My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  “Because I was born sixteen years ago.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Why are you out this late at night? You do realize that curfew is at ten.”

  “Well, if I understand correctly, it’s nine forty-five. I haven’t broken curfew, officer. May I please go? I have an emergency.” Tyler added his usual know-it-all stresses, emphasizing and extending the two L’s in “well.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know I was talking to a wise mouth. Please go on, please tell me about this…emergency,” Mark said with a dangerous spark in his voice and a sly smile. The boy at first didn’t know what to say, blown away by this immediate change in emotion but not as afraid of Mark as a sixteen-year-old should be, not even close. Tyler was afraid, though, but not of the police officer before him—he was afraid of something else. Mark saw this and felt incompetent, a little uneasy.

  “I-I believe you’re stepping out of your boundaries, officer. I don’t have to give you that information.” The boy shivered.

  “Is that so?” Mark said with his smile, unchanged.

  Another very brief silence occurred while Mark glared, hoping to frighten him, to make him believe that Mark was contemplating something, and a good ol’ stare at Tyler would be the deciding factor for this unknown choice he would make. Mark was making no decisions, but he was staring at Tyler for another reason. Mark was searching for an accusation, something illegal.

  Mark Wegman did notice features he hadn’t seen before, like the hoodie over his head, the car heater whistling faster than needed—ignore the similarities, ignore the whistles—his yellow teeth and a small red spot on the back of Tyler’s hand from a needle prick. Mark guessed they were all drug related. Tyler had to weigh less than a hundred pounds, his clothes baggy and worn but not too large. Tyler shrank. He was pale and sick. His lips had no hint of red. They were as pale as his old Nokia. How could he be driving in his condition? He even talked with a little flare in his voice. Was he on drugs? He must have been. There is no way a boy like this could even function right now. Then Mark saw it. It was a prescribed bottle of morphine, and it seemed empty. He’s a junkie, Mark thought. Popping these pills and waiting for the next high. Shivering and shaking like a junkie would, slowly losing control as he drifts farther away from his last hookup. Oh yes, he’s a junkie, and he’s all mine. Mark’s scheming grin widened beyond belief, and he could barely keep in squeals of excitement.

  “Wait here,” Mark told Tyler as he almost sprinted between the gap from one car to the next, the blue-and-red lights occupying the black, damp atmosphere.

  “Please officer, I have to go,” Tyler yelped.

  “If you can’t tell me, then it must not be that important, and if you drive off I’ll take you in for resisting arrest,” Mark yelled over his shoulder, not even attempting to hide his joy—thrill that Tyler mistook for insanity. He thought of driving away out of desperation but didn’t.

  “You can’t do this, you don’t have a reason for pulling me over,” Tyler yelled out the window in one final attempt.

  “Oh but I do, my own personal junkie,” Mark uttered to himself while opening his car door and speaking into his old Bearcat . “This is Officer Wegman one-four-five-one, and I’m at the crossroads of—” he shined a flashlight at the street sign. “North Sixth Avenue and Elm Street. I have a sixteen-year-old boy, his name is Tyler Castillo, and Tyler has an empty bottle of morphine. He has rotten teeth and is severely skinny, I’m guessing around ninety pounds. He also has numerous needle pricks around his arms and body, which I assume were from other drugs besides Morphine.” Mark wouldn’t know until the next day that he was correct, Tyler did have more than one needle prick, although at the time he was gambling with this claim, lying for the sake of the chase. “The kid is oblivious that I know and seems to me was on his way to refill the morphine bottle, possibly other drugs. The way he acts and moves, he’s a junkie for sure. With your permission I would like to let him go, then proceed to follow the boy, to see if he would lead me to his prescriber, and possibly the dealer. I would not interfere if he does lead me, and if he does I’ll give you my location and will not interfere. ” There was a short stutter of silence as Mark waited to see if they would believe his second lie, because Mark would get involved, he would interfere the second a grain of sand was out of place. He would not call the office for backup, he would handle the entire situation solo, and later he would tell them that he was caught at gunpoint and had to act fast before they blew his brains out from temple to temple.

