by Brian Hodge
He didn’t seem to notice, or care. He filed past my desk, and I had to call out to him three times before gaining his attention.
“Can I see you a moment?” I asked.
He seemed nervous. Reluctantly, he approached my desk.
I stared at him long and hard before saying anything, hoping he’d break before I decided to work it out of him. No dice; the kid was as stoic as a sentry.
Finally, I said, “How’s it goin’, Donny?”
“Oh, I’m good.”
“I tried calling your house last night. There was no answer. Were you at home?”
“Mom works nights. I went to the diner for supper.”
Donny’s mom is a strange bird. After meeting her at parent-teacher night I knew the kid must’ve gotten his brains from his father, who, as I was told from his math teacher, had upped and left the family when Donny was still in diapers. She was a fixture at the local mill who, like every other employee, performed her clerical duties in the semi-robotic way that was required of her. More than likely her income covered just enough to support the two of them, although I’d just recently heard the mill discontinued their medical plan, leaving most of the blue-collars scrambling to make ends meet.
My guess was that if things got worse for Donny, he’d be needing some medical attention soon.
“You don’t look too well, Donny. You feeling okay?” My goal was to make the kid feel uncomfortable. It was working. He started to fidget.
“I feel fine.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” I placed his graded exam on the desk, a big “F” circled at the top.
He licked his lips as he eyed it, then looked down and said, “Can I go now? I’m not feeling well. I have a stomach ache.”
“Donny, listen up. I want you to tell me what you were doing in the woods yesterday.”
The kid’s face went bloodless. His bottom lip started to quiver.
“And I want to know who you were with. That big guy, with the red hair.”
He closed his eyes. Stayed silent for a long time. Then, he began to speak.
When I asked Donny whether his mother knew about this, he shook his head no. Clearly he was too scared to tell her. Although he begged me not to interfere, I felt it was my duty as his teacher to, at the very least, notify her. I’d tried calling a few times. Like the night before, I got an answering machine. I left no messages. Once Donny himself picked up the phone, but I hung up.
You see, Donny had himself a personal bully, so to speak. He didn’t elaborate much about him, other than to say that the guy had a bit of an intimate relationship with his mother. Put one and one together, and you come to the conclusion that Big Red was his mother’s boyfriend. When I tried to dig deeper, Donny fearfully beat around the bush. I couldn’t get any more out of him, like where the guy came from and what he did for a living. And when I asked why Big Red was picking on him, Donny just shook his head and said, “I did something I shouldn’t have done.”
After admitting that, he ran from the classroom, despite my plea for him to return. Clearly the kid was in pain, and it seemed now wasn’t the time to force any more information out of him.
Sooner than later though, I would find out.
And then I’d have to do something about it.
The next day in class, Friday, Donny avoided my eyes altogether. He spoke little, and shuffled out before I even had a chance to confront him—something I deliberated for most of the day.
The weekend passed and my thoughts stayed with Donny. What could he have done to anger this man so much? Something so bad that he deserved such a beating? No. The way I saw it, this was a clear-cut case of child abuse. Not your simple schoolyard clash. I realized now that I should have notified Child Protective Services, but I felt the need to hold off right now. I wanted to find out more before taking any action.
I ended up spending the first three days of the following week trailing him home from school. He’d go inside his house, and that would be the last I’d see of him until the next day in class. On Wednesday I parked down the street from his house until ten at night, but there were no comings or goings at all. I was beginning to think that Donny lived alone.
On Thursday, a week after seeing him in the woods, I pulled him aside after class.
“Everything okay, Donny?”
He forced a thin smile. “Yeah, it’s fine. Jack’s been real nice. We patched things up.”
Jack. Didn’t mention his name before. “You sure?” Although the kid was composed, I was fairly certain he was lying.
Donny nodded, then left.
Minutes later, I followed him.
Today, he didn’t go home. He went to the football field where he sat in the bleachers and stared at the sky, looking as if he were waiting for someone to meet him there.
Jack.
The school emptied, and in thirty minutes only the custodians were left. Them, plus Donny and myself. At five, Donny slipped down from the bleachers and headed off into the woods.
I hid close to the same spot as last week, but a little further in so I could hear what they were saying. In minutes Big Red showed up. He wore the same clothes, except now his beard was a lot fuller, and scruffier. He stopped in the clearing and watched as Donny gingerly approached. My student looked extremely nervous, little fingers fumbling for his pockets.
I pressed my hands against the trunk of an oak, and listened to their exchange.
“Hey Jack,” Donny said.
“You ready, kid?”
Donny nodded, and then allowed himself a bit of a beating, a punch to the stomach, and two kicks to the thighs. Not enough to hurt him beyond the immediate throb it must’ve caused. Any visible injuries would be caused by the twigs or rocks he fell on.
Big Red leaned over him. Then, he said something very odd. “You just keep taking your licks, otherwise I’m gonna tell your mother about what you know.”
“Please don’t…she’ll…she’ll…”
Big Red flashed a wicked smile and walked back into the woods.
