Scratch, page 2
Just for the pain, mind you.
scratch scratch
Big Jim Tucker came with a grunt and a convulsion. When his eyes were able to focus again, he smiled at April Toland, the reverend’s wife, good and true, lying beneath his bulk. She smiled back, eyes as always filled with a mixture of pleasure and shame. She knew this was a sin, but Raz wasn’t interested in her physically, and a woman had needs whether the servant of God did or not. And she wanted a baby. If she could get Raz to make love to her just one more time she would go off the birth control and get pregnant. Even if it were Jim’s, no one else needed to know. She ran her fingertips along his broad chest and down to the tangle of wet pubic hair. With a slight touch he began to stir again.
Everyone called him Big Jim. They had no idea. April dove headlong into her lust and straddled him again. Raz would only be with Gabrielle for a little while longer.
scratch scratch
Scratch glanced over Jim briefly. He was a disappointment. His past was filled with sin and murder. His days on the road had left a path of blood and suffering. He had settled in Canaan finally because it was a good place to hide, and had quickly shared in the crimes of the community. But there was no nourishment for Scratch in Big Jim Tucker. He could find no guilt or shame hidden in the man.
scratch scratch
Shelley Tanner smoked at her bedroom window in the parsonage where the tobacco fumes could meld with the night air. There were still lights in the church and in Jim’s apartment, where she knew her sister was. Anger and jealousy coursed through her eighteen-year-old mind. She loved Jim, and he had to love her too, didn’t he? They hadn’t gone all the way yet, but she had given him a blowjob in the backroom of the store right before her work shift this afternoon. Shelley knew April was having an affair with him, but that couldn’t last. Shelley was younger, and prettier, and soon she would know all the things that pleased a man that her prig of an older sister couldn’t possibly know.
If she told Raz about the affair, it would be over now. Shelley went to bed, satisfied that she had a secret to hold over people. She would get what she wanted, eventually.
scratch scratch
The rest of Canaan had delicacies for Scratch as well; the Moore brothers, eleven and thirteen, had tortured and killed a cat this afternoon, and tonight the adrenaline-fueled joy had turned to guilt.
scratch scratch
Eight-year-old Emily Tennant cried herself to sleep, awash in loss and grief after finding her kitten Socks nailed to a tree in the back yard.
scratch scratch
Pete Sutter cheated at cards – scratch scratch – Mary McDougal, left eye swollen shut, checked her hidden stash of money to see if there was enough to escape yet – scratch scratch – Sam McDougal slept peacefully – scratch scratch – Larry Miller read the paper, hand red and sore from the punishment Larry Jr. had deserved – scratch scratch – Larry Jr. wept in his bed and vowed that when he was big enough the old man was gonna pay.
scratch scratch
And on into the night Scratch fed.
He slid across the churchyard and crossed the glowing circle that only his eyes could see. A ring of blue fire, placed there by the man who had bound them, surrounded the church, invisibly defining the limits of Gabrielle’s prison.
He passed Raz on the steps of the church, and barely paused. Raz, like his fathers before him, was full of the self-righteous belief that God ordained what he did. The angel had been sent into his care for the good of the community, and keeping her imprisoned was the natural course of things. This kept the demon captive as well. As if Scratch and Gabrielle had any connection to his God. They were far older than his conceptions of good and evil, and had been in this land long before his people had brought their beliefs here. The older people of this land, gone now, had their own names for the spirit people. Names that were not their true names either.
Though full of the same belief, Raz was not full of the same power his ancestors carried. His great-grandfather, Lars Toland, had been born with magic in his veins, the same magic that medicine men and shamans had carried all over the world since time began. Though Lars believed this power came from his god, it still allowed him to learn the true names of two spirit beings and to chain them to his will.
Raz knew the true names; he had inherited that information along with the rest of the knowledge needed to perform his duty. He had the responsibility, but lacked the power.
Scratch crept along the worn gray carpet of the church, passing under the pews. He slunk down the steps and under the locked door and gazed upon his sister. Gabrielle, small and fragile, was asleep, unaware that the chains around her wrists were not her natural state. She didn’t know she wasn’t free. Her unawareness was part of the pact that bound them, a blessing to her.
Scratch did know, and that was part of his curse.
He kissed her lightly on her cheek, and then left the room quickly. Jack had finally fallen asleep and begun to dream. Scratch could also feel Ed’s anger and Stephanie’s fear. The rape was about to begin.
PART ONE:
UPS and DOWNS
CHAPTER ONE
On the Thursday afternoon that Adam Mansfield punched his boss in the nose and lost his job, no one was more surprised than Adam himself. The last time he had hit somebody had been in the fifth grade and the subsequent ass kicking he received had dissuaded him from ever resorting to violence again.
Until now, that is.
He didn’t plan to hit Kevin Jones, and even as his arm shot forward he wondered what was happening. A horrified part of himself watched as Jones’ head snapped back. Blood sprayed the room in thick globules, and Adam could feel its wet heat on his knuckles. A shockwave from the impact traveled slowly up his arm. There was the visceral knowledge that something had broken under his fist, and the cerebral knowledge that his career and everything he had worked for was over.
