Scratch, page 19
And there it was. Adam was the stranger here, unused to the way of life that had been part of this valley for decades. It felt strange to him because he wasn’t a part of it, and he knew his distrust probably stemmed, at least in part, from his own unease in the situation. In the city, where people were more tightly packed, it was easy to ignore your neighbors. Their very proximity made the need for privacy and seclusion more necessary. Adam had never questioned what kind of secrets there were in Shadyside. In Canaan however, the openness of the country seemed to imply an honesty of lifestyle. The fact that you actually knew all of your neighbors made you seem to think you knew everything about them. The feeling of secrecy was opposed to the easygoing sincerity with which people here greeted each other.
Adam pulled into the parking lot next to the store. He unfastened Michaela’s seatbelt and she plopped out into the gravel lot. Nellie Claremont was hobbling up the street toward her house after her daily walk to the church. She moved slowly, and swayed with each step. If Adam didn’t know better he would swear she was drunk. He threw up a hand in greeting, and she smiled and waved back with contorted fingers. Mike hid her face, afraid of the old woman.
Adam picked her up with a few comforting words and turned toward the store. He stepped under the shade of the front awning, then stepped back quickly as the door flew open in a violent arc.
“FUCK YOU, JIM!!” Shelley screamed as she stomped out onto the porch. “Fuck you and this whole fuckin’ town! I hope you all fuckin’ DIE!” She came to a sudden halt, nearly running into Adam and Michaela. Their eyes locked and Shelley’s face, already red from anger and tears, blushed further from embarrassment.
“S-sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean for Mike to…” Her face crumbled as her tears finally broke the dike of her resolve. She wiped her arm across her face and hitched a sob. Adam thought she muttered “sorry” again, and then she broke into a run away from the store up the street.
“She’s mad,” Mike whispered into Adam’s ear.
“Yes, she is,” he affirmed. Guess she won’t be coming to dinner, he thought. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open and went into the store. Jim was arranging cereal boxes on a shelf. His large body was tense, and when he turned to see who had entered Adam briefly saw murder and rage in his eyes. When Jim saw it wasn’t Shelley he immediately put on his friendly face.
“Hey, Adam,” he said. “Mike.” He put the last box on the shelf, then wiped his hands on his jeans and turned around. “What can I help you with?”
“Is she okay?” Adam knew he should probably mind his own business, but his training and empathy wouldn’t allow him to. Jim’s eyes went cold again, for just a moment, and then the smile returned.
“Guess you heard that, hunh?” Jim said.
“Couldn’t miss it,” Adam said while setting Mike on the floor. “She nearly ran over us on the porch.”
“Yeah, well,” Jim muttered. “You know teenage girls. All hormones and emotions. All I did was ask her to mop the back room.”
He was lying. Adam could feel it with every instinct he had, but Jim’s eyes had locked on his own, filled with menace and a warning not to challenge him.
“Yeah,” Adam said. “Girls are like that.” Jim smiled, content that he had been, if not believed, at least understood.
“So,” he said, “what can I get you?”
“Holly thinks we need more drinks for the dinner tonight. You coming?”
“Don’t think so. Coke okay?” he asked as he grabbed two bottles from a high shelf.
“Yeah,” Adam said. Michaela pressed her face against the glass front of the candy counter and clutched Buggly tightly.
“No offense, you understand?” Jim said. “Just got some stuff to do. That all you need?”
“Yeah.” Mike tugged on Adam’s pants leg. He looked down and saw a shy look of longing on her face. “What?” he asked. Michaela rolled her eyes toward the candy counter and smiled.
“I don’t know,” Adam said, already knowing he was going to relent. “Mom will be mad if we spoil your dinner.” Michaela smiled and rolled her eyes again, then stabbed a finger against the glass, pointing out a bright red lollipop.
“Okay,” Adam said. “Jim, add a lollipop to the bill.”
“Nope,” Jim said, then bent over and pulled the sucker out of the counter. He unwrapped it and handed it down to Michaela. “This one’s on me.” Mike took the lollipop with a delighted grin and plopped it into her mouth.
“What do you say, honey?” Adam prompted.
“Fank ‘oo,” she said around the mouthful of candy.
“You’re welcome,” Jim smiled. “Wish it was that easy to make all women happy,” he added in a conspiratorial tone to Adam.
“Un-huh,” Adam agreed half-heartedly as he paid for the pop. “Come on, sweetie,” he said and ushered Michaela toward the door. She skipped across the lot toward their car, safe and carefree, unaware that she was just a few hours away from being lost in the woods.
Billy was on his way to Canaan.
CHAPTER TEN
Billy Haught sat back on the soft couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. He scanned the living room, looking over the pictures of Holly and Michaela that graced the walls, the wedding picture of Holly and Adam that crowned the mantle over the television, the TV Guide on the arm of the couch, the National Enquirer’s that filled the wicker basket next to the easy chair, the painting of an angel (always the fucking angels, everywhere), that hung on the wall.
And the frogs; hundreds of the stupid things were squatting on every free surface of the house. Why would anybody want this much tackiness in one place? If she grew up here it was no wonder Holly’s tastes were so prosaic.
