Superman's Cape (16 page)

“Bye Patches,” Kyle mumbled, only it came out in a broken foreign language he no longer thought sounded funny. He rubbed his belly to the groan and stir of hunger. His belly was complaining less. It was far quieter than it had been earlier. The cold water of the spring he’d found filled him good, but stayed brief.

When Kyle moved his eyes past his belly to his feet, he saw just one sneaker. At some point the other Nike must have decided to walk off on its own. Kyle wasn’t sure if maybe the bog mud kept it as a token like an award or remembrance. Or, maybe he lost it when the tree snapped his eyes shut and threw him to the ground.

What he did know was that the shoe he was wearing was at least a size too small. And the small size was doing some bad things to his foot. In his mind, he saw the shoe growing smaller, like an odd scene from Alice in Wonderland. The real problem wasn’t a fable from Alice in Wonderland, but that he was growing faster than his Mom could afford. It would be a while before they had enough money, or even any money, for a new pair of sneakers.

Kyle tried to stretch his foot, but it felt cramped.
Maybe the bog mud shrunk my shoe
, he thought. Something squishy ran between his toes and he wondered if a skin blister popped. He wanted to blame his Mom. He wanted to stir up some of the anger that he stored away. But now he only felt shame and embarrassment when he thought about the shoe and why it was too small. He understood why. He knew how fast he went through things like clothes, and he knew how little money they had.

From above him, a scream cut the sound of the woods. The scream made him jump where he stood, leaving him to forget for a moment about his shoe. A second and then third scream hollered out. Kyle searched the trees around him and found the source. Halfway up a nearby pine, a hawk was perched, staring down at him in seeming condescension. He didn’t know the type, but it was smaller than the ones he’d seen on their drives into town. Those were the big ones. They sat on phone poles and road-signs. Waiting and watching the ground. Once in a while, Kyle saw what they were waiting for. He’d see them dive onto the ground, pounce on something. They’d lift up into the air as if on a magic carpet, a freshly picked meal hanging from their talons. Kyle’s stomach growled at the thought of food.

The hawk that hollered at him was a mini version. It was tiny enough to fly through the pines and fit its wings between the tight trees.

“What d’ya want?” Kyle yelled up to the hawk.

And as if it understood, the hawk bent forward, bobbed its head up and down, and sounded off to him something he couldn’t understand.

Amused, Kyle sounded back, “I’n just sitting here.”

“Think I’n gonna call you George … how’s that?” Kyle laughed.

George straightened up, then yelled again. Kyle looked at George and the attentive monarch-orange and black in his eyes. He admired the coat of feathers. They looked warm. Bright yellow talons clutched the branch George stood on and stung the dark of the wood. George slowly pulled one up into his coat of feathers, leaving only a glimpse of a toe.

“You resting?” Kyle asked, and saw a quiet innocent nudge from George’s feathered face.

“OK then, you can keep ne conpany.”

After dropping onto his rear, Kyle tried to decide whether to keep the remaining shoe on or to take it off.

“Eeny ngeeny nginy one … you can sing along ih you wanna George,” Kyle offered.

George looked on intrigued as Kyle waved his hand between his feet while whispering the counting rhyme. While he tired of his broken words, Eeny meeny, did sound funny. He tried not to laugh and quickly staved off the giggles when pain woke up his swollen face.

“Eeny ngeeny nginy noe, catch a tiger dy da doe.”

“If he hollers let hin doe.”

“Eeny ngeeny nginy noe!”

Kyle saw George’s head following his finger as it bounced back and forth. For a moment he wondered if the bird might attempt a raid on him. He thought of the annoying seagulls that attacked your lunch tables at the shore. Not wanting to lose a finger, Kyle slowed the motion of his hand. George lost interest and turned to what sounded like a pine cone drop.

Kyle’s finger landed on his stocking foot and a wave of relief lifted him a little. He wanted to keep his remaining shoe. For some reason keeping it just a little longer helped him feel less disconnected from home. It was something familiar. Even if it was just a little bit. He’d keep the sneaker, but had to take it off and dry his foot. Kyle wrapped his hand behind the heel of the shoe and pushed. When the shoe didn’t move he pushed harder.

