In the Belly of the Beast

20

Ten-year old Sam had lived here for a couple of weeks, but already, he hated this new foster home more than the rest.

His latest foster mom was not that bad. Not really. She wasn't the cleanest woman he'd ever seen, but she set food on the table at regular intervals, and she left him alone.

No, Sam's problem was not the F.M. Sam's problem was Lenny, the F.M.'s mentally-challenged son.

Lenny was as big as a mountain with cement for brains, and much to the boy's horror, Lenny had taken to Sam like a buzzard to roadkill. Lenny latched onto him the first night Sam arrived.

He constantly followed Sam, never letting the boy out of his sight. Sam found he couldn't even pee in peace. 

Whenever he'd enter the bathroom, Sam could hear Lenny outside the door, shuffling his big booted feet heavily from side to side and pitifully whimpering as if his bladder were bursting, too.

Sam knew Lenny would have peeked through the keyhole, too, if he'd been smart enough to figure out that that was what keyholes were actually made for.

But Sam didn't have to worry. He'd stuffed enough toilet paper into the hole to jam the locking mechanisms for life.

Sam's plans for the day had stopped up the toilet from the start.

***

He'd feigned a sore throat, and his act had been good enough to let him skip school. That much had gone well. F.M. had allowed Sam to stay home, but then proceeded to burst his balloon by telling Sam to watch Lenny.

Watch Lenny. Was she crazy? 

Sam didn't have to watch that lug. Lenny kept Sam in sight like a slide under a microscope. Besides, Sam had no time to waste watching Lenny.

Only yesterday, he had found some sheets of buckling plywood. He'd stacked these against some old tires, constructing a clubhouse fit for a king. Now, he was itching to get out there and play in it.

"You want me near Lenny?" Sam asked innocently. "I mean with all these throat cooties I got, ain't you afraid I'll give Lenny some. My throat really hurts, and my chest don't feel too good, neither."

She absently brushed the back of her hand against Sam's forehead.

"Well, I thought it would be o.k. You have no fever, far as I can tell. Still, maybe you're right," the F.M. said. "Lenny, you leave Sam alone today, you hear? Stay out of his face. I don't want you clogged up with congestion tonight. Mind Mama, Lenny. Let's see if we can't keep Mama's little man well."

"Add snot to that river of slobber running down his chin, and Ole' Len might just drown," Sam mumbled.

"What?"

"Nuthin'," Sam muttered.

"Well," she continued, "don't get no ideas in your head, young man, about going outside. It's too cold. You just sit still and watch TV and let that throat of yours heal. Absolutely no going outdoors, Buster. I simply forbid it. And Sam, just so you know, I'll be keeping an eye out, so don't even think of sneaking out."

In lockup all day with Lenny. 

The pit of Sam's stomach sunk into his shoes. It was enough to make Sam wish he'd gone to school.

True to her word, the F.M. watched him until late afternoon. But mercifully, she and Lenny had lain down for a nap. Sam seized the opportunity and quietly made his escape.

He was in his clubhouse freezing his nuts off, but still it was better than hanging out inside. He blew into his cupped hands and focused his attention on the house next door.