Shadows Burned In

by Chris Pourteau

  David made his way back to his bedroom, making sure to leave the door cocked open with a shoe. At least, with the door partly closed, he got partial privacy, but the air could still flow. He tumbled into bed and turned over on his back, watching the moonlight dance on the ceiling through his fan’s rotating blades. He had school tomorrow, the first day of a new month. A Thursday. “Thor’s Day,” whispered David as he thought of The Mighty Thor and the gods of Asgaard from the comic book. He never could quite understand why a hero as mighty as Thor looked like a cross-dressing clown with big muscles and wings on his head. And speaking of Marvel superheroes . . .

  He thought again over the whole escapade at Old Suzie’s house. He wondered why he’d let Theron talk him into it. He’d known that going into anyone’s house without permission—particularly her house—was wrong. Tricks were one thing. But they’d invaded her house, her home. He’d been terrified, maybe more of doing what he knew he shouldn’t than of her. And that was saying something. And when he’d seen her standing there in the kitchen door and felt his bladder empty, the flowing warmth had felt reassuring and terrifying at the same time. He knew he’d remember her face as long as he lived, that grunting grimace as she grabbed him to keep him from escaping. How dare Theron laugh at him! How dare he! He was never in any danger.

  He went right for the front door! And he called me a coward . . . Theron’s such a fucker.

  Theron didn’t know what real bravery was. Didn’t have a fucking clue. He didn’t see her mouth. He didn’t see the hair growing on her top lip. And maybe her husband hadn’t run off like everybody said. Maybe she’d taken a hatchet to him and chopped him up

  (all the better to eat him)

  and put him in her cauldron

  (with candy for flavoring)

  and boiled him up for supper one evening. And her mouth—exuding the smell of an old woman who’s got no reason to smell good anymore, who decides not to bother because she’s accustomed to her own smells and the grainy touch and dead-rodent taste in her own mouth. And Suzie was so big! She only had to sit on you to snuff out your life, push the air out of your lungs like they used to do to witches with stones. Sweet revenge that, no doubt, thought David. And it was only by the grace of God and poor Made-in-China tailoring that he was alive to remember it all now. No, they’d had no business going in there at all. He had Theron to thank for that too.

  Fucker.

  He turned over on his side and stared at the shoe-wide crack of light cast by his door. He could hear the soft swooping of his ceiling fan as it breezed his face with the cool, outside air.

  Sometimes on nights like this, when he felt relatively safe from his father’s intrusions, when the world seemed ready to sigh itself to sleep, his mother would come and sit on the bed beside him. She wasn’t warm, but then, on nights like this, cool was nice. Her mere presence reassured him in a way that nothing—no other time of day, no other place, certainly no other person—ever could. The first time she’d visited him, he’d been afraid. She hadn’t spoken that time, just sat beside him stroking his hair as he slept. It was like he’d watched the whole scene play out while hovering over his own bed.

  Soon he came to long for her visits and how protected he felt when she was with him. David would have quiet conversations with her and tell her about his day and what had happened to him, how things had gone; and she would smile and listen and look like she might be enjoying the sound of his voice for its own sake. But she didn’t come now, and he blamed the noisy television in the other room for disrupting the peace that seemed to draw her to him on soft nights.

  From the living room he could hear the echoes of the news announcers as they promised the first half of the weather after the next commercial break. Again his mind wandered back to his confrontation with Theron. He thought he’d felt sorry about picking a fight with Theron, then realized he didn’t feel sorry at all, not one damned bit. And he hadn’t picked a fight either. He’d just picked up the gauntlet Theron had thrown down. I’ll never back down from anyone else, ever, he fumed to himself. Never ever ever! He closed his eyes, and thoughts of Old Suzie played against the sparkly orange backdrop of his eyelids.

  “In this corner,” began the booming announcer, “in the workman’s boots and grass-stained overalls, weighing two hundred fifty pounds, Old Suzie the Witch!” An invisible crowd broke out in wild applause. The kids in the audience threw Halloween candy into the ring like rice after a wedding.

  “In this corner, in underwear and with beer in hand, weighing pretty much damned near the same, The Old Man!”

  The crowd went cricket silent as the image of his father raised his arms in the ring, though it sounded like someone farted approval from the back row.

  Now that would be a matchup, David thought, staring at the picture of the two of them in a ring together, pounding the tar out of each other, fighting over a beer or maybe whose show they’d watch. He was a long time getting to sleep.

  On this night, his mother never came.

  Chapter 13

  David went to school sleepy on Thursday. All in all, it was a very boring day. Theron wasn’t speaking to him, and he wasn’t speaking back. Theron had evidently said something to the other kids, because they were giving David a wide berth as well. That left focusing on schoolwork to pass the time and that, by definition, nearly bored him to tears. But at least it was math class, and he never got bored looking at Mrs. McKinley. So he passed Thursday by doodling, answering questions when he absolutely had to, and sitting on the low brick wall that fronted the playground. He watched the other kids play kickball while he ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. All in all, a very boring day.

