Nothing But the Bones, page 1
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About the Author
Copyright Page
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For the misfits.
There are more of us than them.
God loves you, but not enough to save you.
—Ethel Cain
They thought I had guts. They were wrong. I was only frightened of more important things.
—Charles Bukowski
Intro
1989
Chapter One
Buy the sky and sell the sky and bleed the sky and tell the sky …
—REM
“… Don’t fall on me,” the boy sang out loud, not realizing it. He did that sometimes and he hated that about himself. But that was just one thing. There was a lot to hate.
Nelson spent most of the morning walking the railroad tracks that cut through the northern tip of McFalls County. He’d never actually seen a train come through here, and the foot-tall skunk weed that grew up through the brittle wooden ties made him believe the tracks were now a relic of the past, but at night sometimes from his bedroom he’d hear the whistle blow. Or maybe that was his imagination. He bent over to pick up a glass Coke bottle and hurled it several feet down the tracks. It shattered against the iron rails and echoed out into the morning, spooking a flock of nesting swallows that took to the sky in an inky swirl. He kept walking awhile, stopping to toss crushed soda cans and chunks of rock against the concrete embankment under Slater Street Bridge. Eventually, the boy slid the wire headphones down to his neck and made his way to the pond. After a short hike through the woods, careful not to disturb any of the early morning spiderwebs, the boy emerged through the tree line and crossed the clearing until he reached the water’s edge.
Nelson dropped his Walkman and his backpack onto a smooth chunk of limestone and sat down. The breeze sweeping off the pond was cool this time of day and it felt good blowing around the boy’s shirt collar. It also helped tame the dull ache of his blackened left eye. His father, Satchel, had popped him pretty good at supper the night before and left a doughy pink welt that had morphed into a patchwork of violet and yellow bruises. It hurt like hell. Nelson rubbed at his face. He’d never been fond of the way he looked, even when he wasn’t toting a black eye. The kids at school told him all the time that his eyes were too close together. He reckoned that was true. In fact, all of his facial features pooled together in the middle of his face, making his forehead and cheeks appear swollen.
He felt a sudden urge to jump into the pond. He did that sometimes to try and wash the salt out of his wounds, but he decided against it. Instead, he reached over, unzipped his backpack, and began to rummage through it, looking for the cathead biscuit he’d snatched up before he left the house. When he found it, the smell of fresh churned butter and mashed blackberries made his mouth water. He unwrapped the paper towel and took a bite. He closed his eyes and chewed slowly to make it last. He knew this was most likely all he’d get to eat today. He swallowed hard, set the biscuit down on the rock beside him and then reached back into his pack and slid out a shiny, flat comic book.
Batman—number 428.
The cover gleamed in the morning sun and Nelson handled it as if it were made of spun glass. The boy loved comic books. Most people dismissed them as drugstore garbage, just picture books for little kids. But for Nelson they were much more than that. Comics had helped him learn to read way better than any schoolbook. The way the words came in short bursts along with pictures to help him understand, instead of just rows of letters all lined up in a black-and-white jumble on the page. They allowed him to concentrate—to enjoy the story more. He’d tried to explain that to his teachers at school several times, but they never understood—or they didn’t care. But he loved those comics regardless. They were his most prized possessions. His mama used to buy them and hide them in his room to keep Satchel from finding them and tearing them up out of spite. That was the type of love Nelson had come to know from his folks. It came folded down the middle, like a stash of one-dollar bills cupped into a handshake, like a bribe. And now Nelson’s mama was gone so these comics were all he had.
Nelson flipped through the pages but couldn’t stop rubbing at his swollen eye. He heard the echo of his father calling him a retard as he hit him. He called Nelson that all the time. Especially without Mama around. The boy snorted and rubbed some more at his sore eye before hoisting a middle finger up at the clouds. The common belief among most of the people residing in the Blue Ridge foothills is that God never gives someone more weight than they can carry, but by the time Nelson McKenna was sixteen years old, he’d abandoned that ration of nonsense and took to his own belief—that sometimes God just likes to have a fucking laugh.
He felt a bug sting hard at his neck and shooed it away with a mangled left hand—another blessing from the good Lord. His hand was twice the size of a normal person’s hand—all curled and swollen—with shortened, fused, and stubby fingers. It made holding flimsy things like comic books difficult, but he’d learned to manage. He balanced the book on his bad hand and turned the pages with the other. He felt something else graze the back of his head and swatted at the air before picking up his biscuit and taking another bite.
“Oh shit,” he said, as he read. “Are they really going to kill Robin?” Nelson thumbed back another page. “No way.” For the first time that day, he forgot his monochrome existence and began to get lost in the four-color world playing out panel by panel at his fingertips.
He felt another bite on the back of his head and this time Nelson smacked himself hard enough to hurt his hand. “What the hell?” Nelson whipped his head around to look behind him—and his heart sank.
Chapter Two
Daryl Cliett and Jeter Thompson roared with laughter. “Holy shit, Jeter. I beaned the waterhead three times before he finally noticed.”
“Dumb fucker got a thick skull.”
