Never Wake Page 11

  “She died in a car accident.” It was easier for her to say than she’d expected, and because of that, the words felt like a betrayal.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said.

  Troy couldn’t bring herself to say anything more, and Emma continued to braid Troy’s hair in silence. Emma had told her so much about herself that she had every right to ask Troy about her life. Why had she given her that opening? Any other time, she had to remind herself that she no longer had anyone to share her life with. It’s not like she’s around, is she? Even if those people out there sprang to life, Patricia would still be buried in that cemetery.

  “Are you all right? Do we need to finish this later?”

  Emma’s question startled her. “I’m sorry. Was I moving around too much? I guess I get antsy sometimes.”

  “Maybe you should go out for a ride. I can finish your hair later.” Emma’s hand was resting on her shoulder and Troy started to feel like the room had grown too warm.

  “Nah, I guess I just want to do something normal and not worry about what’s going on out there, or if it’s going to happen to us, or if there are other people out there like us. I just want to be normal.”

  “I think this is pretty normal, don’t you?” Emma ran her hands through the unbraided side of Troy’s hair.

  “Are you serious?” Troy closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Emma’s fingers running through her damp hair. “I don’t think this is normal at all. I get the impression that you don’t have many bike messengers as friends.”

  “No, but that’s because you guys are kind of stuck up.”

  “Okay, now who’s being weird?” Troy turned and was surprised by the serious look on Emma’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Never mind.” Emma kept moving her hands through Troy’s hair. “Troy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you like to go out with me one night?”

  Troy wasn’t sure if she had quite heard Emma right. “Are you sure?”

  “Uh-huh. We could go Dutch, of course,” Emma said, but she didn’t smile at her own joke.

  “When? Now?”

  Emma looked toward the window and back at Troy. Troy could see the erratic throbbing pulse at her throat. She realized her mistake. Emma’s question had been rhetorical; she hadn’t meant right that instant, she had meant one night, which was exactly what she had asked.

  Emma saw Troy’s disappointment because her words came out in a rush. “Let’s go now before I get scared.”

  Chapter Ten

  Standard, Oregon, August, Years Ago

  “You don’t need to know where I’m going.”

  Hoyt’s voice couldn’t have been clearer if The Boy had been in the same room with him. If it hadn’t been raining so hard, he would have gone to see if Mr. Mayberry’s nephew was visiting. The rain sounded like someone was dropping shovels full of little pebbles on the top of the house. Mr. Mayberry would never let his nephew out in that kind of weather, so he was sitting in the living room reading a book to his grandmother and trying not to hear Hoyt and Pam as they had another fight in their bedroom.

  Today was his birthday.

  “Why don’t you worry about getting this house cleaned up for a change?”

  The Boy ignored Pam’s answer and turned the page in his Hardy Boys mystery. Grandma liked this one. He could tell, because she would show him her pink gums every time he got animated while reading it to her.

  Grandma didn’t talk. She hadn’t for as long as he could remember. Pam said Grandma had hurt her head when she fell down the stairs when no one was home to help her. But their house didn’t have stairs. He had asked Pam about that. He wondered if maybe they had lived somewhere else before he had been born. She just got mad at him and told him to go outside and play even though it was raining. There were pictures on the wall of Hoyt and Pam on their wedding day. There was even one with Grandma in it, too. Mr. Mayberry next door had told him he remembered taking it. Same house as this one and it didn’t have stairs. None of the houses in the neighborhood did.

  He liked to look at them in their funny-looking clothes. It was hard for him to believe that those two happy people in the picture were Pam and Hoyt. They had never been happy. Not that he could remember.

  But his eyes were always drawn back to Grandma. In the picture, she was taller than Hoyt. He didn’t think people could shrink, but Grandma didn’t look that tall anymore. He wasn’t sure, because the only time she walked was when she had to go to the pot-chair and then she was always hunched over with her skinny fingers digging into his arm for balance. Her hair had been white back then, too, but it was brushed back nice and neat into one of those knot things some of the teachers at school wore. It hung down her shoulders now, a long, limp, dirty curtain that hid her face. She had been the only one in the picture who didn’t smile, so he couldn’t tell if she had teeth back then, but her face didn’t look so skinny, and he could see her lips. Maybe lips shrunk, too, because she didn’t have any of those anymore.

