Shadows Burned In (9 page)

Pant-pant.

Elizabeth’s eyes adjusted. She was in an old kitchen.
Cabinet doors hung on their hinges. Roaches waking up for their evening patrols
scurried one, then two across the floor, making reconnaissance between the old
pantry and the cabinet under the sink. She curled her lip at the roaches, but the
dog ignored them, passing through the doorway from the kitchen to the rest of
the house.

The dog woofed playfully from the other room.

Elizabeth turned toward the sound and walked a few steps in
that direction. She deliberately averted her eyes from the roaches, some part
of her thinking that if she ignored them, they really weren’t there. She paused
in the doorway to the house proper.
Must be the parlor
, she thought.

Elizabeth decided that if she sat down, maybe the dog would
come to her instead. She looked around. No roaches.

They’re more afraid of you than you are of them
,
she
heard her mother’s voice say.

Hope so
, she thought back.

“Yeah, right,”
taunted her 3V voice.

Shut up!

She felt her way carefully down to the floor, sitting
cross-legged. The wood felt old beneath her hands. She was careful of
splinters. “Come here, girl,” she said quietly. “Come here.”

Pant-pant.

Then she smelled it. The same thing she’d smelled when she
and Michael had come here the other day at just about this time.

(Old Suzie’s house)

But how could that be? She would’ve recognized it . . .

(from the front)

But the dog had led her around the back. Had led her to the
place she most feared in the whole damned, old, dead, decaying,
smells-like-grandma town. The dog had been playing games, all right.

(we play games in the parlor)

Led her right here.

“Girl?”

Pant-pant.

(come into my parlor)

She felt something on her arm. Elizabeth tensed, sure the
roaches had come for her.

“So stupid to sit down here,”
her 3V voice warned.

Elizabeth summoned Elsbyth’s courage and looked down at her
arm.

Nothing.

But there had been something. There had been the light down
of hair rising on her arm.

And there was fear. A sense of being trapped, smothered in a
blanket of
old
. As if her fate were in the hands of someone else. Someone
she couldn’t see. Someone who was not a good person.

She started to uncross her legs to ready herself to get out
of there, roaches or no roaches, screen door in the way or no screen door in
the way.

“D-dog?”

Pant-pant.

“Hello, little girl,” said a tired male voice from the
darkness.

Part 2

(15 years ago)

This place you say you’re looking for,

That’s a place I used to know.

Don’t know the number of the road,

But I can tell you how to go.

Head on down ’til the pavement ends,

I used to go back there now and then.

I used to know it

Like the back of my hand,

When I was just a boy.

—James McMurtry

“Vague Directions”

Chapter 8

“On your knees.”

The boy was crying. He focused on the entryway floor.

“
Now
.”

The boy knew, either he would get on his knees on his own,
or his father would put him there, so he maneuvered carefully to the floor,
sitting on his heels.

“You know better than
that
.”

Internally the boy rolled his eyes, though he knew he didn’t
dare show it. Showing sass would only make it worse.

“And stop that goddamned blubbering,” his father said.
“Learn to be a man early on, boy, and you’ll be better off for it later.”

That was a laugh. How many times had he wished,
begged
God to make him a man so he could fight back? Somehow, he knew, this was
supposed to make him tougher. But still he cried.

“Knees against the wall,” said the old man. “I’m running out
of patience.”

The boy could already feel the cold tile of the floor
digging into his knees. He wished he could burrow a hole through the floor, get
away.

“Now sit up straight. Ass off your heels.”

He took a deep breath. Here’s what he’d been avoiding—the
full weight of his upper body on his knees. He would kneel here for an hour.
Praying at the altar of forgiveness, sorry he’d made his father mad once again
and wishing God would make him old enough to dole out some divine retribution
of his own.

“I said
sit up
.”

His father yanked the back of his shirt, the collar
tightening around his throat until he pulled up straight. He wasn’t a thin boy,
nor was he fat, but forcing his center of gravity onto his kneecaps made him
gasp.

Even in church, the kneelers have pads
, he thought
through the pain. He almost began to giggle, and a shock of fear coursed
through him. It was bad enough to cry when punishment came. It would be much
worse if he laughed.
Much
worse.

“Keep that nose six inches from the wall, no farther,” his
father said. His voice was low.
These are your instructions for survival
,
the voice said.
Screw it up and—well, figure it out
. “Keep that back
straight. Understand?”

The boy nodded.

“What?”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

“Mmmm,” his father said, nodding and turning to go. He
looked at the grandfather clock behind his son. Turning to leave, he stopped,
noting the boy had started to slouch already. “Up.”

The boy immediately stiffened to attention despite the
grinding in his knees.

