by Weston Ochse
One more time he heaved, the agonizing pain blinding him as he again deflated, then finally jerked free. He fell to his side, breathing heavily. The exertion had taken everything out of him. His neck was slick with blood that now ran down his chest and back, but the wounds were only superficial.
His daughter...
Kanga propped himself up and looked around the room. She definitely wasn’t on the bed. Nothing was underneath except the beetle. His heart sank. Had he imagined it?
“Daddy, I miss you,” he heard, as clearly as if she were inches from his ear.
“Laurie? Where are you honey?”
“I’m here, Daddy. I hurt so much. Can you make the hurting stop?”
“Where are you? I can’t see you?” He stood shakily. Once again he looked around the room, but there wasn’t anything to hide behind. Other than the bed, the beetle, and the hole, the room was bare.
Damn it all! Was someone fucking with him? It had definitely been Laurie’s voice, so where was it coming from? He felt around the wall, searching for a hidden speaker.
Maybe she was being held against her will in a nearby room? He leapt atop the bed and pressed his ear against the wall.
“Daddy, please help me.”
The sound came inches from his face. He scooted to the spot where he was sure the voice had originated, but there was nothing except an amorphous brown water stain.
“I’m here, honey. I’m here. But Daddy can’t find you, are you being held against your will?”
“I can’t leave, Daddy. I’m stuck here.”
The voice had definitely come from that spot. He pressed his cheek against it and began knocking on the wall. “Are you on the other side? Can you hear me knocking? Knock if you can hear me.”
He didn’t get any response, which made him more frantic. He began to knock and tap with both hands. There was definitely a hollow space where the spot was. She couldn’t be in the wall, could she?
The thought sent a spear of rage through him. The very idea that not only had they fooled him into believing she was dead, but that they’d held her against her will by walling her up inside this old building outraged him.
He hammered at the wall with his fists, but it was too solid. He turned, searching for something to use as a tool. The bed! He jumped from it and threw the mattress off. First he tried to pry loose some springs, and when that didn’t work, he tried the bed legs.
“Hold on, honey, I’ll be right there. I just got to get this damn thing off.” He wrenched at the metal, but the legs had been welded to the frame. Summoning all the power he had, Kanga heaved and strained until the blood vessels on his skull bulged.
“But Daddy, you can’t come here.”
“Hold on,” he grunted.
“Daddy, you can’t come where I’m at. I’m dead.”
His strength drained out of him and he sagged against the bed, letting his weight carry him to the floor. He stared at the water spot, tears burning his eyes.
“Aren’t you in the wall?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Aren’t you on the other side in another room?”
“No, Daddy.”
He sobbed as his heart filled his throat. “Is my baby dead?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Then where are you?”
“There’s light, but I can’t get to it because it’s too high. I feel too heavy, Daddy. Why am I so heavy?”
“I don’t know, honey. Daddy doesn’t know.”
“Oh. And Daddy?”
He pulled himself to his feet and pressed his cheek against the spot where his daughter seemed to be. He poured a thousand years of love into his embrace. “Yes?”
“Don’t listen to that nasty old Jap,” she said, her voice getting deeper and deeper until it was unrecognizable. “He’s a lying fucker and can’t be trusted.”
He gaped at the spot. “What’d you say?”
“I said don’t listen to that slant-eyed gook,” a mean static-laced voice said.
“Who is this?” he demanded. “Laurie, is that you? Where’d you go?”
“Laurie doesn’t live here anymore,” the voice snapped. “That bitch is worm dirt!”
“What the fu—” Kanga stepped back and heard a crunch beneath his feet. He’d stepped on the beetle, plastering it to the floor, its green and white insides oozing from beneath the carapace.
The world dissolved and he found himself lying on his back, a warden shaking him roughly by the shoulders. “Time to get up, old man. You’ve done what you came here to do.”
Chapter 23
There’d been a Kanga sighting at the halfway house.
