Leah made a move to go to Sammy, but Les grabbed her by the arm and pushed her away roughly. “He ain’t no goddamn baby! Leave him alone!”
“Les . . .” Leah said, but then fell silent when she saw the crazy gleam still in her husband’s eyes.
Les pointed a finger at her and jabbed it at her angrily. “And don’t you go tellin’ me how to deal with my own damn kids!” he shouted. “I don’t need any of
your
bullshit!”
Sammy still hadn’t moved. He lay crumpled on top of his bed, his pajamas bottoms still tangled around his feet. His ass was still bleeding, but not much.
“I told you to get back into bed,” Les said, shaking his finger at the boy. “And stop your goddamn crying.”
“Jesus, Les,” Leah said almost in a scream, “enough is enough.”
“Well,” Les said, tilting his head and looking at Leah with a wide-eyed glare, “just maybe, if these boys got a whippin’ now and again, they’d behave better.”
Sammy quickly slid his pajama bottoms up and hopped into bed, lying on his stomach. His body still shook from crying.
“Stop actin’ like a baby, and I’ll stop treatin’ you like one,” Les snarled. He pushed Leah toward the doorway and then out into the hallway. At the door, he paused before turning off the light. “And if I hear any more noise from this room, even a peep, I’m gonna’ come up here and tan the hides of all of yah. Now go to sleep!”
He snapped the light off and followed Leah downstairs where the TV was still blaring away. As they sat in silence in the living room, Leah stared at Les, waiting for that crazy gleam to leave his eyes. After he had gotten him another beer, he seemed to calm down.
“You know,” she said tentatively, “I’m really surprised you’d explode like that. You’ve never belted the kids before.”
“Well, maybe it’s about time I did. It might do them some good instead of all the goddamn coddling they get from you.”
“Les.”
Les snorted, “Well, I just don’t want any son of mine growing up to be a chicken-shit little bastard, that’s all.”
“The Blackheart Man”
“Alas! poor children, whence came ye; do you know that this house belongs to an Ogre, that eats up little children?”
(
Little Poucet
, 1729.)
HOLLAND, MAINE, TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 1977, SEARCH CONTINUES THROUGH NIGHT
HOLLAND—Local and state police, aided by volunteers, continued their search of the wooded area around Holland for Jeffrey Hollis, who has been missing since Sunday evening. So far, the search has turned up no leads in this latest of a series of apparently related incidents.
Police Chief Virgil Shaw said late today that the area searched will be expanded to include the entire town and much of the forest in bordering towns.
Citizens who wish to assist in the search are asked to notify the police chief at his office.
I
“Y
eah, that’s right,” Les said. He held the telephone close to his mouth and tried to make his voice sound thick. “I’m feelin’ like shit, sore throat and fever. I figured you guys wouldn’t be working today, right?”
“Yeah,” Wescott replied. “We’re still gonna’ be out beating the brush again.”
“That’s what I figured. Probably getting wet yesterday is why I came down with this.” Les glanced up at the ceiling and hoped he sounded convincing. “If I don’t stay in bed it’ll probably get worse.” He sniffed loudly into the phone to add conviction.
“Yeah well I hope you’re feeling better soon, Les.”
“Oh, hell, I’ll probably shake it in a day or two. I just don’t want to take any chances.” He cleared his throat loudly.
“OK. Catch yah’ later.” After Wescott hung up, Les sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, listening to the dead air of the disconnected call. He took one deep breath and cradled the phone. Standing up slowly, he stretched his arms over his head and grunted; he hadn’t felt this great in a long time!
“Who were you talking to, hon’?” Leah called from the bathroom. She sounded as though her mouth was full of toothpaste.
“Uh, Wescott,” Les shouted, to be heard over the running water. “I just called him to find out where we were gonna’ be starting the search today.” He paused, then added, “You know, they still haven’t found a trace?” He smiled to himself.
Leah poked her head around the door frame. The handle of her toothbrush stuck out from the mass of white foam that covered her lips and chin. It bobbed up and down as she spoke. “God, I hope he’s OK when they find him.”
Les shrugged and sat back down on the bed. He picked up yesterday’s socks and started to pull them on. “Who knows?”
“You know, I think I’ll stop by and visit Linda this morning,” Leah said, once she had withdrawn into the bathroom. Les listened as she gargled and spat.
“Yeah. That’d be . . . nice,” Les grunted, pulling on his pants. “We’ll probably be out ‘til way after dark again.”
He picked up the shirt he had worn the day before, gave the armpits a quick sniff, shrugged, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Leah came out of the bathroom, looking well-scrubbed and fresh.
“If your driving by the school, why don’t you drop the boys off?” she said. She paused, then added, “That way they wouldn’t have to walk down to the bus stop.”
“I’m not going by the school,” Lee said quickly, tension scarring his voice. “And even if I was, I’d—”
“Aren’t the search parties starting out at Shaw’s office?” Leah asked pointedly.
Les paused, glaring at Leah. Then, puffing his breath with frustration, he said, “Yeah . . . yeah. I’ll give ‘em a ride down. If they hurry!” He started down the stairs to the kitchen.
Leah and the boys joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later. Les had started cooking bacon, but as soon as Leah appeared, he put the fork on the countertop and sat down at the table. Leah finished the bacon and started frying the eggs. Throughout the morning meal, Sammy was sullen, keeping his gaze lowered, not daring to look directly at his father. When he did look at his father, he felt a pulsing pain on his backsides and scowled. The family ate with a minimum of conversation, although Leah spoke cheerfully, trying to pretend that the incident last night hadn’t happened.