“And the next time I tell you to have the grass mowed before
I get home, maybe you’ll have it done. You need to learn some discipline. You
slouch your way through life, that’s all you’ll ever be. A slouch. Understand?”

The boy just wanted him to go, to get out, to leave him
alone, to quit gloating over another round of humiliation and let him get the
punishment over with.
Get out, get out, get out you motherfucking asshole!
Leave me alone! Take your big arms and your discipline and your beer breath and
your stupid weekend projects and your crappy job and your “Lazyass, get to
work” and your “On your knees” and your “Mow the grass by the time I get back”
and get the fuck out of here!

“I’m talking to you, boy. You deaf now too?”

“N-no, sir,” the boy said.

His father grunted a sound that said he might not agree. Then
he heard footsteps trail off into the other room, probably headed for the
kitchen.

Mix up another rum and something
, he thought.
Good.
Maybe he’ll go to sleep soon. He’ll be out for hours
.

He let himself slouch a bit to take the pressure off his
knees. He cocked his right ear toward the kitchen. Sure enough, he heard a
chair at the breakfast table—
his
chair at the breakfast table—scrape slowly
over the floor. The boy took some pleasure in the thought that the chair was
marking up the floor, the same floor that was killing his knees at the moment.
The little television they kept in the kitchen flicked on, and a sports
commentator came bubbling forth, the excited murmur of the crowd behind him. He
sat back on his heels. His father would be back in to check on him soon enough,
but for now he had a reprieve.

“Motherfucker,” David whispered in defiance. “I hate him, I
hate him, I
hate
him.”

All because he hadn’t had the grass mowed by the time the
old man had gotten back from an emergency call from the company. Some power
grid had gone offline somewhere. His father was on call, so off he’d gone in
the truck. David had thought he’d be gone for hours, but the repair had been
quick. Even if he’d fired up the mower as soon as his father had left, he
doubted he’d have finished the yard in time. In truth, he’d defied him by
putting it off.
I mean, don’t I have better things to do on a Sunday
afternoon?

Too long.

(and look where it’s gotten you)

A giddy rage boiled up inside David. He was helpless to do
anything about the situation. He thought to himself,
You moron. If you
hadn’t pranced around making fun of him after he’d gone, you might’ve gotten it
done instead of being here

(on your knees)

and facing the wall
.

He balled up his fists and relaxed them over and over again,
gritting his teeth until they slipped and made an awful screaming, grating
noise that sent worms wiggling up his spine. He felt like such an idiot, when a
simple thing like mowing the grass was all his father had asked

(you lazyass)

and now here he was

(on your knees)

for no better reason than because he was an idiot.

David felt the frustration bearing down on him, adding to
the weight on his shoulders, pressing his knees into the floor. He closed his
eyes, squeezing tears out of them like wringing water from a damp towel.

(don’t cry, boy)

Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Opened them
wide. Used his thumb and first finger on each hand to spread the lids open till
he felt the cold air on his eyeballs, till they felt like they might just roll
right out of his head.

(men don’t cry)

He felt his nose running and didn’t spare a hand to wipe the
mucous as it crept, warm and wet, onto his upper lip. But his eyes wouldn’t
dry, no matter how wide he spread his eyelids. They stung as their liquid
warmth met the cold air. He wiped at them with his knuckles, trying to squeeze
them dry again, but that only made things worse. Now David’s eyes felt like
they had something in them. All he wanted to do was rub them.

Making things worse seems to be the only thing you’re
good at
, he thought.

He cursed at God for playing such a cruel joke on him, for
making him such an idiot. He couldn’t even kneel here and take his punishment
like a man; instead, he sat back on his haunches

(like a slouch)

and cried about being punished.

“No one likes a whiner, David,” he heard his father’s voice
saying. “The world don’t suffer complainers. Do what you have to do and don’t
bitch and moan about it. Learn that and you’ll save yourself a shitload of
grief along the way.”

He heard a chair leg screech from the kitchen. David sat
bolt upright on his knees. The quick action pressed his kneecaps into the tile
again, and pain shot up his thighs.

At least they’re going to sleep
, he thought
mercifully.

He listened intently for his father to come, bare feet
slapping on the cold, hard tile. But the slapping stopped in the kitchen with
the creak of the refrigerator door. David cocked his ears to every sound,
projecting the events on the screen in his mind. He heard containers scraping
on the thick-wired shelves of the refrigerator, the muffled hollow hum of
bottles as they were moved around. Obviously his father was searching for
something. And by the cursing the boy heard, he wasn’t finding it.

David cringed at the bellowing voice, then immediately
realized his fear had bent him over, so he sat straight up again, his knees
more numb now but still awake enough to feel pain.

“God
damm
it!”

The boy closed his eyes and swallowed. The slapping started
again, and it was getting louder.