  The sound of Pam’s voice interrupted The Boy’s thoughts. He couldn’t make out what she said, but that didn’t matter. He never listened to her anyway. Hoyt was the one who had to be listened to. He was the dangerous one. Pam was just the one that liked to make things hard on all of them. He couldn’t blame Hoyt for getting mad at her. She didn’t know how to cook or clean worth a damn. When Hoyt left, she would just make him do it.

  “Goddamn it, I told you it’s none of your—” Hoyt’s voice boomed throughout the house. The whole neighborhood would be able to hear them now. The Boy wondered why they even bothered to go into their bedroom.

  He dropped the book face down on his lap and glared at Hoyt and Pam’s bedroom door. “I wish he would hit her already.” He said it loud enough that anyone in the house interested in hearing what he had to say could have heard. He wasn’t worried. The only one who ever listened to him was Grandma. Her gums were showing in one of her soundless grins. Or was she crying? He could never tell with her.

  “I don’t give a damn if you loaded the fucking washing machine last week. I can’t find one sock that matches the other, and why don’t you use some bleach for once?” The Boy was always surprised when Hoyt’s voice got even louder.

  “Least I don’t have to go to Bernie Ann’s to eat,” The Boy said, and his grandmother rocked forward as if agreeing. He had told her about how the food made him sick.

  “Why don’t I wash the clothes? Why don’t I? ’Cause I am the one with a real job in this motherfucking house, remember? You think doing nails part time could even put clothes on your back? I put food in all three of your mouths, and now you want me to wash my own goddamn clothes so you can sit up in here and watch Oprey all day?”

  “Oprey?” The Boy repeated the word and grinned at Grandma. “It’s ‘Oprah,’ he is sooo stupid.” He saw a flash of pink, and this time he was sure she was laughing. Grandma was the only one he could talk to. She listened when he had troubles and never made him feel like he was annoying like Hoyt and Pam did. He had even told her his most powerful secret. The one that could send him to jail if anyone ever knew. That is, if Hoyt didn’t kill him first.

  He had been so angry when Hoyt had made him miss the opening of the show to get sodas. The hairs on his arm stood up and he felt heat at the top of his head when he handed them over, neither Hoyt nor Pam seeming to care that the cans were already open. He sat down and leaned real close and whispered into Grandma’s peeling ear. “I put bleach in both of them.” He needed to go to the bathroom, but he had been afraid he would miss what happened when they drank from the cans. Grandma and he watched as first Pam and then Hoyt took drinks from their cans. He had smelled the lids and didn’t notice any strong odor before he brought the cans out. Nothing happened. No death, no hospital, nothing. Hoyt did complain of a stomachache and went to bed without watching The Simpsons, but he was fine the next day.

  The Boy put the book up to the side of his face and leaned in like he was telling a secret.
He dropped his voice and squinted his eyes. “All I do is work day in and day out,” he growled in an imitation of Hoyt’s voice.

  “All I do is work day…” Hoyt bellowed, and The Boy giggled. Hoyt was so stupid he didn’t realize he said the same every time they had an argument. He hated him, and he hated Pam for picking the same fights that always ended with—

  The sound, like an open palm landing on a side of beef, and the whimper after should have been no surprise, but he jumped when it happened.

  Pam didn’t scream. They all knew better than to do that, even Grandma. Crying was okay, but things got worse real fast if you screamed. He didn’t look at his grandmother to see if she had that jack-o-lantern look on her face, but he knew she would. The back of his neck prickled. He was afraid to look at her.

  The bedroom door slammed back against the wall. Relief flooded through The Boy’s body. He’d been scared this was going to be a bad one. The Boy pretended to read the book, but his back had stiffened. Hoyt had not stormed through the living room and out the front door like he usually did.

  “It’s your birthday, ain’t it?”

