Survivor Stories

by J P Barnaby

  Anthony shrugged and began to rearrange the bottles on the counter with black-nailed fingers. Patrick waited. He’d had a lot of experience lately dealing with reticent people; Bren seemed to be the definition of it. Two years and he still hadn’t made it out the front door of his own house.

  After a few minutes, the blueberry vodka sat with others of its kind. The grape came next, and then orange and raspberry. Not only had Anthony lined them up, but he did it in alphabetical order. Patrick couldn’t even get his own staff to be that conscientious.

  “I left my parents’ house to stay with a friend in Detroit.” Anger welled in the soft spaces between Anthony’s words.

  “That tells me how you ended up in Detroit with Illinois plates,” Patrick replied. “But not why you’re in my parking lot.”

  “I told you, there’s something wrong with my fucking car.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?” Patrick asked. Didn’t everybody have a cell phone these days, especially angry, entitled children?

  “No.”

  “Do you want to call your friend and have him pick you up?”

  “I… no.” The bravado slipped again, exposing a soft vulnerability Patrick hated almost as much as the anger. But, Jesus, it was like pulling teeth with this kid. Frustration knotted the muscles in the back of his neck, and he closed his eyes before letting out a slow breath. When he opened them again, the kid stared at him with wide-eyed fear. The contrast startled him.

  “I don’t know his phone number,” the kid whispered as if revealing a deep, dark secret.

  Patrick stared, incredulous. “Let me get this straight. You jumped in the car and drove at least, what, five or six hours to meet some guy you don’t even know well enough to have a phone number for. Is that it?”

  Anthony looked away, misery deepening the lines in his face.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in a couple weeks.”

  “Christ, the phone is right there. Call your parents.”

  At that, Anthony spun on his heel and ran for the door as though he’d been waiting for an excuse since he’d come through it. The door rattled in the frame as he shook it. Tears streamed down his pale cheeks, and something in Patrick broke. He didn’t go to Anthony right away, unable to stand the sight of his pain. Everything in the boy reminded him of that awful day—the day he saw the life leave his brother’s eyes. The day they stood together and put their father in the ground.

  Instead, he picked up the store phone and dialed a number almost as familiar as his own.

  “Patrick?” the bleary voice asked in a panic. Apparently, not everyone he knew got up before eight.

  “Oh, shit, Sandy, I’m sorry. I forgot it was so early. It’s been…. Can you do me a favor, uhm, later? Maybe when your eyes are open?”

  The silence from the other end of the phone felt like a physical weight. She wouldn’t stay mad at him for long, but while she was, it would be painful.

  “You woke me up out of a sound sleep to ask me for a favor… later?”

  “Sandy, I’ll take you out for the best sushi in the city. I’m so sorry.” Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. “When I got to the store this morning, I found a kid in my parking lot. It’s been a long day already, and it’s barely eight o’clock.”

  “A kid? What do you mean?”

  “I mean a seventeen-year-old boy.”

  “Is he okay?” The concern in her voice warmed him.

  “Physically, I think. Look, his car is broken down, and I was wondering if you’d come and take a look. Bren said it’s a 1985 Mustang.”

  “It’s a 1986,” Anthony said miserably from the door. At least he’d stopped trying to get through the glass.

  “The kid says it’s a 1986.”

  “Yeah, let me get a shower and I’ll bring the truck by to check it out before I open up the garage. Where are his parents?”

  “Illinois, I’d have to guess by the plates. He hasn’t been very forthcoming about why he’s here,” Patrick said the last with a long look at Anthony, who seemed to be studying the advertisements in the window.

  “I’ll be there about ten.”

  “Thanks, Sandy. Dinner is on me.”

  “Nah, I can’t turn away a kid in trouble.”

  “I know, which is why dinner is on me.”

  Patrick hung up the phone after they said their good-byes, and turned to Anthony, who hadn’t moved from in front of the door. The kid’s clothes weren’t torn or even too worn, and he scuffed a battered tennis shoe against the floor as he picked at something on his jeans. He looked clean and healthy, probably not physically abused. He hadn’t limped or winced as he came into the store.