“You just gonna stare at ne, George?” he asked frustrated.

The shoe didn’t slip off his foot. It didn’t move, it was stuck. It was frozen in place with caked mud sandwiched between layers of shoe leather and sock.
The bog mud
, he thought and an image of the rotting animal carcass teased his mind.

“Dahgg Nudd,” he said grabbing at the laces and tugging them back out through their holes. The pace to remove the shoe quickened as more images of the bog mud played back in his mind. The smell of the animal carcass came off his foot. Next it was the image of the rotting flesh. The flesh formed a mouth that was gross and mutant. It mouth spewed maggots as it spoke. The maggots crawled around the rotten lips. It told him, “I’ve got your shoe. I almost had you. At least I got your shoe.”

As Kyle pushed and pulled on his shoe he started to feel dizzy. He felt faint. The images in his head were a waking dream and he thought he would fall over onto the ground and sleep. George called out and shocked him awake. He thought George was scolding him. He thought it sounded like a warning.
Wake up
, George said,
it isn’t the right time. Not now.
No sleep for you.
Kyle responded and nodded.

“Ny neaker,” he mumbled and then started again to free his foot. Kyle felt raw skin above his heel. Blood blotted through his sock. Being a size too small, the butt of his shoe cut him. Hours passed since he swam with the maggots and the dead chess pieces. The idea of that same water in his shoe scared him.

A loud suctioned vacuum of air sounded as his shoe lifted and released his foot. George jumped. He fluffed his wings in a stretch and then rested back on the branch. Kyle tore at the sock. Rolling it down from the top until he could ease it off.

The sock was wet. Soaked. And it smelled like the bog mud. It smelled like the rot of animal flesh. His stomach turned thinking that part of him stewed in those juices all night. His foot looked alien. It was whiter than white with craters of lifts and folds. Skin fell broken in small sheets. Large open sores revealed pink skin that vomited electricity to the touch of his fingers. Sitting up, he tried to rub his foot. He didn’t press. He didn’t scratch. He didn’t want to see any more skin falling off.

“I can’t walk on dis foot George … got any ideas?” Kyle asked, turning his good eye towards the bird.

“I can’t walk. But I need to. I need to get outta here.”

Kyle continued to rub his foot. A hunger pain was brief and interrupted for a moment.

“You’re lucky. You can just fly outta here,” Kyle mumbled. George bobbed his head up and down but didn’t call back. Kyle couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t remember ever having a hawk near him – never this close. Kyle started to fade. He locked his eyes on George. Kyle kept his eyes on the monarch-orange colors that watched him.

Kyle disappeared from the place on the ground. He disappeared from the place where a waterlogged foot began to tingle. He disappeared from the nagging memories and wounds of the day. He imagined soaring through the sky in flight with George. His companion. His friend. They flew above the trees from a great height where Kyle could see his old home. He could see his Dad and his Mom and Jonnie playing on the lawn. He could see a younger version of himself running around the For Sale sign. The words ‘Sold’ written across the front. Kyle and George flew on further, rounding the flight to come back and watch the family on the green lawn play some more.

The hawk was there to rest. And while resting it had some company, a young two-legger. Just a near baby in two-legger years. The boy straddled the ground and mended some wounds. The hawk was there to watch a small show. A show of something his woods rarely saw. The show of a boy that was a fish out of water. A country stir fry lost in a big city. A boy trying to survive another day. Trying to survive on feet that looked like the dead rind of fallen fruit. A little boy. Weak and hungry. Whose face was a mass of cuts and bruises. The young two-legger’s arm attracted late summer flies. They liked the skin around the wound on his arm. It was aged and it festered an infection the boy could not see. The flies used the boy’s arm to lay their eggs so their young could feed.

The hawk watched some more. He saw what the little boy could not see. He saw neighbors coming in for a closer look. A curiosity was building in their minds. A tasty drip whet the palette of their appetite. The hawk would hunt a field mouse later. And if the field mouse made a snappy escape and the little boy died, then he’d join in with the rest of his neighbors. He’d grab a snack to go … courtesy of the boy below.