  “Mark, this is Aaron Hudson down at the station, are you sure your assumptions are correct? And you will not act at all if the situation escalates, you swear on your life.”

  “With all due respect, Aaron, I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think so,” Mark said grinning. There was a very long silence and arguing in the background. Mark could hear a few mumbles. “It’s been a local case for years… He’s not authorized… The danger… This might be our only choice… I’ll control it… Don’t talk back to me.” Then there were only whispers and the steady raindrops on the window as Mark waited, his stretched-out foot getting drenched from the rain while the rest of his body rested in the car. He was shaking with excitement, anticipation, wanting to have one foot out once he received his approval. Then Aaron spoke with a harsh tone, yet quiet voice.

  “You have my permission, Mark, but if you’re in danger, if anything happens, call us and get out of dodge. Do not get involved at all. I don’t want you to leave your vehicle. If this child doesn’t lead you anywhere, stop following. If he does, and there’s even slight suspicion, call us and stop following.” Mark’s eyes lit up more than they ever had, his skin glowed with so much color, and his mind was racing with possibilities. Aaron sighed through the Bearcat, his voice full of grief, full of regret, and continued. “You can’t do this alone, Mark. You are loved too much and you know it.” A bright light lit up Mark and Tyler’s cars, along with the houses and the street for a split second. The rain stopped. Thunder followed and crackled in the background. Silence, then the rain began again. Mark flinched, but Tyler didn’t; he didn’t notice the flash of light, and neither did Aaron at the station about six miles back.

  Mark’s hands were now clammy, and the color that was present seconds before disappeared. His mood shifted so drastically, as quick as the lightning striking the absent desert. Mark was now utterly frightened, a whole new person. “I know, I will… Thank you,” Mark whispered as if he were disclosing a secret, and with the same whisper he spoke again to himself, not knowing that he was shaking, and shaking only from the power of the word “love.”

  “I promise, My Hand Mitten, you’ll be okay. I’ll be damned if you are not. I’ll push forward for the both of us.” Silence, the rain in the background, slightly more aggressive, but like the shaking of his own hand, he did not take notice. Silence; then a broad smile appeared, each individual off-white tooth sprouting behind his lips. This is my chance to prove everyone wrong. No more smiles, no more pity, no more downcast looks at my strength to handle the shit of this world. While holding Tyler’s license and registration, he left his car and walked the distance again, this time with height and confidence back to the rusty Toyota and the weak, tired Tyler Castillo, the color of pale moss lightly painted on his skin.

  “Here you go, Mr. Castillo. Thank you for your patience and cooperation,” said Mark, while handing him his papers.

  “Thank you, now please excuse me but I have to—“

  “Yes, yes I know, your…emergency,” he chuckled, grinning wildly. “Have a good evening.” Mark began to walk back to his car. I’m ready to get this bastard, this brat that thinks he owns the world. No, not a brat, a snarky little Mexican immigrant, that has no parental guidance. Get him deported back to the country he came from. A dirty, poor—

  “Why are you upset?” Tyler yelled out of the window while shaking, cutting off Mark’s thoughts.

  �
�What?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “I’m not upset,” Mark snarled. “Don’t accuse me of random—“

  “Then why do you cry?”

  “I NEVER CRIED!” Mark shouted while thunder struck behind in the nearby hills. He thought about earlier that night and lightly grazed his cheek in wonder, again not knowing he was shaking, but it was even worse than before.

  “You didn’t have to,” Tyler muttered, bile rising in his throat.

  The time it took to march between their car windows was enough for Mark’s pride to spring him back into a devious grin, fighting and overpowering these thoughts that were also rising like bile in his throat. Mary was going to be okay, and he was about to get a promotion because of this arrest, he knew for certain. Maybe he’d even be on the news. Mark’s actions bringing to justice these rough edges of town. He’d heard Aaron speak to another police officer behind those glass doors. Drug crimes were on the rise. If he was able to catch the entire gang, no doubt Mark would also have his own glass office with white shades, and the more he thought about this idea, the more excited he became. Respect, he thought. Respect.