It was obvious that Holly and Michaela weren’t staying here. There weren’t toys scattered around the floor, or any evidence of suitcases. They may have been here at some point in the last week or so, but they were gone now.
He turned a ceramic frog over in his hands and glanced at the loudly ticking grandfather clock in the corner. It was almost noon. Surely Carol would be home soon. She would know where Holly and Michaela were. Billy was sure she wouldn’t want to tell him, but he felt confident that he could get the information out of her. She had intimidated him once, but that had been before he grew teeth and claws.
At least, it was before he knew how to use them.
That wasn’t entirely true. The teeth and claws had appeared when he raped Holly; and yes, it was rape. He knew that then, and the power he felt in those moments was more exciting than anything he had ever experienced before. It was good to be powerful. He had spent too many years feeling powerless. His teeth and claws had been clipped when he was young at the hands of a father who could never understand his sensitive, artistic son.
Dad had been a long haul trucker, thankfully absent from home most of the time. He spent days on the road, popping pills, drinking beer, and picking up hookers. He came home long enough to terrorize his family, and then was gone again.
While other boys were outside playing football and learning to fight, Billy had been in the house, reading books and drawing pictures. His mother, indulgent in every way, had encouraged his talents. Dad just thought he was a faggot and did the same thing to Billy he would have done to any man he thought was gay; he beat him. Burned his books and destroyed his drawings. He would slap his wife around for good measure, just for allowing his boy to grow up to be such a pussy.
Billy spent many nights envisioning his father’s demise, each scenario more gruesome than the previous. When news came of Dad’s death in a highway pile-up Billy spent very little time feeling either guilt or grief. He was free from the abuse, and the hefty life insurance policy guaranteed he would be able to go to school and study art. The notion of his father’s money paying for his “Fag” pursuits suited his sense of irony.
The irony that Billy was blind to, however, was how much like his father he had become. By the age of thirteen he was experimenting with alcohol and drugs. At fourteen he lost his virginity with a thirteen-year-old girl who had passed out from the Wild Turkey they had been drinking. He continued to have sex with numerous partners, many of them unconscious or coerced, and in every instance all he could think about was proving to his dead dad that he wasn’t a fairy.
He was sixteen the first time he hit his mother. It was one of the few things he ever felt guilty about. He continued to feel guilty every time it happened.
On the outside he appeared to be everything that Holly had thought he was when they met: mild-mannered, intelligent, well spoken and kind. He was passionate about many things, his art, social reform, and politics among them.
But inside there was a dark place, where the wild things roamed.
Billy threw the frog against the wall. Shattered fragments showered the floor in a flurry of ceramic dust. He stood from the couch and knocked over an ashtray, spreading cigarette butts over the carpet. A surge of adrenaline washed up his spine and he began to pace. He had been patient for days now. Where was Carol, anyway? He vaguely remembered Holly saying that her Mom worked as a waitress somewhere. She must be on the morning shift.
Billy paced the living room, periodically stopping to glance out the front window. His eyes kept returning to the painting of the angel, and to the photo of Adam on the mantle. They seemed to be watching Billy, judging him. Adam’s hand was on Holly’s waist, claiming her as his own, mocking Billy’s inability to keep her.
A growling sound issued from Billy’s throat as he swept the picture to the floor. He stamped on the frame, shattering the glass and grinding it into the rug, ripping the image of Adam, and Holly and Michaela as well.
When he looked up the angel was staring at him from the canvas. Its virtuous eyes pinned him where he stood, demeaning him, making him feel small.
Billy stalked into the kitchen. He was through feeling powerless. He had found a way to change that. The dancer, Suede, had shown him, and it had felt wonderful, more so than anything since raping Holly.
He grabbed a butcher knife from a wooden rack on the counter and returned to the living room to stand before the canvas. He placed the tip of the blade against the throat of the angel. Paint flecked away under the pressure as he pushed the steel through the course fabric.
It felt only slightly different than Suede had.
Billy didn’t know Adam and Holly were gone the night he went to their apartment. Once again he really didn’t have much of a plan. He had snorted some Coke, not his usual drug of choice, but it fired him up for whatever was to come next. He was going to leave with Michaela, one way or another. He hadn’t thought through what he would do if Adam tried to stop him. He had run before, but not again. Some vague part of him began to toy with the idea that he may have to kill Adam, maybe even Holly, before he could have his daughter.
Billy went after midnight, hoping that Adam and Holly would be sleepy enough to hamper their reactions. He rang the bell to their apartment with his left hand, holding a knife concealed in his right, prepared to threaten whoever answered until they gave him Michaela.
He wasn’t prepared for an empty house. When no one answered the bell he tried it again. His resolve began to dwindle. He almost walked away when the second ring failed to rouse anyone. He pictured Adam and Holly, laying in bed together, laughing at him as he stood on their stoop. Maybe they were dialing 911 while he hesitated. In a surge of anger he crashed against the door. It held firm, sending a shockwave of pain through his shoulder. A second crash into the door, fueled by rage, adrenaline, and drugs, shattered the wood frame. The door swung violently inwards, and Billy stumbled into the empty room, screaming his intent.
