The Boy

  The Boy

  By

  Paul Heatley

  This is a work of fiction.

  © Paul Heatley 2015

  Cover Design by Ben Shanks

  1

  Jake stops outside the trailer. One hand rests on the railing that leads up the steps to the door, and he listens. There are voices inside. There is laughter. His father has company. Jake hesitates, thinks about staying out longer, taking a chance on the company being gone when he returns, or their at least being passed out, but he has nowhere else to go and it is dark and cold, getting colder, so he stashes his skateboard under the trailer and goes inside.

  The air is thick with cigarette smoke and beer fumes, and he can smell marijuana. Harry sits on the sofa with a dark-skinned woman in his lap. On the table before them stand half-empty bottles of beer, some almost filled to the neck with dumped cigarette butts, and between the bottles is a mess of what looks like an aborted attempt at rolling a joint. Harry looks up as his son enters, spreads out his arms. “Jacob!” he says.

  Jake nods.

  “Where’ve you been, boy?”

  Jake tries not to stare at the woman, focuses on his father. “Out,” he says.

  Harry is a thickset man, with workman’s muscles popping at the short sleeves of his shirt. His hair is thin on top, and his face is unshaven. His top lip sports a scruffy moustache. “That so? Who with?”

  “Ray. And Glenn.”

  Harry snorts. “Those peckerheads, huh?”

  Jake says nothing.

  “Come sit with us!”

  The woman hangs from Harry’s shoulders, her arms wrapped around him, her legs draped across his lap. One long-fingered hand strokes his cheek and from where her head rests in the crook of his neck she smiles at Jake.

  Jake shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He doesn’t want to sit with his father, or his new friend.

  “This here’s Maggie,” Harry says, tilting his head toward the woman beside him, her legs in his lap. “We met at the bar. Say hello to Maggie.”

  “Hello, Maggie.”

  “Hello, Jacob.” She giggles. The way she sits, coupled with the shortness of her dress, means Jake can see all of her leg, from the tips of her barefoot toes to the relaxed muscle of her thigh, to the curve of her left buttock, all the way to her waist. If he looks past the left leg, to the right, he can see the inside of her thigh. He snaps his attention back to her face. Her shoulders are bare, it doesn’t look like she is wearing a bra, and the top of her dress rides low, it barely covers her nipples. He concentrates on her face. It is smooth and heart-shaped and kindly and her eyes are bright and brown and round and her lips look like chocolate. “Your daddy told me about you, but he never said how handsome you is.”

  “That’s cos he ain’t.”

  Maggie rears back, slaps Harry on the arm. “Now don’t be mean, you.”

  Harry waves her off, laughs. “Ah, he knows I’m just kiddin with him. That’s what we do. Ain’t it, boy?”

  “That’s what we do,” Jake says. He grits his teeth and tries not to stare at Maggie, though it is hard when she keeps smiling at him with her sweet face and her mega-watt teeth.

  And the way her dress rides down just a little further every time she moves, like it is too loose on her, or like the back has been unzipped.

  “Come on and sit with us, damn it,” Harry says. “Come take a seat.”

  “I think I’m gonna go to bed –”

  “Bullshit! Don’t be rude, boy, we got company! Come and sit down – hell, get yourself a drink if you want. And while you’re over there, get me another. You want another one, Maggie?”

  “I’m all right for now, sweetie.”

  “Get me hers, too. No point lettin it go to waste.” Harry and Maggie laugh at each other, pinch and tickle each other.

  Jake gets the two beers, finds a space on the table and sets them down, then parks himself in the chair opposite. The smell of the weed on the table is strong.

  “Roll one up, boy,” Harry says. “I’d do it myself, but I got more fingers than usual.” He holds out the back of his hand, squints at it.

  Jake gets to his knees, pulls the table and everything on top of it closer to him, gets to work rolling.

  “Woo,” Maggie says. “Looks like you’ve done this before.”

  Jake says nothing.

  “He’s had practise,” Harry says.

  “For you?”

  “I should reckon for no one else. Sometimes your old man sprouts a few more fingers than usual, huh, boy?”