  The prospect of sexual abuse flitted across Patrick’s mind. The boy was beautiful and sensitive. Something solidified in his gut at the thought. Please God, don’t let it be that.

  “Where does your friend live? I’m guessing you didn’t drive all the way out here without an address?”

  Anthony dug into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a couple of folded sheets of paper and handed them over. Patrick opened the papers with one last glance at Anthony and found Google Maps directions from DeKalb, Illinois, to an address in Detroit. Patrick followed the directions in his head and looked up sharply at Anthony.

  “Did he tell you this was his house?”

  “I… I think so, he said to come there.”

  “Kid, this is a business district. How old is your friend?”

  “Seventeen, like me.”

  “We’ve got a bit before I have to open the store or Sandy gets here to check out your car. Why don’t we go check it out?” He thought of something else. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did you eat last?”

  “I had breakfast at home yesterday, chips and stuff in the car.”

  “Jesus.” Patrick shook his head. “Come on. Let’s hit a McDonald’s and then check out your friend’s address. Okay?”

  Anthony didn’t move. Tension vibrated through his thin frame as he regarded Patrick with resigned fear.

  “Why are you helping me? What…. What do you want?”

  Patrick blew out a heavy breath and tried to force the words in his head to make sense.

  “You remind me of the kid my little brother used to be, and I don’t want you to turn into him.”

  Anthony’s eyes widened, but Patrick just stomped out from behind the counter, pulling his keys out in the process. He left the coffee mug and paper and took only his wallet. To his credit, Anthony didn’t bolt when Patrick opened the door. He did, however, move quickly through it, leaving Patrick to follow as he went to the Mustang and pulled out the orange backpack.

  It took a long time for Anthony to walk from the Mustang to the RAV4. Patrick could see the indecision in each step. Anthony shouldn’t trust him, not a complete stranger. Everyone knew what happened when you trusted a stranger. Unfortunately, desperation compromises the choices of reasonable people, even seventeen-year-old kids. With no options, Anthony reached the SUV and caught Patrick’s gaze with resignation.

  “Come on.” Patrick unlocked the doors and they both climbed in, determined.

  “What happened to your brother?” Anthony asked as Patrick put his key in the ignition and started the truck.

  “He was shot.” Patrick pulled smoothly out of the space and pointed the front of the truck toward the road.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. It sucks when someone comes and steals your life away.”

  “I know how that feels.”

  Patrick looked sharply at Anthony, but the boy didn’t say anything else. He merely watched Woodward Avenue go by as they followed it up toward Detroit.

  Anthony didn’t talk on the twenty-minute ride. The bags under his eyes could have held most of the contents of the backpack he clung to. He didn’t throw it in the backseat, or even let it rest in the floorboard of the truck. He wrapped his arms around it as if the
nylon fabric held the secrets of the universe.

  The GPS instructions led them to the part of Lafayette overlooking I-75, and Patrick double-checked the screen when they found nothing but a rundown four-story building.

  “The destination is on your left.”

  “You have arrived.”

  But where? Anthony sat forward, his face a mask of mute horror as Patrick pulled in through iron gates to a small parking lot next to a broken-down building. Patrick couldn’t imagine what it must look like in the dead of night, which is when Anthony would have reached it. It didn’t make sense that this was where a seventeen-year-old boy would choose to meet a friend.

  “Have you ever met this guy before?” Patrick slid the RAV4 into a spot near the front. He didn’t want to leave his car in the lot, but he wanted to see what kind of place it was.

  “No. We met over Xbox.”

  “What were you going to do when you got here?”

  “I… I thought I was coming to his house. He invited me to stay the summer. I don’t know what’s happening.” Fear warred with hostility in Anthony’s voice, like a child trying to be a grown-up but not quite finding the right tenor.

  “Okay, well, let’s go see what this place is. Maybe he works here or something. Do you have a picture of him?”

