And the girl puts her hand on my arm, gentle, handing the joint to me.
“I, uh…. I – ” It’s so stupid, the way all those anti-drug commercials run through my head, and yet my hand reaches out to take the joint from her.
I bring the joint to my lips and suck in, as I saw them do. The smoke hits my lungs in a suffocating cloud. I erupt into coughs and Matt plucks the joint from my fingers.
“Newbie,” he laughs.
The girl laughs too, and in the smoky haze her cackling is amplified, bouncing around the tin can van until all I can see are open mouths and yellowed teeth and their laughter.
Is this the effects of the drug? Is my sudden nausea an effect of the drug?
“Okay, kid, pay up. You can’t smoke for free.”
The teeth are suddenly sharp. I try to focus but I’m being groped, hands clawing at my sweatshirt pocket.
“Get off,” I say. My voice echoes in the same weird way as their laughter.
It’s all spinning
Maybe she wants to kiss me. I grab her and pull her toward me and then I’m hit by the football jersey.
“Get your dirty hands off my girl,” he says in my face, his mouth in my face.
And then darkness
It seems only a few moments have been lost. I’m still in the van but it’s quiet now. Before me, a tangle of limbs and shredded clothes and hair.
My hands are red with blood. I wipe them on the pillow, scrubbing frantically against the upholstery material to get all the red off. My jacket is red. I zip it to keep the blood on my sweatshirt from showing. Check my shoulders: backpack still there. Surprisingly, not much mess on my jeans. A piece of football jersey has protected them.
I crack open the van door, check for anyone nearby, and slide out, shut the door behind me.
Lila slinks out from behind another car. She approaches me cautiously, licks at my hand. She must smell the death on me.
“Let’s get out of here.” Suddenly I stop, feel around my mouth. No blood. Good. “Let’s go,” I say again, and head toward the street.
“You taking off?”
I turn to find Beverly behind me in a puffy down jacket. It must be nine o’clock
(but I went into that van around 7 and it felt like only a moment that I blacked out)
and I can see Beverly’s husband lurking back there in the shadows, near a blue Ford Taurus. Lila pushes her head up under my hand and my racing thoughts and nerves are quieted enough so I can smell the air and there’s no danger. He smells like fresh wood and the outdoors and honest sweat.
I haven’t responded to Beverly’s question so she asks, “Do you want a place to stay tonight or what?”
“Yes,” I say.
-26-
There is a clock ticking loudly in the kitchen, and the fabric on the couch scratches my face. I can hear Bev’s husband snoring behind their closed door.
I flop onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. I should be tired, yet my eyes refuse to close. I keep returning to those two teenagers in the van. Did they deserve what they got? During these three years I haven’t really thought about whether those I killed deserved it, not until Paul. It had always sickened me and made me feel like a monster. I think back to that old man, the one who I killed in his wife’s arms
(the one whose house “mysteriously” burned down right after I left)
Did he deserve to die? All those nosy questions, they had made me angry. Or maybe irritated is a better word. Is that enough reason? I think of others, so many others.
(did my father deserve to die? My uncles?)
I sigh and roll onto my side. So many dead, it’s a strain to think on all of them, all the whys, since I usually began panicking at the first sign of the blackouts. Was it something a person said, a careless dannyboy that set me off?
There were no bite marks on those two today. I did not kill them out of hunger. But I didn’t kill those squirrels in the forest because they offended me or meant me harm.
The night wears on. My eyes itch. The clock ticks.
-27-
I am eager to migrate towards a city. Bev and her husband Jack tell me the nearest city is 15 miles south, Lexington. When I tell them I’m heading north they point me toward Broken Bow: 50 miles. Jack gives me a ride on his way to work. He builds big empty houses for people with money to spare.
