Superman's Cape (14 page)

It was a strange quiet. A quiet that had the woods stuck somewhere between asleep and awake. A limbo time when things were half on and half off. He closed his good eye again and listened for sounds of running water or even the falling drops of collected rains that escaped the grounds. He heard what sounded like water. Thirst forced a dry swallow. He turned his body around and listened for the water. It pained him, but he smiled when he heard it again.

Kyle moved slow as he tried to get to his feet. A groan fell from his mouth while he held his head between his hands. He thought if he got up too fast then his brains would spew out through his ear holes. As he stepped forward he thought of the funny bobble head dolls at the gas station and could imagine his own
Kyle bobble head doll
trying to walk through the woods. In his mind he saw its oversized head dancing on his shoulders with a broken face and just one good eye.

Two, then three steps went by and he was standing up straighter. His bobble head tilted back and forth like a bobble head would. Another couple of steps and his bobble head began to feel lighter. But after his next step he was dropping back to his knees. He sat on the heels of his feet, his toes pinching the ground. He coughed up more of yesterday’s nightmare. He ran his hand over his bare chest, remembering the shirt the boar took from him after it stomped him.

Kyle turned his bobble head to face the swampy grounds. He saw a piece of his shirt. All of it was buried, except for one sleeve. The sleeve looked like a flag that was dead with no breeze. It was easy to see – even in the morning twilight. The offending colors glowed an ugly green-yellow.
My nightlight
, he thought and dropped his bobble head chin to inspect the mosquito bites peppered across his belly. His whitish gray skin also glowed like his shirt but had a mess of deep scratches that appeared to be spreading. Some of the scratches itched and bubbled with small blisters that he knew he dare not touch.
Touch one get two, touch two get four, touch four your effed,
he thought and giggled. Kyle moved his bobble head back up to his shirt and thought with or without mud it is better than no shirt at all.

Forgetting about the water, Kyle crawled toward his yellow and green nightlight. He staggered again to his feet and repeated the one and two steps, holding his bobble head between his hands. The smell of sea salts carried on a breeze that made its way past the frozen blood and mucous plugging his nose. The ground under his feet felt firm.

Kyle knew at some point the good ground, the solid ground, the ground he was walking on would go away. And in its place, he’d find a trap of brown slurry mixed in with rotting carcasses. Kyle reached the shirt and eased down to his knees. He didn’t dare take a step closer for fear of becoming trapped again by the muck. He stretched, leaning over, extending his fingers. Pressure and stinging returned to his, watering his eyes. His knees started to grow wet as his weight pushed on the loose earth. The wet put a chill in him and the sudden urge to pee set in. Kyle reached another half inch and his fingers touched the cloth and closed on the sleeve. He collapsed his fist and took back his shirt that he lost the evening before.

Before he could sink any further into the mud, Kyle was up and backed off a couple of steps. When the ground beneath him felt firm he did what any boy his age would do, he peed. Only he did it with resentment for the bog mud and with every drop he pointed his stream square on the loose earth that tried to swallow him whole.

“Drink dat up, you don o’ a ditch!” he barked.

His legs rocked then folded. There was no negotiation. There was no questioning whether to walk past the exhaustion and pain and move on to the water he heard. He had to sit and wait.

The shirt was his award. He’d worked and captured it back from the bog mud that almost captured him.
The mud will dry
, he thought as he opened it up. He wiped away what he could. Then with the help of the coarse pine needles he rubbed away more. Finally when the shirt was clean enough, he turned the shirt over and put it back on.

Kyle closed his eyes and listened for the water – birds were waking up and he knew how loud they would get once the morning stirred a few more. He listened past the voices breaking the dawn. The running water was to his left. He turned his body in the direction of the water and spotted the first tree that stood between him and the sound.

“Dirds are gonna get loud,” he mumbled then staggered from one tree to next. The sound of water tickled his ears and quenched his thirst. He swallowed dry against his raw throat.

