Boy on Hold

by J D Spero

  The pattern. A familiar one.

  Red bead. Like the old barn by the lake. Not for farm animals. This one was empty. He and Tyler snuck inside once. It was damp, with mouse poop everywhere. Smelled like mildew and rotting wood. And Hen learned that even if something looks pretty on the outside, it might have a rotten core.

  He reached for the next bead.

  Dark blue. Tyler’s favorite jeans. Tall to fit his long legs. Worn at the knees. Frayed at the ankles. The pockets always bulging. He wore them today as he walked Hen to the bus stop, and as he slid into Derek Hogg’s truck.

  Yellow. Golden yellow, like fall leaves. Raked into a pile, golden leaves were a hedgehog’s sanctuary. A sanctuary was a safe place. Miss Sally taught him that.

  Green. Spindly branches of Miss Sally’s willow tree in the summertime, hanging to the grass like a big green Snuffleupagus. Tyler showed him how to hide inside.

  And repeat. Red, dark blue, yellow, and green. Thread enough to make a bracelet.

  “Think of someone special you’d like to give these to,” Teacher said, leaning over Hen as he pushed on another red bead.

  Hen could give it to Miss Sally. Or Mom.

  “Giving gifts is a way to tell someone you care about them.” Teacher seemed to read Hen’s thoughts.

  “Tyler,” Hen whispered.

  “Your brother?” Murphy made a face.

  Hen nodded. His insides warmed as he wrapped the wire wide enough for Tyler’s wrist, folding over extra pipe cleaner just in case.

  After school, the house was empty and silent. Ty felt cold all over. Hen was still at Miss Sally’s. His mom hadn’t yet collected him after her shift. Ty could go over there now and see about getting that report or whatever Derek wanted. Or he could stick to the plan and wait for Derek to get him later that night. Might as well wait. Confrontation was never something Ty sought out. Besides, this was Derek’s thing.

  You’re such a coward.

  The voice from the closet sounded the same as always. Biting and ugly—an older man’s, gruff from years of smoking. Ty stood in the foyer, his jacket still on, staring at the closet door. And, because no one was home to hear, he argued back.

  “No, I’m not. This is not my deal. I don’t even care about the stupid report.”

  Stupid, freaking coward.

  Ty trembled from his fingertips to his eyelids. “Me? Why isn’t Derek the coward? He’s scared to go by himself. He needs me. He needs me.”

  He banged on the closet door.

  Laughter followed from inside. An eerie, hollow laughter that gave Ty goose bumps.

  He covered his ears and stomped into the kitchen. He opened the fridge on reflex and, like a switch, the laughing stopped. He stared at the yogurt cups, egg carton, and sparse produce and realized how famished he was. Yogurt wouldn’t cut it. In the freezer, he found some microwave burritos.

  As it rotated through its two-minute warming, the microwave light shone on Ty’s face and chest. A sign or something. Or a test, maybe. He didn’t move a muscle. Stayed as still as stone. He held his breath for as long as he could. They were scanning him. Looking for weapons. Or toxins. Who knows what? Heat swirled in his chest and traveled out to his shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingertips. As if he were in the oven too.

  Ding!

  Light clicked off. Ty blinked at the thing. Cursed under his breath.

  A quick glance at the closet to reassure himself. He spoke aloud. “It’s not real. It’s. Not. Real.”

  Smells of taco seasoning made his stomach growl. He was too eager. The first bite burned the entirety of his mouth.

  He hated waiting. He stared at the thing, wishing for freeze power. Damn, he was starving. Two-burrito-hungry. He fetched another from the freezer and zapped it, being careful to stay clear of the wide beam of light this time.

  After school, Miss Sally played music that had the twang of acoustic guitar. Hen built a Lincoln Log tower as Miss Sally tapped her foot on the ottoman. He smiled at her polka-dot socks. She looked so small in her big wool sweater and plaid chair. With closed eyes, she told him, “It’s country music, if you’re wondering.”

  Unlike Tyler’s music, Hen understood the words in the song. Funny how music made him feel things. Tyler’s music made him uneasy. Miss Sally’s music made his chest feel full. Maybe a little sad.

  It was dark by the time Mom came. Miss Sally still reclined in her chair. Mom hugged Hen, but her eyes met Sally’s. “It’s getting to be too much, isn’t it? Maybe I can find daycare.”

