Dismember

SIXTEEN

Mike never parked the pickup in the stand-alone garage. He’d allocated that space for his workshop, and it had been one of the reasons he’d purchased the property to begin with. Separated from the house, the small building provided the perfect space for working late into the night. When Trevor was here, Mike could run his table saw or his router, his drill press or his lathe without ever having to worry about keeping his son awake. And the nearest neighbors lived a mile away—able to hear the sound of his machinery, maybe, but not likely to be bothered by it.

Different lengths and sizes of wood he needed for his projects filled the workshop to the ceiling. He’d stocked a utility shelf with wood stain, lacquer, and glue, a sorting bin with dowel rods, and a chest with handles and hinges and the other bits of hardware he required for many of his pieces. The tools spread over the room’s many work surfaces, most of them loose and unplugged, but others, like the drill press, bolted permanently in place, easily accessible. He had installed heavy-duty work lights overhead and added an industrial-sized fan to use during the hottest parts of the day. Likewise, he’d brought in a space heater for the winter months, though his fear of accidental fire kept him from using the heater in all but the most extreme conditions.

He parked the truck in the driveway just shy of the garage-turned-workshop and shut off the lights. It hadn’t grown entirely dark yet, but he’d gotten into the habit of leaving his lights on all the time while traversing the mountain roads. You never knew when you might alert an oncoming motorist to your presence from around a blind curve or a switchback, when the use of your headlights might be all that stood between you and a head-on collision.

Trevor unbuckled his safety belt and popped open his door. He had a new action figure and had spent a good part of the drive testing the limits of its articulation. More than once, Mike had looked over and seen the boy bending back an arm or a leg so far he was sure it would pop right off the torso, but the little guy held together. Mike guessed they made toys a lot more resilient now than they had when he’d been a kid. He vaguely remembered one of his transformers breaking apart in his hands as if it had been made of wet sand.

The garage doors were shut, but not locked. This far into the mountains, Mike didn’t worry much about thieves. He also wasn’t worried that Trevor would wander into the shop unattended. Back home, Mike had worked out of the corner of their garage at a group of tables Trevor passed by almost every day of his life. Trevor had long been familiar with both the workings and the dangers of Mike’s many tools. He’d been in and out of Libby’s garage as often as any other room of their house and was in no more danger now of doing something foolish (sticking his hand beneath the chop saw or playing guns with the battery-powered drill) than he had ever been. But although Mike hadn’t actually banned him from entering his new workshop, they had an unspoken agreement that he should not go in alone.

The fact was, he had no reason to go in. In the garage back home, a deepfreeze held not only meats, frozen pizzas, and bags of fruits and vegetables, but also something like ten lifetime supplies of popsicles. That alone had kept Trevor sneaking into the garage at every opportunity. There was, however, nothing similar here. If Trevor had thought Mike was hiding something from him, he’d have snuck into the garage the first chance he got—Mike still remembered being six—but Mike didn’t think the boy had once set foot in the workshop without Mike there to watch over him.

Occasionally, he’d come out to watch Mike work through a pair of oversized goggles that made his face look like a headhunter’s shrunken trophy, but he never stayed for long, and Mike got the impression Trevor considered the work a little dull. To a six-year-old, Mike supposed it probably was. Although Mike felt entirely satisfied with his craft, it was sometimes slow going and tedious. It certainly didn’t have the action-packed appeal of Trevor’s anime cartoons or his super-hero comics, and they wouldn’t mass-produce a furniture-making action figure anytime soon.

Trevor took Mike’s hand, and they walked together to the house. Although his son did it naturally and unthinkingly, Mike knew the days of holding hands with Trevor were probably limited. He couldn’t remember holding hands with his own dad, must not have done so much beyond the age of four or five. He’d remained more affectionate with his mother, at least until his teenage years, but only slightly so. Of course, most of that distance had been his parents’ fault. Though not exactly unloving, Mike’s mother and father hadn’t been swoop-you-up-and-hug-you-till-it-hurts types either. Mike had tried to succeed where his own parents had failed, had tucked Trevor in at bedtime every chance he got, had always returned the boy’s kisses with more of the same, and had attempted to give Trevor at least ten hugs for every one he’d gotten during his childhood.