“Connecting da dots,” he muttered as he put a tree in front of him and walked to it. He lined up another, thinking he’d get to the water if he loses the sound to the birds. He moved from a fourth and fifth tree then repeated what he was doing until losing count. The weight of his head forced him to his knees more than once. Thirst was a constant. When the trickling water was louder than the birds, he’d found the X on the map. He’d found buried treasure.

A small laugh from his broken mouth surprised him when he stood at the bank of the creek. It was small, and he was amazed he could hear the running water at all. With a crippled jump, Kyle skipped over top to the other side. A small landing welcomed first his feet, and then his knees as he leaned over to cup his hands and draw in the first sips. The water was a delicious cold that wrestled and won against the burn that plagued his throat. He thought it was the coldest and clearest he’d ever seen. He moved his bobble head up to see where the water was running from.
Maybe it is a spring
, he thought, and splashed more water on his swollen face.

Carefully, Kyle did what he could to clean his arm. But, the cut opened enough to bleed again and he left it alone. He drank more handfuls from the stream until his stomach yelled back. A revolt crept up his throat, and he stopped before vomiting. The guilt from the day before felt far away and the death of his father felt even farther. He didn’t stew in the thoughts too long. Instead, Kyle thought about something more immediate – like food and going home.

The smell of wintergreen and chewing tobacco was too much for Jacob’s stomach. He grabbed hold of the passenger window’s crank handle and began to turn it. The trip to Maysville from the WJL-TV station wasn’t a short ride. Jacob’s hope of a quick trip was dashed after the first half hour. Miles on the road was one thing. A cramped news van with a wintergreen chaw smell was something else altogether. He tightened his grip on the small crank wheel and turned it harder as the odor grew and spread like a weaponized fog. The window moaned against the pressure of the handle and then reluctantly let go with a pop. Jacob lowered the glass and let fresh air enter the crowded space of the van’s cab. From behind him he heard Jill yell a
thank you
while Steve, their cameraman and driver, rolled his eyes.

“That’s a whole lot better,” Jacob nodded to Steve as he inhaled air from the window and smiled.

From the van’s dashboard, Steve grabbed an aging Styrofoam cup. A few years past its prime, the cup saw enough of what Steve was about to offer. Licking the cracked and brittle lip, he gave Jacob a wink and threw a stream of tobacco from his mouth.

“Mmm Mmm. Tasty stuff – you wanna chunk?” he joked.

Jacob shook his head as his stomach flipped, “I’m good,” he answered and rolled the window down further.

Steve snorted a laugh and pulled the cup from his mouth. A long stringer of spit and tobacco hung from his lower lip like a circus high-wire act. The web of spittle danced as air passed over it. Steve made a slurping sound when he sucked the string back into his mouth.

“That is really very gross!” Jill exclaimed.

Steve laughed even more, “Mmmm MMMM,” he finished as he wiped away the black-green remains from his chin. Jacob nodded his head as his stomach rocked and threatened to empty.

The GPS perched on the dashboard sang a song of directions to the three of them. A computerized female voice in a British accent offered turn by turn instructions. Mechanical, yet alluring. Jacob listened as the voice told them when to turn left and right. But Jacob already knew the way.

When the first tugs caught his attention, he thought his gift was back at work. He only found disappointment. Something else was pulling him. It was pulling all of them.
Imaginary strings on the inside
, he considered, then frowned at the thought. Strings or no strings, he felt better. From that first mile to the second and third – the closer to Maysville they were, the better he felt.

“In a quarter of a mile make a left turn,” the British voice told them.

Something rolled on the floor of the van. The sound pulled Jacob’s eyes from the road. The mat under his feet held scattered stones that rolled in the direction of each turn. Only now some of the stones moved against the van’s turns. One of the gravel stones rolled to Jacob’s foot and bumped his shoe.

“In an eighth of a mile make a left turn,” the British voice sounded.

Jacob paused a moment, but then dismissed what he saw. Annoyed, he kicked at the stone then pulled his foot back. A second and third stone rolled up and bumped his shoe again. Jacob sat up as his eyes narrowed on the floor mat. More of the gravel came to life. They moved to his feet like metal to a magnet as something stole his breath.

