Ghoul (23 page)

Plunging downward into darkness, Doug thought about his father, and wondered if he still loved him.

Just like before, his father hadn't shown up to save him from the monster.

Barry waited until his mother was asleep before he got up. His alarm clock showed that it was 2:23 in the morning. He reached above him and turned on the small lamp sitting precariously on his headboard. Just this simple movement caused new agony, and the light hurt his eyes. He groaned, and that hurt his mouth.

His body was sore and battered. It hurt just to breathe. If he moved too quickly, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his side. His father's fury had left no part of his body untouched. His bottom lip was split wide open in the middle, and simply touching it brought tears to his eyes. One eye was swollen, the other blackened, and Dane Graco's Freemason ring--which had somehow ended up on his father's hand--had left ugly, purple indentations on Barry's cheek and forehead. The ring had gouged a ragged furrow in his other cheek. The deep cut would leave a permanent scar; just one more scar to add to all of those left by his father. His shoulders and kidneys ached, and his stomach, back, and sides were covered with welts and bruises. Portions of Barry's scalp were raw and bleeding, where his father had pulled his hair out. His left forearm had five finger-shaped bruises on it. The other had been burned with a cigarette, and the open wound wept. He dimly remembered that --it had been the burn that brought him back to consciousness. Even his groin throbbed.

His father's last act had been to kick him there, after he was already down and about to pass out a second time. Barry was covered in dried blood, all of it his.

He eased himself off the bed, went to the door, and listened. The house was quiet.

His father had left many hours before, stomping out into the night without a word.

His mother had either cried or drank herself to sleep. Probably a combination of both. After his father was gone, she'd tried to help Barry, wept over him and tried to soothe his pain, but Barry had pushed her away. Now he felt guilty about that. He 'd shouted at her, told her he hated her. The look in her eyes had been the same one she gave his father, when the old man was hitting her. Feeling a savage twist of vindication, Barry had said it again. But it wasn 't true. He didn't hate his mother. He just no longer cared. Not about her or his father or anything else. Not after tonight. His physical pain was immense, but inside, Barry felt emotionally numb.

His mother had taken a beating as well, after Clark was finished with Barry. At one point, Rhonda had scrambled for the phone, threatening to call the police. Clark ripped it out of the wall, and then did the same with the one in the bedroom. He 'd put his foot through both jacks, so that the phones couldn't be plugged back in. Then he'd laughed, hands on hips, defiantly daring them to run for help.

Slowly, Barry opened his bedroom door and peered out into the hallway. The house was still silent. He crept into the bathroom, turned on the light, and shut the door behind him. Bending over to lift the toilet seat caused fresh pain. He whimpered while he relieved himself. The act made his kidneys and groin ache even worse. Alarmed, he saw that his urine was dark in color. He wondered if that meant there was blood in it, and if so, what he should do about it. He realized there wasn't really anything he could do. If he went to the doctor, there would be questions.

He might get placed in foster care. That would be just as bad as this. It would interfere with what he'd decided to do.

Finished, he left the seat up and didn't flush, afraid that the sound would wake his mother. Then he opened the medicine cabinet. The door squeaked, but his mother slept on. He dry swallowed two Tylenol caplets to help ease his pain. Then Barry doctored his wounds as best he could, wincing when the hydrogen peroxide hit his cuts, and nearly screaming when he put it on his split lip. The disinfectant bubbled and fizzed like acid. Pain coursed through him like liquid fire. But this pain was different. Good, somehow. Better. Because this was the last time he'd ever allow himself to feel pain like this, and knowing that strengthened his resolve for what was to come.

Several months ago, Pat Kemp and some of the other older kids had gone to see Quiet Riot and Slade opening for Loverboy at the York Fairgrounds. They'd been there for the opening acts and left when Loverboy took the stage. A few days later, Pat had told Barry, Doug, and Timmy all about it when they ran into him at Genova's Pizza. As a result, Barry had picked up a Slade cassette. Experience had taught him that if Pat Kemp liked a band, he probably would, too. Slade had been no exception.

Now, as he bandaged his cuts, his favorite song by them ran through his head. He sang it softly, whispering the chorus. It hurt his mouth, but he did it anyway.