The house skeletons salute me as I walk down the street, which is not yet paved and rutted from the dump trucks and cranes. How are there this many people looking for a new house? I stop at the end of the road, where the dirt meets the pavement, and look at the sign: Mist Valley Estates: Luxury Homes. In smaller print: “a gated community.” The wrought iron fence is already in place, with stonework wings that will eventually hold the gate meant to keep homeless kids like me out.
From up here I can see the highway, across several streets crowded with houses. It looks so close but I know it’s about a half day’s walk. Nevertheless, Lila takes off for it, running across a field of cut-down cornstalks.
So I managed not to black out last night. I managed not to kill Bev and Jack. It shouldn’t be so hard to believe, since I managed not to kill Bobby for several weeks, but Bobby never raised his voice to me. Bev had a harsh way about her, the way a lot of truck drivers are – the way that got them killed, at least if my theories are correct. And I didn’t kill her!
Of course, I’m paying for it now, because it meant I barely slept at all last night.
It’s harder than it looks walking over a freshly cut field. The jagged stumps of corn stalks and hardened clumps of earth keep tripping me up.
But I keep thinking: maybe I can control it, maybe there’s hope.
Then I think: maybe it was the pot.
* * *
After the corn field, Lila leads me through a neighborhood that makes me wary of psychotic pet dogs. I can tell it’s nearing the end of October – not by the weather, but by the decorations. This is the sort of neighborhood with corn stalks on their porch posts, pumpkins carved into jack o’lanterns. No toys on the lawns. Everything in its place.
The families must have money, but not enough to buy their way into a gated community. They must keep their dogs chained, or inside, because not a one is heard barking its warning at me. I can smell them, though. Faintly, beneath the squeaky clean scents of Pine Sol and lemon-scented Dawn and bleach. It makes me walk faster.
Finally, the highway. Many cars whizz past but none stop for a skinny boy and his dog.
Around late afternoon I wander away from the highway toward a dusty town center. I figure I’ll save the sandwich Bev made for me for later, and buy dinner while there is someplace to buy from. I eat a greasy slice of pizza outside on the bench, even though I’d like to eat inside, out of the cutting cold air, because the guy behind the counter barked, “No dogs in here!” the second Lila set her paw inside.
I had figured it was October, but it becomes clear to me that it is actually Halloween. I watch store owners light up jack o’lanterns in their shop windows, and don witch’s hats and monster masks. Soon little kids, wrapped up in costumes over their bulky winter jackets, are being led down the street by their parents, carrying sacks of candy.
The last time I noticed Halloween was Before – the past two years gone by I must have been camped out in the middle of nowhere, someplace trick or treaters don’t go. The last time I noticed Halloween I dressed as a vampire, with a black cape that was too small and barely covered my back, my face painted white by my mother with blood dripping down my chin and uncomfortable plastic fangs that made it impossible to talk.
you’re too old for halloween, dannyboy
Kayla and I went out together, the tallest ones on the sidewalks. She was a Greek goddess, a white sheet wrapped over her coat and leaves in her hair. We filled our pillowcases with candy, ignoring those houses where the occupants told us, “Aren’t you a little old for trick-or-treating?” All the while a knot formed in my belly, thinking about what aw
aited me when I got home.
halloween is for little babies, dannyboy
I swallow my last bite of pizza, crumple my plate and throw it away. Then Lila and I head back to the highway.
Maybe it’s because I know it’s Halloween, but I am seriously unnerved when it’s time to bunker down for the night. Lila sniffs out a playhouse – the owner’s house is dark except for the porch light, and the tiny house is just big enough for the two of us. There are even little blankets and a pillow from a miniature crib. Lila crawls under the child-sized table and starts snoring.
I should be tired. No sleep last night, walking all day today. But the little sounds keep me awake. The grasses whisper and the playhouse creaks in the wind. Inside the big house I can hear the soft breathing of children beneath the louder sighs of a woman and a man’s snoring. I strain to count the children, but they are too quiet behind closed and locked doors, and the wind seems determined to blow strange faraway sounds and smells to confuse and distract me.
