From a Dead Sleep (6 page)

An image of his mother, with her face twisted into a permanent scowl, flashed under his eyelids. That agonizing voice of hers, struggling for unfound clarity, echoed in his ears. He rarely visited her, even now that her health had disintegrated. Maybe he knew all along why Diana had come back. Maybe the convenience of it all prevented him from questioning the motive. Maybe he had convinced himself that her return was an advantageous out for him—a way of freeing himself from an obligation he should have been man enough to accept on his own.
Lumbergh may have been right; what good was Sean
Coleman?

Just when Sean felt the day had no other direction left to go but up, the familiar sharp and high-pitched dual ring of a bell drained the remaining energy out of his body. He shook his head slowly in annoyance.

“Hey there, Sean!” a child’s voice exuberantly greeted.

“Toby,” Sean muttered in subtle acknowledgment, without turning his head.

“Boy, it sure sounds like you had one heck of a night last night. Don’t worry, though. Moses Jones may have gotten lucky, but he would be best not to make the mistake of underestimating you the next time you two square off.”

The boy’s words struck a final nerve, causing Sean to clench his fists and bite his lip. He kept his head lowered but couldn’t keep silent. His hand slid from his face to his hairline, where he clawed his fingers into his very short bangs.

“How the hell does everyone in this goddamned town know about Moses Jones?” he snapped. “Was it in the morning paper or something?”

“Yes. Page three. There’s even an interview with Moses. He said that alcohol wasn’t a factor in his win, and that he’d be more than happy to offer a rematch.”

The Winston Beacon
claimed to be a legit newspaper, but the local news that graced its pages was often mere town gossip. Needless to say, Sean’s antics had made print on numerous occasions. He even had a couple of front page headlines under his belt.

Sean was too tired and annoyed to display an appropriate reaction. He looked like a rotting, overturned tree.

“Hey, Sean?”

“What, Toby?”

“Do you know what I learned the other day?”

Sean scratched the back of his head more rapidly, offering no confirmation that he’d heard the boy.

Toby continued anyway. “Dachshunds were originally bred to hunt badgers in their dens. Do you think Rocco has ever tangled with a badger? I hope not, because I’m afraid Rocco wouldn’t fare too well with his bad eyes. How is Rocco anyway? Has he lost any weight? I’ve been on a diet myself. Those carbohydrates are tough to stay away from.”

Toby was only thirteen years old, but he often sounded more like a chatty grandmother that one might be trapped next to on a long airplane trip. Always inquisitive and often repetitive, it wasn’t hard to mistake Toby’s demeanor for that of any other high-strung and intelligent child. However, Toby was different—he had a mild form of the mental disorder autism known as Asperger syndrome.

While demonstrating many of the classic traits of most autists, he also displayed some atypical ones. Rather than exuding socially deficient behavior, he was quite accomplished in the arena of conversation; often too accomplished for Sean’s liking.

Sean took a breath and reluctantly raised his head to meet the friendly smile of the portly freckle-faced boy who sat proudly along the banana seat of his bright-red Stingray bicycle. Toby’s large, pale-blue eyes, beneath long lashes, were filled with clear adoration . . . a feat in itself that Sean had been told to take with the highest regard.

Commonly, those with autism avoid direct eye contact with others. Toby was no different, always keeping his gaze trained in a slightly different direction when socializing with people. However, there were two clear exceptions—people who he was comfortable enough with to draw into his sight: his mother . . . and Sean Coleman. Like most of the townsfolk, Toby’s mother couldn’t understand what her son saw in Sean. Sean was a bitter drunk and a bully; a bad seed no matter how one looked at it. He’d always been that way. But for whatever reason, Toby Parker saw something in the large bear of a man—something that the others didn’t see. Sean was an unwilling role model. He himself didn’t understand the boy’s interest. In fact, he often went out of his way to discourage it.

Toby was heavyset, with a protruding belly and large eyes. His brown hair was formed in a crew cut, quite similar to Sean’s, although Toby clearly needed a trim. Sean suspected the boy’s choice of hairstyles wasn’t a matter of coincidence. Toby’s wardrobe seemed to consist primarily of multicolored, horizontally striped t-shirts. He had one on every time Sean saw him. Today’s combination was white, red, and brown.