The teens he counseled were all in the Common Room of the Youth Center. Was it just last week that Derrick had punched Tammy in the forehead? Derrick had been kicked out of the group home and sent back to the juvenile lockup facility. How many times had Adam talked to him about more appropriate ways to deal with anger? Now the others, including Tammy, who still had a thick, purple knot between her eyes, would know that Adam was just like them. Full of rage that eventually had to escape.
Adam was an idealist. He was naturally empathetic, and a good listener. In the five years since he completed his Master’s degree in Social Work he had counseled a wide range of clients. He spent two years in a group home for retarded adults, and another with the mentally ill. During that time he had worked part time, summers and weekends, with a program for disadvantaged adolescents. This job, the one he wouldn’t have at the end of the day, was working with inner city kids in Pittsburgh. They were all adjudicated delinquents who had been thrown into the system after some sort of crime, mostly drug related.
Adam had flourished in all of these jobs. He was always the most popular counselor, the one the clients would open up to when they wouldn’t talk to anyone else. He had had great success with a number of his charges, convincing them that there were always options other than violence or acting out. The irony was clear to him even as he watched Mr. Jones falling backward out of his swivel chair.
The same idealism that made him a hit with his clients caused him problems in other areas. Adam’s tolerance for red tape and bureaucracy was extremely low. He believed in doing what was right for the client under any circumstances, and at times that conflicted with the rules. The anger that had crawled out of his gut and through his arm into Jones’s face was not entirely new. He wasn’t even completely unaware of it. He felt it every time the budget got in the way of something his clients needed. Every time the paperwork came first. Every time office politics got in the way of doing the work that was paramount to him. Those things happened far too frequently for Adam. They happened all the time.
Mr. Jones was an arrogant man of very little ability when it came to relating to the adolescents who passed through his doors. He was didactic, and forceful, and invoked his authority frequently, especially when it helped cover his complete lack of empathy or aptitude. Adam had clashed with him since day one. Today, during a routine staffing, they argued again about the ridiculous amount of paperwork that was required. Adam’s contention was that most of it was repetitive and unnecessary, and most importantly, took time away from working directly with the kids who needed him.
Then, just thirty seconds ago, Jones told Adam that it didn’t really matter if he actually treated his clients or not, as long as the paperwork was in order. He was just beginning to say that they were mostly lost causes anyway when his nose was broken. He registered the surprised look on Adam’s face even as his head snapped back and hit the wall and the chair began to topple over.
Dan and Monica, the other counselors present at the staffing, gaped in surprise, then jumped from their chairs. Dan, a thin, severe man with a cheesy mustache, grabbed Adam in an unnecessary attempt to restrain him. Adam just stood there, swimming in the fumes of his anger, knuckles throbbing, red with blood and the swelling which had already begun. Monica, a very large and unwieldy woman, stumbled as she attempted to stand. For a brief moment Adam was sure she was going to belly flop right on top of Jones, and the image, combined with his own actions, led to a sense of hysteria that threatened to spill out in a fit of hilarity.
“You mother fucker!” Jones yelled loud enough for the kids in the Common Room to hear. The words were blurred with a nasal twang and blood sprayed out where his breath caught the stream from his nose. Adam felt giddy at the injured sound of his boss’s voice. He felt triumphant, and just, and vindicated.
He felt sick to his stomach.
“Jesus, Adam!” Dan said, eyes wide with disbelief. He took a fearful step back as Adam shrugged off his grip. Monica lowered herself in an ungainly squat next to Mr. Jones. Adam could see straight up her dress, though there was no threat to her modesty. Her doughy thighs came together about a foot lower than where he guessed her privates were located. This touched off another wave of giddiness.
Jones tried to disentangle himself from the arms of his chair, but his movements were hampered by Monica’s attempts to help. He muttered threats and obscenities, though his words were becoming increasingly garbled as his nose continued to swell.
There were a million things Adam wanted to say. He wanted to explain why Jones represented everything that was wrong with their profession. He wanted to express his contempt for a system that was designed to help people but ended up like every other heartless corporation. He wanted to find an eloquent way to give voice to the frustration and rage he had somehow managed to swallow over the years.
“Fuck this, I’m outta here!” was all he could manage. He swept the folders that contained all of his files off the top of the conference table. They floated down on top of Jones and Monica like ashes.
“Jesus, Adam,” Dan said again, and stepped quickly aside. Adam shoved the door open, and flinched when it slammed against the wall. As he expected, the kids had gathered around in the hallway in spite of Dana’s efforts to keep them away.
“Adam?” Dana said. “What happened?” He walked by, unable to look at her. Dana was a college intern, and wore her innocence and idealism on her round youthful face, a mirror of how Adam’s had looked not that long ago.
The faces of the kids were a mix of emotions: shock and surprise, disbelief, smug satisfaction, and disappointment.
“Way to go, Mr. Mansfield!” yelled one of the older boys, and raised his fist in the air.
