Strays (6 page)

“That’s what I thought.  From what?”

“Faux-Dad.”

“Faux-Dad?” Tom asked.  “What’s a Faux-Dad?”

“Faux, like fake.  You know, like faux fur?  He’s a fake dad.”

“So like your stepfather.”

“That’s right.  His name is Bud Smallhouse.  He calls himself Big Buddy.”

“Big Buddy,” Tom repeated, and then wrinkled his nose as if he didn’t like the taste of the words.  “What’s
his
story?”

“He drinks,” Sarah said.  “And when he drinks he likes to do things to me that I don’t want to do.  When I was little, I couldn’t do much about it, but a few weeks ago …” 

She felt her voice trailing off, and she looked away, deep into the woods.  Her eyes scanned through the brush for signs of that candy-cane tail.  She needed at that moment to see the cat again.  But there was no sign of the tail to be seen.

“You’re among friends,” Tom said.

“Friends,” Sarah muttered.  “That means more than one.  I only see you here.”

“You have friends all around,” Tom said, lifting his arms.  “Everything in this forest is your friend.  Nothing’s going to hurt you, Sarah, not if I have anything to say about it.”

Sarah looked at him again.  His face, for all its silly, freckled goodness, was firm and strong nonetheless.  He was just a boy, a little older with not much too him, but something about the way he promised made her take pause.

Nothing’s going to hurt you.

The crazy thing was, she believed him.  As long as he was here, she was safe.  Safe enough to do anything.

“It’s like this,” Sarah said.  “My mom works a late shift, so she’s never around to fix Big Buddy his dinner when he gets off work.  Somehow, it became my job to have supper ready when he comes through the door.  One false move, one wrong step with his meal, and he beats the hell out of me.”

On that note, Tom’s legs flexed.  He sprang off the rock like … well, like the way that cat had sprung off the hood of Creepy Jack’s car, and he landed on the ground about six yards in front of her, falling back into that deep crouch, hands rested on the earth for support.  He cocked his head at a slight angle, and his eyes were wider, almost glassy as a rim of tears appeared in the left one.

“Oh Sarah,” he said.  “I'm so sorry.”

Sarah forced a grimace, nodded.  “Anyway, after dinner, he sits in front of the TV and drinks his beer.  When he goes empty, I have to get him another one, and it has to be perfect or another beating.  I can’t run too fast or I’ll shake it, but if I go too slow the damned thing will grow maybe half a degree too warm and … you can’t win.”

Tom nodded, his gaze never leaving, as if to say he understood.  For a moment, Sarah wondered if he had been through the same thing, if somewhere in his past there was a monster like Big Buddy looking for him.

“Later, I go to bed,” Sarah said.  “I share a room with my brother, Little Buddy.  Well, half-brother really.  Big Buddy and Mom always have to remind me of that.  My father … well, I don’t know what happened to him.  Little Buddy … he’s Big Buddy’s son, and I’m the one who takes care of him, even though he doesn’t need much taking care of.  Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Tom echoed.  “I’m listening.”

“Some nights,” Sarah continued, “after Big Buddy has just the right amount of beer, he comes to our room.”  She had torn the last of the peel off the orange in her hands, and she dug her fingers into it, feeling the juice ooze down her wrists.  “He makes sure little Bud is asleep, and then …” She lowered her face, not wanting to see Tom’s freckled grin at the moment, afraid it might be judging her.

“I don’t have to tell you what he does,” she said.  “Do I?”

She looked at Tom then and noticed that he had crept closer to her, was almost close enough to touch her and could have done so with a gentle reach if he wanted.  Something in his eyes … she knew he wanted to take her hand.  And yet he did not, keeping that respectful space.  It was the first time any boy or man had done that.

“No,” he said.  “You don’t.”

“So,” Sarah continued.  “Two weeks ago, I’m laying there, waiting to see if he would come.  And it hit me—I don’t have to do this.  I don’t have to spend my nights wondering about the monster in the closet.  I just … couldn’t … take it.”

“So you ran.”

“So I ran.”

Well,” Tom said.  “That’s all I need to know.”  He pushed against his knees and stood.  “Here’s what
you
need to know.  We’re not completely safe here.”

“I’m sure of that.”