“David!”

He made sure he was sitting up straight. His knees were so
numb now they didn’t really hurt anymore. He smiled inwardly at his little
secret.
I’ll kneel here all damned day, you sonofa—

“I’m out of beer,” said his father as his feet slapped to a
stop behind the boy. “I’m going to the store. You stay in that position till I
get back. You understand?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good,” said the man, “but just to make sure . . .”

David heard some rustling—a paper bag, it sounded like—then
felt little puffs of air wafting up from around his bent legs. He chanced a
glance down once and saw his father pouring flour around his kneeling position.
Why in the—

“Eyes front!”

He jerked his head around.

“Move an inch and I’ll be able to tell,” said his father in
a low voice. “This flour is spread for three feet around you, boy. You move an
inch, you even breathe anywhere but right at the wall, and I’ll see it. And
then you’d wished you was only on your knees when I got through with you.
Understand?”

All hope left David then. When he’d first heard his father
announce he was off to buy beer, he’d seen a way out, at least a short parole
from his sentence. But not now.

Why didn’t you just mow the fucking yard!
he screamed
at himself.
Idiot!

“I’m talking to you, boy.”

“Y-yes, sir,” he answered reflexively.

“Mmmm.”

slap
–
slap, slap
–
slap

As his father’s footfalls echoed away, David started crying
and didn’t care anymore. At least his father was leaving. He closed his eyes
and let the tears come, leaning his head against the wall and sagging back on
his haunches, totally defeated. He heard his father’s keys jingle, then the
back door slam. David started at the sound. Part of him was relieved to be
alone in the house under any circumstances. Most of him hated his father for
outsmarting him. Even gone, the old man had him trapped.

He looked around at the white powder prison walls. There was
no way he could stand up and jump far enough without somehow disturbing the
flour.

He was so angry he could hardly breathe!

So trapped.

The utter silence of the house pressed in on him then. The
whole reality of living here with his father, alone, weighed heavy on him. He swore
he could actually feel his knees being crushed.

tick

Even if he wanted to get up, he couldn’t without flour going
everywhere. His legs were asleep.

tock

Betrayed by his own legs now.

Idiot!

And beyond the echo in his head, he heard the grandfather
clock behind him. He hadn’t thought of it before. But now, with the old man
gone and only his own thoughts to scream at him, the silence was broken solely
by the clock.

tick

The clock mocked him.

Pointed an hour hand at him and laughed.

tock

Made faces

(clock faces, with a mocking moon turning in its course to
mark the seasons)

at him

(Mr. Moon, with one eye winking and a knowing grin)

as if to say

(I see you there, little boy, kneeling on the floor)

and cracking wisely

(each moment is worth remembering)

and saying helpfully

(let me count the moments for you)

and adding its own brand of bleak humor

(by tick-tock-ticking them off for you)

because being a grandfather clock was so boring, and any
little distraction, even a little boy kneeling, would surely help to pass the
time, now wouldn’t it?

David pictured Mr. Moon slowly revolving—so slow he couldn’t
even see him move. But Mr. Moon moved, oh yes he moved, and with every

tick

of the tick-tock clock he moved a little more, invisibly,
through the course of the seasons.

David was suddenly very scared to have the grandfather clock
behind him, where he could make his Mr. Moon clock faces at him, and the boy
could sense his mocking blue-cheese grin burning into the back of his skull. He
turned his head to the left but couldn’t see Mr. Moon very well. He was
directly behind the boy. But David could hear the

(tsk-tsk)

of Mr. Moon the Tick-Tock Clock making fun of him for not
doing as he was told

(should’ve mown the grass)

when he was told to do it.

He tried to shift around a little more to face his accuser,
and his left leg went out from under him. His dead nerves couldn’t pull it back
in time. His foot shot out, cutting a wide swath through the flour. The white
dust sprang into the air like the end of a magic trick.

Horror flooded his limbs. Blood and adrenaline raced through
him. His heart beat hard. His eyes, wide now at what he’d done, dried of their
own accord. David glared at the clock, and Mr. Moon looked down at him with his
blue-cheese, knowing smile

(tsk-tsk)

and marked the moments, one after the other.

(how many left till Daddy returns)

The thought terrified the boy. He looked at the broad path
his foot had made through the flour. The pumping blood began to revive his
legs, and tiny pinpricks of pain pulsed through his knees and thighs. Knowing
the mess was already made, he put his palms flat on the tile and tried to raise
himself up. His legs were still slow to respond, but he willed them,
willed
them
under him. As he drew his left leg up beneath him, he saw the flour clinging to
his jeans.
How do you get flour out of clothes?
he wondered. David stood
up now, leaning against the wall, and stared at the mess.