The Acolytes of Crane Updated Edition

by Tew, J. D.

  ‘Your breath smells like a cow’s butt-hole,’ Travis said, deliberately not whispering enough.

  Everyone heard him, and after a slight pause, we all laughed. Now, let me tell you about what they were speaking of previously.

  See, they snuck a football-shaped phone into Jason’s room, and they used it to call the code nine-hundred numbers displayed on sports card packages. They also pranked a suburban cab company twenty times. The cab company’s number was (651) 555-2222. Really, what did they expect?

  The trip continued. After all these games of padiddle and slug-bug, I grew tired enough to fall asleep.

  I awoke as our journey neared the end, covered in sweat and greeted by Jason’s armpit stench. His hand was cupped against his underarm, ripping manufactured farts and wafting body odor in my direction. It was playful and funny.

  We drove through the town of Taylors Falls; there were many people hauling the necessary camping equipment. People had kayaks, canoes, fishing poles and tackle. Excitement hung in the air. The woods were thick, and the ground around the base of each tree was woven with ferns and other vegetation.

  I could smell the presence of a river. It smelled fresh and brisk rather than give off the odor of a port-a-potty. If you wanted that pungent smell, go visit the Mississippi River on one of its best days.

  We stopped to fuel up. I pressed my face against the window of my parents’ car to make a face at a neighboring vehicle that also had a kid pressing his face against a window.

  I contorted my face to look ugly, so I took it as a win. I left the trace of my oily skin from my nose and forehead onto the window. I then wiped them away quickly with the edge of my shirt, because my dad hated such nonsense.

  After leaving the station, we drove about a mile to the campsite, parked, and it was time to unpack. My mom and dad waved us off, preferring to set up tent without us kids horseplaying around.

  ‘Here are the ground rules, guys,’ my dad said, even as he looked up at the darkening sky; a storm seemed to be approaching. He always set guidelines, even though he rarely abided by any. ‘No cliff jumping. That crap is for the older kids and grown-ups. If I catch you guys doing anything out of the ordinary, which includes pyrotechnics, Jason—you will be in for hell. Do you guys understand me?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ we all said in harmony, with false motivation.

  We were instructed to walk east if we became lost, and to look for the fire. ‘Which would be difficult if it rains,’ I pointed out. My dad just shrugged.

  As soon as Bill cut us loose, we started to rush to the wood-line, eagerly grabbing our compasses and flashlights. My dad yelled for me to come back before I got very far. Checking to make sure that Jason and Travis were out of earshot, he whispered conspiratorially to me, ‘Good job teaching that boy a lesson today in class. He will not mess with you again.’ Bill patted me on my ass and told me to catch up to them. He hardly ever gave me praise for anything; and when he did, it was always for the wrong reason. Still, I’d take what I could get.

  It was a mad sprint, but eventually I met up with Jason and Travis.

  We took the worn paths along the edge of the cliffs. The weather took a turn for the worse, as drizzling rain fell and temperatures plunged. The sky was dark and sinister, as a storm approached.

  I had a coat on that my grandmother bought me from Big-Mart, back when it was actually a cool place to shop. On the coat, there was a label: Flyboy. I thought that was so cool.

  When we had finally arrived at the highest cliff, we found ourselves peering out to the gloomy river, a sheer fifty feet below. Perhaps it was the worsening weather, combined with the dizzying sight from the cliffs, but when we rested, the mood among us changed entirely.

  ‘You retard! What were you thinking? I can’t believe you kicked me in the nuts!’ Travis shouted, his eyes scrunched. ‘You’re lucky the Bricky was right behind you, otherwise it would have been your death wish!’

  ‘Whoa,’ I said, caught off guard. ‘What’s gotten into your beehive now?’

  Jason said, ‘Travis, you have been tough on him, though, picking on him and stuff.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Travis said, and shoved me. Jason jumped in.

  ‘You don’t need to push him, Travis!’ Jason said.

  I stood tall, realizing Jason had just stuck up for me.

  Trying to calm Travis down, I desperately tried to figure out what set him off. ‘Is this about your dad beating you? Because...’