Bobby had gone to the cove to clean up and check on his stuff, and had run into Mark Nunez who swore that he’d seen Kanga milling around with the others last night when he’d locked up his studio. Bobby felt like banging his head against a palm tree. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course Kanga would be trying to find a way to reconnect to his daughter. It seemed like yesterday when Laurie had first told Bobby of the place as Ratman Caruthers rolled by the Lighthouse Deli on his 4-wheel-drive skateboard.
Bobby had stopped for a coffee and a breakfast burrito from the market, and now sat on the bench across from the halfway house, watching the usual complement of freaky people—three crazy old sisters, a one-armed man, a pregnant girl and some others, but no Kanga. Bobby decided to wait. He was still zapped from last night. Although he’d been unconscious for several hours, that wasn’t the same as sleep. If anything, he usually woke more tired from one of his episodes.
A nagging feeling began to scrape the front of his skull. He knew what it was and tried to ignore it. But the more he stayed and waited for Kanga to make an appearance, the more insistent the feeling became. What was a thought became a physical itch. He longed to scratch it but knew that if he did, he’d give impetus to the thought and allow it to grow fully formed. Best he could was ignore it.
Then a vision of Laurie’s smile broke through, her full red lips curving upwards as she laughed at Bobby’s innocent ignorance of all things pop culture.
Bobby closed his eyes and fought the feeling, pushing the thought away with memories of bad times, letting the evil of what boys did to him in the home override all that was good, all that was Laurie. He didn’t know if he could take thinking about her. Loss and an utter lack of hope had been such a part of his life that when he’d given in to the possibilities of love, he’d let his guard down. He was vulnerable now, something he hadn’t been for a long time.
Sister Agnes had taught him how to beat it. Elvis Paper Dog had been the solution—just one of those special things she’d created to help him get through life, help him forget that he was one of the lost children.
In the end, Elvis Paper Dog had been his only friend until Jimmy Hixon had arrived and they’d bandied superheroes for a while before he, too, left. Bobby had chosen the dog from the rogue’s gallery of pictures taped to the wall that Sister Agnes kept just for kids like him. She called that wall the pound, and if a young man was willing to spend the time to take care of his paper dog, she was willing to let him have one.
Elvis Paper Dog was safe. Better than a real pet, he loved Bobby unconditionally. Never once did he cower beneath a firm hand. Never once did he run away. Never once did he go play with someone else. Elvis Paper Dog was the perfect pet for a child who lacked the aptitude to cope with rejection.
Although he’d lost the picture in the bone yards of Kansas City, the dog was forever his, imprinted on his soul as no real pet could ever be. A white Great Dane with black spots along the nose and sides, Bobby had chosen the creature because it had reminded him of the white sequined jumpsuit and cape Elvis wore on the ’72 Hawaii tour. The dog stood broadside in the picture, its wide smile made prominent by a single black circle around the left eye. And although Bobby had never seen it move, Elvis Paper Dog had spent long afternoons running, leaping at butterflies, and sunning itself in the fields of Bobby’s mind. Sometimes it woul
d cuddle against him. Other times, when he’d needed to be distracted, Elvis Paper Dog would run and leap into the air, performing feats no real dog ever could until Bobby laughed out loud.
Laurie’s green eye winked from the shadows.
Bobby sighed, expelling ennui in a long, slow blow. He’d once argued the merits of Elvis Paper Dog with one of the newer boys who’d shown up cocksure and ready to be adopted. His name had been Brent and he didn’t have the problems Bobby had. He was tall with blond hair, freckles in all the right places, and handsome the way one kid could be more handsome than all the others. Bobby had overheard Sister Agnes telling one of the other sisters how sure she was that Brent was going to be adopted. Bobby, who owned an unenviable tenure within the home, couldn’t help but feel jealous.
“I’m going to a home with a German Shepherd,” Brent had proclaimed proudly one afternoon when Bobby and a fellow comic-lover named Lewis were lying in the warm Tennessee sun with their comics, arguing the effect of the color yellow on Green Lantern and Superman. When the boys didn’t answer, Brent added, “She’s a guard dog and was trained by the police.”