A few strides short of the porch steps, Trevor let go of Mike’s hand and bound up to the front door.

The door, like the garage, was unlocked, and Trevor only had to twist the knob to let himself inside. Mike hurried after him, instantly chilled by the air escaping through the open door. He’d turned up the air-conditioning earlier, when it had still been muggy outside, and had apparently forgotten to turn it back down before leaving for the mall.

“Brr,” Trevor said, somehow managing to rub his upper arms without letting go of his action figure. “It’s freezing.”

Mike said, “Yeah it is,” and hurried to the thermostat. Under his shirt, his nipples had become two little flesh BBs.

Shivering, he returned to the front door and opened it wide. The arctic air rushed past him. Mike shivered and followed the breeze onto the porch. It was warmer outside, though by no means toasty. “Hey,” he called back to Trevor, who was on his way out to join him, “guess what I forgot?”

“What?” Trevor asked through clenched teeth.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “It comes in little white envelopes.”

Trevor brightened. “Can we go get it now?”

Mike nodded. He hadn’t actually forgotten the mail, had noticed that the mailbox’s door was slightly ajar when he drove past on his way out earlier that afternoon, but he knew Trevor enjoyed the long walk to the mailbox on the main road, and on the days Trevor stayed with him, he left the mail until they could go and get it together.

He hadn’t planned on taking the trip to the mailbox right away, and might have waited until the next day and gotten two day’s worth in a single excursion, but the house needed a chance to warm up, and the walk would not only provide the necessary time, it would also give him a chance to stretch his legs and get his blood flowing again. The drive up from Foothill had taken no longer than usual, but as had been the case when he hiked across the Mountain View’s parking lot, Mike was ready for the exercise.

Trevor reached out to close the door, but Mike told him to leave it open, and Trevor obeyed unquestioningly.

“You gonna bring your little friend with us?” he asked, indicating the action figure.

Trevor nodded and said, “Yeah. He wants to see where we live.”

“Ah,” Mike said simply. He wondered how it felt for his son, having two homes, two bedrooms, two toy boxes into which he had to split his belongings. Couldn’t be easy. He’d often wondered if he and Libby should have toughed it out for Trevor’s sake, wondered if they were inflicting permanent psychological damage. Trevor flew his toy through the air, smiling, and Mike guessed he didn’t have it too bad off.

With night drawing ever closer, they walked together away from the house. The trip to the mailbox and back, normally about a thirty-minute ordeal, at least by foot, was prolonged by Trevor’s constant stops to retie his shoes. Mike could have offered to help, could have double-tied the sneakers so they never came undone again, but Trevor obviously took pride in his impending mastery of the task, and Mike would never have dreamed of taking away his son’s confidence.

Trevor’s new shorts, still pleated where they’d been folded on the shelf in the mall, poked out from his thighs as if they’d been starched. Mike reminded himself to run them through the washer back at the house. Although Trevor had a decent supply of outfits here, most of his clothes stayed at Libby’s house, where he spent the majority of his time.

They collected the mail in the last of the day’s light, and Mike squinted at the return addresses. Circulars, credit card advertisements, and bills, some of which he’d have to deal with eventually, but nothing exciting. He handed the stack to Trevor, who clutched it to his chest like it was found treasure. Later, at home, he would go through the pile one piece at a time and ask Mike exactly what they were. It was a kind of ritual they had. Mike wasn’t sure why the mail held so much fascination for Trevor, but he always indulged the boy’s questions, sometimes marveling at his seemingly endless curiosity.

For part of the walk back, Trevor skipped, humming a song under his breath that Mike thought he recognized—might have been the theme to one of the Saturday morning cartoons—but couldn’t place for sure.

Halfway back to the house, Mike’s stomach growled. Libby said she and Trevor had already eaten an early dinner, but Mike hadn’t had anything since lunch, which had itself been only a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a handful of tortilla chips, and although his left wrist was bare, he knew from the setting sun that it was about eight o’clock.