I raced to the parking lot, jumped in my car and circled around the school grounds to the road where the woods let out. Soon Big Red appeared. He exited the woods and paced down Thornton Street to an old white pickup parked at the corner. He got in and drove away.
I followed.
Twenty minutes later I was at a pool and darts tavern in Ridgefield, two towns over. Big Red had entered the small building ten minutes earlier. I waited another five minutes, then went inside the seedy establishment myself.
The place was dark. A bar ran the length of the right side, six or seven unkempt men drowning their sorrows in spirits. One guy was tracing a finger along the wet circle his glass left on the bar. Six small round tables on the left were filled with men and women, everyone smoking and engaging themselves in boisterous conversation.
Certainly there were no teachers here, that is, no one dressed in the kind of neat, casual attire I wore. I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Didn’t matter. I saw what I needed to see.
Big Red. He was huddled against a pool table. Holding a thin, black woman. Kissing her passionately.
Obviously, not Donny’s mother.
The bartender asked me if I needed anything, and I politely said no before leaving the bar.
I went straight to Donny’s house. I needed his undivided attention, and since I knew his mother was at work, I would get it. I parked down the street, then walked up and rang the doorbell. Donny came to the door.
His mouth dropped.
“Donny, is your mom home?” I had to double check.
He shook his head.
“Well, then I suggest you open the door and let me in.”
He shook his head again, this time less exuberantly.
“If you don’t, then I’m gonna kick your ass.”
That did the trick.
He told me everything. And it warranted my getting involved.
I waited until one AM, about the time Big Red came
home every night. He pulled up to the curb, one tire up on the grass. He lurched from his pick-up, clearly soaked with booze. That would make the going easier, I figured. I leapt from the car, got Big Red’s attention by waving my arms a bit and calling his name, then slipped around the side of the house into the backyard.
It was a smallish backyard that consisted primarily of a built-in pool that edged the entire fence along the rear. Apparently it hadn’t been cared for much, given the dark layer of algae riding the surface. The moon’s beams reflected from it like car wax sheen.
I hid next to the house, body pressed against the shingles alongside the back door. Big Red came rushing around the corner, at a lumbering speed just suitable enough for me to stick my leg out and trip him. He fell face-first against the concrete patio bordering the pool, grunted upon impact, then twisted on his back so I could see how efficiently the cement had shattered his two front teeth. Blood bubbled from his lips, beads of alcohol-laden sweat bursting from his brow.
I leaned over him, and even in his stupor I think he realized exactly what I was going to do to him. I grabbed him by the hair, and just like he did to Donny in the woods, I swung his head up and down.
It struck hard against concrete.
He passed out by the fourth blow. After the tenth or twelfth blow, I let go.
I stood, winded. Then, just like he did to Donny, I nudged him with my foot. Like a seal off the edge of an Arctic rock, Jack slid into the pool. Face down.
It was like this: Donny’s mother was in love with Jack, but as you might imagine, Jack was using the older woman for her home and money. Thing was, Mrs.Wilson was blind to it all. Blinded by love. She was willing to take everything Jack dished out, the rant and raves, the drunken nights, so long as he told her he loved her and gave her the spurts of intimacy she so desperately wanted from him.
Last Fall, Donny had seen Jack in the woods being intimate with the black woman from the bar. He knew his mother would be devastated if she found out about it. He also knew Jack would beat her senseless if he told her about it—that was the odd threat Jack made to Donny. So he kept the secret to himself.
Additionally, Jack threatened to tell Donny’s mother everything himself, and then beat her. Donny allowed himself to be roughed up by Jack on a weekly basis—in the same place he saw Jack and the woman, no less—as long as Jack promised not to tell his mother. It was his own admirable but warped way of protecting her.
I’m a man that likes to take matters into his own hands. I like to think that I can make a difference if I try. In more ways than one, I did make a difference in Donny Wilson’s life. I saved him—and his mother—from further physical and mental abuse. And I feel real good about it.
I can’t change the memories or the shock they must’ve felt upon finding Jack at the bottom of their pool. But I did change the “F” on Donny’s exam to an “A”, making damn sure the kid got promoted to eleventh grade next year.
It was the first time I saw him smile all year.
And I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
The Exploitations of George Frederick Leighton
Continually my thoughts revert back to George Leighton, and the enduring circumstances occurring at Capson’s Way. Despite my understanding of the events and the never-ending struggle that has evolved, it remains hard to fathom that such a likelihood could still exist. The world keeps turning, the cosmos press on, and the nature of all that is universally divine goes fully ignored as humans clean of soul mull their immaterial pessimisms and tribulations. Yet still, he remains walking the free earth, feeding his personal epidemic to those unfortunate enough to have called Capson’s Way home.
In my mind his image stands before me, immortalized in an amber casing beside those others who’ve fouled the innocence of mankind exploiting their vile lusts. Alongside George there’s Jim Jones, preserved amid photos of those he poisoned plus five bona fide Dixie cups he used to distribute his Kool-Aid mixture. Marshall Applewhite, the lord of Heaven’s Gate. He’s under preservation as well, video interviews of his followers running non-stop on a small screen erected just above his head inside a glass coffin, their unblinking gazes a testimony to his potent influence. Here’s Charlie Manson, I have to laugh at him; Helter Skelter was Disneyworld in plain comparison to George’s approach to Capson’s Way.