“The man in the car last night, the one my friend the cat scratched to high hell—”

“You saw that?”

“I did.  Anyway, I have a feeling he’ll be back.  And something tells me your stepfather isn’t done looking for you.”

“No,” Sarah said.  “He’s not.  There was a guy last night at the convenience store, talking on the phone to him.  I heard him say the name Big Buddy.  Something about flyers and a reward.”

“No, you’re not safe,” said Tom.  “Not here.”

“So where do I go?”

 Tom smiled.  “I know a place.  It’s far from here, and it may take some work to get there.  But you’ll be safe there.  I can promise you that.”

“Where is it?”

“One thing at a time,” Tom said, placing his hands on his hips.  “You need to clean up a bit, maybe change your clothes.  There’s a stream about thirty yards to the north.”  He pointed off into the woods, in a direction that was perpendicular to the direction Sarah had originally assumed was north.  “Right through those trees.”

Sarah looked off to where he pointed.  “Go with me?”

“Hey, I’m a gentleman.  You need your privacy.”

Sarah considered this and grinned.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’ll be right here,” he said.  “You see or hear anything, you scream as loud as you can.  I know you can do it.”

“You bet your life I can.”

“You scream, and I’ll be there,” he said.  “Nothing’s going to hurt you.  I promise you.  Nothing’s going to hurt you as long as I’m around.”

Sarah felt a flush of her face.  It was a wonderful mixture of embarrassment and joy, something that maybe was what love was supposed to feel like, or at least that’s how it looked in the movies.  Still clutching the peeled orange in her left hand, she pushed herself to her feet with her right.  Once standing, she bent briefly to pick up the bag of fresh clothes Tom had gotten for her.  She hefted the bag in her hand and looked at Tom.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“You thank me when you’re safe.  Now go clean up.”

“Yes.”  She looked at him a moment more, and then something took over her body, and she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close.  The orange in the left hand pressed into his shoulder, and she felt the juice oozing out, and the bag in the right hand swung and slapped against the small of his back.  She heard his bottomless, melancholy laugh in her right ear as he gently eased her away from him. 

“Go,” he said.  “We don’t have much time.”

Sarah stepped back, clicked the heels of her sneakers, and saluted with the hand that held the dripping orange.  “Whatever you say, captain.”

“That’s right,” said Tom, his smile broader now.  “Whatever I say.  Those are some wise words to live by.”

Fight

She walked a few paces out of camp in the direction Tom had pointed.  Already, she could hear the gentle hiss and trickle of the stream.  Tucking her arm in the handles of the plastic bag, Sarah pulled the orange apart and pushed slice after slice into her mouth.  The sweetness made the front of her head tingle and numb, and although she had never been intoxicated or even dared to taste one of Big Buddy’s beers, she imagined this was how it might feel.

She ate as she walked, and the sound of the stream grew louder.  Soon, she was at the end of a small gully, the ground halting at a two-foot drop where the stream had eroded the soil when it was much higher.  Finishing the last orange slice, Sarah jumped off the ledge and landed in the graveled shore of the stream.  The sound of the water was perfect, a lazy dribble that shut out the world without being so loud as to overwhelm her thoughts.  She stared at the water and scratched a dry patch of skin just below the nape of her neck.

“Well,” she said to no one, “what am I supposed to do now?”

She would have killed for a shower and a bar of soap, even a bottle of shampoo if she was being greedy.  But there was nothing like that here.  She watched the water for several moments, then sat and opened the plastic bag to look inside.

Tom had done okay.

There were two t-shirts in there, both of heavier cotton that you would imagine from a C-store.  One of them was a dark teal, and on the chest of it was an upside-down trident head made to look like the letter M—current logo of the baseball team up in Seattle.  The other actually made Sarah laugh because it looked so out of place—a navy blue fabric with teal stripes across the chest, out of which jutted same-color silhouettes of palm trees against a yellow semi-circle that was supposed to be the sun; magenta letters spelled out MADE IN MIAMI after the style of that TV show with Don Johnson that Big Buddy watched on Friday nights.

Sarah folded both t-shirts roughly and tucked them under her arm.  She looked in the sack again and found three items the color of dry sand—a long pair of shorts with large pockets, and two pair of pants that looked to come just below Sarah’s knees, what she thought were called capri slacks.  After a moment, she opted for the slacks and the
Miami Vice
t-shirt, separating them from the other shirt and the shorts. 

