Transcontinental (32 page)

After a few tries, Leroy got the map folded up and put it back in his bag. He sized up the bench, then laid on his back, knees bent, bags interlocked with his crossed arms, and let his eyes close. He didn’t care that he was out in public, nor that it was the middle of the day. He couldn’t have cared if he tried.

* * *

It was pitch black. He ran, not feeling his ankle. He couldn’t feel anything, but he knew he was running. A familiar crunch with each step he took set him on edge. His breath lodged in his throat, choked up by a smoky, chemical scent that seemed to cloud in his lungs, and he was gravely certain of his location. He coughed and coughed, but still he ran.

Muffled noises echoed in the darkness, until one rang out above them all: a train horn, hurtling through the tunnel like a contained explosion, headed right for him. He ran faster, harder, but he knew he couldn’t outrun a train. It was only a matter of time before it all went away, but still he ran.

A light dragged around a corner from behind, then straightened and illuminated the path before him, casting a shadow that stood still, even though he was running. Outside the Leroy-shaped shadow, the light revealed a solitary train track amidst a tranquil, sunny day.

He dashed toward the exit, the train’s horn swelling, growing deeper as it shook the walls of the tunnel. The light behind him brightened as he drew closer, almost close enough to touch the sunlight, then he was hit from behind and shoved through the exit with a
pop
.

He tumbled to the ground without feeling, and laid on his back, catching his breath. His eyes lifted to where he’d come from, but there was no tunnel, no train; just a solitary railroad track. Relief washed over him, and he shut his eyes, though he was grateful for the sunlight.

Crunch
.

The sound sent a shiver through him.

Crunch.

It was coming from beside him.

Crunch
.

He was afraid to look. In a horrible instant, he realized what it was, and despite every intention to keep them closed, his eyes shot open wide and stared dead at it. He tried to look away, to look anywhere else, but his gaze was stuck.

A man made of shadow straddled Ant’s body, methodically hacking away at what was left of Ant’s face with a nightstick, as if he were a robot.
Crunch
. Above the scattered teeth, the bone, the blood and muscle, the tatters of skin and cartilage, Ant’s still intact eyes darted, saucer-shaped with utter terror. Frenziedly, they searched, until Ant’s head slowly turned toward him, and their eyes met. He saw the stumps of Ant’s jaws trying to form sounds, let alone words, but a whistle-y gurgle was all that escaped.

Crunch.

* * *

 
Leroy awakened with a start.

“Christ on toast,
finally
,” a security guard with a thick voice said as he his pulled hand away after nudging Leroy. “I let you catch up on your beauty rest, now you gotta hit the road, buddy.”

Disoriented, Leroy squinted as he glanced around at the buildings, the capitol dome, the fountains. Bad as his situation was, he was relieved to be awake. He twitched with a shudder. The vision of Ant’s mangled face haunted him.

“You hear me?” the beefy guard intoned.

Leroy swung his legs to the ground, shook his head to clear his thoughts, which didn’t work, then stood. “Yeah.” As he limped away from the bench, he saw the sun at half-mast. Just a few more hours and it’d be dark. After that dream, though, he had little interest in sleeping. He couldn’t win.

Wandering down the road, all he could see was Ant’s face, as if it was burned into his thoughts. It set his head spinning. He glanced around, searching for something to take his mind off it. Down the road, a cluster of buildings, less uniform than the others, caught his eye. He headed their direction. Must be something to do there.

As pain bit down on his ankle, he kept walking. His injury was so much less severe than what Ant had been dealt, he had no room to complain.

Leroy was disappointed to find that the cluster of buildings was Washburn University. He’d never been to one before, but he doubted there was much for him to do. Still, there was plenty to look at. He walked on.

The buildings weren’t particularly fascinating; many were plain utilitarian, with only windows to prevent them from being beige brick cubes. Others were topped with maroon or grey tiling that didn’t help much, either.

He was beginning to regret his walk when he noticed the word ‘Art’ on a building across the street, and his heart jumped in his chest. The Mulvane Art Museum. On the lawn in front of it was a strange, chrome statue that bewildered Leroy, but the building was more beautiful than any other on campus. It looked like a patchwork quilt of stone, with three huge columns atop the front staircase. He hoped it was free to get in, until he remembered that he had money. Having money took some getting used to.

Regardless, admission was free. Leroy was slightly taken aback when he entered, because it looked almost exactly like the art museums in cartoons he’d seen: hardwood floors, modern benches, white walls, and ceilings with track lighting. Pure and simple. He let out an emotionless chuckle.

A smattering of people gazed at the vibrant attractions on the walls, ranging from tiny squares of paper to huge canvases with thick gold frames. Leroy was almost intimidated by the collection, as if each piece was further proof he had no place in the art world. He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know if he even wanted to.

There were paintings of buildings, paintings of landscapes, paintings of shapes, paintings of fruit, and paintings of hardly anything. There were sculptures—strange colorful cups, freaky tribal heads, beautiful pottery. Each one sent a range of emotions flurrying through him. He supposed that was what made it worthy of an art museum.

Leroy stopped in front of a painting of snowy mountains made of swirling strokes behind a wooded lake and a makeshift indian settlement, with plenty of horses. Lander’s Peak, by Albert Bierstadt. It was fascinating to see a piece with the same subjects Bob Ross often painted, executed in a different style. Where Bob used broad strokes to achieve a full image, this artist seemed obsessed with tiny details. And it paid off; the image exhilarated Leroy.

Brian Slawson’s Kaw At Topeka was a gorgeously rendered painting of a cloudy peach sunset over a lake. Leroy was astounded by the ability to accurately portray something so complex as the reflection of the setting sun on a body water. It seemed outside the range of human talent, although it clearly wasn’t. Outside the range of his talent, perhaps.