George’s image represents his rightful presence in the toils of my mind, his true person never having been found. Within his sheath lies one artifact, a single Polaroid photograph of a woman, the only testament to his actions, for it is believed that no other has ever been granted the fortune of freedom from his influence.
That woman is me.
Feet dragging on soiled tiles. Soft music emanating from a tinny speaker. A guard, strong armed, guiding the woman into a small room. Dim lights, a desk cluttered with mountains of paperwork. Pens. A stapler. A ruler. Other office-type objects. Acrid smoke rising from an ashtray, blue wisps disseminating a foot above, floating lazily across the stolid environment. Iron bars anchored in a lone window, slicing golden sunbeams.
She coughs, throat dry.
“Can I get you some water?” The voice, male, soft, reassuring. It is safe here. For now.
“Is it purified?”
“Yes.” The man smiles warmly. He moves from the window to a small cooler. Opens it. Removes a plastic bottle, pours the water into a paper cup then hands it to her. He smiles again, nods to the guard. The guard leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Please…take a seat,” the man says.
There is one chair facing the desk. She nestles into it, eying the stream of smoke rising from the ashtray. “May I smoke?”
The man nods.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
He removes a soft pack from his shirt pocket, hands her one. Menthol. She hates menthol. He lights it for her. She draws on it, filling her lungs with warm smoke. Exhales. Better than nothing, she thinks.
The man sits in the chair behind the desk. It squeaks as he rolls forward. “Why don’t we get started, detective. It is all right if I call you detective?”
The woman nods. “Yes. I’d like that.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“We’ve been through this before doctor, no?”
He doesn’t answer. Moments of silence. Finally, she feels compelled to speak. “This case has created great problems for me. I know what the source of the problems are. I just can’t get rid of them.”
“George Leighton. George Frederick Leighton.”
She nods.
“Tell me about him.”
“Same old song and dance. Different hour.”
“Please, detective…”
She sips some water, leans back. The chair squeaks like his. Someone needs to oil them. “They call him Shitman. Human recycling bin. Been eating his own feces and drinking his own urine for years. Ever since he was a child. At least that’s what the townsfolk say. Can go months without food, just keeps eating and drinking the same old waste. Garbage in, garbage out.”
“That’s a new one.”
She nods, drags on the cigarette. “Make sense?”
The doctor nods. “The story…it might be a local legend, no?”
She shakes her head. “No. Shitman was royally fucked from the get-go. Parents, Luke and Mary Leighton. Brother and sister. Whole town knew about it but no one ever said anything or did anything. Just let the three of them live out their primitive lives way up in the mountains of Silver Hills.”
“Not such a terrible thing.”
“No, suppose not. They never really bothered anyone. Never came into town, really. But when all those people started disappearing we figured it’d be smart to have them checked out.”
“Why the Leighton’s?”
“Had no other leads.”
The doctor’s eyes, pinpoints. Strong. Alluring. Agreeing. He nods for her to continue.
“Some men went into the mountains to look for them. Those that came ba
ck found nothing.”
“The others?”
“Gone. Vanished. Like those missing from town. We brought in more people. Search parties, the Marshall, even the FBI. Found absolutely nothing. Damn strange, you know? And then the townsfolk, once they found out we were after the Leightons, well, they just went cold on us. Acted as if they despised us. Made no sense. We were there trying to help and they’re walking around giving us dirty looks and yelling at us to go home as if they could care less about finding their missing neighbors.”
“Were they afraid of the Shitman?”
She leans forward, snuffs out her cigarette in the doctor’s ashtray. Blue smoke, ashes. “You would think so, right? But that wasn’t the case. They were actually protecting him.”
“How?”
“We obtained warrants, conducted a search of every establishment and home in town. Three FBI men found him safeguarded in the basement of the high school, chained and padlocked in. His pants were around his ankles. Face covered in feces. Smelled like death in there. And get this—no one admitted or denied knowing that he was there. They all played deaf and dumb on us, walking around all glassy-eyed like a bunch of God-damned zombies! Shit, you couldn’t not know, really, with the horrible stench of him. I damn near choked on it walking the halls.”
“So that’s when they brought him here to Wheeler State.”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “I had the local jurisdiction so I got to talk to him first. As long as I acted quickly.”
The doctor removes another cigarette, lights it. He doesn’t offer her one. She doesn’t care. “So then you met with Leighton?”
“Next day. Right down the hall.”
“In maximum security.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t afraid, though. At first. He was shackled to the chair. Ankles and wrists cuffed and chained…”
“Hello.”
The room was hot and odorous, oppressive. George Leighton sat glaring up at me, eyes blood red, thick with gummy tears. He was trembling, chin slathered with saliva and phlegm. Red sores riddled the corners of his mouth, leaking foul yellow fluids, a fully despicable sight. It made me want to throw up; it took great pains not to.