  Jake looks at Maggie. “That means he’s seeing double.”

  Maggie laughs, Harry too. “You gettin sassy, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Aw, c’mon – that’s a damn shame. For a second there I thought you might actually show a little character. Maggie, this kid, he goes to school, comes home, locks himself away in his room all damn night. I dunno what he’s doin in there – well, I can take a coupla guesses.” He nudges her with his elbow. “But when he’s not sprainin his wrist, what’s he doin, you tell me that.”

  “He said he’d been out with his friends, Harry,” Maggie says. “He don’t go and see his friends too much?”

  Harry blows air. “Those two kids’ve got shit-for-brains. Bout damn time you put down that fuckin skateboard and found yourself some new friends.”

  Jake finishes rolling, passes the joint to his father, then returns to his seat.

  Harry holds it upright, between thumb and index finger, gives a low whistle. “My, my,” he says. “That is a thing of beauty, boy.” He shows it to Maggie. “He does have some admirable skills though, I will give him that. And I’ll tell you another thing, he’s improved a damn sight – a few years back, first time I asked him to roll me one, you shoulda seen the mess he made. Wasted half the damn bud. But he’s persevered, and look at him now. God damn.”

  Maggie looks at Jake, shoots him a secret grin, winks. Jake shifts in his seat.

  “Move your legs now, girl, I’ll light this thing up.” Harry reaches across the table for his lighter, purses the roached end between his lips and lights it at the other. He inhales deeply, passes it to Maggie. Jake watches her. Her sleek black hair is cut short, it frames her face when she leans forward like she is, and her dress drops down a little more. Jake bites his lip, grits his teeth, looks at his hands.

  Harry holds it out. “Take a hit.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Damn it, boy, you rolled the damn thing, take a draw on it.”

  “If he doesn’t want –” Maggie says.

  Harry cuts her off. “He don’t want a drink, he don’t want a smoke – what does he want? He wants to go back to that room of his, that fuckin black hole. You’re bein mighty rude in fronta company, boy. Take it.”

  Jake stares at the burning stick held before him in his father’s gnarled and work-dirty fist. He takes it, presses it to his lips. It isn’t his first time smoking, but he doesn’t make a habit of it. It hits him hard, knocks him dizzy. He starts to cough, covers his mouth with the back of his hand and gives it to Maggie. Harry claps him on the arm so hard he almost falls out the chair.

  “Good shit, ain’t it?” Harry says. “You ain’t had it like that before. Some fuckin good shit. Now. You want that drink yet?” His eyes are narrowed in a way that says No is the wrong answer.

  Jake coughs. “Sure.”

  “Well you know where the refrigerator is,” Harry says. “Grab some potato chips while you’re over there.”

  Jake stands, sways when he is fully erect, takes deep breaths. The room spins. He looks down, feels exceptionally tall. From up high, he can see right down Maggie’s dress, straight down the deep valley that separates one breast from the other.

  “Hey, boy,” Harr
y says.

  Jake blinks at him.

  “You might wanna tuck that thing away, too.” He points.

  Jake looks down. He is hard, the shape of his dick presses tight against the front of his jeans.

  Maggie covers her mouth with her hand, tries not to laugh.

  Jake stumbles away, adjusts himself. “I’m gonna go to bed,” he says, but he mumbles it and can’t be sure if anyone hears him.

  “Hey, boy!” Harry says. He is laughing. “What about the potato chips!”

  2

  The sound of the wheels rolling fast along the tarmac is deafening. The dark road ahead clear of headlights, Jake closes his eyes and feels the wind whip his face and his hair. Behind him he hears one of the others, probably Glenn, do a jump.

  He opens his eyes and skids to a stop, kicks his board up into his hands and carries it. The others do the same. They cross the road and go into the park. It is late and dark, people wearing black that don’t want to be seen move like shadows upon the paths and the grass. Bushes shake. There are moans. In the distance, someone is throwing up.

  They near the water feature in the centre of the park, the graffiti-decorated cherub pouring water. A man reclines on one of the benches. He wears a cowboy hat and smokes a cigarette, the tip glows incredibly bright. They go to him.