  Hen’s ears perked. Daycare?

  Miss Sally to the rescue. “Nonsense. He likes it here. And I like the company. So, there you have it.”

  Hen packed his backpack.

  Miss Sally sighed. “Bernie came by. Said he was supposed to fix a window frame at your place?”

  “Oh, that was today? Shoot.” Mom rubbed her forehead. “The door. I forgot to have Tyler leave it open.”

  “Gave him an excuse to visit his ol’ ma. But speakin’ of Tyler.” Sally did the grownup whisper thing. “That boy…and the company he keeps.”

  Mom whispered too. “Sally, I know. It’s hard. Without a father, you can imagine. He’s seventeen and thinks he knows everything. Didn’t we all at that age?”

  “Did we? I don’t recall.”

  Mom looked out to the willow tree in the backyard. “The truth is, I don’t know what to do. I can’t forbid him from hanging out with his best friend, can I?”

  Sally smoothed her cheek, her paper-thin skin wrinkling under her hand, saying nothing.

  Mom went on. “I mean, Derek’s been coming to our house since they were Hen’s age. Before that even. He’s practically family. The poor kid has no mother. And with that sorry excuse for a father. What am I supposed to do, send him out into the street?”

  “Derek Hogg is trouble. Tyler will find trouble with him, mark my words.” Sally scratched the fabric of her chair. The room filled with the sound.

  Hen had that same icky feeling from this morning when Tyler got in Derek’s truck. It had been Tyler-and-Derek since before Hen was born. Best friends. Inseparable. Derek had always teased Hen, but lately the tone was mean. He cursed all the time. Never in a funny way like Tyler did. He smoked cigarettes. Got Tyler smoking, too. Still, he hoped Miss Sally was wrong.

  Mom lowered her voice. “Please Sally. You know there’s nothing more important to me than my boys. I want nothing more than to keep them safe. What can I do? Coat them in bubble wrap? Tyler’s nearly an adult. I have to trust him. He will know—” Her voice hitched like she might cry. “You’re right. I’m out of my league.”

  Hen stared into his backpack, his face heating up. Grownups could do anything. Why did Mom sound so hopeless? Tyler was one of the good guys. Hen couldn’t wait to give him the beaded bracelet he made.

  Wait—the bracelet!

  A panicky feeling came over him. “Where are my pipe-cleaner beads?”

  Mom blinked at him. “Your what?”

  Miss Sally heaved herself from her chair. “They made a craft at school. Henry made a clever pattern. Let me see if I can find it.”

  “Oh, please don’t get up. We really should go. Tyler should be—”

  “Mom. My beads!”

  “We can find it later. It’s not going anywhere. It will be safe with Miss Sally.”

  “But—”

  “Henry Atticus Trout.”

  Oh, the full name thing. He frowned and shoved his sneakers on.

  But what was in his shoe? The beaded bracelet!

  “Mom, look!” He held his beads high, but Mom didn’t see. Her face was cinched as she listened to Miss Sally’s low whispers. He shoved the bracelet in his pocket. He’d show her later, maybe.

  She answered without looking. “Okay, coming. Let’s go the back way.” Her eyes matched her voice and reminded him of Miss Sally’s music—worry hidden in a pretty song.

  As he and Mom made their way across the lawn to their house next door, Hen heard the news cl
ick on from Miss Sally’s living room. The light flashed through the bay window onto the willow tree in the backyard.

  Hen’s little brown house had only a light on in the kitchen, making the bright orange paint glow. Inside, it smelled like a Mexican restaurant and microwave burrito wrappers littered the table. Hen wrinkled his nose. Miss Sally’s house was always clean and smelled like a stick of Juicyfruit. Then it clicked. Burrito wrappers meant—

  “Tyler’s home!”

  Hen ran upstairs to find Tyler on his bed, still wearing his sneakers. Muffled rock music called from Tyler’s clamshell headphones as if far away.

  Hen knocked on one of the domes, and Tyler’s eyes shot open. Red, like he was angry or needed sleep. They softened, seeing Hen. He slid off his headphones.

  “Hey, little dude.” His voice was scratchy.

  Hen pulled the beaded bracelet from his pocket and gave it to his brother.

  “What’s this? Did you make this in school?”