  “You speak lies, you don’t know my past, and you don’t know me!” Mark yelled at Tyler without a glimpse back as he opened his door. “And trust me, you wouldn’t want to know me or my demons. They’re too much for someone like you to handle.” He stepped into his car and closed the door, with Legion laughing and howling in his body. The rain continued to drip at an even pace, and Tyler started his engine.

  “Pray to God. He will listen.” Tyler drove off and lightly sprayed the air with a mist of rain. Mark didn’t respond, didn’t move, and the wind began to calm down. Silent, steady tears began to roll down his face a second time. He thought of Mary. His mind was spiraling out of control. Another word, another word that stung him, maybe even stronger than “Love” was “God.”

  “God? What has God done for you?” Mark revved up his engine. “Besides give you grief and throw you into this miserable, broken world!” The rain continued to increase in speed, the air current picked up once more, and Mark drove off. He began to follow Tyler with insanity, with eyes like the devil. In a way, Tyler was running from the devil.

  Now, children, Mark wasn’t always like this. Please don’t mistake his anger for hatred. He was a very nice and gentle man, and a romantic. Mark played his emotions close to the vest. If you walked into the downtown police station during the years he was in his prime and asked anyone what Mark was like, they’d tell you he was gentle or kindhearted. But he could also be very aggressive, secretive, and sometimes unresponsive and distracted. They’d say Aaron was hard on him, always busting him and keeping him in line. Mark had a great gift when it came to forcing people to justice, but Aaron always disapproved of his methods. Some thought he was bitter from their childhood, because Mark’s was normal, with a group of friends and parents who loved him. The type of parents that Aaron never had, parents that even fortunate children with allowances, bicycles for Christmas, and understandable punishments sometimes felt cheated by when stealing a glance at Mark’s perfect family. His father, Henry Wegman, was not highly educated and was always searching for work, but after long workdays, he never went with his construction friends to the bar for a quick beer. He went home without a second to spare, to kiss his wife and play with his child. Play, it seemed that he always played with Mark, tossing a tattered and torn baseball around, which was so old that the baseball seemed to be a family member all on its own. Therefore, when Mark saw that ball resting in his father’s hands, an old excitement would rise up in him, and he would know exactly what was going to happen next. They would also play Cowboys and Indians. His father would take out a large hawk feather he’d found after the monsoon season and a straw cowboy hat from a thrift shop for fifteen cents. Then they would run around like dogs with their tails on fire, and Mark would scream with laughter when Henry picked him up and hung him upside down from his legs. “I gotchu!” Henry would say with the hawk feather tucked behind his ear. “Is time for da boiler!” He would then place Mark in a huge, rusty pot that his father also scavenged and stirred him with a large stick while Mark uncontrollably laughed.

  Henry was in good shape because of his young body but was worked ragged day and night in a struggle to support his family. He was as tall as Mark, six foot seven and broad, a freak in the world but a prophet in construction. The town of Tucson was steadily growing in the death of the seventies and the dawn of the eighties, expanding closer and closer to hundred-year-old ranches outside of the town, but no fantastic, new industry swept the desolate Sonoran Desert and called for such projects. There was only a rise in national population and rich, retired individuals who could afford to escape the northern winters. Suburbs were slowly being built into towns of recent formation like Oro Valley and new additions to more dated, dissolved parts of ranches like Vail. But management always found a sort of fondness for Henry, not only because of how much he could lift, drag, pull, and tear down. Henry also worked in construction for so long that he picked up a good understanding of Spanish, since many of the workers he spoke to were from Mexico. Henry was also a man of huge faith and understanding, like a cool breeze through their long-sleeve yellow vests. Henry was a comfort for everyone. Therefore, management always recognized him as the official translator, recruiting officer, and the voice of his working community. When the employed had an issue with management, they heard the complaint from Henry, with his poor articulation yet sharp mind and controlled thoughts. Henry was not good-looking, with crooked teeth, extended ears, and a bit of a lazy eye, but his certainty and understanding made everyone seem to understand why he was in charge. Henry was a leader, although underpaid and overworked.

