Untouchable (35 page)

Darby reached over the bar, took a pen from a Lakers mug, wrote the name and the town on a napkin, folded the napkin into the pocket of his jeans. This should have been enough, but it wasn’t enough. He had a name, he had a place, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to hear the story. He wanted confirmation that Lucy hadn’t been alone. That she’d been carried by Greene, that she’d been surrounded by her students. He wanted to hear the story. He hadn’t heard the story in so long. He’d told it, to himself, to The Kid, but he hadn’t heard it. He needed to hear it from someone else.

A postal worker was sitting on the stool beside Darby, drinking a frozen margarita. Gonzalez was gone. His windbreaker was gone, his umbrella. Darby didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there alone. His shot glass was full again. There was a fresh beer beside it. The bar was packed with refugees from the worsening rain. Bodies pressed against Darby’s back and shoulders. Wet jackets, wet hair. He looked to the other end of the bar for the nurses. He wanted another cigarette. The Kid would be home from school soon, but Darby didn’t want to go home. He thought of The Kid discovering his bedroom torn apart, not understanding what had to be done, what Darby had to do.

The glow on the TV grew bigger, brighter, the outlines of the compound now visible in the flickering light, gray smoke leaking up from the roof into the dark sky.
Fire, fire.
People leaned forward on their stools, pushed in to get a better view. Darby thought of Bob on his way up north. The bartender held the remote up to raise the volume. A reporter’s voice over the shot of the fire saying,
Conflicting reports, unconfirmed reports.
Saying,
Unknown source, the cause of the blaze.

The newspaper clipping was spread across the bar in soggy pieces. Hands and elbows had dragged it apart, separated the wet newsprint into curling bits. Darby could feel the speck in his mouth so he clenched his teeth, he kept his mouth shut tight.

The flames now filled the TV, the orange light flickering out to the faces in the bar. People in the bar covered their mouths as they watched. Darby covered his mouth. A bearded man in the back corner shouted angrily at the TV,
No, no, no.
The speck was rising; the speck was here. Darby’s hands were touching the speck so he pulled them away from his mouth, held them at his sides. It looked like the entire compound was on fire.
No, no, no.
Darby was afraid that his hands might be contaminated by the speck. He tried to rub them clean on his jeans. The pager buzzed on his hip. He unclipped it from his belt, tried to focus on the display. A page from Everclean, one from Roistler’s cell phone. Another from Roistler, more from Everclean, going back to the day before, the day before that. He clicked through the display. A week of unanswered pages.

The pager was contaminated now. His hands had touched the speck and now his hands had touched the pager. He tried to wipe his hands on his jeans but it was no use, it was no good. He left the pager on the bar, held his hands away from his body, backed out of the door onto the sidewalk, shaking his hands in the rain.

They stood alone in the waiting room outside the vice-principal’s office. There was a row of chairs against the wall, but when someone was waiting in that room because they got in trouble they had to stand, they couldn’t sit.

The nurse had shined a light in Matthew’s eyes and ears and held up a hand in front of his face and asked him to count the fingers. When she was satisfied that he seemed okay, she sent them both to the V.P.’s office.

They’d been waiting for a long time. It had started to rain, water lashing against the windows behind the secretary’s desk. There was a small TV on the desk. The picture showed a long dirt road winding back toward some distant mountains. The road was jammed with cars and trucks and campers, luggage and boxes strapped to the tops of the vehicles, people hanging out the windows, yelling at police officers who were motioning for them to turn back. There was a fire somewhere, off camera, smoke filling the sky above the line of cars.

“Why did you come in there?” Matthew said. The nurse had given him a square of gauze to hold under his nose if it started bleeding again. He had pushed it up into one nostril, really wedging it up there, making his voice pinched and reedy.

The Kid didn’t have an answer. The back of his head was pounding from where he’d gotten hit. His eyes were getting blurry, but he didn’t want to cry. He wanted to call his dad. He wanted to hear his dad’s voice on the other end of the phone.

“You didn’t think you were going to beat him up,” Matthew said.

The Kid couldn’t stop shaking. His hands, his knees. He could hear the vice-principal’s voice from behind the closed door, Brian’s voice saying something in response.