“That’s plain crazy.” Bobby made a point not to look at Brent, knowing the kid would ingratiate himself into the conversation if he let him. “Superman would whup Green Lantern’s ass in a second. It wouldn’t even be a contest.”
Lewis rolled his eyes. “Sure it would. You just don’t know enough about Green Lantern to figure it out.”
“Don’t I? I know all about Golden Age and Silver Age Green Lantern. I know all about the first Green Lantern. His name was Alan Scott and he made a ring that worked on everything except wood. Last time I checked, Superman ain’t made of wood, so—”
Against the full measure of the DC Universe, Brent persisted in his attempt to insinuate himself between warring superhero fans. “The dog’s name is Misty. She’s supposed to know how to fetch and play dead and everything.”
“But you’re missing something,” Lewis said, pausing a moment to give Brent the stink eye. “What about Silver Age Green Lantern? Those rings they used weren’t made by Green Lantern. They were made by the Green Lantern Corps who policed the universe and everyone knows that the Green Lantern Corps rings are powerless against anything yellow.”
“I’m not missing it at all. It was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard of.” Bobby shook his head, staring both at Brent and Lewis. “And I thought the wood thing was stupid. I mean kryptonite makes sense for Superman, because it’s a part of his home where he isn’t super, but the color yellow? Why not orange or purple or pink, for God’s sake? I always thought that a weakness to the color yellow was one of the stupidest weaknesses in all of superheroedom.”
“It is called Green Lantern, not Yellow Lantern. Anyway, what’s wrong with a color being someone’s weakness?”
Bobby crossed his arms. “Nothing, if you’re stupid.”
“They said I could go to the park with her every day,” Brent said as if there wasn’t another conversation going on. He sat next to Lewis, picked up a comic, and began thumbing through it.
Lewis snatched the comic out of the bigger boy’s hand and returned it reverently to his pile. “You’re just mad because you know in your heart that Superman would lose in a fight.”
“No, I’m not. You’re just jealous like everyone else. Superman is the mack-daddy of all superheroes. Just face it. He isn’t going to lose against the likes of Green Lantern.”
“Do you think so? I bet you didn’t know that the Green Lantern rings are made of Kryptonite. Superman would try and get close and fall down on his knees like a baby.”
“Who says the rings are made from kryptonite? Name the issue,” Bobby demanded.
Brent, who’d had a hurt look since Lewis had taken the comic book, glanced up as his face brightened. “I wonder if he can catch a Frisbee. I’ve always wanted a dog that could catch a Frisbee.”
“Of course they’re made from kryptonite.” Lewis was clearly exasperated by Bobby’s persistence and Brent’s inane interruptions. This was a serious conversation. “Why else would DC make both the Green Lantern’s ring and kryptonite green? They’re the same thing, duh!”
“Aha!” Bobby cried, holding up his finger. “But what if Superman painted himself yellow? Green Lantern would then be powerless against him, wouldn’t he?”
Lewis stared back at Bobby, dumbfounded by the question. He’d clearly never even considered the possibility.
Bobby crossed his arms and smiled smugly. He turned to Brent. “Wouldn’t he?”
Brent nodded automatically. “I wonder if she can sniff out bombs? That would be the coolest, I think. A bomb-sniffing, Frisbee-catching, German Shepherd.”
After great deliberation, Lewis finally shook his head. “No. That won’t work. It has to be real yellow. Paint don’t count.”
“Paint is as real as anything. You paint a house white, then it’s a white house. You paint a car yellow, then it’s a yellow car. Yellow is the color the rings can’t work against.” Bobby gave Lewis a look like he needed to be admitted to a funny farm. “It don’t matter if it’s crayon or paint or solid to the core yellow. The ring won’t work.”
“What are you two talking about?” Brent finally asked. “I thought we were talking about my dog.”
Both Bobby and Lewis looked at Brent, then each other. Lewis finally capitulated, his lopsided smile as good as any white flag. “Maybe that would work. At best it would be a stalemate, though.”