  “Yup. We did patterns. You wear it on your wrist.”

  “Patterns, huh? That’s one stellar pattern.”

  “Do you like it? It’s for you.”

  “Love it.” Tyler put it on his wrist, using all the extra pipe cleaner to make it fit. “Thanks, little dude. What else did you do today?” Tyler chummed Hen’s chin.

  “I’m learning how to play chess. Miss Sally’s teaching me. I’m pretty good at it.”

  “Oh yeah? Maybe you could teach your thick-headed brother how to play.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re not thick-headed.”

  Tyler rumpled his brother’s hair, and Hen felt all that ickyness fade away about what Sally had said. Tyler wasn’t headed for trouble. He was home.

  Mom called from downstairs. “Hen! Dinner!”

  Hen tried to mirror Tyler’s uh-oh face and dashed out.

  After Hen went downstairs, Ty put his headphones back on. Drowning everything else out, Ty let Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit take him. The song seeped into the room like a foul odor while Hen did that super nice thing, giving Ty a present. Hen was so…good. How could Hen be his brother? Half brother, but still. Shutting his eyes, shutting it all out, Ty was in the song, part of the lyrics screeching from Cobain’s lips. Nothing could get him as long as music played. He botched the lyrics but sang anyway.

  Am aloto, am alpino, a mesquite-oh, my limp-it-oh—hey

  He peeked through his lashes. He checked his watch, but it was Hen’s beads. Red, blue, yellow, green. Simple, pure. Ty chuckled. That kid. So different from him. Even as a boy, Ty was never like Hen. He’d always been scared of everything.

  When he was Hen’s age, he’d had his first episode. He’d been doing a puzzle in front of the TV. Bugs Bunny was on. Ty liked its bright colors and rounded shapes. Bugs’s orange carrot matched their kitchen. “That’s all folks!”

  Commercial. A guy selling cars. He held a big sign and pointed to the camera, claiming he had “unbeatable” prices.

  For Ty, it wasn’t just a TV commercial. The car guy could see Ty. Actually see him. He didn’t rant about car prices, he yelled at Ty. Scolding him.

  “You! You! You!”

  The car guy’s finger jabbed his shoulder, hot and sharp. Ty had sat, paralyzed, wishing Marcella would save him. She was his mom. Didn’t she know what was happening to him? He wanted to scream, but his mouth stuck shut. His insides had frozen. Petrified with fear. Everything had stopped but his heart, which thrummed painfully in his chest.

  Marcella appeared in the doorway, drying her hands with a dishtowel. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  His lips creaked open. But, nothing. Not even a breath. The commercial went on, the finger jabbing, the yelling, “You! You! You!”

  Mom’s voice was sugary sweet. “It’s nothing, Tyler. A car commercial, that’s all.” Ages passed before she turned off the TV. He trembled in Marcella’s arms. Her soft voice near his ear, cooing. Her hair tickled his face. He raked his nails down his cheek, his gaze pinned on the blank TV screen. Why did Ty still feel the car guy’s finger? Still hear his voice loud and clear?

  “You! You! You!”

  That was the first. Far from the last.

  Hen didn’t have any of that. So completely different. Like, older already. Secure. Hopeful. Trying to make things better. For Ty. Knowing stuff he couldn’t possibly know yet, but sensing it.

  Did he know that Ty was different? Ty had always worked to protect him from it. When and if he could determine dream from reality. No doubt it would scare him. Sweet, sensitive Hen.

  Yet so naïve. Heartbreakingly so.

  These beads. As if they could make everything okay. It pissed him off, kind of. That scary thing inside him was too big. Or, a big swarm, maybe. Lots of little things buzzing, surging, changing all the time. Coming from everywhere. These beads could do nothing against the demons in his mind.

  If only they were magic. Maybe if they could make everything disappear. That’s all he wanted, to stop being haunted. To quiet the voices.

  At least right now it was Kurt Cobain.

  Am aloto, am alpino, a mesquite-oh, my limp-it-oh—hey

  He ran his finger over the beads. Bump, bump over the plastic humps. Again. Again… The pad of his finger went numb. He squeezed one hard, trying to crack it. Yellow between blue and green.

  He once read an article about meditation beads. Each bead was a breath. Each bead, an echo of a mantra. Freedom. Peace. Nothingness. A silent prayer. Countdown to stillness. Maybe he could give that a try.