“Why did you come in there?” Matthew said.

The Kid didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t stop shaking. The room blurred and then he felt Matthew’s hand on his arm, Matthew’s hand holding his wrist, and they stood like that and waited for the office door to open.

Steve Rogers was lying in his corner of the porch when The Kid got home. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The house was empty. His dad must have already left for work. The Kid went through the house, turning on lights, his head and neck still throbbing from where he’d gotten hit.

He found his room torn apart. His room a disaster area. His clothes had been dumped out of his drawers, pulled from his closet. His notebooks had been pulled from the shelf. The cassette recorder and the tape he’d found were pulled out from under the bed. His calendars were out from under the bed. His dad must have found the calendars and gotten mad at what The Kid was keeping track of. His dad so mad that he destroyed The Kid’s room.

He took the recorder and the cassette and went back out onto the porch. Steve Rogers was still lying in his corner. The Kid wanted to tell the dog that he knew what was wrong with him, that he’d looked it up at the library. He knew it was stupid, but he wanted to tell the dog that there was a name for what was wrong, that there were books with pictures, and then maybe the dog wouldn’t look so wary all the time.

It was quiet on the street. No loud cars, no helicopters, no shouting. The Kid put the tape in the recorder, pressed Play. The gears took a second to start turning, gradually getting up to speed. He heard traffic noises and muffled voices speaking Spanish. He heard dogs barking and looked over to Steve Rogers and Steve’s ears perked up at the sound. Then a voice spoke, loud on the tape, the voice too close to the microphone.

“This is Whitley Darby,” the voice said. “Also known as The Kid.”

It sounded like a little kid on the tape. It sounded like a little kid trying to make his voice deeper. The Kid almost didn’t believe it was him on the tape, that he sounded like that. That this was his voice.

“Tonight I’m turning the show over to a very special guest host, a person who needs no introduction.”

The Kid switched off the recorder. He couldn’t do it fast enough. He knew what show this was. He remembered this show. It was from a year ago, last fall, right around the start of fifth grade.

He’d woken up in the middle of the night to find his mom sitting on the edge of his bed, gently shaking his shoulder. Wake up, she was whispering. I can’t sleep. Let’s go downstairs and sit, she said. Just for a little while. Not for long, just for a little while.

The Kid didn’t know what was going on. His mom acting nervous, afraid. They went down to the living room, the house quiet and dark. His dad away at work. Three-thirty in the morning, according to the clock on the VCR. Even the late-night talk shows were over; even the hosts were in bed.

His tape recorder was sitting on the coffee table. How about an episode of your show? his mom said. How about a special episode? He shook his head, told her that he was tired. He couldn’t think of any guests, any questions. He didn’t know why she’d woken him up in the middle of the night, why she was acting that way.

I can’t sleep, she said. I’m just having some trouble sleeping.

She took his hand and led him out onto the porch. They sat on the top step. She had the recorder in her lap.

What if I’m the host? she said. Just for tonight. What if I fill in for you?

She switched the tape recorder on, handed him the microphone. Her hands were shaking, and when The Kid looked at her hands she stuck them between her knees, clamped her knees tight. He was so tired, but his mom seemed so strange, so afraid. He held the microphone up and she nodded at him to start the show.

He made his introduction and held the microphone out to her. She gave him a weak smile, a forced smile. She pulled her hands from her knees, took the microphone. Cleared her throat.

This is Lucy Darby, she said. Honored to be filling in for Whitley on this installment of his popular and long-running show.

The Kid looked at the dog. Steve Rogers was still in his corner, legs stretched out, watching The Kid. Maybe The Kid didn’t want to hear the tape, but maybe the dog would like to hear it. Maybe the dog should hear her voice. Then he wouldn’t growl or bark when she came back. Then he’d know her. He wouldn’t snarl when she finally turned down the street, when she came up the driveway, scaring her away.

The Kid stood, carried the recorder over toward Steve’s corner. Slowly, carefully, no sudden moves, nothing to spook the dog, nothing to make him want to lunge and attack. The dog watched him approach. The Kid placed the recorder on the porch a couple of feet from the dog’s outstretched paws. He pressed the Play button and turned and sat back down on the steps, away from the dog, and there was her voice, just like he’d remembered it, his mom’s voice on the porch, the dog looking at the recorder, his head cocked to the sound.

