by Weston Ochse
A tractor-trailer thundered by. Billy spun and growled.
Don’t give them an inch.
Don’t let them see you coming.
Don’t let them see the whites of your eyes.
The long metal monster continued down the four-lane track and disappeared over a rise. Billy grinned and grunted once.
“That’s right. Who’s your daddy?” he yelled into the desert evening.
Billy adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder, stuck his left hand into his pocket and continued along the white line. As he trudged forward, he searched the roadside for things of value like the umbrella he’d found yesterday or the black baseball cap he’d found earlier this morning. Everything was useful. Whether it was selling them to the thrift store or trading them with the others, each of his items made him that much richer. And as everyone knew, it was the rich who ruled the world.
Suddenly, the wind whipped by in three gusts. Two short. One long. Like Morse code, the wind cooled his skin and spelled out a letter of the alphabet. Two short, one long. He remembered what it meant. Lowering his head and hunching his shoulders, Billy struggled to ignore the translation. He needed his mind clear. He didn’t want to clutter up this thought processes with a continuous retentive dissection of the everyday world.
But it came again as two cars and a truck zoomed past. Two short. One long. The message had come twice. The fact that he was meant to recognize it was indisputable.
Two short. One long. It was a U. Or a YOU. Not the entire message, it was only a clue, a piece of a larger puzzle that he was to solve. One never knew the form the voices would take. He had to be careful. Sometimes the voices got him in trouble. Sometimes the voices got him good things, too, like the time several weeks ago they’d told him to go behind the ELKS Club where he ate steak and lobster until he puked. That had been a wonderful day. Had he not been careful, had he not paid careful attention, he would have never been rewarded.
Their message had come as a simple piece of paper. A torn lotto game card with the words BINGO written clearly in red letters at the top. For many, the word would have meant nothing, or been a misdirection to a bad thing, but for Billy Bones, the message was perfectly clear. The voices were telling him of the reward—food, and lots of it. Their double meaning was evident in their choice of medium—paper, two-sided equaled double-meaninged.
BINGO. The first thing that came to mind was the song. Learned by every elementary school kid, the tune was a regular in the classroom and a requirement on long trips. He sang it as a kid and even now would rattle off a few bars in the quieter moments.
There was a man who had a dog and BINGO was his name-oh
Yes. Billy Bones knew the song well and he understood the voices. BINGO equaled FOOD equaled DOG, like the meat his friend Chun always kidded him about. The fifty-year-old Korean cook who worked at the Chinese restaurant on East Fry Boulevard was always ready to pass along some food to Billy Bones. Like Billy, the man was comfortable with his lot in life and was most often seen with a smile wrapped around a non-filtered cigarette.
Chun never insisted on trade, but he always joked around making sure that Billy knew he was willing to buy any strays from him. Just a little taste of home was all he wanted. He’d buy any mutt for ten dollars. He even mentioned going to the Humane Society, but realized that they might look at him suspiciously if he showed up more than once a year—especially considering his career choice and his ethnic origin. Stereotypes were gonna make him starve, he’d said.
Of course, BINGO also referred to a specific place. Billy found the message on a Wednesday. The only place in Sierra Vista that held BINGO on a Wednesday was St. Matthews Catholic Church where the blue-haired female Snow Birds reigned supreme. But that was a red herring for sure. The message couldn’t possibly have referred to the BINGO at St. Matthews.
By the brittle edges of the paper, it was plain that the paper had become wet. Which could only have resulted from the rain that had rushed across the valley this morning, Billy had thought. This is the desert and water was a thing people just didn’t see very often.
The thought evaporated as a cacophony of laughter erupted within his mind. The voices jibed derisively, each one taking turns pretending to be him, a paradigm of homeless eloquence. Billy shouted for them to stop. He was a smart man and they should like him for that. There wasn’t any reason for him to act stupid. There wasn’t any reason for him to pretend he was crazy. After all, he must have been a pretty smart person at one point in time. He must have been.
