The Road Out of Hell

by Anthony Flacco

  But he always hated to see Grandpa George drive back to Los Angeles.

  The daily clean-and-feed routine was left to him, so he quickly came to understand that the harder he worked and the fewer breaks he took, the less Uncle Stewart bothered him. Sanford got by well enough by keeping busy and staying out of grabbing reach. It worked except when the sexual rages were upon Uncle Stewart. Then nothing could stop him. The ordinary rapes did not harm Sanford as much as the objects of rape that Uncle Stewart inflicted when specific punishment was the theme.

  They had barely managed to get the place up and working when the piano finally arrived. It turned out to be a big help. For several days, Uncle Stewart spent most of his time inside the house pretending to be playing in front of a big audience. Sanford listened with relief while the music tinkled through the air. It was an assurance that Uncle Stewart was busy and inside the house. He hoped it might mean that things were getting better around there, and they did for a few days. Then Uncle Stewart decided it was time for Sanford to write a letter home. It was a simple enough request, given everything else that Sanford had been through since leaving Canada. Just let the folks know that you’re all set up in California, going to school, attending Scout meetings, and even helping out good ol’ Uncle Stewart with a little of the ranch work when there was time.

  It was nothing that should have been worth fighting over. The issue just happened to come up at a moment when Sanford had to say no to something, anything at all, just to make sure that he was still there.

  “But this time it’s bad.” Sanford spoke in the faintest whisper. He exhaled the words like little water snakes, so slippery silent that Uncle Stewart could not have heard him even if he’d been sitting up there at the edge of the shallow pit and looking straight down at him. It was dark in the coop, barely enough light to see. His chains left him little room to move.

  Sanford’s ability to hush his own voice in the presence of dangerous power was not a new skill for him. It had been fairly well developed long before Uncle Stewart took him away. A freshly acquired ability, however, was his newfound sense of mental balance in the face of fear. He felt it working for him at that moment—that he had outgrown the little-boy tendency to collapse into terror whenever something dreadful loomed. He stood firm against his primal urge to panic. He pursued this new steadiness with the awkward determination of a newborn colt. And because of that new power, some small part of himself actually believed his own inner voice, assuring him one more time: It’s bad this time, but it’s not that bad. It could be a lot worse.

  He took stock of things again and found himself calmer now. After all, he was comfortable enough for the moment, and he was not in any pain, aside from the old sore places. The temperature of the cool night air was perfect after a long day of scrubbing contaminated cages, killing sick birds, burning the carcasses. He was just as well off right where he was as he would have been anywhere else. Maybe better. He sure as hell didn’t need to be inside that house. Let the famous musician play all he wanted. Even now, the music sailing through the air was his tenth or maybe his millionth repetition of “Song of Songs,” some sappy melody that Sanford had no choice but to memorize.

  True, the music was a soothing presence in the night air, but the effect had nothing to do with Uncle Stewart’s playing; it was that soothing guarantee that Uncle Stewart was safely inside the house. Thank God he doesn’t play the guitar, Sanford thought, and even made himself grin for an instant at the recognition that he was making a joke in spite of the circumstances. That’s all 1 need—Uncle Stewart strolling the property and playing his music like a street-corner beggar while he looks around for bright ideas. … So the piano was a good thing. All Sanford had to do was work so hard that there was nothing for Uncle Stewart to do, so that he never got any calluses on his hands and he could play as good as the birdies sing.

  He felt a quick burst of pride over how fast he was learning to find his way around the worst of his uncle. It felt fine. Learning at school had always been such an ordeal for him that he had never savored the power of using his brain. Now he was a newly inspired scholar of human nature. His studies focused entirely upon the sole purpose of staying alive long enough to discover whether or not there could ever be a way out of this.

  He already had an icy feeling deep in his bones that there was absolutely no relief waiting in the future, but hope was somehow taking root in him anyway. After all, Sanford had discovered an abiding point of personal honor—“Turns out that I can do it.” He muttered the words, giving them a little actual voice this time. What the hell, he could be certain that Uncle Stewart was in the house; the piano couldn’t play itself. He probably could have spoken a lot louder without being overheard. “Turns out that I can do it,” he repeated. So he consciously swallowed his fear and instead used this opportunity to go back to school on Uncle Stewart. He started off by running a quick tally of the little bag of tricks that he had managed to assemble so far, for avoiding pain and minimizing attacks.

  Main thing for avoiding pain: give up on every idea of resistance. Don’t let dumb-ass pride goad you into saying anything against him. It won’t do you any good, and it’s guaranteed to start him off on a fit of some kind. Because here’s the thing, he reminded himself: maybe it’s true that there’s nobody around to stop him, but at least nobody else knows what goes on here. It was vaguely reassuring to Sanford to know that his humiliation was happening in secret.

  He sensed that in some strange way his willingness to do every single thing he was told to do made him important to Uncle Stewart. It was also important to Uncle Stewart to rub Sanford’s personal dignity into the ground. Sanford had arrived at the same conclusion that savvy hookers, abused wives, stupid girlfriends, and terrorized children have had to accept down through the ages: let them hurt you a little bit. They usually leave you alone after that.