“Not feeling so good,” Jacob blurted. All of his attention was captured as another mass of gravel met his shoes and began a barrage of hits against his feet.

“In three hundred feet make a left turn,” the voice announced. A loud click-clack called back to the GPS as Steve turned his left signal on and slowed the van.

Jacob pushed his foot against the pebbles and shoved them away. Some bounced up and down, peppering the tops of his feet with punches. Steve turned the steering wheel, hand over hand, directing the van in a wide left swing that crossed the lanes of oncoming traffic. The gravel bodies bounced higher and grew in size. Arms and legs sprouted from them like white tendrils from a soured vat of grain. A familiar troll mite chatter sounded in Jacob’s ears as he shuddered and clutched at the sides of his seat.

“Turn around!” he screamed. “Turn the van around and go back!”

Steve jumped when Jacob yelled. He shot a look across the cab and then back to Jill. His eyes spilled confusion while his broken and uncertain smile searched for words.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Steve asked as he slowed the van’s turn. Troll mites thrashed at Jacob’s feet and shins. They dug their muscled jaws into him, biting and pulling the skin on his legs.

“Oh my God! Don’t turn. Please Don’t Turn! Straight! Go straight – we have to go straight!” Jacob pleaded. He understood. The troll mites knew the way to Maysville. They were in charge of the drive. Not Steve with the steering wheel in his hands. Or the sweet sounding British voice. No, it was the troll mites. They would decide left and right and when to go and God yes, Jacob prayed, when to stop.

Jill leaned in from behind them and brushed her hand against Jacob’s head. “What is it Jacob? What is it?” But Jacob couldn’t answer. He heard her, but couldn’t answer. He was afraid of the troll mites and what more they might do to him if he didn’t start moving towards Maysville again. The troll mites latched onto him and did their ‘Rust Bucket’ dance up and down. They rattled his legs until he thought they’d pull each of them from his body.

“Please. Please! Turn around and go straight!” he begged and heard his voice crack and break and thought tears would join his words.

“Steve --” Jill started, “-- turn the van back!” she continued, her voice firm and clear.

“What, you too? Are you kidding me?”

Jill pulled on Steve’s arm. “Steve, I dunno why. Just do it!” she finished.

“Fine!” Steve yelled and slowed the van. He turned and gave Jill a cynical look. His frown stayed as he turned his eyes to Jacob and then back to the road.

“You’re both freaking Nuts! This is on your ass. Not mine. You tell Andy what happened if we miss the story!” Steve rolled the van to a slow stop and turned around in the intersection. At once, the troll mite chatter was gone and the seizure that captured Jacob’s legs disappeared.

“Recalculating … Recalculating,” the British voice of the GPS responded.

Jacob’s vision had gone black at some point. He’d shut his eyes in fear of the troll mites digging into them like they’d done before. He felt Jill’s hand on him and opened his eyes.

“Recalculating … Recalculating,” echoed in the van.

Jacob kept his head straight. He didn’t want to look down at the floor. To his feet. To see what was left of his legs. The troll mites shrunk back to their former selves. All that remained was the road gravel rolling around as Steve righted the van back onto the blacktop of road.

“Recalculating … Recalc ...,” the British voice started, but was cut off as Steve threw the back of his hand across the screen of the GPS. The GPS device danced end over end across the dashboard. It screamed a plastic death rattle as it rolled, teetered and then fell to the floor.

“Thank you. Thank you, Steve,” Jacob started. An urge to laugh suddenly caught up to him as the sound of the British voice and breaking plastic played back in his head. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was gratitude to the troll mites for leaving him be. Or maybe it was just the death of the GPS. Whatever it was, it felt good.

He began to giggle. He tried not to. But he giggled anyway. He saw Jill’s face. Her eyes had relief in them. She smiled at Jacob. She squeezed her touch on him.

“Recalculating,” Jill sounded out in what was a terrible attempt at a British accent. But it aired the tension like the window airing the chaw smell. Jacob laughed.

“Recalculating,” she said again and laughed with him.

“You guys suck,” Steve said, his words trailing with a giggle.

“Recalculating!” he shot out joining in.