Untouchable

by Scott O'Connor

  Brian rolled The Kid over, face first into the broken cement, a patch of dirt. The Kid couldn’t breathe, his nose and mouth pushed into the ground.

  “Say something,” Razz said.

  The Kid couldn’t breath. There was dirt in his mouth. He struggled, panicking. He couldn’t breathe, but Brian wouldn’t let him up. The Kid’s nose was mashed into the cement, felt like it was going to break.

  “Say something and we’ll let you go,” Brian said.

  He could say something. He could force out a sound, a noise, something close to a word. Maybe that was really all they wanted. Maybe they’d let him up and leave him alone, maybe they’d never attack him again, maybe the incidents would end, the meetings with Mr. Bromwell, maybe it would all be over if he said something, if he broke the Covenant.

  “Do it,” Brian said, pushing The Kid’s face harder into the ground. “Say something or I’ll kill you.”

  A sound, a noise, something close to a word, and maybe they’d let him up, let him go home. Who would know if he broke the Covenant? Who would hear in this stinking alleyway?

  “Make him say something,” Razz said. His voice was getting fainter, drifting further away. The Kid couldn’t see anything but black. “Make him say something or he’ll die in the dirt.”

  But The Kid thought of his mom, alone out there somewhere. He thought of breaking the Covenant and the awfulness of knowing that his mom would never come back, that he’d never hear her open the front door of the house. He felt how hopeless that would be, how unbearably sad, and he thought about his dad, sitting in the pickup at night, waiting for her to come back, thought about having to tell his dad that he had broken the Covenant and she wasn’t coming home.

  “Do it,” Brian whispered into The Kid’s ear. A tribal chant. “Do it, do it, do it.”

  The Kid shut his mouth, biting a thick mouthful of dirt, blocking the last possible passage of air. He thought of his mom coming through the front door, his mom returning, that sound he had waited for, and he knew this was still possible, knew he had preserved this chance, so he shut his mouth, clenched his jaw. He heard a voice far off, back off and away, Razz or Brian, someone saying something, and then he felt a final push into the dirt and the darkness overtook him completely.

  The Kid and his dad were on the road. They were going from town to town in the pickup, days and days of road and then a town, days and days of road and then a town, moving slowly across the map of the country, west to east. In the towns they asked questions of people on the streets, people working in stores, asked if anyone had seen The Kid’s mom, if she’d passed this way. They had a picture that they showed around, a snapshot from a couple of years back of The Kid’s mom sitting at the kitchen table, eyes closed, chest inflated, just about to blow out the candles on her birthday cake. The Kid was standing beside her, hands clasped over his heart, smiling, watching his mom do something he thought only kids were supposed to do. His dad wasn’t in the picture because his dad was taking the picture. They showed it around everywhere they went, asking people to look at the woman blowing out the candles. Take a good look. Are you sure you don’t recognize her? Take a good look. Don’t be so quick to say no.

  At the beginning of the trip, The Kid’s dad had admitted that he’d lied to The Kid, that he’d lied to everybody. That The Kid’s mom hadn’t fallen in her classroom, hadn’t been carried by one of her students. He told The Kid that he was sorry. The Kid listened to his dad’s explanation, and then he wrote, It’s OK, I understand. The Kid did understand. The Kid thought that if he had a kid and something like this had happened, he probably would have done the same thing.

  Every night, he and his dad parked on the outskirts of whatever town they’d been through and lay in the truck, under the stars, head to feet on the bench seat, and The Kid hosted his talk show, a series of special episodes, It’s That Kid Across America! His guests were people they’d met earlier in the day, people they’d asked for information about his mom, bus drivers, bank tellers, supermarket checkers. But on the show The Kid didn’t ask about his mom, he asked questions about his guests’ lives, where they’d grown up, what their interests were, if they had any special talents or hobbies. He wrote their answers in his notebook, what he imagined their answers would be.