At seven-thirty, Les belched, got up from the table, and went to the closet for his jacket. He stood in the doorway and hollered for the boys, who had gone back upstairs to get their books. Leah came from the kitchen and handed Les his lunchpail. “Here, you almost forgot this,” she said. She looked at Les with a pleading glance.
“Yeah? You wanna’ say something?” he said curtly.
Leah glanced up the stairway, where she could hear the boys shuffling around. “I think,” she said softly, “you ought to say something to Sammy. Let him know that you aren’t still mad at him.”
“And what makes you think I’m
not?
”
“Oh, Les,” she said. She stood beside him a moment longer, and then, when she found that she didn’t know what to say, went back into the kitchen.
The boys came downstairs slowly, not at all with the usual rush and hurry.
“Have a nice day,” Leah called from the kitchen. She was standing at the sink, wishing she knew what she wanted to say.
Father and sons didn’t say a word to each other as they walked out to the garage and swung the door open. They all sat in the front seat. Les was a bit surprised that Robbie hadn’t asked to drive, but he was just as glad—it would have been a pain in the ass to get out and switch seats after he dropped them off at the school. Les started up the car and backed slowly down into the street.
“Well, summer vacation’ll be here soon,” he said, trying to inject a bit of good cheer into his voice.
The boys grunted wordless responses as Les started slowly down Oak Street. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongues?” he asked, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
“No,” Robbie replied. Sammy just shook his head. “Too bad that wasn’t the case last night,” Les said. “Seems to me that you boys just can’t take your medicine. That’s all.” The sun was already high in the sky, and it promised to be another hot day. Les was glad he wasn’t planning on spending
his
day, sweating his ass off, traipsing through the Bog. No sir!
As he drove down Main Street, Les became increasingly nervous. What if Wescott or someone else from the crew saw him? He was supposed to be home in bed, sick. If someone saw him, they might give the house a call. If they did that, Leah would find out that he had called in sick this morning. If she knew that, then what?
“The old shit’Il hit the fan,” Les muttered softly. “What you say, Dad?” Robbie asked.
Les started and shook his head. “Oh, nothing.”
He slouched down in the seat as he drove past the police station. There were a lot of cars parked out front, but it looked like everyone was either inside or already out beating the brush; nobody saw him drive by. Les breathed a little easier and straightened in his seat after he had gone by Shaw’s office.
The tires scraped against the stone curb as Les pulled up in front of the school. He snapped the car into neutral and waited for the boys to hop out.
“See yah, Dad,” Robbie said as his feet touched the pavement. Sammy was standing beside the car, looking as though he wanted to say something. Robbie started up the cement path toward the school while Sammy stood beside the car, trying to find his voice. Finally, he said in a croaking voice,” ‘Bye, Dad,” and swung the door shut. It didn’t close all the way, but he had started for the school, and Les had to lean across the seat to slam it firmly.
“Chicken-shit little bastard,” he whispered, then popped the car into gear and continued down the road. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was heading at first; he just wanted to drive a while and think.
He had to chuckle to himself when he thought about the humor of the situation. All through his four (almost five) years of high school, he had been known as an “A-1 hookey artist,” as his friends put it. By the time he graduated from high school, he figured he had cut about one day out of every five. His methods for getting and staying out of school were so varied and ingenious, the only real problem he had was keeping the lies consistent.
His record at work was much better, but right after graduation, he had married Leah—shot-gun wedding, and he had taken his job and his role as family bread winner much more seriously than his high school attendance.
What struck him so funny was that here he was, making damn sure his own kids didn’t miss a day, and now, after calling in sick, wondering what he was going to do with his free time.
He drove past the Tulsa station and the freight yard, crossed the railroad track beside the abandoned lumber yard, and took a right turn onto Route 5. He was thinking of driving the long way out the Bridgton. It was too early in the morning for a beer at the Sawmill and, besides, he didn’t want to be seen in downtown Holland. He decided on a late breakfast at the Wagon Wheel and then he just might stay there throughout the afternoon and get shit-faced. He knew he was ahead of everyone, that there was no way he could be caught. With everything that had been happening lately, he figured that what he needed most was to get good and stinking drunk.
He took his time driving, seeing as he had the whole day. He rolled down the side window to let in a stream of warm air and cocked his green felt hat back on his head. He snapped on the car radio. WPOR, the country-western station in Portland, was playing a new Dolly Parton song. He turned the volume up until it rattled the cheap speaker, stuck his elbow out the window, and settled down in the car seat to enjoy his early morning drive along the back road. He chuckled, thinking he should be “sick” like this more often.
The road, a long black ribbon, unwound smoothly. Some state highway funds had come through last summer, and the road crew Les worked with had spent close to a year resurfacing this stretch of road from town to the intersection of Route 302. It had been a pain in the ass, working so long on the road, but now the smoothness fit his mood perfectly. Les felt a rising elation as he cruised along, picking up speed.
Dolly finished her song, and Les turned down the volume as the D.J. rapped through the morning news.
He damn sure didn’t want to hear about the trouble in the Middle East, but when he heard the name Holland, Maine mentioned, he turned the volume back up.
The brief report mentioned that the search for the missing boy was still underway; that the State Forestry Service was dragging the open water in the Bog; that local volunteers were combing the area; and that the death of Billy Wilson was still officially—not connected with the disappearance of the Hollis boy.
“Let
them
do the monkey work,” Les said when the report was through. He turned down the radio. As he sat forward in his seat, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. The pale blue of his eyes held him for a moment. The car swerved for a second, but Les caught it and held the steering wheel firmly. He twisted the mirror so he could look at his reflection without taking his eyes far from the road.