“Could you see it?” Bobby laughed. “A yellow Superman? Now that’s retarded.”
“Mega-retarded.”
“It’s not nice to say that word,” Brent whined.
“Jesus, Brent! Why the hell are you bugging us?”
“That’s not nice either.”
“Can’t you just leave us alone?” Lewis glowered. “We’re talking about big boy stuff.”
“No you’re not.” Brent leapt to his feet and put his hands on his hips. “You’re talking about stupid comic books and all I wanted to do was talk about my new dog.”
“Who cares about your dog?”
“You’re jealous that you don’t have one.”
“I don’t, but Bobby does.”
“Does not.”
“Does too.”
“How come I never seen him?” Brent asked
“Because he’s a paper dog,” Bobby explained.
Brent scoffed. “That’s not real. Not like mine.”
“You ever seen your dog?” Bobby asked.
“No. But they told me all about him.”
Bobby tsked. “How real is a dog you’ve never even seen? At least I’ve seen my dog.”
“But he’s not real.”
“He is to me.” Bobby shrugged, pulled out his picture of Elvis Paper Dog and looked at it. “I talk to him. I play with him. Maybe I’ll go see him someday just like you’ll go see your dog.”
“How do you play with him when he isn’t even real?” And in the very asking of the question, both Lewis and Bobby realized that Brent would never appreciate the magic of a comic book, or have the ability to invent a three-dimensional possibility from a two-dimensional universe.
“You wouldn’t understand, Brent,” Bobby said, with great sadness in his voice.
“You’re not smart enough,” Lewis added.
“I may not be smart enough,” Brent said on the edge of tears. “And I may not know about comic books, but at least I’m getting a mommy and daddy. And not some stupid paper ones either, but some real live ones who are going to love me and give me a real live dog.” He stomped away.
“With all the real live dog shit that comes with it,” Lewis yelled at Brent’s departing back.
Bobby remembered feeling like they’d won the argument about the dogs, but he also remembered that he and Lewis had sat in silence for the rest of the afternoon, allowing themselves to get lost in the world of Hal Jordan and Green Lantern power, trying to forget that Brent had won the parent lottery and
they were stuck with their comic books.
Two months later Brent returned with a broken arm and a broken spirit. His great parents had turned out to be the type who insisted that things be kept in their exact place. Brent, being a kid, had tried as best he could, but he was just a kid. They beat him and kept him in his room day after day, night after night, and only let him out for dinner. They treated the dog like their son, and their new son like their dog, saying, “If you’re going to act like a dirty animal then we’ll treat you like one.”
They made him eat from the dog bowl, chained to the back porch with a dog collar painfully cinched around his neck. Brent eventually grew to hate the dog. He grew to hate himself. Much later, when he turned eighteen, he threw himself off the Frisco Bridge into the Mississippi River. He never got over the fact that he couldn’t live up to the family dog.
When Bobby and Lewis found out what happened to Brent and why he’d returned to the home, they’d laughed like all boys would. But as time passed they grew to understand their feelings, knowing that the only thing worse than not having a mother and father was having a mother and father who treated you like a dog. Not an Elvis Paper Dog, but a real dog that cowered and begged and peed when it was scared.
Bobby noticed Kanga standing out front. The man looked weathered like a ship too long at sea. His long gray hair was matted together in several places, proof that it had been slept on. Three days’ beard growth camouflaged his tan with the white of old age. He stooped as he began a circuit around the others, his head down, his eyes up and his lips moving, as if speaking with someone.
Bobby tossed his half-eaten burrito and now cold coffee into the trash and headed across the street. He paused only to let a Honda pass before he stepped on the curb before the halfway house.
The one-armed man and the pregnant woman paced back and forth like sentries at the gates of a palace. Bobby timed it perfectly and stepped between them. A pair of men dressed in gray shirts and pants and who were leaning against the side of the building’s front entrance noticed him approaching and headed in his direction. Bobby got to Kanga first.