Dismember (9 page)

But Dave cut him off. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” he said. The boy meant his old mother, of course, and Dave knew it, but he didn’t want to risk a conversation about her. Not now or ever.

“Why are you doing this?”

Dave nudged him again. “No more questions,” he said, still keeping his voice perfectly cool and level. “Georgie never asked so many stupid questions.”

“I don’t know who Georgie is,” he said. “My name is Zach.”

Dave smiled and nudged him forward. “Used to be. You used to be Zach, I used to be Davy, everybody used to be somebody.”

The boy didn’t respond to this. He pushed on, warding off a low-hanging tree branch with one arm and letting it swing back when he’d moved out of its way. He didn’t look back to see if it had hit Dave (which it had not), and Dave was glad. He didn’t want to think Georgie had tried to hurt him on purpose, although at worst it would have thwacked him in the chest and maybe given him a little welt.

The trees thinned ahead. Not far from where they walked, sunlight cut through the canopy in wide swaths. The road beyond was really more of a gravel walkway that had once been wide enough to allow a vehicle passage to a pair of cabins in the mountains above. The cabins had burned a long time ago, and nature had crept in to reclaim what had been leveled, but Dave had managed to get his truck most of the way up the forgotten road and knew he could get it all the way back down. He’d done it before.

The underbrush grew less dense here, and the trail widened until it became almost indistinguishable from the rest of the forest floor, though Dave could still see it clearly where it hit the road and make out the spot on the other side where it continued.

He’d parked the truck just downhill from that point, and though it seemed the boy had still not spotted it—had, in fact, strayed in the opposite direction—Dave saw the sunlight reflecting off the windshield and just a hint of blue from the hood. He touched Georgie’s shoulder and steered him in the right direction, like a shepherd with a single lamb. In a lot of ways, he supposed that was exactly what a daddy was supposed to be.

They walked through the last stretch of forest side by side, Dave’s footsteps hardly louder than the rustle of pine needles beneath them, the boy’s sounding like a slow applause as his damaged sole continued its clapping.

They reached the overgrown road. Dave didn’t see the boy speed up, but he heard it.
Clap, pause, clap
, became
clap clap clap
. And then the boy was running.

He ran uphill—his first mistake—and stayed on the road, opting for a clear path ahead rather than the possibility of cover, which made sense to an extent but was, in all the ways that mattered, very dumb. Dave was more ashamed than upset. He supposed he needed to understand that, despite Georgie having always loved the outdoors, he hadn’t had a chance to grow up in them yet. Dave had a lot to teach him.

Although the boy was graceful in some regards, he was a gangly runner, all legs and arms and flailing elbows. Dave barely had to do more than walk to catch up with the scrambling boy. Just a little bit of movement, but enough to restart the throbbing in his face and eye.
Damn bitch
, he thought, glad he’d gutted her, wondering how he could ever have thought she’d be an acceptable choice.

Ahead, the road curved sharply, cut uphill through a grove of thick trees and led at last to the two cabins, which Dave had investigated only once on a rainy night that spring. From the place where he overtook Georgie and latched on to the back of his t-shirt, Dave couldn’t make out the two ruined homesteads, but they were up there, hidden in the trees, home now to only the birds, the bugs, and the burrowing animals camped out beneath the rubble.

Georgie whipped around so furiously that a chunk of shirt almost ripped off in Dave’s hand, but the man twisted his fingers into the material until he had a good enough hold to make sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere. Dave saw the grass-covered stone on the road before the boy did and kicked it out of the way just as one of Georgie’s hands dipped in its general direction. Dave didn’t flip Georgie around, didn’t say anything, just turned back toward the truck and dragged the writhing child behind him.

Out here in the open, the sun baked Dave’s head and face. He’d spent so long hiding in the shade, he’d almost forgotten it was summer. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek, hung for a moment from the tip of his chin, and then fell to the dirt below. 

The boy’s thrashing had almost stopped, which seemed strange to Dave. His fits of rebellion came in spurts. Throw a rock here, run away there, but never an all-out fight for his life. 