No, the message couldn’t have referred to St. Matthews, because if it was on the ground during the rain, it had to have been there yesterday. Yesterday was a Tuesday and as everyone knew, the ELKS Club held BINGO every Tuesday and on Wednesdays they held special dinners—like steak and lobster. Right after closing, thanks to the message, Billy Bones had been behind the club rooting through the dumpster. He placed half-eaten portions of steak and lobster from amidst the residue on top of a sheet of newspaper. Each piece he washed using the water from his canteen. Once his recycled feast was ready, he removed his knife from the sheath at his ankle and cut away the chewed edges.
Truly, it had been a grand meal. His mouth watered at the memory. Grinning, he used his sleeve to wipe away the drool. More than willing, Billy would gladly volunteer for Pavlovian service, especially if steak was the reward.
That’s where he’d found the dog. To commemorate the occasion, he’d named it BINGO. Of medium size with long white hair, mange had taken its toll on the poor animal. Half of the left side was hairless, as was most of the head. Truly the creature looked more Dr. Seuss than canine. Even now, the animal was back at his camp resting in the shade of his hut.
Billy’s smile slid away and he frowned, remembering how the voices were also not nice, sometimes. The voices could even be mean. Their messages were very tricky and only if Billy was able to keep his wits about him, could he be ready. And if he was ready, he could be rewarded.
A car, a truck and a station wagon zoomed past him. Short. Long. Short. Three gusts of air to cool him and three more additions to the message. Short. Long. Short. An R in Morse code. Or was it ARE?
Billy growled at the traffic, his teeth snapping at the air. He noticed a red and white beer truck barreling down upon him, tires riding both sides of the line that separated the lane from the shoulder. Billy had been walking it as if he were one of the Flying Wallendas—left foot over right foot, to misstep was danger. The truck driver laid into the horn and the truck became the metal monster that it was. The chrome grill fangs glinted hungrily in the dying sun. It wasn’t until the last minute, that Billy Bones tumbled out of the way, his knees tucked to his chest.
He rolled to a stop amidst the Doppler scream of the dragon and a cloud of dust. He stood, looked around and couldn’t help but smile. He’d arrived at his destination despite the attempts of the metal monsters to stop him. Just three feet away stood the two reasons for his small trek along highway 92.
Two crosses, one slightly larger than the other, stood in a small clearing just off the road. The crosses marked where a mother and child had died. Maybe hit by a car. Maybe in a car that had been hit. Billy thought he should know, he was almost certain he should know, but the knowledge didn’t seem to be where it was supposed to be. The HOW of it was as much a mystery as the WHY of it. He’d never know why the two seemingly perfect people were struck down and made part of the desert. In the end, the knowing wasn’t so important. They were dead and the only memory of their existence were the two lonely crosses to mark the location of the souls.
The crosses had been painted white several times, the paint already beginning to peel again. Small white specks lay in the dirt. The style was plain, the only adornment a plexi-glass protected wallet-sized picture of the deceased placed at the apex of each cross. Billy removed a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket. He spit on the cloth, then carefully cleaned the glass. His hand made circular motions, spiraling slowly outward. The woman
appeared to be thirty, the girl ten. Both had pleasant smiles and eyes filled with the naïve hope that if they said their prayers and followed the rules, everything would be all right.
Billy closed his eyes and tried in vain to shut out the black-and-white documentary of open-mouth screams, blood and body parts scattered along the pavement. He hugged himself and began rocking back and forth. The sounds of his whimpering were lost in the roar of passing traffic. Their names seemed within reach, but he dared not.
Finally, Billy unraveled himself and set about cleaning the area around the crosses. Weeds had begun to encroach. Digging his fingers deep into the desert earth, he excised them by their roots. When all was clear, he took his hands and smoothed out the dirt surrounding the crosses. He reached into his duffel bag and removed a bouquet of wild flowers he’d collected from the roadside and a Big Gulp cup. He placed these between the crosses. The splash of yellow and sky blue made the place more pleasant somehow.