  But today, tonight, for the first time, Sanford’s newly active brain power added two more tools to his survival kit. One was the fact that on the one hand, it made no difference how foolish he looked when he obeyed his uncle, because nobody else saw it. The other was that every time Uncle Stewart turned and walked away without going full-out crazy on him, that meant that Sanford had successfully given him something that he needed. He was old enough to realize that if you provide somebody with something they need, a measure of power over them falls to you. Once you have that, you can find the best ways to use it.

  He inhaled that small sense of power like a drowning man who has just broken the surface. It allowed him to draw one long, clear breath, all the way in, and then press it all the way back out of his lungs without shuddering at all. The effect of a single normal breath was like magic. There was a tangible sense of consolation. It felt like reassurance, whether or not he could think of a reason for it, and the faintest glow of optimism began to rise up in him.

  It consoled him well enough to ease his sense of isolation and at the same time to feed his stiffening muscles with warmth and strength. Sanford understood at some instinctive level that this learning process was his most immediate survival skill. Because if Uncle Stewart ever completely turned on him—not just with one of his passing violent fits or his sexual rages, but in some delusional state where he came to regard Sanford as a true enemy—he would inflict a very bad death on his new darling. Of this Sanford had no doubt.

  He could just make out the letter waiting there for him, the one that Uncle Stewart had left for him to sign—even though Sanford’s stubborn refusal to sign it had caused his current predicament. The fountain pen lay next to the page. He tried to remember why it had seemed so important to refuse to put his name on it after he had already written down everything, just the way that Uncle Stewart told him. But somehow the letter hadn’t really felt like the pack of lies it was—until it had come time for him to put this name at the bottom. He knew what he would put into a real letter if he could get one mailed and then safely get a response back into his hands. As for this on
e, he had to wonder how it could ever fool anybody back home.

  Unless they’re already inclined to be fooled, eh? The little voice in his head chimed in with that one before he could block it out. But when he considered the emptiness of Winnie’s detached stare while she sent him away, he realized that his family might buy into the deception. Even Jessie? He couldn’t tell about her.

  He strained his eyes toward the unsigned letter. Although his cursive writing was jerky and hard to read, there was just enough moonlight to see by. He knew his own hand well enough to make it out:

  Dear Family—Everything Uncle Stewart said that he would do, he has done for me. I am healthy and working hard whenever I am not in school. My school teacher Mrs. Haberdasher says Uncle Stewart is doing a good job of teaching me everything I need to know about the farm and she should know because her whole family is from a long line of farmers in the area and they have made several fortunes in citrus crops and cows. My Scouting group had a campout right here on the ranch and Uncle Stewart provided the tents. I hope you are well. I am fine.

  Sanford sighed in resignation. There was no point in continuing to defy his uncle, who had only stopped beating him because he had gotten tired out from it—he would eventually get rested back up again. Sanford reached his hand forward as far as the chain would allow and picked up the pen. He could just lean far enough to write his name, if he strained against the chains until they nearly cut his arms. He wondered how Uncle Stewart had known how to measure that distance so accurately.

  Some last trace of rebellion swelled up in him and he could not resist the chance to employ the deepest sarcasm that he could muster when he finally signed, “Your Sanford.” As if he was anything of the kind. It felt good for a second or two.

  Once his name was filled in and the bogus letter completed, he pulled away from the tension of the chains and lay back down in the pit. His defiant façade quickly melted, and in its place fatigue overwhelmed him. He lay his head across one arm and fell asleep.

  By the time Sanford woke up again, the moon had shifted position by a couple of hours’ worth. He started to sit up, but soreness snagged him like a fishhook. In spite of the sensation, he also realized that his chains had been removed. He glanced around and saw that Uncle Stewart had retrieved the signed letter. It became clear that he had unlocked Sanford’s chains without bothering to wake him up and tell him he could go inside the house.

  But that left Sanford to wonder—was that what he was expected to do? Wake up and come stumbling on inside? Head into his little room and just finish out the night? Or had Uncle Stewart left him out there because he was still mad over Sanford’s bit of defiance and didn’t want him in the house? Sanford felt a flush of anger and frustration. By now he ought to know how to read this one. Hell, all he did all day long was to study Uncle Stewart and look for ways to avoid setting off his madness. The key was to please him, of course. But that could be exasperatingly difficult. Like now. What the hell was he supposed to do?

  He climbed to his feet, but a rush of dizziness immediately overwhelmed his aching carcass with a rush of tingling. He was quickly overcome by a beautiful floating sensation that became stronger and ever more pleasurable until something hit him hard on the side of his head and his shoulder. His body twitched a few times until he recovered enough to realize that he had fallen flat to the ground. This time he got up as slowly as he could, pausing twice to take a breath before moving on. He was finally able to stand his ground by planting his feet at shoulder width and holding both arms out to the sides.