  ‘What!’ Jason turned to Travis, stunned.

  Travis glowered with a dangerous look in his eyes. ‘No,’ he sneered, ‘it’s all about you.’ He grabbed my collar and read out loud the label on it. ‘Flyboy, it should say freak-boy.’

  Jason leaned over and whispered, ‘Don’t take that crap from anyone, Theodore.”

  Despite Jason’s gesture, I just lost my temper. I grabbed Travis’s shoulder, and as he swung out in defense, I received the point of his elbow cleanly on my nose. My nostrils were pouring blood, and once the blood hit my hands, my rage knew no limits. I charged Travis. I was fueled by the hatred of being belittled and battered for so long.

  All my peripheral vision went black, and at the end of the tunnel was my nemesis. In the thick of the frenzy, I felt Jason’s presence as his hands split the two of us, trying desperately to break up the fight.

  The storm delivered a thwack and boom of thunder. My necklace shone bright in the dark wild terror of the fight, and I feared they would see the amulet. The rain drenched our altercation in downpour. Drops of water dripped downward off the edge of my hood, creating a curtain of water that obstructed my sight. I took in water through my nostrils from my heavy breathing.

  Travis lost his step near the edge of the cliff, and in reaction, grabbed onto Jason for safety. When Jason also started to stumble toward the precipice, Travis reached desperately for the tree next to him, grabbing a branch to safety. In contrast, Jason had nothing to hold on to.

  Looking up from my burning amulet, I reached for Jason’s jacket. I had it in my hand for a second, but the downpour loosened my grip. Jason slipped from my grasp.

  Travis and I watched in horror, kneeling over the edge, as our best friend fell down the side of the cliff. Jason’s last act of his life—his blood-curdling scream—struck terror into our hearts, creating an indelible memory of sheer horror. The sound of a lifeless body smacked the water, and all that remained was the rain pattering the stone of the cliffs. Aided by a flash of lightning, Travis and I see Jason’s body as he floated lifeless with the river’s current.

  “Then, the rumble of the thunder came, and all was engulfed by blackness and eerie calm. Jason’s life was taken by the rocky sides of the cliff and the murky waters below it.”

  I glance around at the equally foreboding gloominess of my prison cell. While shedding a tear at Jason’s memory, I figure I cannot afford to waste a drop more, because I am at point of severe dehydration. Mustering my courage, I wipe away the tear. My body sinks slowly to the mat on the hard floor as I am overcome with exhaustion.

  Time goes by, as I drift in and out of consciousness.

  “Roll him over,” one of the guards says. “You forgot to restrain him, you idiot. Fire up the cannon and keep it locked on eight-six-seven-five’s signature. Do you have any idea who this is?”

  “He’s asleep, boss,” the rookie says.

  Between blinks, I see the veteran guard does not look like he wants to be here today. He says to his colleague, “I will put you to sleep, if you screw up again, rookie. Grab him up under the armpits there. I will slip the temporalysis over his head.” As the device is placed behind my head, its bands magically wrap around my skull, and its nodes press hard at my temples. I stir somewhat.

  “Hey, that temporalysis thing really works. He was as limp as a dead fish, now look at him! Who is he?”

  “He is Theodore Crane.”

  “No way! I should’ve known!”

  “It’s okay, rookie. It’s your first day. Come, I
will tell you a secret. He isn’t the toughest prisoner in here.”

  The rookie asks, “Really?”

  “We have the Ghost of Sephera here, as well,” the veteran guard says, and the rookie’s eyes light up. Strategic information about the prison is being blabbed away, because the two knuckleheads handling me believe I am still unconscious. The veteran guard sees me recover further, and he promptly shuts up, then says, “We will have the nurse check on him and then we’re out. Nurse! Get your ass in here.”

  The nurse rushes in. She pierces my skin painlessly and hooks up a saline feeder tube. After she injects something into the line, I suddenly become jittery. My bladder is near explosion; my willpower is nil, and thus I am left with only the humiliation of unloading.

  “Haha! He pissed himself,” the rookie says.