His mind suddenly cleared. Her name had been Karen. The younger had been named Suzi. They’d been on their way home from a movie when they’d been hit by a drunk driver. A head-on collision and the front of their station wagon had met the rear seats. The man driving their car had been badly injured, but had survived. Billy allowed the back of his hand to touch the two dimensional cheeks of the dead. He remembered a Christmas when their smiles had been real.
Then his mind returned to normal. Roiling clouds of ideas dispersed facts and memory to dark corners to be forgotten. Billy stood and checked to make sure he had everything. He inspected the crosses to make sure they were presentable. With a nod, he shouldered the duffel bag and headed back the way he’d come. The sun had almost set behind the Huachucas and the sky was a mesh of deep purples and reds. Traffic had increased, the Morse code message coming faster and faster. For every five cars there was a truck. He felt the wind and watched them pass. There was a definite pattern.
Short. Short. Short. Short. Short. Long.
Short. Short. Short. Short. Short. Long.
Billy growled and snapped at the traffic. The voices were being mean. They were laughing at him. The traffic continued in the same pattern. Against his wishes, his mind translated the code.
Ha Ha, it said.
Ha. Ha.
* * *
Chattanooga, Tennessee
The intercom was a continual eruption of encoded life and death emergency. The constant chatter of the machines, harried voices and the multi-octaved syncopated beeps of monitors filled the background. A ventilator whispered from somewhere nearby in long sad sighs. Weeping seeped from down the hall and rose to a soul-wrenching keen, all the more tragic as its creator lurched into view—an old man, suddenly bereft of his life mate. A gurney squeaked by, blood-soaked white sheet draped over an unmoving lump, orderlies casual in their transport.
Normal people stood around stiff-backed and pale, staring through windows at reality thrust upon them as medical staff dressed in pastel party colors slipped in and out of the Intensive Care Units. Green, light blue, pale pink—colors meant to soften served only to magnify the harshness of fluorescent lighting upon close-lidded patients and sucking chest wounds. The floor was a shimmering plane of multicolored spots worked into the design so the average loved one would be forever confused where they left off and the blood began.
Danny stared through the wire-reinforced window at the tiny figure that had become the center of attention in the ten-by-fifteen foot Intensive Care Unit of the T.C. Thomson Pediatric Medical Center. A bright-eyed nurse dressed in pink took notes while staring at a shoulder-high monitor. Another nurse, this one wearing yellow, taped a new needle to the inside elbow of an arm, adjusted the drip of the IV and then ran a hand along the short length of plastic tubing to ensure it wasn’t twisted. She pulled out a small bottle and applied liquid to Bergen’s eyes. When she’d finished, she taped the eyes shut.
She smiled as she left the room, her face freckled and pretty. Danny smiled back, his less practiced. He returned his attention to the room where the remaining nurse was finishing her duties. Snapping closed her folder she glanced over at him and smiled. He didn’t return this one. Smiles were all right, but they weren’t what his friend needed. Nor did he need the anger, fear and resentment that flowed from him with each beat of his heart.
He sighed. It wasn’t right for Bergen to be in a hospital, especially not the Intensive Care Unit. It wasn’t right for him to be attached to machines, tubes running down his throat, through his nose and into his arms.
So why was he here?
Bergen had no real enemies. Sure, there were the occasional bullies who picked on him because of his limp or because he was smart. If he were to be honest, Danny would agree that Bergen was a little nerdy—maybe even a lot nerdy. But that was no reason for someone to beat him like this. Danny balled his fists tightly. His friend had never even started a fight before. He was a zero threat.
So then why did someone come by and beat Bergen into a coma?
That was the million dollar question.
Why had they left him lying in a ditch like a piece of trash?