  He had to look up then. He had no choice. “Yes, sir.”

  Hoyt looked like he was sorry for having forgotten. For some reason that scared The Boy more than the possibility of the police coming to the door again.

  “What’s say you and me go out and celebrate on our own? Just us men.”

  It took him a moment to understand. “Just us men,” Hoyt had said. Was he a man? Or was Hoyt just kissing up to him ’cause he didn’t even remember to get him a card. Nah, that wasn’t it. He never remembered.

  “Come on, boy. You coming or not?” Before The Boy could answer, Hoyt was already out the door. The truck would be starting any moment now, and if The Boy didn’t hurry, he would be left behind.

  He put the remote in his grandmother’s hand and wrapped her bony fingers around it until she gripped it so tight that his fingers were imprisoned in her grasp. He heard the truck’s engine start.

  “Grandma, let go.” Pink gums glistened, only this time her eyes were moving back and forth, and there was a long stream of spit going from her top gum to her bottom lip. The Boy heard the loud crack and the squeal that meant that Hoyt was rolling down the truck’s window.

  “Boy, you gonna’ sit around cuddlin’ with your grandma all day or come on here?” Hoyt yelled and gave the truck a rev so that The Boy knew he was losing patience.

  The Boy leaned close and stared hard into her eyes. “Let—me—go—bitch.” He said each word, hard and firm like he had seen Hoyt do. The claw loosened and her watery brown eyes moved to the TV, and it was like he wasn’t there. It was always like that with her. Sometimes she was there and sometimes she wasn’t. So he didn’t have to feel bad about what he had just called her.

  He ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. As he climbed into the truck, his mind started creating scenarios for where they could be going for his birthday.

  “Put your seat belt on. You have dinner yet?” Hoyt asked before The Boy had both feet in the truck. He never had to be told to put his seat belt on. Not after the beating Hoyt had given him after he had gotten a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar ticket.

  “Yeah, I had dinner.” That was a lie, sort of. He’d had some Frosted Flakes, or rather, sugared flakes; they weren’t the real thing, but some cheap brand from the discount store. They tasted all right for dinner. Truth was he could eat again. He was just afraid that Hoyt was going to take him to Bernie Ann’s Corner Side Café to eat.

  “That’s too bad. I could sure use some BurgerCity.”

  “Oh, I could eat,” The Boy said, and his stomach growled loud enough to be heard over the truck’s engine. Hoyt laughed and put his hand on the back of The Boy’s head and pushed it forward. Warmth started in The Boy’s chest and spread to his stomach. Maybe he had been wrong to try to poison Hoyt.

  “All right, that’s what we’ll do, then. You and me gonna get us some dinner and leave the women folk at home. I just got one thing to take care of first, and then we’ll get us some burgers and fries and maybe some beer. We’ll sit up at the park and have a few. That sound good?”

  The Boy agreed that it did sound good. Maybe Hoyt hadn’t been kidding about the man thing.

  He watched his school flash by the side window. He saw the wash house and the gas station and then he was in a neighborhood he didn’t recognize. The sound of Hoyt’s even voice faded into the background along with all the landmarks The Boy recognized. This didn’t feel right. Why was Hoyt being so nice? Why was he telling him he was a man? He wasn’t a man, he was a boy. What if he was going to leave him out here in the dark? How would he find his way home? The Boy gripped the door handle hard. He looked out the window for something he recognized. The turns, he would remember the turns.

  “One left turn,” he said to himself, “one right.” He was able to remember six turns, but he lost track after that. Wherever Hoyt was taking them was not in town. The roads were too dark. The Boy figured they were in the Stix. The Stix wasn’t the real name. It was part of Standard, but the Stix was an area on the outskirts of town where a lot of rich people had their second homes. They called it the Stix because of all the young trees surrounding the area.

  He wanted to ask where they were going, but he didn’t because he was afraid of what Hoyt might tell him. Afraid that Hoyt might just stop the truck and put him out. He knew Hoyt never wanted him. He had heard it screamed through walls for as long as he could remember. He had seen Pam’s bulging belly in their wedding photo. Was Hoyt done with him? Tired of feeding and clothing him? He wanted to cry out and tell Hoyt that it wasn’t his fault. He wanted to beg him not to leave him out here. It was too dark and too far from where someone could help him. Tears stung the corners of his eyes before spilling down his cheeks.