There are prairie dogs burrowing under the earth, coyotes scrabbling in the hills past the highway, the unbearably loud engines of semis barreling toward their destinations. I press the pillow against my ears, but there are still the smells. Cracker crumbs from a pretend tea party in the little house, garbage freezing in a plastic trash bin. I can smell the prairie dogs and the coyotes, but I can also smell something else. Some other animal.
It smells familiar but I can’t place it. All I know is that this animal’s scent puts me on edge. I feel threatened. It is a predator, whatever it is. There is some comfort in that. I might have imagined my unease being a fear of discovery, or of blacking out.
I reach between the table legs and wrap my arms around Lila, burying my nose into her fur. I might be dreaming, but I think I can still smell the lilacs.
* * *
The howling wakes me up.
The sound is far off, echoing across miles in the quiet darkness. Still, I feel the threat in those howls. A pack, hunting their prey, confident in their strength.
I open my eyes despite the darkness. In the dim moonlight Lila’s head is up, her ears alert, nose facing the nose. Her nostrils work delicately. I wonder what it is she can smell that my own sensitive nose can’t detect.
The predator smell is strong and I still can’t figure out what sort of animal it belongs to. I’m safe here, I tell myself. There is a little door and a little doorknob to keep out those without opposable thumbs. I’m in a neighborhood full of strong people smells. I have a guard dog. Roving packs of wild animals are not going to attack me as I sleep. These things do not happen in neighborhoods full of happy families and minivans and picket fences.
When I reach over to pat Lila, she pays no heed to my touch. Even her fur stands on guard.
* * *
After our strange night, we sleep late. Too late. I awaken to children’s voices laughing in the yard.
I raise my head and assess the situation. A mother watches from inside as her three children play with a soccer ball. The oldest is perhaps eight, school age, which means today is a Saturday or Sunday. The youngest could be three or four. All have the same carrot-orange hair and freckles.
For now I am safe, but I don’t know when the focus will move from the soccer ball to the playhouse. I can continue to hide out and wait for a better time, or make a run for it before I am discovered and police called.
Three red-haired heads swivel toward me as I emerge from the playhouse, but I am in the front yard and jogging down the street before a word is uttered. That word comes from the youngest: “Puppy!”
I can only hope the mother, busy at her computer, didn’t see me well enough for a description.
Although, “teenage boy and dog” would still get me stopped by a patrol car.
-28-
At a gas station I stop in to pick up something to eat: a sandwich if this is one of those deluxe gas stations, or a Power Bar at least. Before I even reach the refrigerator cases at the back of the store, the latest newspaper grabs my attention.
Pack of Wild Dogs Attack Local Boy
Those howls last night – my irrational anxiety – were these the same dogs?
Quickly, and under the scrutiny of the acne-covered clerk (she doesn’t really care what I’m doing, but teenage boys don’t usually read the paper and who knows what my hair looks like or how strongly I smell), I scan the article.
The body of a tenth grade student at the local high school was found in bushes in a new development. Apparently he had been out late, over a friend’s house, drinking on Halloween, and had taken a short cut home. His body was torn apart, and the numerous paw prints around the body indicated at least five different animals. The authorities weren’t sure if these were wild coyotes, wolves, or feral dogs, but the paw prints were smaller than a wolf’s and larger than a coyote’s. There had also been reports of a pack of wild dogs in the area.
The article went on with tips about what to do if approached by a wild animal, and information about rabies, even though the possibility of the wild dogs having rabies had not even been mentioned by the animal control officers who were interviewed. I suppose it makes sense that the reporter would assume something like that – what other reason would make a pack of wild animals attack a human?
As I select a sandwich from the deli case, I wonder if that new development was Mist Valley Estates.
Days pass by in monotony, ever headed north. In the nights I dream. In dreams I run alongside Lila on all fours, baying at the moon, driven on by the scent of blood.