She set her clothes on the ground, careful to keep the plastic bag underneath them and looked around.  Yes, she was alone.  At least it seemed that way.  She ventured a look back into the woods behind her—no sign of Tom, creeping about and spying on her.  Of course, he was good at staying hidden if he was indeed there but Sarah chose to believe that he was not.  He said he was a gentleman; she wanted to take him at his word.

Satisfied that there was no one slouching about, Sarah peeled off her windbreaker and the sleeveless blouse she wore beneath it.  Still watching the trees, she slipped off the blouse, which stank of that ammonia-sweat smell, and looked at her body.  It was thin, and the skin was pale and dry, and for a moment Sarah wondered what any of them saw in her—Big Buddy, the shaggy boy named Rhino, the shark-eyed Creepy Jack … even the good-hearted Tom.  She did not have much of a figure to start with, and after a few days without food there was even less to love.  And yet, they loped after her, leering, slathering, pawing.

Stop it!

Well, no, Tom didn’t slather and paw, but as for the others.  What was it?  She was not unattractive, she knew, but she was far from beautiful.  Her breasts were small, even if they did turn up a bit in a way that Big Buddy called “perky.”  Her hips were narrow.  She was greatly in need of getting what her mother called “meat on her bones.”  No, indeed, she was not setting any known standard of beauty.  So why were they after her?  Why?

She took the sweaty blouse, went to the stream’s edge, and dipped it in the water.  The water was cold, but she did not care, and she soaked the blouse well, then squeezed it dry and proceeded to wipe off her sweating torso.  She wished Tom could have found her a fresh bra, but he was too modest for that, she sensed.  Her old bra was a bit sticky now, but it would do.  She pulled each cup away from her chest, wiping each breast clean as best she could, then dipped the blouse in the stream again, soaked it and squeezed it damp, and used it to wash her face.

Once she was done cleaning her upper body, she pulled the
Miami Vice
t-shirt over her head and pushed her arms in the sleeves.  It was not the best fit, perhaps a bit loose, but it felt good to have a clean shirt against her skin.  Satisfied, she looked about the forest again, then kicked off her sneakers and slid out of her jeans.  Again, the same cleaning process for her legs and backside, dipping the damp blouse in the water to clean it and washing herself as best she could.  She slid off her panties and again wished she had a replacement, but the thought was quickly followed with a wave of gratitude for Tom’s kindness.  Had he brought her fresh panties, there would have been something … well, something
off
about it.  That would be the kind of move she would expect from Big Buddy, who would no doubt have asked her to model them.  The very fact that Tom had not even brought her fresh undergarments seemed to suggest that he knew how she would react, knew how afraid it might make her, and he was protecting her heart as well as her body.

She washed her underwear—it felt weird for her to think of them as panties—in the river and squeezed them dry.  She twisted them double and squeezed again, getting every last drop of water out, actually anticipating putting them back on again, but at the last minute she decided better of it.  She lay them gently atop the plastic bag and poked her legs into the capri slacks.  They felt weird against her skin without her undergarments, but she would live. 

Feeling fresh now, she removed the clean t-shirt and shorts from the plastic bag, replacing them with her damp and dirty clothes.  She slid on her windbreaker again.  A cool breeze whispered through the trees, promising the rain on its heels.  Sarah closed her eyes and let it blow through her.  Sometimes at night, the nights Big Buddy used to come for her, she would tell herself to breathe, only breathe, and soon it would be over.  Now she wanted to breathe again, only to breathe, this time because it was right and it was good and there was nothing happening at that moment.  She was waiting for nothing, expecting nothing, just letting the wind breathe to her as she breathed back.

It was the most peaceful moment in her life.

Until the twig snapped.

Sarah’s eyes fluttered open, and he was there, about twenty yards down the stream, looking at her.  He still wore his long-sleeve flannel unbuttoned over the untucked gray t-shirt.  He had the same drunken leer that he had offered her in the C-store mere hours ago. Once he was certain she was looking, he held the hem of his t-shirt with the thumb and forefinger of each hand, just as he had in the store, and flapped it in front of the fly of his jeans like a matador.