  His dad watched the show, drank beers, smiled at the jokes. It was hard to sleep in the truck. The Kid didn’t know how his dad had done it for so long out in the driveway. Maybe he hadn’t, maybe he’d just laid out there awake, thinking, sad that he’d had to lie to everybody, had to lie to The Kid, waiting for The Kid’s mom to come home.

  They weren’t traveling in a straight line. A straight line would have been the fastest route between Los Angeles and wherever they were going, but The Kid’s dad didn’t want to leave any stone unturned, so they zig-zagged across the map, slowly, dipping down, dipping up, but always moving further away from home. It got colder as they drove. The days got shorter. At night, they began to roll up the pickup’s windows when they slept. When they woke in the morning, after dozing for an hour or two, they found frost on the windshield, little crystallized paw prints on the hood of the truck.

  In a town somewhere deep in the mountains, they stopped so his dad could get a cup of coffee at a gas station. The Kid stood outside, breathed hard on the gas station window, wrote his name in the foggy breath with a gloved finger. His real name, Whitley Darby. It seemed strange to see it, like a secret someone had just told. He breathed along the window some more and drew the angel from the burned house, drew her wings and dress and cowboy boots. He tried to draw the missing hand, but he still couldn’t get it right. His dad came out of the gas station, blowing on his cup of coffee. The Kid kept drawing. He needed to finish the angel because the angel was a signal. He knew that now. When he finished the angel, she would fly up through the hole in the burned house’s roof and find The Kid’s mom out in the country somewhere, tell her it was okay to come home. His dad started the pickup, tapped the horn, ready to leave. The Kid couldn’t get the drawing right, finally pulled himself away from the window, the unfinished hand.

  That night, head to toe in the pickup in a grocery store parking lot, The Kid explained the Covenant to his dad. He filled two pages in his notebook. He wrote fast, surprised at how much he wanted to tell, how relieved he felt writing it all down. His dad read the explanation. The Kid wasn’t sure how his dad felt about it. If he was mad or sad or what. His dad had The Kid’s socked foot in his hand, and he squeezed it while he reread the story. The Kid didn’t know if he should keep to the Covenant or not, but he decided that he would do whatever his dad said, whatever his dad thought was right. His dad usually knew what was right, even if sometimes it meant he had to lie.

  Finally, his dad let out a long breath and said that The Kid should keep to the Covenant. He said that he knew what The Kid was doing was hard, but he had to be strong, he had to stick to his word. He said The Kid was their only hope.

  The Kid was disappointed and relieved to hear this all at the same time. He’d thought that maybe the whole thing could be over, maybe they could just go home and try to forget about everything that had happened, but he was relieved because he wasn’t sure he remembered how to talk, he was scared to talk, and he was scared to break the Covenant. He didn’t want to ruin their only hope. He didn’t want to give up on finding his mom. He’d gone this far, and he couldn’t turn back now.

  He felt a dull pain in his chest, a hurting pressure. This was normal. This happened sometimes. Sometimes he missed his mom so much that he had trouble breathing. Sometimes he missed her so much that his chest hurt.

  The Kid woke in the alleyway. It was darker, later, getting on into evening. He pushed himself up to his knees. His nose was sore, his chest was sore. There was dirt and grass in his mouth. He couldn’t remember what had happened, and then he remembered. Brian and Razz had ambushed him, beaten him up. They were gone now, they’d left him to die in the dirt.

  She was there, of course, walking do
wn the alley, fast, face concerned, glasses slipping down her nose. She’d come looking for him when he hadn’t come home on time. She’d checked all his routes, she’d known all his routes somehow and found him here. She was coming down the alleyway, concerned but relieved to have found him.

  “You had me scared, Whitley,” she said, a little anger mixed in with her relief, more than a little, but The Kid didn’t mind, that was okay, that was fine as long as she was back, as long as the awful dream was over. He wanted to hug her, throw his arms around her, he was so relieved she was here. But he didn’t, that would be silly. His mom didn’t know about his dream, the terrible thing he’d dreamed had happened.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, and then she got close enough to see his face, the dirt on his cheeks, in his mouth. She knelt on the ground next to him, put her hand to his face. “What happened?” she said, and he opened his mouth to tell her.