It took him a moment to realize that no one was there, and that everything was gone. His screamed aggravation echoed in the vacant hallways. They had gotten away, and Billy had no clue where they had gone. He searched the entire apartment, but it was barren. He punched the wall and began to weep tears of rage and frustration. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a crack of thunder. Rain beat against the roof, and Billy slumped to his knees, defeated.
Ten minutes later he walked out of the apartment, rain soaking through his clothes. The knife was in his pocket, unused. He sat in the car, unsure of what to do, anger warring with disappointment. He tried to figure out where they had gone, and if he could follow them. They could be anywhere. He thought of Holly’s mother, and assumed it was the most likely place. But though he had been in Appleton when Michaela was born in the hospital there he didn’t know where Carol’s house was. It was a small town, but he knew it wasn’t easy to find a needle no matter what size the haystack was. He was sure he could find out, eventually. Phone books or the Internet; there were a million ways to get someone’s address. But it would have to wait until tomorrow. He wanted to do something, and do it now, but his anger had crested and his sense of failure was sucking the energy from his resolve. In the end he started his car and drove to a bar on the Southside to drown his sorrows.
The next three days were a blur in his memory: lots of drugs, lots of drink, crashing at a stranger’s house, fleeting images of arguments and unknown faces.
On the afternoon that Adam discovered the quarry and Jack Hardy’s still Billy woke up in his car. It reeked of alcohol and vomit. Billy winced at the odor and felt his stomach rebel. He managed to open the door and fell out onto the gritty pavement. He retched dryly, his throat sore from his previous purging. Tears streamed down his face, mucus filled his nose, but nothing emerged from his mouth except thin strings of bile and a low moan.
Billy stayed on his knees for a long time after the convulsions finally subsided. He wiped his mouth and nose on his sleeve and winced at a sudden stab of pain. Dried blood flaked off his face. He struggled to his feet, using the car to support his wobbly legs. For a moment his head echoed with the hollow rush of blood and spots danced inside his eyelids. He was sure he was going to pass out again. He leaned against the car and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.
When he was sure he was not going to collapse he carefully sat down behind the steering wheel. He gently probed his nose, and once again pain arced across his face. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw that his nose and left cheek were swollen. An ugly purple color was rising to the surface of his skin. Apparently he had been in a fight. Something else he didn’t remember.
The car was a mess. Empty cans and bottles were strewn on the floor. A bag of coke had spilled on the seat, the white powder dried on the surface of not-so-fresh vomit. There was blood, and broken glass, and what looked like semen. What the hell had he been doing?
And where was he?
Billy got out of the car again, a little steadier on his feet this time. He was parked along the side of a small dirt road he had never seen before. The right headlight was smashed and flecks of paint from whatever he had hit spotted the crumpled fender. Trees surrounded him, though he could see the roofs of houses in the valley below. Nothing looked familiar.
He got back in the car and turned the key, silently praying it would start. The engine sputtered to life. He put it in gear and pulled onto the road. His only option was to drive until he recognized something. He hoped it was soon, because the gas gauge was running low.
After only a couple of miles he saw the top of the US Steel Building peeking over the crest of a hill in the distance. From there it was easy to find the Interstate and a gas station. In less than an hour he was back at his apartment and in the shower.
The hot water washed away the worst of the hangover, though he knew he needed a lot more sleep. As he stood under the spray he began to recall the events that had prompted his binge. Michaela was gone. He punched the wet tile, aggravating the pain in a hand he hadn’t realized was already bruised.
He didn’t even know why he still wanted her. It wasn’t like he was going to change his life and provide a good home for her. But she had been taken away from him, and he was going to get her back, one way or another.
He would start as soon as he woke up. It was another twenty-four hours before he felt well enough to do anything.
It proved easy enough to find the address he wanted. He searched the Internet white pages and though there were a few Evans in Appleton there was only one Carol; she resided at 421 Richmond Street. In another minute he printed a map of Appleton. It would be cake to find her house.
The knife slit the canvas further. Billy wished he had followed his impulses and came here immediately. He may have caught them before they moved on. It was obvious they were trying to get away from him.
They wouldn’t though. He was sure of that. He couldn’t see the future very well, but he was sure he had no life to go back to. If he had come straight here the day he found the address things might be different, but he hadn’t. He had to tie up loose ends first.
He knew he could never come back to his apartment once he had her. He didn’t have a clue as to how he would live once Michaela was his. He wasn’t rational enough to think that far ahead. He did know they couldn’t just return here. They would have to stay on the move for a while. To do that, he would need cash, and lots of it. Credit and bankcards could be traced, so they were no good.
He spent the better part of an afternoon closing out his accounts and withdrawing his money. He took the largest cash advance he could get on his credit cards, then cut them in half and threw them away. He gave no thought to paying them back. He didn’t plan on being found.
It took a couple more days to sell most of his stuff. He wasn’t looking to get rich, so he took a beating. His stereo, TV, computer, everything went, and went pretty cheaply. He unloaded all of his CD’s to a music store, and his books to a half price chain.
It took two days to get the headlight on his car fixed. It wouldn’t pay to get stopped by the cops for something as stupid as that.
