand. “Tyler?”

  Ty broke away, Hen’s eyes too much to bear. He stumbled toward Miss Sally’s house, but recoiled as if the yellow tape slapped him in the face.

  CAUTION. DO NOT ENTER. CAUTION. DO NOT ENTER. CAUTION. DO NOT—

  His breath cut off. He turned toward the backyard, his movements clumsy. He stopped near the bulkhead and retched beside it.

  “No, no, no.”

  Snot and vomit drenched his jaw. He heaved again, and tasted ash. He crouched, hands on knees, until Marcella gently took him by the shoulders.