“Hey, Sean!”

“What?”

“I painted a new picture of that big oak tree in my backyard. You know . . . the one with the tire swing. Thanks again for those painting supplies. The brushes keep up well if you wash them right after using them.”

Despite the drain on his body and in his head, Sean couldn’t help but crack a feeble grin. As much as he tried to hide his smile—and he tried very hard—it found its way out anyway. The corners of his mouth raised, and a discreet chuckle crept out.

About six months earlier, Toby’s mother had invited Sean to her son’s birthday party. Actually, Toby had pleaded with his mother to invite his friend, and wouldn’t let up on his insistence. She obviously had concerns. It wasn’t exactly the brightest idea to invite the town’s black sheep, and a drunk to boot, to a child’s birthday party. Still, she knew it would mean the world to her son. It wasn’t an easy feat, however. Sean made it painfully clear that he had no desire to attend. To him, it sounded like a total drag. A kiddie party wasn’t exactly the place he wanted to spend any of the hours of his weekend. No beer. No eight-ball. No fun.

The persistent mother tried several times to change his mind. All attempts were unsuccessful. Guilt tactics didn’t work, even when Diana was asked to help encourage her brother to come. The resolution finally arrived with a suggestion that Chief Lumbergh made. It was actually meant as a joke, and was met with rolled eyes by Diana . . . but it worked.

Bribery.

Toby’s mother ended up paying Sean twenty dollars with an additional ten dollars for Sean to spend on the gift of his choice for her son. The deal was sealed with the mention of the free food at the party.

Sean’s choice of gifts wasn’t difficult to make. He had repeatedly heard the townsfolk mention that young Toby was artistic. In fact, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why people made such a fuss over it. Sean had fancied himself a pretty good sketcher back in high school, but no one ever made a big deal out of
his
talents. It wasn’t until later at the party that it was explained to Sean that Toby was autistic, not artistic. He remembered how much like a fool he felt.

“Bill Kenny wasn’t too happy with me today,” remarked Toby.

The boy seemed to change topics with each breath.

“Do you want to know what happened?”

Sean glanced over the boy’s shoulder to look for his uncle.
What
was taking him so long?

“Sure,” said Sean out of nothing more than morbid curiosity and a need to pass the time.

“Mr. Kenny was coming out of French’s Pharmacy and walked right onto the sidewalk without looking both ways,” the boy relayed. “I couldn’t stop my bike in time and my forward progress was just too much to prevent a head-on collision. I’ve needed new brakes for some time now, you know. His mailbag of letters dropped all over the sidewalk. I tried to help him pick them up, but he wouldn’t let me. He had a few colorful words for me, though—none of which my mom would want me repeating. I told him he should have looked both ways, because he really should have. I also asked him if he had updated his glasses prescription within the last year. People should have their eyes checked on an annual basis, you know. Do you know what he told me?”

“What?”

“To mind my own business.”

As awkward and as bothersome as Toby often was to Sean, the boy every once in a while found a way to unintentionally amuse him.

“You’re a wild man, Toby,” Sean said with a slight smirk.

Toby smiled, his eyes aligned directly with Sean’s.

The tap of a car horn caused both of their heads to turn.

“There’s my man!” greeted a friendly, elderly male voice over the roar of a loud truck engine. “How’s it going, Toby?”

“Hi, Mr. Hansen!” replied the boy, retaining his smile and gazing out along the hood of the light-blue Ford pickup as it pulled up to the street corner perpendicular to the parking lot.

An older but distinguished-looking gentleman proudly wearing a tall, straw cowboy hat flashed a charming smile at the boy through the open window. Well-kept, long silver sideburns trailed down both sides of his face. A matching goatee added a certain dignified element to his appearance—like a redneck Sean Connery. His license plate, surrounded by a shiny chrome frame below the grill, read
MRGUARD
—a cheap plug for Sean’s uncle’s security service.

With a long toothpick angled out of the side of his mouth and a cunning shift of his eyes, he warned, “Don’t let that bum borrow your bike, Toby! He looks a bit cagey!”

Toby’s high-pitched laughter resembled more of a cackle as the boy’s cheeks turned red and he glanced at Sean for a reaction. Sean displayed none.