A hint of ocean carried in the air as a breeze threw leaves around Jacob’s shoes. The seasons were changing. To Jacob it looked as though the trees were stuck somewhere between summer and autumn. Another breeze grabbed a handful of browning leaves. They played a game of chase across a mix of weathered stone and grass leading up to the Connely trailer. They followed each other like acrobats tumbling head over heels. Some fell off to the side and died. Others took flight and rocketed to the sky in an effort to rejoin their brothers and sisters watching from the branches above.

“Gonna have to store and forward,” Steve grumbled as he heaved the WJL-TV camera to his shoulder.

“Store and forward?” Jill asked.

Steve turned towards Jill and rolled his eyes.

“Newbies,” he grumbled shaking his head, “store and forward?” he suggested, scrunching his forehead. Jill’s eyes told Steve she still didn’t understand.

“Ya see up there, and over there,” he offered motioning to the tall trees. Jill followed his hands from the trees then turned back. “The transmitter in the van is line of sight,” he finished.

Jill frowned a moment as Steve spoke, and then asked, “line of sight?”

“Ya know … line of sight,” he circled a finger around his eyes. “My eyes to your eyes. It needs to see the bird in the sky,” he answered then threw a stream of tobacco to the ground.

“Ahhh, it’s like my cell phone at the mall,” Jill acknowledged, her frown lifting to a smile. Jacob thought she might be egging Steve on, intent on getting a rise out of him. His thought was confirmed when she slipped a wink in his direction.

“Right --” Steve started but then stopped short, “-- heads up,” he continued, and flipped switches on the camera, pointing it to the trailer.

Jacob turned in time to see a woman and her little boy standing on the small landing. Although the sun wasn’t new in the sky, it was nearing the top of the morning hours. Sunlight reflected off the dew coated grass like diamonds – sparkles circling their feet as they walked. The light was at an awkward angle. It pinched his eyes, causing him to squint and see just silhouette figures ahead of him.

“Gonna be in our eyes,” he mumbled.

“What is?” Jill asked, as she and Steve turned to face the landing.

“The sun. Give it a minute. It’s going to get stronger.”

Jacob struggled with the microphone in one hand while laying a shadow over his eyes with the other. As guessed, all he could see were the gray shapes of the mother and her son. The sunlight did get stronger. It beamed warm yellow and gold across the roof of the trailer and settled just above the woman’s shoulders.

Frustrated, Jacob suggested, “Let’s try and move back over here.”

“I hear ya, chief. Wasn’t getting anything but blind light here anyway,” Steve agreed and began to shuffle his feet. The three moved around the other reporters. They walked through the grass, bouncing diamond lights until they were closer to the trailer. They walked until the sun cast its light over them instead of on them.

When Jacob felt the cool air of the shadow wrap his face and hands, he pulled in a breath and tasted the remains of the night. A static charge struck him. Subtle enough that he almost missed it. But then a second charge struck him and it was stronger. The strings that pulled him to the Connely trailer woke up. They fluttered like small metallic wings. Their sharp edges sparking and searing whatever they touched.

“Hey, Jacob, what’s wrong?” Jill questioned.

“Not sure. I don’t feel sick, I just feel – well, strange.”

“Do you want me to take over?”

“I got this,” he answered and then turned to face Sara Connely and her son.

“Mrs. Connely … Mrs. Connely?” Jacob asked, and without any hesitation, the other reporters joined in. Surprised, both Jill and Steve stepped back. Steve fumbled with his camera and muttered a curse word or two before he had the red light blinking. The camera was recording. The other reporters threw questions like water balloons. Just innocuous inquiries that fell out of the air without direction or distinction. Jacob gave out another call to Mrs. Connely. The other reporters stepped up their game. Jacob saw a few of their hands rising to get her attention. Their fingers snapping and drinking the sunlight as they bounced in and out of the sunlight and shadow cast by the trailer.

“Sara!” Jacob decided to say. His voice sounding strange. Not sick strange or morning strange. Instead, a voice that wasn’t his. He saw from the corner of his eye both Jill and Steve looking at each other. When he turned back to the landing, he saw the little boy.
John
, he recalled from the Data Sheet Andy had given him.
He looks more like a
Jon-Jon or Jonnie
, he thought and cleared his throat as Mrs. Connely turned to move the boy closer to her.