He’d taken a pair of latex gloves out of his toolbox and drove wearing the gloves. The gloves would prevent the contamination from spreading any further. It took him longer to get home than it should have. He drove slowly, carefully. He was worried about the contamination and the rain and the alcohol in his system.

He found The Kid sitting on the porch steps, not far from the dog. The Kid didn’t ask him where he’d been. Probably figured Darby had been at work. Darby asked The Kid why he was out on the porch and The Kid wrote that he couldn’t sleep.

He wanted to ask The Kid about dinner, if he’d eaten, what he’d eaten. He wanted to fix dinner, but the speck was in his mouth and he couldn’t open his mouth to eat. He went up to the bathroom, peeled off his gloves, scrubbed his hands and face in the sink. The soap wasn’t enough. He could get in the shower, but water wasn’t the problem. Soap was the problem. He could go to Everclean, use the showers there, but then he remembered the flames on TV, the unanswered calls on his pager. He scrubbed his hands, he scrubbed his face, but the soap wasn’t enough.

He didn’t know what time it was. Late. The Kid should be in bed but Darby needed to get himself clean. He steered The Kid back outside to the truck. He wore another pair of gloves as he drove.

The supermarket shone brightly in the night. The electric signs, the floor to ceiling windows at the front of the store. They came through the sliding doors into the fluorescent glare. The store was busy, small lines at four or five checkouts, carts in nearly every aisle.

The Kid went to look at the magazines. That was fine. They wouldn’t be there long. Darby found the aisle with the detergents, the cleaning supplies. He moved down the aisle, scanning the packaging, finding nothing but perfumed hand soaps and body wash, no disinfectants, nothing like the industrial-strength powders and sprays at Everclean. He pulled a boxed bar of soap down from the shelf, opened the box, shook the bar out into his hand. This soap wouldn’t work. Too soft, too gentle. He shoved the bar back into the box, dropped the box on the floor. Pushed past a couple of carts to the household cleaners. Rows of aluminum cans with brightly colored plastic caps. He scanned the labels, sweating through his shirt. He found a can in the middle of the aisle, top shelf, something that looked industrial-grade. A no-nonsense black & white label, a block of small-type hazards and precautions. He took the can from the shelf, shook the can. He could feel the speck in his mouth, but he didn’t want to touch his mouth again. There was a list of viruses on the can, but he didn’t need to read the label to know the list. He knew the list. He shook the can, popped off the cap. Herpes Simplex Type 1, Herpes Simplex Type 2; Hepatitis A, B, C. He knew the list, he lived with the list.

He pulled off the gloves and sprayed his hands with the cleanser. The pain when the disinfectant hit the dog bites was a searing, white hot thing. A woman shopping a few feet down the aisle turned, watched. Darby sprayed again, coating his entire hand. He could still feel the contamination from the speck on his skin. He dropped the can to the floor. It rolled away, clattering down the aisle.

A woman called out, Someone get a manager, please.

He tried another can, spraying both hands, spraying up his forearms. More people gathering in the aisle, watching from behind their shopping carts. He dropped that can, picked another off the shelf. Tried that can. He could no longer feel his hands, had trouble working the nozzle.

The manager entered the aisle, a pear-shaped man in a striped dress shirt. He made his way toward Darby, squeezing between the onlookers, the parked shopping carts. He made a face when he smelled the disinfectant. He looked at Darby’s wet hands, the cans of cleanser scattered on the floor. He asked Darby if he could help with something, asked if Darby needed some assistance.

“Give me a second,” Darby said. “This will only take a second.”

The manager cleared his throat. Darby cleared his throat in response. Of course. He knew what to do. He could get rid of the speck once and for all.

A woman waiting with her cart said something to Darby. The manager made a shushing motion to her, and then he said something to Darby, something about blocking the aisle, about having to leave the store.

Darby shook his head. He wasn’t finished yet. He shook the can of cleanser, opened his mouth, coughed, spat. It was hard to shake the can when he couldn’t feel his hands.