Barbara Cleary’s two landscape pieces were closer to Bob Ross’s style, although much more grassy; they relied on thick brush strokes to impart the finer details. What Leroy found interesting about them was the dreamy sense of color, the bunches of wildflowers amongst the plush sea of green.

The soft strokes lulled him into a daze that laughing children drew him out of. He turned toward an adjacent room to see a group of kids, mostly younger than him, going wild with paint at a small table. Half of them were painting on the table itself, yet the adult in the room just stood there, smiling.

He’d painted a few times in art class, but only the simple exercises he’d been assigned. This was complete creative freedom, and it filled him with excitement. Leroy had always wanted to try out the techniques Bob taught on TV. He hoped he wasn’t too old to join the group.

Standing outside the art lab’s open door, he knocked on the doorframe. The supervisor turned to him, friendly as Cleary’s wildflowers.

“Hi, there.”

“Ma’am, am I allowed to paint, or am I too old?”

“You’re never too old to paint. Come on in.”

* * *

By the time the museum closed, Leroy had been the last one in the art lab for an hour. He’d gone through countless sheets of paper in pursuit of a decent painting. It was frustrating. It was tedious. But he reveled in it. He loved tweaking his method, changing his approach, figuring out through trial and error how things worked and how things could work. It’d take him years, but maybe he
could
paint a sunset over water.

It was dark outside when he left. He could hardly believe it; time had flown by. In the light of the museum, he gazed once more at the crude mountain range on his paper, finally dry, then folded it and put it in his bag.

Undistracted once again, his thoughts drifted to Ant, to his situation, and immediately he was sucked into an emotional sinkhole. All this waiting around was weighing him down. He’d lost sight of the overall goal—to find Rehema. But he couldn’t just
leave
Ant. Could he? He didn’t want to, but an increasingly loud nagging voice kept telling him he should.

Pushing it out of his mind, Leroy figured it was time to find somewhere to sleep, and after a moment, he knew exactly where to go.

* * *

Leroy felt bad taking the handicap-accessible stall, but it was the furthest back in the bathroom, and therefore would render him least noticeable to anyone who came in. It’d be hard enough trying to sleep on a toilet in a bathroom, but even harder in a public bathroom in a twenty-four hour superstore in the middle of a big city. He needed every advantage he could get.

For a moment Leroy wondered why he and Ant hadn’t slept in the bathroom instead of clothing racks in the other store. It dawned on him, though, that on top of everything else, a grown man and a teenager hanging out in a bathroom together just wasn’t normal.

He shifted his weight to one side of the toilet, and the automatic flusher went off, startling him.
That
would make it easy to sleep.

Ant was on his mind. Leroy didn’t want to sleep; he knew he’d regret it, one way or another. But it was night, and traveling at night seemed unsafe and unwise. If nothing else, sleep would pass the time.

The two bags tucked safely and grossly behind the toilet, Leroy let his chin fall to his chest as he inhaled the manufactured freshness of the facility. His eyes watered as he yawned, more tired than he’d realized. Maybe sleeping on a toilet wouldn’t be so difficult, after all.
 

* * *

Crunch.

Eyes closed, Leroy shuddered. Light bled through his eyelids.

Crunch-crunch.

Not again. He couldn’t take any more of that damn sound.

Then, he heard the soft
swish
and
rip
of paper towels. He bent down to see below the stall wall, and saw the wheels of a janitor’s cart.

Now fully awake, the sound of the spray bottle no longer reminded Leroy of Ant’s accident, but it had done its damage already. There was angst in the pit of his stomach. He wondered how long he’d slept. If how he felt was any indication, he’d hardly slept at all, but he knew sleep could be deceptive.

His eyes heavy, he considered leaving the bathroom to check the time, but before he knew it he was well on his way to dozing off again.

* * *

The
thump
of a body crashing into the bathroom door roused Leroy from his light sleep. He could hear the door close, then feet shuffling.

 
He held his breath. Maybe someone had reported him. Maybe he was about to get kicked out. What a stupid idea, sleeping in a bathroom.

“Who’s in there?” a hoarse voice boomed, startling Leroy.

The man, whoever he was, kicked in the door to the first stall.

“Where are you?!”

Uncertain fear flooded Leroy’s system, keeping him still. He had a feeling this wasn’t an employee of the store, but rather a crazy person.

Leroy saw the scuffed-up work boots of the aggressor step in front of his stall. With a
crash
, the man kicked the door, but the lock held.

“Lemme in!” he cried, jiggling the door handle. “Let me IN!”

The stall shook again as the man delivered another hard blow.

Then, the bathroom door opened, and a woman’s voice cried out.

“Daddy! Daddy, come on!”

Before she could reach him, the man dropped to his knees and stuck his whiskered face under the gap below the door. “I see you!”

“Now, quit it,” his daughter ordered. “Leave that poor man alone.” With that, she pulled him to his feet. “I’m so sorry, sir. He’s drunk.”
 

Leroy sat in embarrassed silence as he heard them walk away.
 

“He won’t let me in!” the man wailed.

“You’re being very rude.”

“He ain’t pooping!” he assured his daughter. “He ain’t even pooping!”

The door closed. Leroy waited for his heartbeat to slow.

* * *

While looking through his bag, Leroy heard a footstep, and his heart froze in his chest. He hadn’t heard the door open. Face buried in his backpack, he waited for another step, but none came.

Assuming he’d imagined the sound, Leroy looked up.

Ant stood before him in the stall, unscathed and emotionless.

A terror like he’d never felt held him in a vice. He tried to scoot back on the closed toilet seat, but edged up against the wall.

“I-I tried to find you,” Leroy stammered.