Sean lifted himself upright with a loud grunt and slapped dust from his pant legs. Without so much as a farewell to the young boy, he scurried out along the front of the truck, tracing his hand along the hood, and made his way around to the passenger door.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he muttered to his uncle as the right side of the truck lowered from his weight as he got in.

The car door slammed shut.

Toby stood up on his tiptoes, straddling his bike and grasping the handlebars in front of him. “Goodbye, Sean!” he yelled.

Sean’s only acknowledgment was the raise of a brow. It wasn’t visible through the glaze of the dusty windshield.

Toby’s hand waved feverishly and enthusiastically. Zed rolled up his window and returned the gesture with a wink. He then turned to Sean with a disapproving scowl.

“What?” Sean said in reply before turning his head away from the judging pair of eyes.

As the large truck left the curb with a roar, Toby Parker’s bell rang out diligently through the air, as if it was signaling that dinner was ready. Zed watched him through his rearview mirror, observing the boy continuing to excitedly wave and ring. Toby kept up the salute all the way until the truck turned the corner and he had drifted from sight.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little friendlier to that boy,” Zed suggested, arching a brow. “He idolizes you.”

“No one asked him to.”

After a quick glance at his uncle, Sean leaned forward and twisted a brass knob on the dashboard’s A.M. radio. Sean was no fan of twangy country music, but he hoped doubling the volume would serve as a hint to his uncle to change the subject.

“You know that his daddy . . .” Zed began, before taking a second to sigh and lean forward to drop the volume back down. “You know that his daddy left him and his mother when he was a youngun’. I’d think you could relate to that a bit.”

A scoffing gasp slid from Sean’s mouth. “That kid should stay away from me.”

“Come on,” the old man snarled with a rejecting wince and a shake of his head. “Why do you always have to shit all over yourself like that?”

“Because it’s true!” Sean snapped. “What does that kid want out of me?”

“Probably just a friend.”

“A friend? What? Like someone to throw a football around with or someone to take him to the movies?”

“Maybe just someone to listen to him. To talk to.”

“Well that ain’t me. I ain’t that guy. I’m the guy who gets smashed at bars and gets kicked out of his home because he pisses away his rent money on pool and poker.” Sean’s shoulders slumped, and he took a breath. A few moments later, he somberly continued. “I’m a joke in this town. No one takes me seriously. Not Gary, not even you.”

With a discouraged grunt, Zed shook his head again and said, “Well, that’s one hell of a thing for you to say to
me
, boy.” His face turned to Sean, and his eyes burned right through his nephew. “I’m on
your
side, Sean. You’re not a joke to me. You’re my kin, and I’m proud of it. You wouldn’t be working for me otherwise.”

Sean’s eyes lowered as his uncle’s words sank in. He raised his head and glanced out his window. Mom-and-pop shops at the edge of town floated by. None of them had changed in years. Same look. Same owners. Same names. He could feel his uncle’s glare from behind.

Turning his eyes back on the road, Zed asked without expression, “You’re being evicted?”

Sean closed his eyes and rested the side of his weary head against the warm window beside him. He knew his uncle would gladly bail him out. He had done it many times in the past. But Sean had always hated asking for anyone’s help, and with how he had lost the rent money this time, he wasn’t about to let his uncle get involved.

“It’s fine. There’s no problem.” He cleared his throat and dropped his head to take inventory of his appearance, gazing down at his muddied and stained clothing. What a sight he was. Zed hadn’t remarked about the disarray of his uniform. Not one word. Sean found that odd considering the uniform actually belonged to his uncle’s company.

Leaning back in the sheepskin-covered seat, Sean formulated how he would sneak down to the washing machine at the back of his apartment duplex without his landlord seeing him. Mr. Bailey lived on that very same side. A pawn shop that Sean frequented was closed on the weekends, but he knew that if he could hold off Bailey for another day, he could sell some items before work on Monday morning. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he could make back enough to cover the rent.

An odd sensation of nakedness suddenly overcame Sean. The staple weight that normally caused his front pocket to slightly sag . . . it was gone. His hand quickly rose to his chest where he fumbled unsuccessfully for the item that always resided there on his uniform.