“You hungry, bud?” he asked.

Trevor shrugged and then said, “I guess not. But maybe later we can make some popcorn and watch a movie.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Mike kicked at a rock. It was stupid, and petty, but he wished Libby had waited so he could feed Trevor himself. They didn’t get a chance to have many meals together.

Although, to be fair, he hadn’t exactly planned anything; he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he had in the cupboards. Some soup, maybe a can of chili, and he was pretty sure there was half a pack of hot dogs. No buns, though. If he made some for himself, he’d have to use regular bread.

Mike sighed softly and kicked at another rock.

Back at the house, Trevor hurried in to check the temperature.

“Tons better,” he announced from inside.

Mike smiled and reached through the door to activate the porch lights. When he’d moved in, there had been only a single bulb over the front door and another in the back, where a second set of porch steps descended into the back yard. He’d added track lighting along all four sides of the house along with floodlights to shine out across the property. With the porch lights switched on, the place was brighter than an airport runway, although thankfully much quieter. Sometimes Mike came out onto the porch at night to sit in the dark, listen to the sounds of nature, take it easy, but the rest of the time he liked to see where he was going and what he was doing.

He circled around the side of the house to the back corner of the porch, where the grill sat covered but otherwise ready to go. The charcoal was of the lighter-fluid-already-added variety, which Mike found well worth the extra money; he dumped in a load of the briquettes and tossed lit matches onto the pile until it caught. He licked his lips. He had ketchup and mustard in the fridge and maybe a small jar of dill relish. Even on regular bread, a couple of over-cooked dogs would really hit the spot.

From behind him came the sound of a sliding window. His son peeked out from behind the screen, the curtains framing his face like wisps of ancient, whitened hair.

“Sure you don’t want a hot dog?”

“Nah.” Trevor pressed his face against the screen until his nose was almost perfectly flat. “I’m gonna watch some TV, okay?”

“Sure,” Mike said. “Just don’t wear out your eyes before movie time.”

“Kay.” Trevor disappeared behind the curtains as they drifted back together. He’d left the window open, which was fine.

Inside, Mike heard him plop down on the sofa and flip through channels. He knew before he heard the telltale sound effects that Trevor would end his search on the Cartoon Network. He replaced the grill’s hood and slid the vent on the top to allow the fire a little oxygen. In the living room, Trevor giggled, and Mike found the sound heartening.

Although Mike had always been a loner, a bit of a recluse, he’d never imagined he would spend his life alone. A wife, a couple of kids—that had always been his dream. Just a small group of immediate family with whom he could share himself and his life.

Now that Libby was gone and Trevor along with her more often than not, he sometimes got lonely in a way his younger self never would have imagined. Trevor’s laughter lifted his spirits, reminded him that he hadn’t lost his dream of a family altogether.

With the charcoal flaming in front of him, he wouldn’t have seen much beyond the porch railing, but the fire was hooded now, and Mike was backlit. The side yard came slowly into focus, and something out there in the periphery of his vision grabbed his attention.

He couldn’t identify it at first. He focused but still couldn’t quite make it out.

Inside, Trevor’s cartoon segued into a commercial, and the boy took the opportunity to re-familiarize himself with his new toy. Mike heard him drop off the couch and onto the floor, pictured him sitting there cross-legged and puffing out his cheeks to make the explosion sounds that always seemed to come, whether the action figures were fighting or not.

Mike looked out at the yard again, seeing the fractured line and thinking it might have been something on his eye, a scratch or a hair. He blinked twice, but whatever the thing was, it was still out there.

This side of the porch had no stairs, but he was still spry enough to hop the railing and land on the other side without doing more than jolting himself a little. He did so, and his shadow floated across the ground in front of him as he moved.

What the hell is that? He stepped over to the narrow trench and prodded it with the tip of his shoe. Looked like something had been dragged through here, though what it had been and who had done the dragging Mike didn’t know.

Weird. He kicked at the track again, then shrugged and turned away.

Inside, the cartoons had restarted. Mike followed the sound. He could check out the yard tomorrow in the light. For now, he was hungry, and the hot dogs smelled delicious.