Say Goodbye

TWELVE

BURGERMAN TOOK ME TO THE PARK.

Younger kids were on the swings, teeter-totter, merry-go-round. Some older kids, closer to my age, were flying around the beat-up court in a pickup game of hoops.

Burgerman nudged me. “Go ahead. Join ’em. It’s all right. Get some color on your face. Christ, you look like shit, you know?”

For a moment, I didn’t believe he really meant that I could go. He nudged me harder, nearly knocking me to the ground, so I took the hint and went. I joined the team with shirts. Going skins would’ve invited too many questions.

In the beginning, I held back. It felt strange to be on a playground, too be around other kids, to hear them laughing and dribbling and swearing a little when a boy missed a shot or took an elbow to the gut. I kept waiting for everyone to stop and stare. I wanted them to ask, What the hell happened to you? I wanted someone to say, Hey, buddy, wake up, it’s all been a bad dream, but it’s over now and life is good.

But no one said anything. They played basketball.

And, eventually, so did I.

I could smell fresh-mowed grass. Hear happy sounds, kids goofing off in these last few days before summer became mercilessly hot and everyone headed straight to the swimming pools. There were birds. And flowers. And a vast blue sky and so much…everything.

The world, going on spinning. Round and round and round.

I went up for a shot. Made it. A kid slapped me on the shoulder.

“Nice hook.”

I beamed, went back for more.

I don’t know time anymore. Time belongs to other kids, boys not caught in the Burgerman’s grinding embrace. I just am, until I’m told otherwise, then I am not.

So I played until the Burgerman told me to stop. And then I didn’t play anymore.

Burgerman led me to the side. Sun was starting to go down. Some of the other boys wandered off. Moms and older girls collected the little ones like ducks in a row, waddling them down the street.

I noticed one little boy off on his own, digging in the sandbox.

Burgerman noticed him, too.

He looked at me. “Boy, fetch me that kid.”

Screaming. It went on and on and on. High-pitched and thin, a babble. I tried to cover my ears. Burgerman stopped long enough to slap me upside the head, knocking me into the wall. He socked me in the gut and when I doubled over, caught me again beneath the chin.

“ARE YOU LOOKING, BOY! BETTER PAY ATTENTION.”

And then the screaming again, on and on and on. Until finally, the Burgerman collapsed, rolled off, started digging around for his customary cigarette.

I could taste blood. I’d bitten my tongue, had a gash along my cheek from the Burgerman’s ring. I didn’t feel too steady. Thought I’d be sick.

The little boy had stopped struggling. He just lay on the bed, eyes glassed over, face stupefied.

I wondered if that’s how I must have once looked.

Then he noticed me looking. His eyes found mine. He stared at me. Stared so long, so hard. Pleeeease.

I careened out of the room, made it down the hall, got to the bathroom just in time. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I vomited and vomited and still it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get the horror out of my belly. It had seeped into my blood. I couldn’t get it out. I couldn’t get it off. So I threw up water and bile until I dry-heaved and collapsed onto the floor.

I blacked out then. It’s as close to mercy as I ever got.

When I came back around, I could hear sounds again. Snoring, this time. Wouldn’t last, though. An hour, maybe two.

The Burgerman always woke up hungry.

I crawled back down the hall. Peered inside the room. I couldn’t help myself. I had to see, even if I knew I would be sorry.

The boy had curled up into a ball. He wasn’t moving, but he wasn’t asleep. He was staring at the far wall. I knew what he was doing. He was practicing being small. Because if he could be small enough, maybe the Burgerman wouldn’t notice him anymore.

I knew what I must do.

Burgerman left his pants on the floor. I wriggled over to them, gingerly putting my hand into the pocket, until I found the key. It felt heavy and sharp in my hand. I didn’t think about it. Just kept moving.

Over to the side of the bed, in front of the boy. Finger to my lips, shhhh.

I held up his clothes. The boy, maybe five or six, just lay there.

I thought I should tell him something. I didn’t know what. He wasn’t ready for the great truths of life. None of us were.

Finally, I patted his shoulder and dressed him as if he were a baby.

I left him one moment. Had to unlock the door. It squeaked a little upon opening and I stilled. Snuffling snore from the bedroom. So far so good. I peered out into the long gray length of the hall. No one was about. Seemed to me in this apartment complex no one was ever about.

Now or never, I decided.

And for some reason, I don’t know why, I remembered that first night, the night I woke up to find the Burgerman standing at the foot of my bed. I remembered the sound of my father snoring down the hall. And, remembering, I started to cry, though at this stage of the game, tears were too little too late.

I crept back to the bedroom, blubbering. Grabbed the boy’s shoulder, shook him hard.

His dark eyes slowly came up to mine. A faint hint of consciousness swam beneath the surface. Then he zoned out again. I slapped him hard, grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him to the floor.

Snoring stopped. Bed squeaked as the Burgerman finally moved.

Now I clasped my hand over the boy’s mouth, pressed him against me, willed him to not make a sound.

Did I pray? Did I have any prayers left? None came to mind.

Bed creaked again, Burgerman tossing back and forth. Then…silence.

Not much time anymore. The beast was starting to stir.

I grabbed the little boy beneath the armpits and dragged him toward the door. Ten steps. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.

The boy wouldn’t walk. Why the hell wouldn’t he walk? I needed him to get his feet beneath him. Wake up. Stop shaking. Run, dammit, run. What was wrong with him anyway?

What kind of stupid shit didn’t fight back? What kind of miserable, stupid, pathetic boy let a man do this to him time after time, and couldn’t even run for the goddamn door!

And suddenly I was yelling at the boy. I don’t know how it happened. I was standing over him, looming over him, screaming so hard that spittle sprayed from my mouth: “MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS! DO YOU THINK HE’S GONNA SLEEP FOREVER? YOU STUPID, NAUGHTY BOY. GET UP. RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN. I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING DADDY!”

The five-year-old boy curled up in a ball, put his hands over his head, and whimpered.

And then, I realized what I didn’t hear anymore.

Snoring.

I turned. I was helpless not to. Standing in front of the open door, so close, but so far away. The man’s latest plaything curled at my feet.

The Burgerman stood behind me.

He smiled in the dark.

And in that smile, I knew what was about to happen next.

Time belongs to other boys. Boys that have not been beaten and starved and raped. Boys that have not stood there and watched a grown man kill a kid with his bare hands.

Boys that were not then handed a shovel and made to go out and help dig the grave.

“You want to die, son?” the Burgerman asked casually, standing back from the hole, leaning on his spade.

The body was wrapped in an old towel, lying beneath an azalea bush. I didn’t look at it.

“It’s not hard,” the Burgerman continued on. “Hell, climb into the hole. Lie down next to your little friend. I won’t stop you.”

I didn’t move. After a moment, the Burgerman laughed.

“See, you still want to live, boy. No shame in that.”

He gave me an almost affectionate pat on the head. “Pick up the shovel, son. I’ll show you a trick to save your back. That’s it, put your legs into it. See? Now repeat.”

Burgerman taught me how to dig a perfect grave. Then we returned to the apartment, packed up our clothes, and vanished.