  Anthony unzipped a small pocket on the front of the backpack and removed a folded piece of paper. He opened it slowly, revealing an inkjet photo of a teenage boy. Patrick took the picture and studied it. The boy looked around Anthony’s age, with sandy-brown hair and a pretty face laced with fear and sadness. He appeared to be in a backyard somewhere surrounded by faded, low-resolution grass.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jay. James Marshall.”

  Patrick nearly said he’d bet the RAV4 it wasn’t, but he stayed quiet. Instead, he pulled the door handle and climbed out of the truck. Anthony followed, backpack swung over his shoulder.

  “Hey.” Patrick kept his voice low and soothing. “We don’t know what we’re going to find here. Why don’t you leave the backpack in the truck? If he’s here, we can come back out and get it.”

  Anthony hesitated. He fisted the shoulder strap and took a step back. Long, wary lines of anxiety crossed his forehead. His gaze darted from the fence between the lot and the highway to the gate.

  “Anthony. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m trying to help you. Something isn’t right here.”

  “Yeah, and I look like your brother. I know.”

  Patrick suppressed a sigh. “Let’s just go check it out. Then we’ll go back to your car and you can figure out what you want to do. We didn’t come all the way out here just to fight over this.”

  Anthony opened the door of the RAV4, threw his backpack onto the seat, and slammed the door a little too hard. Patrick closed his eyes in silent prayer for a moment before hitting the fob to lock the truck. Then he took the lead toward the gate and led Anthony to the front of the building.

  It was a bookstore.

  “Maybe Jay works here.” Anthony’s voice held a little more hope than Patrick would have mustered. He opened the door and let Anthony lead the way up the first flight of stairs. Glancing to his left, he saw a sign that said “no photography and no bags.” Well, at least he’d managed to convince Anthony to leave his backpack in the car. Patrick breathed in the heavy smell of musty books and old paper. It was nothing like the new-book smell at a retail store, more like the dusty stacks at school. He missed it.

  A beautiful younger black woman stood behind the counter talking to an older Middle Eastern guy in a COEXIST T-shirt made up of seemingly random symbols. As Patrick approached, he recognized a couple of them as images from Doctor Who. The woman smiled at them and held up a finger while she finished with her sci-fi fan.

  Books, toys, and comics littered the back of the counter around several old adding machines. Patrick leaned against the counter and turned toward the larger part of the room, where dozens of huge bookshelves made small pathways through the space, like library shelves but taller. The books in the front rows were old leather tomes under glass, and Patrick couldn’t imagine what they were. He wanted to go take a look but waited for the clerk behind the counter so they could find out about the kid.

  The Doctor Who fan wandered off, and the woman turned to Anthony.

  “Well, hello there, young man. How can I help you?” She smiled at him, the pale gold tank top she wore reflecting gold specks in her eyes.

  “Do you know this guy?” Anthony cut to the chase as he held up the image he’d kept close in his pocket. The woman pulled a heavy pair of glasses from the counter and put them on one-handed while holding the opened paper. She studied it for nearly a minute, almost as if she traced the contours of his face with her gaze. Her head shook as she handed it back.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve not seen him in here. At least, not that I remember.”

  “He doesn’t work here?”

  “No, he definitely doesn’t work here.”

  Anthony’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head for just a moment before thanking her.

  “Do you want to look around?” Patrick asked him.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” The words shook in his desperate fear. He looked so much like a boy then, not the tough, angry kid on the edge of manhood. Patrick put a hand on his shoulder, and for once, Anthony didn’t look as though he wanted to throw it off. The anguish in his expression hurt Patrick’s soul.

  “Let’s look around and see if he’s here or if anyone has seen him. Then we’ll pick up breakfast and go back to see about your car. After that, we’ll just take things one step at a time. Okay?”

  They checked each of the remaining three floors systematically. The subsequent floors looked the same as the one above. They ran across a few employees, each sitting on a footstool in the aisle reshelving books, each of them with a walkie-talkie, and each of them with no information on the boy in the picture.

  After the better part of an hour, Patrick put an arm around Anthony’s shoulders and guided him to the door.