“See the chameleon lying there in the sun ... Run, run away. Run, run away ...”

He'd overheard the cops when they'd come to the door and questioned his father earlier. He knew what had happened to Pat. Barry had always looked up to him --wanted to be him. The whole thing sucked.

“Run, run away.”

He grinned, and doing so reopened the gash in his bottom lip. Fresh blood dribbled down his chin. Despite the searing pain, his smile didn't fade. He liked the way it looked.

“Run, run away ... Run, run awayyyyy ...”

That was what he was doing. Running away. He'd made up his mind. Never again would he allow this to happen. Never again would his father lay a hand on him. Because if he stayed around, and it did happen, Barry was sure he'd kill the son of a bitch. His fateful punch earlier in the evening had missed. Next time, he wouldn't. He could get a gun, easily. He knew where his father kept his pistol. Timmy's father had a gun cabinet full of hunting rifles, and the boys could get access to the key. If he stuck around, next time his father came after him, he 'd squeeze a trigger rather than his fist. And that would be murder, and they put people in jail for that. Put people to death for it, too.

Barry did not want to die, especially now. He felt reborn. He wasn't sure where he'd go next, or what he'd do, but it felt like the whole wide world was open before him. Anywhere was better than here. He never wanted to see this house or his parents or the cemetery and church again.

After the worst of the pain had subsided, Barry turned off the light and tiptoed back out into the hall. He peeked in on his mother.

She lay on her back, mouth open, snoring softly. He felt the urge to go to her, to kiss her forehead and tell her he was sorry, but he squashed it down. Pulling her bedroom door shut behind him, he made his way back to his room and rummaged through the closet until he found his book bag. His bare foot came down on a Star Wars action figure--Greedo, complete with blaster-- and he bit his lip to keep from hollering, which hurt him even more. Fresh blood flowed. He wadded a tissue against it.

Barry slipped on his shoes and went into the kitchen. He began gathering items he'd need. The combination can and bottle opener from the utensil drawer, along with a single fork, knife, and spoon. Then he raided the cupboard. He stuffed his backpack with potato chips, Twinkies, Hershey's kisses, and Fruit Roll-Ups, along with canned goods --peas, corn, baked beans, succotash, tuna fish, sauerkraut, Vienna sausages-- and some Ritz crackers. He tested the weight and was surprised to find that the backpack was still relatively light. He added some more Twinkies, then closed the cupboard door and moved on to the fruit bowl, which was sitting out on the counter. He selected a few small apples and dropped them into the book bag. He avoided any of the citrus fruit, worried that it might go bad before he had a chance to eat it.

Finished with scavenging the kitchen, he moved on to the living room. It was littered with empty beer cans, dirty coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays. His mother had never been much of a housekeeper, and it had only gotten worse as his father got worse. Barry found just over ten dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels in the large dolphin-shaped ceramic ashtray his parents used to hold loose change. He remembered the day they'd bought the souvenir, during a family trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore.

He'd had a good time. Thought the day might turn out okay. Then, on the way home, his father had backhanded him for talking while he was trying to drive. Frowning at the memory, Barry dropped the coins into his pockets. His jeans sagged a bit from the weight. His parents wouldn't miss the money. Lately, his father had seemed to have more cash than usual. After seeing Dane Graco's Freemason's ring on his father's hand tonight, Barry suspected he knew how his father had gained these new riches.

Grave robbing.

Barry returned to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He opened his Baltimore Orioles bank and dumped out his life savings-- twenty-two dollars and ten cents --then added the bills to his pockets. Combined with the money he'd stolen from the living room, he assumed he'd have enough to live off of for a while. If money and food ran out, it was summer, and he could always eat by raiding people's gardens at night. He debated on whether or not to bring his fishing pole, but decided it would be too cumbersome.

He also grabbed his flashlight, a pocketknife, his BB pistol, extra COj cartridges and BBs for the pistol, and his jean jacket from the closet. It was warm outside, but he didn't know where he was going, and he might need it sooner or later. Plus, he could use the jacket as a pillow or blanket. He tied the jacket around his waist and stuffed the pistol behind his back, making sure it was snug inside his waistband. Then he dropped the other items into his book bag. Finally, he opened his dresser drawers and grabbed several pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, and another 'pair of jeans, and crammed those into the book bag as well. Stuffed to the brim, the bag's fabric bulged at the seams, and he had a hard time zipping it shut. When he slipped the straps over his bruised shoulders, the extra weight pulled at him, magnifying his pain all over again.