  Mark’s mother was also a workaholic who worked a full-time job during the night at an old waffle house but also took care of their house in the mornings and evenings. She still didn’t work as much as Henry, but it was close. Her hours were usually from eleven to five in the morning, which was when Mark and Henry normally woke up to cook breakfast, expecting her home. They would make two plates of oatmeal, and on the weekends an egg or two (sometimes even bacon), along with a single dinner plate for Isabell. She was kind, shrewd, and calculated, witnessing the world in a very different way than Henry, who could find beauty in Genghis Khan if he tried. Isabell lived in the world with a hint of bitterness hanging on her lip like a ring but still cherished her family with great appreciation. For about thirty minutes, Mark would watch his parents laugh and eat merrily, his mother tired and worn, his father energized and rested. Then Henry would leave from six in the morning to six at night. Isabell and Mark would spend about an hour cleaning the house before Isabell gave him a list of chores to do while she slept. Mark would rush through those tasks so too much of the daytime was never wasted, and then he would leave with a smile on his round cheeks, knowing that what he accomplished would better his family and please his parents.

  During a school day he would normally have a single task to do in the morning and another when he got home, his father still working and his mother still fast asleep. However, it was the weekend, so he was free from the chains of responsibility for the rest of the day.

  Whenever Mark’s father was off, he spent all his time showing Mark how to hunt, fish, sand, and build dressers and nightstands, an entire day of bonding time, sometimes driving away for the evening to embark on an adventure. When his mother had the night off, they would watch television together, shows like M*A*S*H or The Six Million Dollar Man, in which his mother loved to point out the flaws between the plot and reality. She would roll her eyes with a little smile under her nose, and Mark would cuddle under her arm, hypnotized by the bionic human and his own creativity. Mark loved his parents more than the world, believing, as every child did, that they were perfect. He was sure of it and wanted to be nothing less than perfect like them, until his father told him otherwise.

  “You ain
’t goin’ through life wit’ no callus on your hands,” his father once said with his soft voice. “And I ain’t raising no jelly bean. I’m raising a man. So far I see yo’ are. Yo’ start no fights, yo’ keep from them, and stay nice until they in yo’ face, tooth peck close to yo’ nose, and yo’ smell they butt breath.” Mark laughed as Henry got very close and wiggled his nose at Mark. “I erm proud, son, and you’ll do better than your ol’ man.”

  Mark heard and obeyed every word: do better than his old man. He knew he must be better than perfect, the noblest man in the world. Therefore, no kid on the block ever pushed him around, as Mark couldn’t be baited into fighting. The class bullies laid off once Mark laughed and stretched out his hand to shake when they tried to pick a fight. Soon, everyone seemed to adore Mark. He was such a trustworthy, honest boy.

  Mark’s charm worked for him, although Aaron had trouble making friends, had trouble talking to others. “Hey, you’re funny. My name’s Mark, do you want to play Cowboys and Indians?” Mark enthusiastically asked one warm spring Saturday on the road of Mark’s cul-de-sac. Aaron lived two miles away. He walked the sidewalks and streets to find someone to fight with, like his father did to him. Aaron’s parents were never home and never seemed to care where he was or what he was doing, and even at the age of seven he carried the feeling that they would rather have him dead. In fact, you could say the family situations of Mark and Aaron were completely opposite. Aaron and the bruises he hid with long sleeves in the summer, the belt that always swung from left to right on his door when it slammed. Just like the traditional baseball with Mark’s father, there was the traditional belt for Aaron. When his dad held it, his hairy knuckles wrapped around the leather and sometimes a beer in the other, he knew what would happen next; he knew what was going to happen to both him and his emotionless mother. Then there was Mark with his packed lunches from his loving mother after she came home from work and a note of encouragement that was always in there. Usually a small phrase like “God loves you” or “You’re our guardian angel,” but no matter what it said, Mark always blushed and hid his face from childhood shyness. There was also his father, who would give up the world for his family, who carried with him such a confident and loving aroma that others seemed to trust almost instantaneously. Aaron looked at Mark with a little amazement. Mark was in the other second-grade class but popular beyond belief. Aaron knew who he was, although he never spoke to him until now.