  “I got to pee.”

  “What?” Hoyt sounded surprised, like he had forgotten that he wasn’t alone in the truck.

  “I got to pee real bad,” he said, trying to keep the sob from his voice. Hoyt was silent for a moment. He expected him to say something angry, maybe even hit him, but the truck began to slow. He gripped the armrest, determined not to make Hoyt angry by peeing in his truck.

  The moon peeked through the trees and the boy saw with great relief that they were on a driveway. If Hoyt left him here, he could go to the door and ask for help. The house was one of the biggest he had ever seen. Hoyt pulled the truck to a halt. The Boy had always thought of his father as handsome. Mostly because Hoyt had always assured him that he would grow up to be just as good looking as he was. But in that moment, in that light, The Boy thought Hoyt looked like a gigantic gorilla. His head hung forward as if it were too heavy for his neck to carry, his shoulders hunched as if to help support the weight.

  “You just hold it. We’re almost there, and you can ask the nice people in the house if you can use their bathroom.”

  “I…I can just go in the woods.”

  “Naw, you can’t, either.” Hoyt’s voice sounded gruff and mean. “You and me are gonna go ask those people if you can use their bathroom, you hear me?” Hoyt got out of the truck and walked around the back of it.

  “Yes, sir.” He was already reaching for the door handle. He had to stand up. He had to move, or he would pee in Hoyt’s truck. He already felt the smallest bit forcing its way out, but he clenched real hard and cut it off. He could hear Hoyt walking behind him, not trying to keep up but not letting him go too far ahead either.

  The Boy was scared. He didn’t know these people. Why would they let him use their bathroom? “Go ahead, ring the doorbell. I thought you had to pee so bad.”

  He rang the doorbell twice, switching from one leg to the other before a light flickered on and a man peered out of the window.

  “Excuse me for bothering you, sir, but my boy and I are on our way back home, and he can’t hold it no more.” The man looked from Hoyt to The Boy and back to Hoyt again.

  The Boy
couldn’t help it. His hand went to his crotch; he was about ready to explode. The man grinned. “Yeah, just a minute,” he said, and within seconds, the door was opening. The man called to his wife in the den, “It’s all right, Liv. It’s just the handyman and his son needing to use the bathroom.” He turned back to Hoyt and The Boy. “It’s right down here,” he said. The Boy followed him, gritting his teeth and holding on to his privates, not caring if it looked rude or if he was embarrassing Hoyt. He figured Hoyt would be a lot more embarrassed if he peed on this man’s nice floor.

  The man pointed to a door at the end of the hall and The Boy hurried past, still holding his crotch.

  “What you say, boy?” Hoyt asked from down the hall.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said as he kicked the door to the bathroom closed behind him.

  His fingers shook as he unfastened and unzipped his jeans praying that the little trickle of pee that he had been unable to stop would not turn into a flood. He sighed in relief as he began to pee. He held back a smile on his face. The fist clamped around his stomach released its grip. His pee sounded like Multnomah Falls as it hit the commode. He let his head loll back and closed his eyes. He hated having to hold it for so long. It made his tummy feel all crampy.

  He opened his eyes and looked around the bathroom as his pee slowed. He was surprised. It was smaller than the one at his house, no bathtub or shower or anything. He was reaching for the flusher when he heard it. He’d heard that same sound so many times in his own home that he almost believed he imagined it, but then, as his urine trickled to a miniscule stream, he heard it again, followed by a woman’s scream. Not loud. If it had been loud, he might have been more frightened. It was a soft scream. Just the one. He stood there transfixed, his privates in his hand. He shook it, then tucked himself back in. A wet circle darkened his underwear, but it wouldn’t show through his jeans. He hadn’t imagined the cry, he was sure of that, but he was afraid; he didn’t know if he should flush the toilet or not.