He patted his jingling pockets and glanced around his bedroom, trying to decide if there was anything else he was forgetting. Barry wondered if he should feel sad or nostalgic. After all, this was the last time he's see his room and all of his stuff. But he didn't feel sad. He didn't feel anything, other than an urgency to leave. The stuff was just that -- stuff. Bought for him by two parents who smiled when they handed it to him, despite the nightmares that would follow. None of it meant anything to him. Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him.

He left no note. He had no good-byes to say.

Except for two.

He couldn't run away without saying good-bye to Timmy and Doug. They were his best friends, the only good things that had ever happened to him. What had happened today, out behind the shed, had broken his heart. He had to see them one more time.

Taking as deep a breath as he could without hurting his sides, Barry crept to the front door and slipped outside. There was no need to go out his bedroom window, the way he usually did when he snuck out at night. His father was gone, his mother was passed out, and he was in too much pain to crawl through the window, anyway.

A chorus of crickets greeted him. The stars sparkled overhead, and the yard was bathed in moonlight. The church loomed across the street-- dark, gloomy and menacing. Beyond it, the cemetery sprawled out into the darkness.

Barry wondered if his father was in there somewhere, beyond the shadows, even now looting another grave as he'd done with Timmy's grandfather's. Barry thought it over. Dane Graco had been buried with the ring on his finger. He'd seen it before they closed the casket. The funeral procession went out into the graveyard. The casket was lowered into the ground. The mourners tossed in flowers and the first few handfuls of dirt. Everybody left. Barry and his father had gone home, changed clothes, and then returned to fill in the grave. They'd been together the whole time, so there was no way his dad could have stolen the ring then. His father had been in a hurry to leave. He remembered thinking it was as if the old man didn't want to be in the graveyard after dark. But maybe it had been something else. Maybe he'd just been anxious for the sun to go down, eager for night to fall, so that he could dig Timmy's grandfather back up under the cover of darkness. Barry had noticed other trinkets and baubles--new jewelry, much to his mother's delight, and the extra cash in his father's pockets. Now he knew where it was all coming from.

The thought filled him with dread. It was horrible. Sick.

But so was his father.

All he had to do was look in the mirror to see the proof of that.

“Good riddance,” he whispered. His busted lip throbbed. Barry winced.

He walked through his backyard and started down over the hill to Timmy's house. The lights were out, but he figured he'd just knock on Timmy's window and wake him. He went slowly, his body still aching. He pulled the bloody tissue from his lip and tossed it onto the ground. He readjusted the book bag so that his bruised shoulders wouldn't chafe more from the straps. He was carrying a lot of weight.

But the heaviest burden of all lay behind him.

Barry did not turn around.

He smiled again, and this time, it didn't hurt as much.

Timmy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His alarm clock said it was a quarter till three in the morning, and he still couldn't sleep. His father had finally gone to bed about an hour ago, after sitting in the living room by himself, crying his eyes out. Timmy had heard him through the walls, weeping and talking to God, but he hadn't cared. Let his father cry. Timmy was finally out of tears. He 'd shed enough. He would shed no more. He was emotionally spent. Nothing mattered now. His grandfather's death, Katie Moore, Pat's body, what had happened to the others, the ghoul, Mr.

Smeltzer, Barry and Doug's problems-- all seemed to pale in comparison to what had happened down in the basement that evening.

His childhood, his fondest memories, the very things he loved the most, were ripped to shreds and lying in a cardboard box. And he still didn't understand the reason for it. Timmy had seen enough afternoon talk shows to know that this would scar him for the rest of his life. He wasn 't being melodramatic. It was the simple truth. Surely his parents must have known that, too. They knew how much those comic books meant to him. So why mete out such an unjust punishment? Why punish him at all? He'd told the truth. Instead of disregarding what he'd had to say, they should have investigated his claims. After all, these were the two people who had always told him he could come to them with any problem. That he could tell them anything. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Whatever the problem, they 'd assured him time and time again that they would listen to him. Be there for him.