  Red, breathe. Blue, breathe. Yellow—

  Am aloto, am alpino, a mesquite-oh, my limp-it-oh—hey

  Forget meditation. He air boxed in front of the mirror, Rocky Balboa-style, Hen’s beads flashing. Red, blue, yellow, green. He imagined Roxanne Russo watching. She wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d hold back, of course. She’d have to beg for it.

  After the song ended, his heart was pumping good. When he threw down the headphones, silence filled his ears. Time to go. He put on fresh jeans and his go-to drug rug.

  As soon as he pulled it over his head, he heard the growling. Really loud. An animal growled right outside the window. Ty checked, leaning over his bed. Nothing there but the willow tree, its waiflike leaves mostly fallen, leaving a dripping, caramel skeleton.

  I’ve got you now.

  The voice was right in his ear, as if through his headphones. He wasn’t wearing them, though. Blood roared in his brain. His mouth filled with saliva like he might puke. He rifled through his drawer to find a roach. The beads looked funny and strange on his wrist as he smoked it. Like the two didn’t go together.

  He inhaled down to the end, burning his lips, his lungs stinging.

  He squirted some cologne and headed downstairs.

  In a flash, Marcella killed his buzz. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Dumb question. “Out.”

  “With?”

  Another dumb question. “Derek.”

  “No, sir.”

  That was funny. Always funny when Marcella tried to be stern. He looked over at Hen and winked. Hen didn’t smile this time. What was his deal? He frowned at his mac-n-cheese.

  Marcella grabbed Ty’s chin. “What’s this? Your eyes are completely bloodshot.” She half-whispered, “Tyler, are you high?”

  Dumb question number three. His mother might be the queen of dumb questions. Ty couldn’t help it. He laughed right in her face. The buzz that made him do it, really. Her puppy eyes looked so insecure and pathetic. Irritation tugged and he felt the good vibes slipping away.

  “Chill, Mom. It’s cool.”

  Her voice wavered. “It’s certainly not cool, Tyler. And you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying home.”

  Meep-meep.

  Ty pivoted away from her.

  “No, no, no.” Marcella followed him.

  Geesh, she was annoying tonight.

  “Please, Tyler. Don’t go out tonight. Stay home. We’ll do something fun. I’ll pop so
me popcorn.”

  Popcorn? Was she for real?

  Ty laughed even harder when she tried to grasp his sleeve. As if she could physically hold him back.

  “Please, Tyler.”

  He was out the door without another word.

  “Yo, yo, yo!” Ty thumped into the passenger seat. “Got another joint? My mom killed my high.”

  Derek’s lips curled around his cigarette. “I don’t wan-cha all daffed out tonight, Ty. You’re helping me get that thing later, remember?”

  “Dude, I won’t be.”

  “Whatever, let’s eat first.”

  Mom stayed in the dark quiet watching Derek’s truck pull away—her tall, dancer figure shadowed by the porch light. Hen heard her sniffling.

  Hen wanted her to come back. Finish her dinner. Scrape the dirty dishes. But she headed straight upstairs to Hen and Tyler’s room. Why would she go up there? The kitchen felt too quiet without her.

  And too dark. Hen turned on every light he could reach. Better. The orange paint was cheery. Kind of. He pulled out his 101 Facts about Nocturnal Animals book, flipped the dog-eared pages to the hedgehog section.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Hen jumped. Someone was at the door?

  Hen expected Mom to skip down and answer the door.

  Nothing.

  It got really quiet. Maybe he’d been hearing things?

  The hedgehog picture was so cute. Hen’s giggle echoed in the empty kitchen.

  “When first handling your pet hedgehog, wear gloves. If hedgehogs are scared or nervous, they roll into a ball and their sharp spines could stick you. After your hedgehog gets comfortable with you, you won’t have to wear gloves anymore.”

  Hen beamed at the adorable ball of spikes. Those black beady eyes seemed to say, “I love you too.”

  Knock-knock-knock.

  It wasn’t his imagination. He looked to the stairs. Still, no Mom.

  “Ma-hm! Someone’s here!”

  Mom’s rush of footsteps was a soft drumroll. She gently opened the door.

  “Hi, Bernie. Sorry about this afternoon. I keep forgetting. It’s absurd. I don’t know why you put up with it.”