Only after he’d pushed Georgie in through the passenger-side door and buckled him into his seat did Dave say calmly, “Doesn’t make any sense to run away, does it?” He pulled the belt tighter and wrapped it once all the way around the boy. Not exactly handcuffs, but it kept him from making any sudden moves, and that would have to do for now. Eventually, Dave knew, Georgie would settle down. He was a good boy. “I’d find you, son,” he said, liking the way that last word sounded. “I’ll always find you.”

He slammed the door and circled around the front of the truck, looking once at the forest around them, not expecting to see anything or anyone, just looking, remembering. He doubted he’d ever return to this particular stretch of the mountains. He wondered if the boy had already come to the same realization.

Smiling, the birthday boy dropped into the truck behind the steering wheel. He’d started the engine and slipped the transmission into reverse, about to back his way downhill when he noticed the thing hanging from the rearview mirror. A flower-scented air-freshener.
His
air-freshener. He rolled down his window and ripped the thing from the rearview.

“He always liked lilac.”

The boy looked at him, said nothing.

Dave flicked his wrist and sent the air-freshener spinning out the window. It didn’t fly far before making a strange dive through the air like a wing-shot bird and landing with a soft rustle in the weeds beside the road.

“Won’t need that anymore,” Dave said, wiping his bloodstained hand on his pants as if, by touching the air-freshener, he’d only now gotten the hand dirty. “This is my truck now. Mine and yours.” He rooted around on the floorboards, found an old gas receipt, and poked it onto the rearview’s adjustment lever to replace the air freshener. Then he propped his arm on the back of the seat and backed slowly down the mountain road.

The truck bounced over large rocks and pitted areas where the road had partially washed away. The few tools in the truck’s bed—a shovel, a rake, a toolbox full of old wrenches and screwdrivers—clanged and clattered while the truck continued its bumpy ride. Dave turned on the radio, which never worked well, and got no reception; the static whispered from the speakers, sounding almost peaceful, like a bubbling brook or the wind through overhead tree limbs.

Dave reached a spot in the road wide enough to turn the pickup around and did so. When they were pointed front forward and rolling along once more, Dave said, “The family truck,” as if he’d been thinking it all along.

N
INE

T
revor sat on the toilet in the far stall looking down between his bare, thin legs at his dangling thingy and at the poo smeared across the cracked toilet seat. He’d almost made it, had been within four or five steps of the stall when the final cramp hit him and the back of his pants just about exploded. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been runny. Trevor hated runny poo, hated the way it splashed up from the toilet water and the way it got all over the place so that you couldn’t hardly ever get it all wiped off.

Of course, it was worse when it happened in your pants.

He grabbed another handful of toilet paper from the roll on the wall beside him, lifted his leg, and tried again to clean off the back of it with a series of awkward swipes.

Just a few more steps, or maybe if he’d just left the line for the merry-go-round one minute earlier. Except he hadn’t had to go one minute earlier. The urge had hit him all at once, like it sometimes did, and he hadn’t even had enough time to go back to the table and get his mommy. In fact, for one scary moment he’d thought he would unload right there in the middle of the waiting crowd. In front of those girls.
Jeez
. If that had happened, he probably would have curled right up in the puddle of his own stinking mess and died.

So yeah, at least it hadn’t been all bad. At least he’d made it into the bathroom and most of the way to the toilet before the gunk had run its way out of his shorts, down his legs, and onto the floor. He’d even gotten some of it into the toilet bowl—the last few squeezes, at least.

Plus Mommy and Daddy had found him. Somehow. He still hadn’t quite figured that out, but he was glad as could be. Here he was with both his mommy
and
his daddy taking care of him, when he could just as easily have been crying in front of a bunch of poo-covered girls and trying to explain to them that it hadn’t been his fault, that it had happened all of a sudden, that it had been the
runny
kind.

He dropped the dirty wad of toilet paper into the toilet and reached over his shoulder to pull on the flusher. Beyond the stalls, he heard his daddy at the sink splashing water and scrubbing at something. Probably his shoes. Trevor didn’t think he’d gotten them very dirty, just a few smears down the backs, and he was glad the shoes wouldn’t have to get trashed, too.

