Wayward

CHAPTER ELEVEN

His uncle was gone, but a half empty bottle of tequila stood on the table. It seemed there was little he could do to help Pete now. He had the rest of the day before his father discovered him. If he played his cards right and got home in time, they may never know.

His backpack bounced against him as he walked. He had a few bottles of water, some granola bars and a sandwich. He pretended his mind was a camera and every time he blinked, he took a picture that could never be forgotten.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Click.

The bike with the ripped up seat - propped up against the fence of an animal pen. Click. The chipped, baby blue paint on the front door. Click. The mud-stained UTV with its massive black shovel. Click. The old wooden chutes where he and the other boys had sword fights. Click. There was nothing he could stand to lose. He needed to remember it all.

"This pen's gone be busy in a minute," one of the hands shouted over the pounding hooves. "Better get in gear."

A stampede crashed against the soft dirt in the lane between the pens. There was his uncle, hat backwards, hollering and driving them forward. Jim watched him and wondered if he would ever look like that - like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. He climbed the rungs of the rusty fence, sitting on it as the cattle barrelled past.

Jim looked out at his uncle's empire. Pete had bought this land and built everything on it with his blood, sweat, tears and wit. He was a god until the sun set that day.

Pete gave him a look that said "get the hell off that fence before you get hurt" and Jim dropped down to safety on the other side. They shouted and yipped and drove the cattle filed into a small corral.

A couple hundred yards in the distance there was Tarzan's pen. Jim checked inside and found it empty. Everything was scattered - leads, bridles, blankets and hay. There was shattered glass all over the floor and a broken step stool. A single beam of light illuminated the empty place where Tarzan used to stand. Jim shut the door and hoped it would dull the pain in his heart.

He paced outside, trying to decide what to do next. Crows and pigeons flocked to the roof above him, picking at each other. He forced himself to think. He saw the empty canals where the boys would engage in trench warfare with their Nerf guns and start dirt clod wars that usually resulted in someone getting hurt and everyone getting punished. Far to the east he saw the deteriorated structures that the Native American boys liked to play on. He could see the yellow field and the bluff where he met Red. He saw the pile of old trash and crushed down cement blocks.

He rose his head to the sound of four rapid, rhythmic coos. He craned his neck, caught sight of the bird atop the pens and his eyes widened. He'd seen it somewhere before. The feathers were vibrant blue. The underside was a pastel-gray. It stared at Jim with a black, shiny eye. It was a creature too beautiful to have survived this long. Jim felt sad for it. Was it alone? Was there any other creature like it in the world? The talons clicked across the wood and it let out a warm, chirping murmur.

It called out again, but this time the sound evaporated in its throat. Its chest exploded into a flurry of feathers and entrails. It collapsed, gurgled its final, signature call and was still.

###

There was Rex. Triumphant.

Rex the shooter.

The bird twitched. Was it alive? Of course not. He scolded himself for hoping. It was on a train car, disappearing over the horizon. Disappearing into oblivion.

Jim tried to get a grip, but he couldn't. He was twenty yards from them. Rex's birthday present was nestled between a rung of rusty metal and a wooden palette like a sniper rifle. There were two other boys standing on either side of Rex, patting him on the back. Congratulating him.

Rex's squished-in eyes flared with surprise when Jim ripped the BB gun away from him. He took the barrel in his hands like a baseball bat, swung it in a wide arc above his head and smashed it hard against the ground over and over again until it was bent and useless and plastic and metal parts littered the ground.

Powerful hands brought him to the ground. He wriggled beneath them, crazed by his narrow-eyed image of one of the last beautiful things in the world, destroyed before his eyes. It was Pete holding him.

"You going to -" Rex's father said.

"I'll take care of it," Pete roared. Rex and his father made themselves scarce. Jim realized that "taking care of it" applied to him.

Pete removed his knee from Jim's chest.

"Did you see what he did?" Jim said.

"What he did? What he did?"

"The bird -"

"I don't care about the bird." Pete was inches from his face now. "If you ever take something that belongs to -"

"He killed -"

"It doesn't matter Jim." He adjusted his hat. "Do you know where these animals go?" He pointed at the cattle.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I should have never let you name them."

"Come with me."

Jim didn't have his backpack. He'd dropped it. "I left my things- "

"Now."

Pete had him by the shirt collar. They walked between the pens and more than ever, Jim wanted to brush his hand against the smooth thick skin of the cattle. To say goodbye.

"Boy was I wrong," Pete said. But Jim didn't know what he was wrong about. They passed the pens. A calf brayed and hopped to and fro with its awkward, oversized legs. It was so new. It had only just entered the world.

They were at a pen the far side of the auction grounds. Far from the street. Far from the people who came to buy. Jim was afraid. There was a small crowd. They hollered and laughed. Pete urged Jim through the open gate.

They got closer and Jim saw long ropes, stretched taut. A few men held each end. They dug their heels into the ground, teeth gritting.

His uncle took him closer and he saw that the ropes were tied around the legs of a cow. She was writhing in the dirt, making a noise unlike any Jim had ever heard. She was screaming.

"They're hurting her," Jim said. He went towards the men with the ropes. His uncle's hand thumped into him. Jim looked at him, bewildered. Pete's eyes had a dead look in them. It was something he had never seen. The brim of his hat cast darkness over his face.

His words were icy. "Things aren't pretty anymore." Jim's body quivered. "You're going to have to change," he said.

Pete whistled. He pulled on a glove.

Dust swirled around blinking red taillights. The rain had stopped, but the wind had kicked up a dust storm. It was thick and looming - moments from swallowing the auction grounds.

A man handed Pete a long piece of metal. It was like a fire poker, glowing red hot. He nodded to the other men and pressed it against the cows' shaved side. It sizzled and burned the flesh and the cow screamed like any person would. Jim felt a voice screaming inside his head too. His nostrils were filled with the poisonous smell of singed hair. Pete stood over that cow, one gloved hand pressing the brand into her, the smoke rising all around him and a look in his eyes that was so wicked and sure that it could only be the look of a man.

This was what the world would make him.