  He walked home by himself. Theron took an alternate route, cutting across the track and football field of Hampshire High. Along the way, David decided again he hadn’t been too hard on Theron, not after the other boy had started making fun of him. There were some lines you just didn’t cross, and that was one of them. The thought was cold comfort as David walked with his hands in his pockets, staring at the sidewalk

  (step on a crack, break your mother’s back)

  and the fractured patterns between the breaks in the concrete. He wondered if they broke in some mystical pattern, some Ancient Alien Code that, if read just right, would reveal the secrets of life to a young boy.

  He walked around town for a long time, studiously avoiding Old Suzie’s street. As evening began to fall, he finally headed up his own driveway. Going home didn’t seem like such a bad thing for a change, not after school today.

  It looked like his dad was home early. There was his work truck, with the telephone equipment, extra line, splicers, circuit jumpers, and all the rest of his tools. It would be time to wash it again soon, now that November had arrived.

  Oh boy, what fun, thought David with fake enthusiasm.

  He walked through the garage, stopped to pet Queenie and give her water and food, then passed on into the house to get the evening’s check-in over with. His father was in the living room watching the evening news and drinking a beer.

  “Hi Dad,” he said, poking his head around the corner. A commentator’s deep and halting baritone spoke about the next election and how the president and Congress were squaring off over tax issues. His father liked to flip between news programs, trying to maximize his absorption of current events, saying the commercials were a waste of his time and by God, his time was worth more than whatever a damned commercial had to say. Whenever the Big Three networks had commercials simultaneously, he’d settle on one, usually NBC, and curse the screen for wasting his time, then crack himself up by making fun of the people in the commercials. Sometimes David thought he actually enjoyed the commercials more than the news, despite his grousing. “I’m home,” David said.

  “Hi son,” came the gravelly voice. Two beers down, David guestimated. “How was school?”

  “Fine,” lied the boy.

  “Good. Grades okay? Test tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. I
mean no, sir. Grades are good, I mean. No test tomorrow.”

  “That’s good,” his father said, muting the commercial as it came on. “Shouldn’t have tests on Friday. You ask me, the Bible’s all wrong. God rested on Friday. To get ready for the weekend.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Homework,” the boy said immediately. “Math. We’ve started fractions.”

  His father made a noise. “I always hated math. Adding, subtracting, and multiplying. Long division. Fractions, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you best get to it then.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said with relief, glad the interrogation was over. With luck, after a little dinner, he might not have to talk to his father at all again before tomorrow.

  “By the way,” his father said, “don’t answer the phone tonight without checking the caller ID.”

  David blinked. “Okay,” he said.

  “I’m thinking of taking a sick day tomorrow. If the company calls, I’m not here. I don’t want you to tell ’em that or nuthin, just don’t answer it if you don’t recognize the number. It’s safer just not to answer at all. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m feeling downright croopy, I am,” the old man said with a smile. His father made a practice of taking the odd Friday off. But he tried not to do it too often, lest they get wise to him, he said. “Maybe a little fishin’ll make me feel better,” he mused. He unmuted the TV. “Those tits ain’t real,” he said, gesturing at the screen, “but you gotta squeeze to know for sure.” He laughed at his own joke as David turned away, heading to his room.

  He flipped on the fan as he walked in and tossed his book bag on the floor next to the bed. The boy felt relieved to get it off his shoulder. He had a test in history on Monday—not tomorrow, so technically he hadn’t lied—and he’d brought some library books home today so he wouldn’t have so much to lug home tomorrow.

  He jumped belly first onto the bed and reveled in the secret knowledge that, had his father seen him, he would’ve gotten in trouble for it because “Beds cost money” and “When you get older and have to pay for it yourself, you’ll appreciate it more.” He reached over to the TV and flipped it on. Since it was coming up on six o’clock, nothing was on, save some lame sitcom reruns and the local news, which was even more lame. He flipped around from channel to channel, scanning Hitler’s secrets, the life of a three-legged dog, why the Edsel had flopped, his local forecast, how to weave baskets from old grocery bags, some lame cartoon with characters with angular faces and an irritating soundtrack, and about thirty other boring programs. That’s the word for the day all right, David decided. He finally settled on one of the lame sitcom reruns and turned his brain off while the lame laugh track patronized the lame jokes.

  Unchallenged, his mind wandered again to his falling out with Theron. David hated this about himself. He always wanted to make peace with people. He always wanted to smooth things over, even if it was they, not he, who needed to make amends. And so he started thinking about Theron and how someone had to make the first move and how it wouldn’t be Theron, because he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong

  (did you tell him)

  and that it was all David’s fault

  (or did you just goad him into swinging first)

  for spoiling their fun.

  But truth be told, David hadn’t told him why he was angry. And when Theron swung, David had his excuse to Hulk up. So who was at fault here? Theron had been a dick, sure, but David had known what he was doing. Even through his anger, through the raw hatred he’d felt for his friend at that moment, he’d known. And today in school, neither had spoken to the other because they both knew that Theron had been a dick and that David had gone out of his way to provoke him, and that Theron had let himself be provoked. Almost as if they both had been forced to perform the roles they had to play out, each with his part, to usher in the finale of a fistfight. He wondered who should call whom until the lame laugh track from the lame sitcom was in his head, laughing at him. David thought about taking a swing at the air that laughed at him, which only made it laugh harder.