  The Kid woke in the alleyway. It was darker, later, getting on into evening. He made his way down to the end of the alley, out onto the sidewalk. He walked in the dusk, lighted store signs flickering on above him, streetlights switching on.

  The world was the same, everything was the same. The Covenant was still the Covenant. His mom was still gone. He’d been beaten up and knocked out and now he was awake. That was all, nothing else.

  The driveway was empty when he got home. Steve Rogers was sleeping on the steps of the front porch. When The Kid came into the yard, Steve stretched, got to his feet, and moved to the other end of the porch, like maybe he knew The Kid wouldn’t step over him if he was lying on the steps. The Kid climbed onto the porch, unlocked the security screen, the front door. He still had his backpack, his notebook. All was not lost. They were still meeting at midnight to go to the burned house. He would still show them the mural, he would still show them the angel. He went inside the empty house and started turning on lights.

  They’ve got loudspeakers set up by the command post, blaring messages from the survivalists’ families,” Bob said. “They’ve stepped up their efforts, now that they know there are kids inside. Sometimes on the overnight broadcast, the newscasters shut up for a few minutes and you can hear these mothers’ and fathers’ and little kids’ voices, pleading with the Realists to come out.”

  Bob had called and Darby met him at the fish fry. Darby found him in their usual booth, an untouched plate of fish sticks in front of him, a new pack of cigarettes on the table next to a six-pack in a brown paper bag. Only two cans were left when Darby arrived, one set in front of Bob, the other waiting for Darby.

  “That’s what they’re calling them on the news now,” Bob said. “The Realists.”

  There was a helicopter shot on the TV behind the counter, searchlights raking the roof of the compound, the surrounding scrub brush and dust.

  “What have I missed?” Bob said. “How many jobs?”

  “Just one.”

  Bob shook his head, sucked his teeth. This was unacceptable, this dereliction of duty. “What was it?”

  “Nothing much. The usual.”

  “What’s the usual?”

  Darby tried not to think of the unfinished room, the wooden rabbit. “An apartment in Chinatown,” he said. “Couple of rooms, couple of hours.”

  “Just you and Roistler?”

  Darby nodded.

  “You do the talking?”

  “There wasn’t much to say.”

  “To who?”

  Darby turned his beer can, waited for Bob to correct his mistake. They never discussed details of a job after the job was complete. They never asked these kinds of questions.

  “Who was there?” Bob said.

  “The father of the girl they found.”

  Bob took a breath, looked at his plate like he was imagining the scene. A father in a doorway. What the father would have said, what Bob would have said.

  “What did you say?”

  Darby opened his beer. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The woman at the cash register sprayed the top of the counter with a bottle of cleanser, wiped it down with a gray rag.

  “What did Molina tell you about the Inglewood job?” Bob said.

  “He said there wasn’t much to tell.”

  Bob looked at the TV, nodded like maybe this was correct. “It wasn’t much of a mess. Some fluid on the carpet in the closet, some spray on the walls. No different than any other job.” Bob picked at the batter of a fish stick with a split fingernail. “It was hot as an oven in that closet, though. I was sweating like a pig in the suit, and that made it harder than it should have been. The goggles and the mask. Everything wet, slippery.”

  Bob took a drink. The receipt for the beer and cigarettes was stuck to the bottom of his can.

  “How many of those have we done?” he said. “A hundred? A hundred closets?”

  Bob pulled a clean cigarette from the pack, tapped it on the table, turned it in his fingers. The golden stains on his fingers matched the stains in his mustache. Darby could smell him from across the table, stale beer and sweat and menthol.

  “I sprayed the walls, tore out the carpet,” Bob said. “This is maybe eight feet square of carpet, that’s the size of the closet. An overhead light bulb with a chain. She’d taken most of the clothes out to make room, laid them out across the bed.”