Stupid. He couldn’t believe how stupid he was. What kind of a kindergartener pooped his pants at the mall? Not even a kindergartner. Just a few more weeks and he’d be in the first grade. If any of his classmates found out what had gone on today, he’d be the laughing stock till the end of time. Maybe longer. They’d give him a nickname like Diarrhea or Number Two
and hide toilet paper and diapers in his desk.

At least he was pretty sure his name didn’t rhyme with any of the many kinds of poop. Last year, Scotty Peterson had gone an entire morning with a booger on the tip of his nose. Ms. White had cleaned it off with a tissue before the class went to lunch, but by then Scotty had already become Snotty Peterson, and that had been the least of his troubles.

Trevor thought he was probably safe. Only his parents knew what had happened, what he had done. And why would they tell anybody? If he didn’t let it slip, Trevor didn’t think his accident would ever come back to haunt him.

He hopped off the toilet, grabbed another handful of toilet paper and twisted around until he could see the top of his naked bottom. So much poo. He thought all his insides must have been completely filled with the stuff. He doubted even an elephant could have made this much of a mess. Maybe a dinosaur. If it was sick.

“Dad,” he said, trying not to sound too pathetic, too babyish.

A few footsteps, and then, “You doing okay in there?”

“I think I got most of it,” Trevor said, “but I can’t reach everywhere.”

“Okay, give me a sec and I’ll finish up for you.”

Trevor heard some more splashing and the sound of paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. When his dad knocked on the door, he unlocked it and made a half-hearted attempt to cover his privates. His dad had seen him naked lots of times, he guessed, he shouldn’t have been embarrassed, but he was just a little all the same.

And besides, you never knew when someone else might come wandering in. He
definitely
didn’t want to flash his thingy at some stranger.

The towels in Daddy’s hands dripped and bubbled.

“You got ‘em soapy,” Trevor said.

“Mm-hmm,” Daddy said, spinning Trevor around and scrubbing at the backs of his legs and his bottom. “Gotta get you sparkling.”

Trevor waited patiently while his dad finished cleaning him and wiped up the remaining mess on the floor. “Dad,” he said when it appeared he was finished. “I’m sorry.”

Dad waved his hand. “As far as the mess goes, forget it. I’ve seen much worse. But you know you really should have told your mom where you were going. She was worried crazy.”

“I know,” Trevor said. “But I had to go real bad. I didn’t want to go number two out there with all those people.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “There were girls out there.”

“Were there?” Dad said, smiling just a little. “Pretty ones?”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “Dad.”

“Well,” Dad said, “I guess I can’t blame you too much. Now go ahead and lock this door until your mom comes back.”

“Kay.” Trevor grabbed the edge of the door and swung it most of the way shut. “Hey,” he said, peeking through the opening.

Daddy raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“You wouldn’t ever tell anybody, would you? At school, I mean. I don’t want them to call me
Diarrhea or Number Two.”

Now Dad smiled for real and pretended to zip his lips shut and lock them tight.

“Thanks,” Trevor said and closed the door.

T
EN

A
s the truck drove over the gravel roads, Zach bounced on his seat and thought about his pants pocket. The seatbelt pinned his arms to his sides, and although he thought he probably could have gotten them out with a wiggle or two and a couple of bent elbows, he left them where they were and pretended he was bound up tight. He still wasn’t sure just exactly what was happening to him, what the rules of the situation were—more importantly, what he could get away with and what might get him killed. He wanted to reach for his pocket, see if the object that had been there earlier was still there now—all he’d have to do was bend forward a little and stretch out his fingers—but he didn’t dare. Not yet.

The truck hit an large dip in the road, and Zach bounced so high he thought his head would slam into the ceiling. It didn’t, but he did land on his left leg in an awkward way that pinched the skin just behind his knee. He hissed. The man behind the wheel looked at him, but Zach didn’t look back, pretended nothing had happened. He wouldn’t give this psycho the satisfaction of watching him squirm.