“Fuckin’ A!” said another. Adam saw that any positive impact he might have had on their lives before this was gone, forever overshadowed by a momentary loss of control. He found it hard to breathe. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes.
“Mr. Mansfield?” Tammy said as he neared the door. Her tone was plaintive and needy. Adam paused to look back at her. The bruise on her forehead glared at him, accusatory above her sad eyes, implicating him in the cycle of violence.
“Who’s gonna help me get my G.E.D?” she asked. His heart broke then. She wanted out of her current life so badly, and an education was the first step. They had spent six months working through the study guides.
“You will,” he said. “On your own. You’re ready.” He knew it wasn’t enough, but it was over. He turned and pushed through the doors and out onto the sidewalk, trying not to run and failing.
The dampness on his cheeks froze in the early December wind, but he still burned. Clouds loomed in the west, dark gray and wintry. He got into his car and turned the key. Tires screeched on the pavement of Penn Circle as he thrust into traffic, the MC5 blaring from the CD player, exhorting him to “kick out the jams, motherfucker!”
The tears came then, as much from the anger he still felt as from the guilt and shame. Thoughts raced in his head like Nascar drivers, confused and jumbled, colliding with each other before any progress was made. He outlined everything that was wrong with the Social Work system, in great and fervent detail, fueled by righteous indignation.
His adrenaline buzz carried through as he parked his car at his apartment and rushed inside. Holly wasn’t home; she had a big meeting with her agent, Sheila, and had taken Michaela with her. That was for the best right now. He didn’t want to face his wife and stepdaughter yet. Later, when the fire of his rage was ash, maybe, but not right now.
He tossed his keys on the counter by the door and rushed to his study and turned on his Mac. He paced impatiently as it booted, composing in his head. He crouched in the ergonomic chair he hated – it was Holly’s – and stared for a moment at the angel that decorated the screen. It was a scan of one of Holly’s paintings, the first she had sold. It had been their computer desktop for six months before the image appeared on postcards in New Age bookstores across the country.
The resignation letter was easy to write, and probably unnecessary. Not only was he sure he had been officially fired by now, he half expected a cop to show up and arrest him for assault. The letter of grievance took longer as he attempted to compile all of the evils of the system as he saw them. He might not ever work in the field again, but he wasn’t leaving without doing something for the kids. They still needed him.
The letter was articulate; vitriol tempered by information and well thought-out arguments. In the time he had worked for the Youth Center he had witnessed many abuses of the system that needed to be addressed. Jones’ statement about not actually seeing clients was the last of a long list.
Adam printed three copies, one for himself, one to give to the director of the Youth Center, and one to send to the program’s funding source at the State. He put his in a file cabinet by the computer, and then sealed the other two in envelopes. His anger had turned to action, and he felt good about his resolve. If he was going to go, he was going to make sure that changes were made.
He didn’t realize he was still throwing punches.
He planned to drop the letters at the main office and get out as soon as he could, but it didn’t work out that way. The eyes of all the secretaries and office staff were on him as he entered the building. They all knew by now, of course.
“Adam,” said a voice from an office doorway. He looked up and saw Beth Savitch, Jones’s supervisor. Beth was a strict woman, as no-nonsense as they come, but Adam knew she was also compassionate and fair. She was the one the grievance letter would have gone to anyway.
“Why don’t you come into my office,” she said, and stepped aside. Adam felt his defenses rise, but nodded his agreement. She closed the door behind them and motioned for him to sit. As she walked around her immaculately ordered desk and sat in the leather chair Adam felt absurdly like he was in the principal’s office in grade school.
“So, Adam,” she said, then steepled her fingers in front of her. “Just what the hell is going on over at the Center, anyway?”
He paused to gather his thoughts, running over all of the items he had written in his grievance, and then began.
* * * * *
As Adam drove along Grandview Avenue on Mt. Washington, calm relief spread through him. His shoulders and neck finally began to relax. He parked at a metered space and walked to one of the raised observation decks. The clouds were reflected on the surface of the rivers and the tall buildings below. The fountain at the Point was off this time of year. He missed the hint of rainbow colors you could see in the spray when it was sunny.
He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of relief. It had gone much better than he had expected. He was still out of a job, but Savitch had talked Jones out of assault charges. The apology in front of the staff had galled him, but he had done it. He was sorry for resorting to violence, but Jones’ smug indifference to his part in the whole affair had started the rage to build again. Savitch assured him that they would investigate his concerns, and Jones was on probation as well.
Adam didn’t know where the violence had come from. He thought of himself as a staunch pacifist, one of those sensitive guys who were always willing to compromise and work things out to the benefit of all. If you had asked him this morning he would have told you he was incapable of hitting anyone. But then something dark and violent had crawled out of his deepest animal soul and struck, without warning, and without mercy. Adam knew – he didn’t want to know, but he did – that at the moment he hit Jones it was to kill him. The impulse passed at the moment of impact as his rational side reasserted control. But by then it was too late, of course.