  The volume was up on the TV and the feds’ loudspeaker could be heard, recorded voices of the families pleading with those inside.

  “Before that job, I never thought about it,” Bob said. “You know what I mean. I never let myself think about it.”

  Come out, please, they said. Women’s voices in the night, men’s voices, children. Come out, please. Come home.

  “And then I did,” Bob said. “Just for a second, in that closet. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  A woman in a closet; a girl in her bedroom with a wooden rabbit in her hand. Darby had to make a conscious effort not to squeeze his beer can too tightly, to keep his fingers from pressing dents into the aluminum. He tried to focus on anything other than what Bob was saying, but the only other noises were the voices on TV.

  Please come out. Honey, please. We just want you to come home.

  “I can imagine the fear,” Bob said. “This woman in her closet tying this cord around her neck. To make that decision and go through with it. I can imagine it now. I can’t stop imagining it.”

  The woman behind the counter sprayed the tile walls, wiped them with the gray rag. The rushing in Darby’s ears was hard, insistent. He gripped the beer can. He needed something in his hands. The thought of the room in Chinatown pulled at his legs, at his arms, so he squeezed the beer can to stay rooted in his seat.

  “I know we don’t talk about this,” Bob said. “I know the rules. I made the rules. But I can’t stop thinking about it now.”

  Bob shifted his weight in the booth, took the last drink of his beer. He noticed the receipt stuck to the bottom of the can and pulled it loose. He read through the receipt, eyebrows raised, like this was an interesting thing he’d found, like this was an important thing.

  “I got into the car that night,” he said. “What you’re talking about. The job in Chinatown. The pager buzzed and I got dressed and got into the car. But I never made it onto the freeway. I drove around the block a few times, went back home.”

  Bob folded the receipt carefully, slid it into the pocket of his shirt. He looked at his hands, the cigarette in his fingers. Darby closed his eyes, held tight to his beer can. He felt the booth, the restaurant falling away. The rushing in his ears was almost unbearable, the relentless white roar.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be back, David,” he said. “The next time the pager buzzes I’ll get in my car, but I don’t know if I’ll be back.”

  The Kid washed the dirt and grass out of his mouth, dabbed his bloody lip with a wad of toilet paper. Looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. There was nothing noticeable from the attack in the alleyway. No bruises, no scars.

 
He borrowed two more facemasks and pairs of goggles from his dad’s toolbox. He packed his backpack with the supplies, the flashlight and extra batteries. His dad still wasn’t home. He sat on the edge of his bed and watched his clock go from 11:00 p.m. to 11:30 to 11:45.

  They were at the library bus stop when he arrived. Michelle sat large and impassive at one end of the bench. Matthew sat at the other, his hands and feet crossed in nervous knots. Michelle was blabbing about something, but Matthew wasn’t listening. He rocked back and forth on the bench, having second, third, fourth thoughts about this whole thing.

  The street was quiet. There was a low electric hum from the traffic light hanging above, a sharp click when it changed colors, but there weren’t any cars, wasn’t any traffic. The Kid stood in front of the bench. Michelle and Matthew looked at him, their faces shining red, then green in the traffic light glow. The Kid felt that he should announce something. His troops had gathered, improbably, in the middle of the night, by his orders. Something should be announced. He pulled out his notebook and pencil.

  I’m glad to see you all made it.

  This seemed less than inspiring. Michelle yawned. Matthew shivered a little in the chilly air.

  The Kid led them across Sunset, down the hill, past the school. He had to keep reassuring Matthew that it wasn’t much farther, that he wasn’t taking them all the way across the city. Matthew jumped at every noise, shining his flashlight anxiously, afraid of every shadow. Michelle shlumped along a few steps behind. She had her own overstuffed backpack strapped across her shoulders. The Kid didn’t know what was inside. He hadn’t asked them to bring anything but flashlights.