-29-
Libraries can be tricky. Some are small, and if you look school-age and the librarians see you hanging around all day, they start to ask questions. Others are big, and have security guards there to keep people from stealing stuff and taking baths in the men’s room, and they’re pretty alert for truants and homeless people, of which I am both. An adult they’d just kick out, but me they’d have to call the police.
There are some libraries, though, that don’t ask questions and don’t mind me hanging around all day reading, libraries where the bathrooms aren’t locked and I can wash up, libraries that let you use the computers even if you don’t have a library card.
These are the libraries I like.
Normally I don’t like spending a lot of time around other people, especially places that would eventually notice me. Gas stations, diners – these places are full of anonymous faces, passers-through. Libraries, on the other hand, are full of local people who notice if you’re not from around here. But in those quiet spaces I don’t have to worry so much about blacking out. I’m calm and the beast sleeps.
My first winter on the road I spent a lot of time in libraries. It was warm, and even though my stomach was so empty it felt like a cave between my ribs and my hipbones, I could pretend for a few hours that I was normal. Lost in a book, I was a normal kid with normal problems like a school bully or a suicidal friend or anorexia. I never found a book where the kid has my problem: waking up to find that he’s murdered a bunch of people and possibly eaten them. Then again, I never read horror books.
On some really bad days, I hid in the library all night rather than face the cold winds and seeping wetness and the certainty of blacking out.
I arrived in Broken Bow, Nebraska late last night via a trucker who offered his bed to share at the truck stop motel. He was lucky that he made this little proposition after he’d pulled into the parking lot, when I could just jump out. He was lucky that he was just a sad man offering out of loneliness and not perversity. He had also been willing to take Lila along.
I chose instead a bed of trash bags beside a dumpster, located outside of a Chinese food restaurant, with Lila as my blanket. My pillow smelled of dim sum. The trucker had bought me dinner at a fast food window several hours back, otherwise I might have ripped open that garbage bag and made a meal of it.
Nights like that make early mornings. Although I’d like to lose myself in a book after the pace Lila has set for
me, I need some answers, and there’s only one place I know to get those. Lila has disappeared, but somehow I know that she will find me.
The library is only a block away. I sit on the stone wall that surrounded the building, watching people come and go. It’s a quiet place, or maybe just a quiet morning. I only know the days when I look at newspapers. I decide to take a chance and walk inside.
Bathrooms unlocked, that is a good sign. I wash off the odor of trash, then decide to use a computer.
It’s been a while since I used the internet. When I first hit the road, I checked for news about what I’d done. I was sure there was going to be a manhunt, or at the very least a missing persons report. There was. It was worse than I could have imagined, headlines splashed on all the newspapers about the massacre, although it had taken the police three days to find the bodies. By then, I’d gotten out of Montana and was halfway across South Dakota.
They weren’t looking for me yet, but I was sure soon they’d make the connection, find some DNA evidence and then there’d be wanted posters. I stole a box of hair dye from a CVS and dyed my brown hair black in a gas station bathroom. I stopped going near people.
Today, however, I’m not checking for news.
The trucker last night had rambled some story about his wife and how she found a tumor and diagnosed herself on Web M.D.
I open up Google, then type in “web md” and click on the site.
I select my symptoms: headache, dizziness, nausea, blackouts.
The website pops up a list of possible afflictions. Most I can immediately rule out: migraines, sinusitis, heat exhaustion, diabetes. I click on labyrinthitis and cryptococcosis, but the illnesses are not nearly as mysterious as they sound. I doubt that anemia or kidney disease would cause what I have. That leaves the psychiatric sicknesses like panic attacks and anxiety disorder.
I stare at the screen until I grow concerned that others are watching me, thinking me crazy, as I now think myself crazy. I close the internet browser, move to a catalog computer and type in “psychiatric disorders.” I get a Dewey Decimal number, which I copy onto a slip of paper and head into the stacks.