  “Fellas,” he says, nods. “Where y’all off to?”

  Ray approaches the man. Ray is the tallest of them, he always does the talking. “Will you buy us beer?”

  The cowboy uncrosses his legs, leans forward. “What’s in it for me?”

  “We’ll give you a bottle.”

  “Two.”

  “Sure.”

  He stubs out his cigarette against the bench then deposits the butt in his chest pocket. “Where you plannin on drinkin them?”

  “What?”

  “The beers. Where you gonna drink them?”

  Ray looks back then shrugs. “I dunno.”

  “Here? In the park?”

  “I dunno. Maybe.”

  The cowboy clasps his hands, looks each of them over while he talks. “Now, I suspect the three of you are the kind of good boys that would take your trash away with you, right? Dispose of those bottles responsibly?”

  “What?”

  “We don’t need anymore litter round here, you get me?”

  Ray turns, shakes his head. “Whatever, man.” They walk.

  “Hey – I said I’d get your beer.”

  They ignore him, continue through the park, pass a woman in a witch’s Halloween mask where she leans against a railing. She focuses on Jake. He looks back. He can’t see her eyes, but he can feel them. She watches him pass, her head moving with him. She breathes heavily, then when he is past and still looking back at her she begins a rasping giggle.

  When they exit the other end of the park, the liquor store is in sight.

  “What’re we gonna do?” Glenn says.

  “Just wait,” Ray says. “Someone will show up.”

  The liquor store has a neon sign in the window flashing OPEN in red, and beyond that they can see the light inside, the bored clerk behind the counter.

  “He might just serve us,” Glenn says.

  “No,” Jake says. “Look at him. He’s bored as fuck. Turning us down would be the highlight of his night. It’d be a power trip for him.”

  Ray nods along, snorts. “Probably the only kind of power he’s got.”

  “It’ll get him off.”

  “Yeah. He looks like a prick. If we go in now and he turns us away it’ll just tip him off. He’ll be ultra cautious of everyone else.”

  The clerk is a young guy, probably just turned old enough to drink himself. His hair is dark and his fringe is long, hangs down into his face so he keeps blowing it out of his glasses. He stares at the counter, probably reading a magazine.

  “Let’s get closer,” Glenn says. “So we can catch someone going in.”

  As they cross the road, a man goes inside.

  “Shit,” Glenn says. “We’ve missed him.”

  The man’s hood is pulled up. When they get outside the store they see that he has a gun, that he is waving it in the clerk’s face. The clerk is deathly pale, his lips are moving, like he’s babbling, he looks like he’s trying not to shit himself. He opens the cash register, lets the gunman help himself.

  “Holy fuck,” Ray says.

  They watch through the window.

  The money bagged, the man waves the gun in the clerk’s face again. The clerk flinches, begs off. The gunman grabs him by the shirtfront, drags him over the counter, beats him with the gun’s handle. The clerk’s cheek splits, he spits blood and teeth, his glasses smash and his left eye swells up. The gunman kicks him for good measure then turns and runs, blows past the three of them and disappears down the street. Jake watches him go. He expects to hear sirens, but he doesn’t. Behind him, the door to the liquor store opens again. He turns and sees that Glenn has run inside.

  “What’s he doing?”

  Ray laughs. Glenn has pulled his hat down so most of his face is obscured from the camera. He grabs a crate and a couple of loose bottles then bolts out of the store and keeps running and Ray and Jake run after him and Ray is still laughing.

  3

  It is night. Cold. Jake’s breath mists. He wears black, keeps his hands in his pockets and walks casually, no hurry, like he’s on his way to meet friends, or is out for the air, but as he nears his destination he begins to slow. He checks the windows of the nearby trailers, ensures that curtains are closed and blinds are drawn, that no one lurks in the darkness. When he is sure there is not, that no one is looking, he drops to a stoop, begins to creep.

  He presses his body against Luann’s trailer, stands on his toes until he’s tall enough he can see through the gap between the bottom of the curtain and the window frame. The outside of the trailer feels cool against his mouth and nose.

