After talking to Rick, Peter headed for the hardware store. Hopefully, he would get there before it closed. He had some things to buy for his hideout. Anything to keep his mind off the events of the day.
Peter sprinted to the hardware store, arriving there in a time that wasn’t supposed to be humanly possible of a fourteen year old. He spotted an old man sitting out the front of the shop. He was a pitiful scraggly little thing. He had these huge gray eyes that shone out through his super thick glasses. It was almost comical in cute kind of way, the image of him swinging back and forth on a creaky rocking chair. He was a typical movie-made cranky old man.
“What do you think yer doin, kid. Go on, git! This aint no place for foolin ‘round!” the man yelled in a croaky southern-accented voice. Peter wouldn’t have bothered replying if he hadn’t seen the rifle resting on the wall next to the man’s rocking chair.
Quickly he explained, “It’s Peter! Officer Gilbertson is my dad!” He was yelling instinctively, for some reason assuming that the old man was hard-hearing.
“I’m not deaf, son. But I’m blind as a bat. Git o’er here so I can see you better.”
Hurriedly, Peter bounded up the steps of the store. It resembled a house more than a store, really; with a front porch, front steps and a front door. Peter came to the conclusion that the old man probably lived there, judging by the smoke rising out of the chimney.
“Two things,” Peter began, “Firstly, why do you have a fireplace in a hardware store and secondly, why did you light a fire in the middle of August.”
The old man stood up, his knees and back making sickening cracking noises as he did so.
“The name’s Billy Wilson. But you can call me Bill. See this here dump?” he asked gesturing to the hardware store. “I live here. I also happen to make my living here. I sell all them fancy thingy-ma-bobs you young people are always askin ‘bout. Thing is, you’re ‘bout the only customer I’ve had all week. That fire in there is for my food. I like to barbeque my meat. Now, why are you here?”
Peter stared at the man in front of him. And stared and stared. There was something familiar about him that Peter just couldn’t put his finger to. He didn’t know if maybe he’d someone like him in a movie or if he was just being paranoid. Either way, he’d never met Bill before. So he had nothing to worry about, right?
“I’m after some wood,” Peter answered.
“Yeah, well I'm closed so shoo! Come back when I am open. And be sure to bring a car and some money next time,” Bill said in his cranky old man voice. Peter was pretty sure he heard Bill mutter, “Stupid idiot,” under his breath. He knew that was aimed at him.
Peter sprinted home, being careful to stay out of sight. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone see how fast he could run. He couldn’t help feeling like someone was following him. Even though that was near impossible because Peter was running as fast as the cars next to him. But still.
Arriving home, Peter heard his dad in the kitchen. Sometimes Peter didn’t even bother trying to start a conversation with his father. They were always cut short with one-word answers.
“How was your day today, dad?” Peter asked. A normal dad would have then answered to say how he was bored at work but was happy now that he was home and able to watch the wrestling. Peter’s dad wasn’t normal. It appeared abnormal behaviour ran in the family. Like father, like son, Peter thought briefly.
“Good,” Peter’s dad answered. John Gilbertson remained silent unless a reply was necessary and always managed to maintain a nervous air to him. He would often reach for something, stop mid-motion and then place his hand back by his side again. His hands fidgeted at all times. He stuttered. His eyes flitted all over the place. Peter often wondered what had happened to make his dad act that way.
His dad opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it and decided to stay quiet. His right arm flapped at his side for a few seconds before he abruptly turned and walked out of the room.
Peter always knew he inherited his social awkwardness from somewhere. But at least he could speak to his own family. He found himself yearning for a father. His mind kept telling him that he had a father already but his heart kept screaming for a real one. A real father that would get excited when there was a local sports carnival and practice baseball with him and teach him how to shave and how to speak to girls. Yeah right, Peter’s dad couldn’t even speak to his own son.
Girls were out of the question.
Peter, suddenly thought of Wendy. And the thought of her led him to the thought of hospitals. And then he remembered his flashbacks.
“Hey, Dad?” he called, instinctively feeling the urge to tell his dad what happened, even though he doubted he would be much help. A few seconds later, Peter’s dad walked back into the room, looking alarmed.
“Something happened today, at the hospital.”
John frowned. He knew.
Peter immediately came to his own defense.
“It’s not like that! You don’t know the whole story! But that doesn’t matter, anyway. Something else happened. When I went to the hospital, I saw this man. I’ve never seen him before but he triggered something in my memory. I saw this woman crying…and there was a baby.” Peter’s hand started to shake. He felt clammy and his forehead was shiny with perspiration. Breaths came quicker to him than before. Why did that lady he saw cause him so much distress?
His father’s took some time to digest the information. For a split second Peter thought he saw a flicker of emotion enter his father’s eyes. Confusion, surprise…fear? But then his dad swallowed hard and his expression returned to it’s usual stony state.
“I told you to hide your powers,” his father said sullenly.
Peter froze. Heat rose in his chest. The one time Peter tried to reach out to his father, to try and bridge the distance between him, His father gets him in trouble. Didn’t he hear what Peter said? Wasn’t he paying attention? All he heard from the story was the faults Peter made. There was not sympathy, not compassion in his response. It roused a kind of fury in Peter’s body that had always been sitting under the surface, waiting to be provoked.
Warily, he tried to himself calm down. He was afraid of his powers. They amplified his anger. They made him dangerous.
He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the knot of anger from rising in his throat. Looking to his father, he saw a sullen, distant man. There was no use in trying to get through to him. Nothing got through to him. Not yelling. Not screaming. Nothing.
He never listened.
YOU ARE READING
The Pretenders (ON HOLD)
Storie d'amore"This wasn't some story book tale. There were no happy endings. People would get hurt. People would cry. The bad guys would probably win. But for the sake of living up to the reputation children had of being blissfully ignorant, he would pretend tha...