  It was only at that moment that he realized that the door to the coop was standing wide open. That’s good, though, right? His long-sleeved shirt was hanging on the door, another invitation for him to leave. Maybe. Or, perhaps, a trap to lure him out? He could see why Uncle Stewart might deliberately do that, so that he could use it as an excuse to explode again. But then did he ever really need an excuse? Whether or not Sanford gave him a “reason,” nothing could stop him once he felt the need to explode.

  It occurred to him to wonder, what if he wasn’t supposed to leave at all?

  What if this is some kind of test?

  He asked himself why Uncle Stewart would test him, but then maybe the answer was that he might do it to see if it was safe to leave Sanford alone at the house. He had already done it several times, but what if he was getting nervous about it? No, that didn’t seem right either. Every time Uncle Stewart left the place he warned him not to leave, assuring him that he would punish him hard “and I will do it terribly,” whatever that meant.

  Sanford tried not to ask himself what else there was for Uncle Stewart to do, but failed to avoid the question. His survival instinct chucked it at him like a well-thrown spear. It spiked into the ground and stood quivering in front of him. He can do plenty. He can use everything he knows about how to dispose of a dead body, while the body is still living. That’s what.

  Sanford was under orders to never forget the Two Magic Words: “asset” and “liability.” Uncle Stewart had made him memorize them while he carefully explained that the only way for Sanford to retain his value around the place was for him to always, always be certain that whatever he was doing made him an asset. Not a liability. Every time Uncle Stewart decided that it was time for one of the new boys to leave, he always talked about how the boy was becoming a liability. All Uncle Stewart needed to do was to start looking at Sanford like he was someone who could not be trusted alone at the chicken ranch. Dread sent a wave of nausea through him that nearly dropped him to his knees. He stopped in his tracks and took several deep breaths until he steadied himself inside.

  It was then that the strange sensation hit him. Detachment. Like half of him was his mother. He noticed that his legs began to move beneath him, that they turned his back to the farmhouse and began to walk down the long drive toward the road. It was nothing that he would have dared to do on his own, but here his legs were off and walking as if by themselves. Shock went through him like shrieking birds. The urges to scream with laughter and to shit himself in mortal terror battled for his attention and cancelled one another out, leaving him numb to almost anything except the very interesting knowledge that his legs were continuing to walk down the drive, away from both the farmhouse and the chains in the henhouse pit. He felt pretty sure that he was expected to be present at one place or the other.

  I’ll just check to make sure that the gate is all closed up for the night. Uncle Stewart wouldn’t want the goats getting into the road again.

  He reached the gate, which he already knew to be closed and locked because that was what he had been doing when Uncle Stewart jumped him. Now he stopped with his back to the house, made a little point out of jiggling the lock. Just checking, Uncle Stewart. He pretended to cough, and dropped his head just enough to glance back toward the house. No lanterns burning. No silhouette at the window.

  He reached down and slipped the lock out of the chain, pulled the chain from the gate. Making sure the chain is fastened right, Uncle Stewart! A powerful shiver ran down his back. It felt like somebody poured a bucket of ice under his shirt. He opened the gate, just a few inches, not like a defiant bastard. Not like a worthless son of a bitch. But the gate kept on going all by itself. It opened until the space was just wide enough for his legs to turn his helpless torso sideways and slide his body through. Checking for the goats out here, Uncle Stewart! Thought 1 heard one!

  But that excuse evaporated the instant that he closed the gate behind himself, then reached down and picked up the chain, joined the gate to the fence, and reached around to click the lock closed. Was he beyond the point of return? Just needed to stretch my legs, Uncle Stewart! Didn’t want to bother you!

  Nah. That wouldn’t work, and he knew it. From this point on, there would be no purpose in trying to explain himself. He was off the grounds. At night. Without Uncle Stewart’s permission.

  Sanford heard a sound that was almost like the rapid flapping of large wing
s, flick, flick, flick, flick, flick, and vaguely noticed the landscape speeding by while the knowledge gradually came over him that the flicking sound came from the balls of his feet and that he was sprinting down the road faster than he had ever run in his life. His lower half was still his mother, obeying nobody’s orders but its own. Fleeing for its life while the rest of him went helplessly along for the ride.

  His skin suddenly felt like it was freezing despite his exertion. He ventured a glance back without breaking stride and saw that there was no lantern appearing anywhere around the house, no figure at the door, no outraged Stewart Northcott bellowing into the air. It should have been reassuring, but Sanford’s upper half still needed two mouths so that one could roar with laughter while the other screamed in mortal terror. His lower half refused to slow down.

  His feet left the hard-packed dirt roadway and flew across the undeveloped parcels of land. He ran without any greater goal than escaping the ranch, escaping Uncle Stewart, escaping the beatings and the chains and the pit. He leaped over a spiny yucca plant and landed on the other side with the sand churning behind him. He ran for a minute or two minutes or five minutes or ten minutes until he came to the river wash. He was traveling to the south and east of the ranch, moving away from Wineville, away from Los Angeles, away from Riverside, toward nothing but miles and miles of scrub land that was too dry to support anything but cactus and weeds. Killing land.