The two older boys stood several feet behind Nelson, both holding a handful of river stones. Daryl had another one cued up and ready to throw. Nelson began to stand and fumbled his comic book into the sand. When Daryl chucked the rock, he and Jeter laughed again as Nelson flinched and covered his face. He managed not to get hit and quickly stuffed his deformed left hand into his jacket pocket and out of sight.
“Don’t try to hide that thing, McKenna. We all seen it before.” The boys made their way closer to Nelson and the water. Daryl was a thick-necked bruiser with a crew cut short enough to see the scars he had cut into his scalp from some ATV accident a few years back, and the other boy, Jeter, was a wafer-thin punk with a barely-there goatee that looked drawn on with a Magic Marker. Both boys had abandoned school last year in favor of working for the Burroughs Clan up on Bull Mountain. That happened around here. Once kids like these got a taste of how it felt to have a little money in their pockets, slinging weed or passing along unmarked paper bags became their new career path.
Jeter stepped up, pressed a finger into Nelson’s left temple, and pushed. “What happened to your face, Nelly? Your drunk-ass deddy try to straighten out them crooked eyes of yours?” Jeter looked to Daryl for approval and both boys erupted with laughter a third time.
“Just leave me alone.” Nelson took a step back and reached down to pick up his comic. Daryl shoved him back. Nelson wasn’t small, and he wasn’t easy to knock over, but he lost his footing in the sand and Daryl swooped down and grabbed the book. He also kicked Nelson’s half-eaten biscuit into the pond.
“Give it back,” Nelson said, without much authority.
“Oh, that’s right.” Daryl spoke as if Nelson was a toddler. “You wanna find out if Robin gets killed, right?”
Nelson felt a familiar confusion. Had he done it again? Had he been talking to himself out loud again and not realized it? The soft skin of his cheeks and forehead began to flush. “Just give it back. It’s mine.”
“Oh, I think it’s mine now, Nelly. And you know what else I think? I think you’re right. I think your little homo superhero does die. Watch this.” Daryl dangled the comic out in front of him by the corner, letting the pages fall loose, and then pulled a Zippo from the pocket of his jeans.
“Don’t,” Nelson said, but made no attempt to stop him.
“I think the Boy Wonder dies by fire. Right, Jeter?”
“Hell yeah he does.”
Daryl lit the Zippo and held the long blue flame up to the paper. It caught fire immediately. Daryl tossed it toward Nelson, who slapped the burning book to the ground and stomped it out with his boot. Black flakes of ash floated on the breeze. Nelson didn’t know how to process the right words. That happened a lot when he got upset or confused. He balled his good hand into a fist, but the two boys just laughed. Daryl bent down again and picked up Nelson’s backpack. “Hey Jeter, how about I see how far I can chuck thi
Thompson gave a thumbs-up and let out a ridiculous howl. Nelson wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. The words—they just got lodged in his throat. Because you’re stupid, he thought.
Daryl faced the water and drew back to throw the bag, but a new voice rang out across the clearing.
“Hey—asshole.”
Every head turned to watch Kate Farris make her way across the grass. She was one of only three people in school who treated Nelson like a human being, and she was quickly making her way across the field with the other two—her best friend, Amy, and a lanky redheaded kid. “Put that down and leave him alone,” Kate yelled, pulling her cocoa-brown hair back into a knot. Amy had to break into a jog to keep up, her braided blond ponytail bouncing over her shoulder. Nelson felt a wave of relief to see his friends, but it was fair to say he felt something entirely different when he saw Amy. She was the prettiest girl he knew. He adored her, and he hated that she had to be out here coming to his rescue. He rubbed at the bruise over his eye again as if his fingers could magically erase it. Daryl shielded his face from the sun and dropped the backpack to his feet. “Who the hell is that, Jeter?”
“That there is Kate Farris. Miss high and mighty thinks her shit don’t stink. Her folks got money. Don’t worry about her. She’s just some twat with a big mouth.” He squinted to make out who was trailing Kate and recognized the redheaded kid. Jeter straightened out his posture and smacked Daryl in the arm. “But hey,” he said. “Come on, D. Let’s get outta here, anyhow.”
“Why? You just said not to worry about that bitch.”
“She ain’t the problem. C’mon. Let’s just go.”
By then, Kate had stepped between the two boys and Nelson and firmly planted her hands on her hips. “What the hell is wrong with you, Daryl Cliett?”
Daryl looked. “Take it easy, girl. We’re just having a little fun with the retard here.”
“He’s not retarded, you jackass. But if you’re looking for dumb, go find a mirror.”
“You best shut your mouth.”
“Or what, tough guy? You going to throw my books in the water, too? Prove how cool you are?”
Daryl’s eyes sank back in his skull and he lifted the front of his T-shirt. A long pearl-handled folding straight razor poked out of his jeans. It looked like the type you’d see on the counter of a barbershop. He let the image of the blade have the desired effect on Kate before he spoke again. “Now, you wanna shut that pretty mouth or do you want me to cut you a new one?”