  “Guns at the ready, rookie,” the guard says.

  “Oops,” said the nurse, looking down at the ground next to me. She turned her head angrily at the turrets and shouted, “Look what you’ve done! You’ve scared me!”

  “Sorry, missus,” the guard apologizes. Apparently his hardened persona could soften at the sight of a pretty nurse.

  She kneels down into the ground, searching for an object. “Got it. I dropped a needle. Alright sirs, I am finished,” the nurse announces out loud. Before standing up, she leans in close next to my ear. Her lips are but a hair-width away, and she breathlessly whispers to me, “See you, Theo.” Aroused, I recognize her voice, but it would not be the first time my ears play a trick on me.

  The guard removes the temporalysis and I bounce up quickly to identify the woman, because few ever call me by that name. The rookie perceives my alertness as a show of strength and yells, “Keep your head down prisoner! Don’t move. The turret cannon is on you.”

  The veteran looks at the rookie and says, “Good job, kid.”

  I cower at the thought of the formidable weapon trained upon my head. I take off my clothes to let them dry, becoming stark naked in the chilly damp air. I am beyond embarrassment.

  I pick up the tablet and continue anything to keep my mind off the current situation. I cannot cry, because weeping will dehydrate me further. Picking up the tablet, I begin:

  “We went to Jason’s wake and then his funeral. I never saw such sadness before. The casket was two-thirds the size of my great grandfather Willard’s.”

  Travis glared at me from across the room where Jason lay. Even though I felt Jason’s death was an accident, Travis seemed as if he was holding me responsible.

  We left the funeral and while we drove along the road in my mom’s car, I stared out the window. My mom was in tears. I tried to console her, but she was saddened by the death of Jason deeply, as if he was her own son. She blamed herself, moaning that she should’ve never allowed us three to head toward the cliff. No one could convince her otherwise.

  In the car, I thought about the days of mourning before the funeral. I remembered wishing that Jason were delivered to heaven. I cried out to God from the salvation of my covers at night. I prayed that he could hear me and see my anguish.

  I didn’t know then if God was there. God according to the Bible was omniscient and omnipotent. When he didn’t respond to my complaint, I lashed out and cursed his storied existence.

  I found out in one of my encyclopedias that only twenty-five percent of people in America would see a bluebird once in their lifetime. It made me think what percentage might see an eagle, or a macaw, or God in their lives.

  We arrived at home, and I was tired. It was time to grab some much-needed sleep, as Jason’s death had replayed over and over in my mind while I attempted to sleep the last few nights. I lay down in my parents’ bed for a nap, because the apartment caretaker was shampooing our carpets, and he started in my room. In my hand, I gripped my amulet.

  The amulet was my caretaker, and my canary in the mines of danger. I went through a great deal of trouble to hide it from everyone. Always wearing a shirt outside in the scorching heat was sometimes annoying.

  The next few weeks I spent a lot of time lying around because my depression and fatigue were becoming worse. There was something wrong with me, and no one seemed to care, not even myself. I chose to deal with only the symptoms, not the cause, because the outcome of a trip to the doctor frightened me. It was fear-induced denial.

  The beatings were getting worse, and sometimes they were brought on by the slightest mistake: talking back to my mom, not making my bed, or even not brushing my teeth was enough to receive a beat-down.

  Although I was resting a lot, emotionally I was strained to the breaking point. Even with my necklace alerting me to imminent danger every time my father’s anger was channeled toward me, there was no avoiding his wrath. He had recently been fired for being late to work too many times. When he lost his job, his temper teetered toward further abuse, and the frequency increased.

  I was lying in my bed listening to the radio; a singer was belting out, ‘It’s a secret rendez-vous / They won’t discover / That it’s me and it’s you…’ Classic rock always felt good to the ears and soothed my everyday worries, much like our laundry machine would discharge the dirty water out with the suds. My dad had made a trip to the main floor’s laundry room to buy a cola, and my mom was boiling water for tea over the stove. The sound of the kettle whistling punctuated the relaxing music from time to time, but I blissfully ignored it.