  He lay there staring at the TV and thinking about Theron, with his eyes getting heavy, until a ringing woke him up. The show on TV was different now, but the canned laugh track was the same. A new episode of something was on, and it wasn’t the show he’d been watching, but the telephone had rung and a character was answering it—

  No, wait.

  riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

  It was his phone that was ringing with that old Ma Bell ringer his father preferred.

  Maybe it’s Theron.

  The thought came to him, cutting through the laughter in the room. Maybe Theron had bitten the bullet and decided to call. If so, David would tell him how sorry he was—after Theron apologized first, of course—and ask him what he wanted to do this weekend.

  The bed creaked as he rolled over and swung his legs around and reached for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi!” The exuberant voice seemed to reach out of the phone, then withdraw, like something revving up and then easing off, an engine of enthusiasm. “Can I speak to Mr. Jackson?” The question was chocked full of goodness, downright friendly.

  “Um . . .” David hesitated. He’d been sure it was Theron. He’d almost answered the phone with “Hey, turdhead,” but decided not to at the last moment. Now there was a man’s voice on the other end of the line. Men only called here for four reasons—to invite his father out for a beer; to call his father into work because a pole was down and somebody was pissed; to try to sell his father something; or to try to get his father to pay for something he’d already bought. David was desperately afraid it was Door Number Two this time. He hadn’t checked caller ID first. “He’s not feeling very well,” he finally eked out. “He feels real bad tonight.”

  “Oh, son, I’m sorry to hear that!” The voice sounded genuinely depressed at the news. “But I tell ya, I promise not to take up too much of his time.”

  He felt his father behind him before he heard him. He must’ve missed the warning of the A/C intake. Too sleepy, maybe, to notice it. David turned around slowly, with the phone pressed to his ear. His father stood in the doorway. David looked at him first out of the corner of his eye. The old man was just standing there, staring at him. Willing David to put down the phone, turn back time, not answer it at all.

  “Hello? Son, you there?”

  “Um—”

  “Who is it, boy?” his father hoarse-whispered. He stretched out the last word, as if emphasizing David’s place in the food chain.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father move. It was like he was spreading out to fill up the doorway. “I said who is it?”

  “Are you from Dad’s company?” David asked. He was scared now. Between a rock and a hard place.

  “No, son,” said the voice, laughing on the other end of the phone. It felt to David like the voice knew the punch line to a joke but was unwilling to share it with him. At his age David felt that a lot when he talked to adults. You’ll understand when you’re older. “No, son, I’m not with your dad’s company.”

  “Okay, so you’re not with his company,” David repeated for his father’s benefit. The mass in the doorway seemed to shrink a little. “Who are you, then? Why do you need to talk to my dad?”

  “Well, son, no need to—”

  “And stop calling me that. I ain’t your son.”

  “All right, Mr. Jackson’s boy—”

  “And don’t call me that, neither. My name’s David.”

  “All right, David,” said the man. His happy-happy voice seemed to be losing some of its phone-smile. “I’m not from your father’s company. But I do need to speak with him.”

  “Like I told you, he—”

  “Gimme that.”

  The receiver was ripped out of his hand.

&n
bsp; “Hello?” came the gruff you’ve-invaded-my-territory voice. “Who is this?”

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Ford Motor Company, Finance Division. We’re calling about your car note.”

  He rounded on David, who had retreated to his bed and sat down. The boy saw the furor rising in the old man’s eyes. He looked from his father to the door and wondered what kind of chance he had of making it out of the room before the old man caught him. But his father was hunched like a spring. David thought the receiver might break in two, he was holding it so tightly.

  “Yes, sir, I’m so glad you called,” his father said, glaring at David. He had put on the fake phone voice people get when they’re in the middle of something unpleasant and yet feel the perverse obligation to stop being shitty and answer the phone. “I was planning on ringing you up myself tomorrow,” he lied.

  “Oh, great,” said the man. David could hear the tinny, faked brightness from where he sat on the bed. His father continued staring at him with volcanic eyes. The room was a pitch blackness of silence but for the phone conversation. David heard as much as felt the throbbing in his ears. “Then I’ve saved you the trouble!”

  “Ah,” said David’s father, and his guard went down a bit, his voice betraying a bit of the anger he truly felt, “so you have.”

  “Well, it’s about your truck payment, Mr. Jackson,” said the man, his voice sounding concerned again, like when David first told him that his father wasn’t feeling well. “It’s three months overdue, you see.”

  “Ah,” Jackson said again. “Yes, that was what I wanted to call you guys about.”

  “Well, again, I’ve saved you the trouble then. Mr. Jackson, I’ll be frank with you . . . your credit history isn’t what we’d call first rate. And the fact that you’ve missed payments before—”

  “I always made those up,” Jackson said, defensive now. He hated no-nuts salesmen. He fucking hated them. Either they tried to screw him out of money or they bitched because he hadn’t given them enough of it soon enough. He fucking hated no-nuts salesmen.