Kate just glared at him as her redheaded friend stepped between her and Daryl. “I think that’s enough, man. No need for all that. Just leave Nelson alone and we can all go our separate ways.”
“Maybe I don’t want to leave him alone.” Daryl took a step toward Nelson and slapped him in the back of the head. The sound of the hit echoed over the pond and Amy saw the embarrassment in his eyes. She didn’t think. She just turned and swung. The slap connected with everything she had, but Daryl was barely fazed. He caught her wrist on the follow-through and spun the tiny blond girl around, pulling her tight into his chest. He held her against him with one arm circled around her neck as she struggled to get free.
Clayton held his hands out in front of him. “Daryl. Let her go. This is getting out of hand. Just let her go and walk away.”
Daryl tightened his arm around Amy’s neck and shoulders, keeping her pinned in place, and he used his other hand to slide the straight razor out of his jeans. He popped his wrist and the blade sprung out. He stared holes in Clayton. “I know who you are, Burroughs.”
Clayton spoke slowly. “Then you know you don’t want to do this. Put the blade away and let her go.”
Daryl yelled to his friend. “Look at this, Jeter. Little Burroughs thinks he can talk shit because of who his deddy is. Jeter, is that a hoot or what?—Jeter?”
Jeter Thompson had slowly put several feet of distance between himself and everyone else. Especially Daryl. “Hey, man. I gotta go. I’ll holler at you later.” Although the boy was talking to Daryl, he was looking directly at Clayton.
“Looks like your buddy over there has the right idea. Put the razor away and let her go, Daryl. We can act like this never happened.”
Daryl’s eyes began to widen and twitch. “I’m not scared of you, Ginger. I know who your people are. Who your deddy is. But see, I’m an earner for them boys. They got respect for me. And you best believe they don’t give one shit about you.” He moved the dull side of the razor up Amy’s hip and brushed her shoulder with the blade. “And they damn sure ain’t gonna care about what I do to this uppity bitch.”
With that, Nelson had heard enough. He pushed Clayton aside and swung his oversized left fist into Daryl’s face. His nose exploded like an overripe tomato. Amy broke free as he fell backward, swinging the razor blindly out in front of him before he landed flat on the huge chunk of limestone. Amy fell into Clayton and Kate, knocking all three of them into the dirt and sand. Nelson grabbed Daryl’s wrist and banged it into the rock, until the blade dropped into the water. Once Nelson had Daryl pinned under his weight, he hit him again—and again—and again—and again.
It took all three of his friends to pull Nelson off, but by that point it didn’t matter. It felt like only a few seconds had passed, but in that time Nelson nearly demolished Daryl’s face. No one said anything. Clayton pinned Nelson to the ground as both girls crept slowly toward Daryl, his body twitching on the rock. His teeth were broken and jagged. Both eyes had already begun to swell shut and his left cheekbone had collapsed. But the biggest concern was the growing pool of glossy blood seeping onto the stone from under his head. Kate dry-heaved into the sand. “Jesus,” she said as she glanced back at Clayton and Nelson. “What are we going to do?”
Chapter Three
Clayton finally let Nelson sit up. His eyes were still wild and filled with something none of his friends had ever seen before—something feral—cold and distant. Kate noticed something shiny lying in the dirt between her and her friends. She slid toward it and picked it up. When she realized what it was, she held it out to Amy. It was her braid—a nearly two-foot-long length of frayed rope. Daryl must’ve sliced it off with his razor when Nelson rushed him. Kate felt a chill shoot through her. Amy could’ve been killed. They all looked down at the length of twisted blond hair, now slightly pinkened with blood, dangling from Kate’s palm. Amy reached up and felt at the jagged stump of hair behind her ear, lopped off right below the neon green elastic hair-tie. Just inches from the pale skin of her neck. She hadn’t even noticed. She lightly touched her neck and face with the tips of her fingers. Her eyes began to water. She also became aware of the pain in her scalp. She’d been too scared to feel anything inside the moment. It happened so fast.
Kate rushed over to examine her, too. She ran her hands over Amy’s neck and shoulders, making sure there weren’t any wounds. She found nothing. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “You’re okay. It’s just your hair. You’re okay.” Without thinking, Amy spun her head around and glared at Nelson. He’d already been watching her and he recognized the look on her face. People stared at him like that all the time. She was looking at a monster.
“I’m sorry, Amy. I—”
She shook her head. “It’s not your fault,” she said before she broke into a full sob. Kate wrapped her arms around her and dropped the tangle of blond hair in the grass. Nelson began to say something else, but it came out like a grunt.
“Hey, man,” Clayton said. “Just give her a minute. This wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me? This isn’t your fault.”
Nelson heard that for the lie it was. This was all his fault. If not for him, none of his friends would be getting razors pulled on them. Amy wouldn’t be crying like that. Kate wouldn’t be looking so damn scared. Why did he always have to mess things up so badly? He wiped at the blood on his bony knuckles, not able to get them clean, smearing it around on his skin. Sweat poured off him, too. It had gotten so hot so fast. God, how did it get so hot out? He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell Amy how sorry he was. But, as usual, he couldn’t speak.