  The inside is well-lit. Luann is there, alone, her parents out somewhere, probably a bar. She is in the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator, pulls out orange juice, drinks it straight from the carton. She looks like she is about to go to bed, wears a white vest and black underwear. Her dark hair is piled atop her head, and under her vest she wears no bra. The cold from the refrigerator makes her nipples hard, two sharp points probe outwards from the small mounds of her breasts. Jake stares at her chest, feels his breath misting against the side of the trailer, it tickles his nostrils. Her legs are long and toned, the right is bent slightly and the left straight while she stands and drinks.

  She puts the carton back, closes the refrigerator. She steps barefoot across the floor, takes a seat on the sofa, draws her legs under herself, and flicks on the television. Jake watches her, watches the side of her face. She plays with the remote control, spins it slowly round in her hands. Her eyes narrow then and she turns toward him. He ducks, keeps his head below the window for a count of twenty, then slowly straightens up. She has turned back to the television.

  An engine approaches from the front. Luann looks up, bites her lip. She pulls the band out of her hair and shakes it loose so it is wild and curly like she hasn’t long gotten out the shower and it is still wet.

  Jake ducks from the window, creeps to the side of the trailer, peers round as the truck comes to a stop and the engine and lights are switched off. He knows the truck. Knows the guy that gets out, makes his way up the porch steps to knock on the trailer’s door. Ricky. He is older than Jake, older than Luann. Maybe eighteen. Maybe twenty-one. He is tall and broad, wears jeans and a leather jacket, looks like he plays sports. The door opens. Jake goes back to the window.

  He can see Luann at the door, sees the way her underwear clings to the curves of her buttocks. Sees the way she sways slightly from side to side, coquettishly plays with her hair. She hasn’t let Ricky in yet. Jake can’t hear what they are saying, but he can hear her laugh. And then she lets him in.

  They stand in the kitchen. Luann plays with the zip on Ricky’s jacket. They
are very close to each other. Ricky smiles down at Luann. He looks cool, composed, but Jake can see the hunger in his eyes, can sense it coming off him in waves, even from outside.

  They kiss. Luann turns her face up and stands on her toes. Ricky’s hands go round her waist, settle in the dip of her lower back. She seems incredibly small against him, about a foot shorter and half his width.

  They go to the sofa, mouths locked. Luann takes off her vest, but her back is to Jake and he can’t see anything good, just the ridges of her spine. Ricky takes off his clothes. Starts with his jacket, then his t-shirt. Luann helps him. His torso ripples with muscle, smooth and hairless, his nipples small and dark. Luann presses her mouth to them, kisses them each in turn.

  They stand then. Luann slips off her underwear. Jake can see the crack of her ass. She gets Ricky out of his jeans, undoes his belt buckle and his buttons like he is incapable. He lifts her up suddenly, kisses her neck. Jake can hear her squeal. Ricky lies her down on the sofa. His dick looks so hard it must have been crushed inside his jeans. The slit at the tip of it looks straight at Jake like an angry eye, spots him where he hides, sees him, knows him, threatens to tell the whole room what he is doing.

  “Hey.”

  Jake’s breath catches. He spins, sees a figure step out of the gloom.

  “What’re you doin, kid?”

  Jake panics, turns to run, his right foot trips over his left ankle and he falls, sprawls flat on his face in the dirt, tastes it gritty in his teeth. He tries to push up, tells himself he can still get away, but the shadowy figure is on him, has him by the collar. A clamp-like grip, incredibly strong, hauls him to his feet. Jake tries to struggle.

  “Get off me!” he says. He snarls it. “I ain’t doin anythin wrong!”

  The shadow gives him a shake. “That so?” The voice is a drawl. Jake can smell whiskey on the man’s breath. His face is rough and cavernous, its wrinkles and edges deepened by the shadows. Jake thinks he recognises him, maybe one of his father’s old work buddies, it is hard to tell. They all look the same, skin leathery from years of working outdoors in the weather, and nights spent drinking hard and smoking heavily.