  My inner peace was about to be brutally shattered. A door in the hallway slammed. Belligerent, heated accusations rang out, then I heard a long shrill scream that must have reverberated throughout the entire apartment complex.

  My amulet burned a fiery red color and scorched my chest. I took cover behind my two down feather pillows in an attempt to barricade my body from the situation.

  Startled, I now heard glass shattering in the kitchen. Then, another scream. Ominous footsteps, and banging on the walls of the hallways, now racing toward my bedroom and escalating within precious seconds. Terrified, I braced myself.

  Suddenly, my bedroom door burst open, and I recoiled instantly. In a blur, my mother’s face materialized in front of me. Her eyes, wide open with panic. On her cheek, a fat, ugly bruise. Totally degraded, hunted as prey, she stumbled like a wild animal, falling by my bed.

  Moments like that happen in a snap of a finger. The way I think about it now, I see my dad barging into my room in a whirl—as crisply recorded in my deepest consciousness in slow motion, never to fade away. In his hand, he held a weapon unfamiliar to his regular antics, a hot teapot.

  I cannot recall my dad in that moment because the sight of the teapot detained my attention. I remember screaming and burying my face afterwards in the comforter as my father slammed the steaming steel teapot into my mother’s thigh.

  If something of that heat contacts a body, it smears skin like a searing hot pan would to the adjacent side of a raw filet mignon.

  Really, the weapon was what separated that battle from all the rest.

  Victims of domestic abuse usually feel helpless to defend themselves, even as the bar is continually raised. Moreover, the assailant often begs for forgiveness, thus confusing an already wounded victim. This classic scenario replayed itself here. After my dad defaced the side of my mother’s leg, he started in with his manipulative trickery, and she, dazed, was simply incapable of formulating any thought of her own.

  ‘What have I done? Honey, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. All I care about is you. I am angry and this is how I react. I wish you would not make me this way,’ he said, busting out every cliché in the book, and infusing them all into one.

  He had a big book of convenient lies, and his lips seeped more sweet-sounding poison, but I had the antidote. Before another tired cliché-mish-mash broke from the lips of the tyrant, he was interrupted by a long drawn-out tone from our phone.

  It was the sound of a phone disconnected after I had completed my call to the Ferndale police station.

  ‘Who did you call? What did you say?’ they asked me
fearfully.

  I had called the one institution that I hoped would fight for me, the police. Based on the bruising, my mother’s injury, the testimony from my teachers at school, and the state of our thrashed apartment—the cops had a clear idea. Due to the shock that registered with my parents—even with their sorry history of cycles of abuse—they left me alone during the foreboding few minutes it took for the police to arrive. The prospect of jail does focus the mind wonderfully.

  The events that transpired unraveled all misconceptions of my family. I, Theodore Daniel Crane, would arrive at my grandparents’ house that day. My mother’s parents.

  Throughout the year, in court and in counseling, it was deemed that my parents were unsuitable. The social worker decided it was necessary for me to remain in my maternal grandparent’s custody until my parents could rehabilitate, and not just ‘talk the talk’ like a couple of failing addicts.

  They never did rehabilitate.

  My father did hard time in county jail, and that day at the Red Bricks was the last I would ever see of him.

  My mother slipped further into depression over my father’s incarceration. She moved to Florida, where she was born. My grandparents said she was happy, and that in turn, made me happy.

  “I found love in the arms of my grandparents, who were named Marvin and Laverne. Finally, I experienced triumph, despite the deeply repressed stigma of failure, which threatened to re-surface anytime if I were not careful.”

  4 theodore: metalons

  “Every year for the next couple of years I visited Taylors Falls to pay my respects to Jason. My grandparents and I camped in the woods east of the cliffs. They loved driving north and observing the change in leaf color. What the—”

  I hear the vault start to open, and I make a run for the far wall of the cell, accidentally ramming into it. I throw myself quickly into the static pose.

  “Prisoner, are you talking to yourself in here? Do I need to get the warden?”

  I shake my head and say, “I am talking into this tablet.” Looking down, I realize the tablet is absent from my hands.