Danny glared at his mother standing beside him. She smiled back, her lips a tight line of concern. No nurse here. His mother could take some lessons, for at the corner of her eyes, Danny could see his own unspoken emotions. Anger mixed with fear—and a certain coldness that promised parental vengeance.
He squeezed his mother’s hand and sent a small grin of thanks her way.
A disturbance erupted from the end of the hallway opposite the nurse’s station. Bergen’s father was screaming at two policemen. One was taking down notes, the other had both hands out as if to placate the man.
“This is the third time you’ve asked me these questions. When will you find the madman who did this? When will you leave us alone and do your job?”
“Please, sir. We’ve got patrol cars in the neighborhood and a car at your house. We’re looking and have every confidence we’ll find the perpetrator.”
Bergen’s father scoffed. “How will you find this madman? What evidence do you have?”
The policemen glanced at each other. The old man read the look and pounced.
“I’ll tell you what evidence you have. None.” He stepped forward and into the policemen’s personal space. “Do you disagree?”
“Sir, we’ve canvassed the surrounding neighborhoods, but nobody saw a thing.”
“Bah! There must be someone. Someone must have seen something.”
The other policeman stopped writing. “The place where your son was found was a fair bit isolated. Unless someone was driving by at the exact time of the assault, there’s really no way for there to be a witness.”
“So you’re not so confident, yes?”
“Yes. No. I mean…shit!” exclaimed the policeman, drawing a raised eyebrow from his partner. “Listen, Sir. Although our evidence is sketchy, we’re confident we’ll catch the perpetrator. The safety of our citizens is our primary—”
“Cut the propaganda. I’m not stupid and I certainly don’t need a lecture from you. My concern is for my family and as long as there is a madman out there, they will remain in danger.”
“First, we don’t believe this was a targeted attack. We believe it was random. Second, we’ve assigned a patrol car to your family, just in case.” The policeman held out his hand so he could continue. “There will also be a police officer with your son until he recovers or until we catch the perpetrator.”
“It’s a madman, that’s who it is.”
“We can’t be sure it’s a man. The perpetrator could be a woman and we need to ensure that we don’t rule it out.”
“Are you crazy? Did your mother drop you too much as a child?”
The policemen stepped back, blinking rapidly.
“This was a crime of violence against a child. No woman could have done this,” said Bergen’s father. “Women are mothers and mothers love their children.”
The deputy looked like he wa
nted to respond, but he was too thoroughly beaten down. Danny could tell he wanted to, though. Even Danny knew that Bergen’s father was wrong. It could have been a woman. All one had to do was watch the evening news to know that mothers were as capable of atrocity as fathers. The old man was living in another world if he believed otherwise.
Danny remembered speaking with Bergen about the old man’s naïve optimism and inability to understand the wickedness of the world. He was a scholar, dedicated to the interpretation and the uncovering of the truths hidden within Jewish religious texts. His reality was The Word not The World. On the rare occasions when Bergen could get his father to watch the news or a TV show, the man was unable to discriminate between the two. For him, it was all fiction, the drive-by shootings and wars on the nightly news were the same as the comedic dramas of prime time. He refused to see the everyday violence of the world as a threat.
Bad things happen to bad people, he said. If it happens to you, then you must be bad.
Strange how such an intelligent, old man could so completely fail to understand. The average eight year old knew more, learning the catch phrase Stranger Danger until it repeated internally like a pre-pubescent self-defense mantra.
Danny returned his attention to his friend in the ICU. So small. So frail. Even with Bergen’s limp and long scar, he’d still been able to leap and dive with the best of them. Sure, he was a little slower than everyone else, but it’d never stopped him. On the contrary, it’d seemed to spark a strange competitiveness within the boy.
Bergen’s closed eyes were ringed in black and blue. His face was uneven. Except for a few stray wisps of brown, his hair was covered with a turban of white gauze. From toe to head, he was one long wound. When he woke, if he woke, he was going to be in for some serious pain.