  “I don’t understand,” Anthony whispered as they walked down the few steps between the first floor and the front door.

  “I don’t either, Anthony,” Patrick admitted. “Let’s just get some food and go back to the store.”

  The walk to the car seemed so much longer with Anthony dragging his feet and scraping the soles along the gravel drive. When they reached the truck, Patrick disengaged the locks and Anthony climbed in, pulling his backpack to his chest and wrapping thin arms around it. He didn’t try to engage in any kind of conversation but stared listlessly through the window at the highway passing below the truck.

  Patrick didn’t try to pull him from his thoughts until they reached a fast food place about ten minutes from the store. He pulled into the drive-thru behind three other cars and turned to Anthony.

  “What would you like? It’s on me this morning.”

  “I should pay for your breakfast to thank you for the wasted trip to Grandpa Bob’s Giant Creepy Bookstore.” Anthony pulled a battered wallet from his backpack.

  “Actually, it’s Creepy Bob’s Ancient Book Emporium,” Patrick replied. “And put that away. I have a feeling things may get worse before they get better. Keep your money, Anthony, you may need it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, what kind of heart-attack-inducing item would you like from the breakfast menu? We have a coronary on a muffin, bypass on a bagel, or I think we may even have a strokerritto with sausage and peppers.”

  Anthony choked back a snort. “Strokerritto?”

  “Yeah, I was trying too hard, wasn’t I?”

  “Kinda. It sounds like a porn flick.” Anthony raised an eyebrow at Patrick, who chortled in an uncomfortable “I’m not a perv, I swear” kind of way.

  “Fine. I’m having two coronary muffins. I think I’ll stay away from the strokerritto.” The car in front of them moved up, and Patrick followed. The sun beat down through the d
river’s-side window. He rolled down the glass barrier and soaked up its warmth. Even in early June, summer seemed to be in full swing, and Patrick couldn’t get enough.

  “Oh, I’m totally going with two strokerrittos, and a diabetes-inducing giant Coke, with hot sauce please.” Anthony smiled, and Patrick decided he’d much rather see that expression than the broken one the kid had been wearing since he’d found the car.

  “You want hot sauce in a Coke? You are a strange little thing, aren’t you?”

  “No, that’s not what I—” Anthony stopped as Patrick sat smirking at him. “Funny guy.”

  “Nope, not even a little.” Patrick laughed and moved up again until they were the next ones in line.

  “Thank you for doing this, Patrick.”

  “What? Feeding you junk food?”

  “When my car decided it didn’t want to go anywhere last night and I realized I had nowhere to go, I… I was so scared. I’m still scared, but thanks for making things seem not so awful for a while.”

  “You sure you don’t want to call your parents?”

  “I may have to, but no, I don’t want to.” The light and joy in Anthony’s eyes extinguished just as fast as it had come with their joking conversation. The anger returned, a rage barely contained in the boy’s quiet features. Patrick wanted the smile back because Bren had the same fucking look he now saw on Anthony’s younger face. He’d had it for two years now, and Patrick wondered if it had become permanent.

  The car in front of them moved before Patrick had a chance to say anything, so he rolled forward to the speaker and put in their orders, making sure to remember the hot sauce for Anthony. On impulse, he added a couple of apple pies. Hard to be unhappy in the presence of apple pie, right?

  They were silent for the ten minutes it took to get back to the store. Anthony didn’t take his food out of the bag; he didn’t even pop the straw from the paper. He simply sat and watched the little town of Ferndale, Michigan, pass outside the window until they turned into the parking lot. The sight of Anthony’s car elicited a disgusted snort, and Patrick wondered if it had more to do with the fact it hadn’t disappeared or that it couldn’t move.

  “Let’s take the food into the store and eat at the counter,” Patrick suggested after they climbed out of the truck. He wanted to forestall any arguments about Anthony sitting in the car until Sandy got there to check it out. Something deep in his gut didn’t want Anthony to be alone. Bren spent too much fucking time alone.