Because he saw it all now: the sprawling lie of the book—the lie that there had ever been such a fighter as this “Young Wild West” or any of the others, heroes on the side of fairness and decency. It was a terrible trick that had been played on him, and he had walked straight into it. Suddenly he had no desire to read anything more about some glorious cowboy sharpshooter who could bang his way out of anything that happened to him.
Sanford had spent over a year and a half in that place so far, gradually learning the grim lesson that he had originally fought so hard to avoid: there was no hero out there. Heroes were for stories and stories were for kids. His eyes burned like they were full of lemon juice, and he stomped back and forth on the shreds of paper, grinding them into the dirt and weeds.
He heard a brief set of cries from the ranch house. They were abruptly cut off. The sounds reminded him of the cry that a chicken makes when you twist off its head, but it had not come from one of the chickens. He kept on stomping the nasty book pages into the ground while his eyes burned so badly that he wanted to scream from the pain of it.
Sanford stayed out of the house altogether for two days and nights, sleeping in the feed room to avoid seeing or hearing any of it. He knew Walter must be chained up inside after he saw Uncle Stewart strolling around outside bare-chested and furry, smoking a cigar. Uncle Stewart always liked to walk away for a while and be able to come back in for another go whenever he felt like it. That required firm physical restraints in order to assure that his victim would still be there when he returned. Nobody would experience the things that caused Walter to make those noises and voluntarily stay for more. Then he considered his own position and realized that the chains might not be visible to the naked eye.
Uncle Stewart wanted Sanford to stay away from the ranch house altogether, which left him nothing but work. He was glad for that much. He had to prepare the meals, but he had to only go in and out of the house through the back door, which opened into the kitchen, and was not allowed to leave that room. He obliged, entering quickly, working hard, and leaving again without delay. A major part of Sanford’s survival technique was to stay too busy to think about things; and, as for Walter Collins, he had no desire to see him at all. It was bad enough having to face all those boys who couldn’t appeal to him in English, but it was terrible to think of having to converse with one who could give voice to his terrible fears.
He kept a grip on himself by slowing down and by blocking out the desert and picturing himself in a clean forest back up in Canada until his blood ran as slow as maple syrup on a cold day. He hardly needed to think at all in that condition and felt little more than the dull drudgery of gathering the eggs, feeding the stock, watering, cleaning up, cleaning up, cleaning up. He took samples into the feed room and sat at the candling table to pass each egg in front of a flame, checking for the shadow of a chicken fetus. When he ran out of samples, he went to the storeroom and candled every single egg in stock. He tried to do it all as slowly as the movement of sap along the branches of a tree. The two days would surely pass in an eternity of torment for Uncle Stewart’s victim, and Sanford could only survive by slowing himself down so that time speeded up until the two days could pass like a single scream.
“Wake up,” Uncle Stewart was whispering in his ear. “I just got back and I need your help.” It was very early in the morning, still dark outside. Sanford realized that he was lying on the camp cot, which meant that he was sleeping in the feed room.
“Huh? Where did you go?”
“L.A. Stand up there, we’ve got work to do.”
He stumbled to his feet, yawning. “Where’s Walter?”
“Tied to the bed inside. No gag, either! He knows better than to squawk.”
Sanford was still too groggy to make sense of it. “But why go to L.A. in the middle of the night?”
Uncle Stewart shook him to wake him up. “Good morning!
Alibi,
you idiot. They see that I’m there—no Walter. Then she’ll come out here and there will also be—no Walter. Now listen: Mother’s on her way out here later this afternoon, taking the bus after she works at the hospital. I told her we need her because we’ve got some sick birds to tend. Now we’ve only got a few hours to fix the empty brooding coop so that sounds can’t get out. You get every feed sack that we’ve got and cover the walls in there with them. Nail them on top of each other in layers until we run out. As thick as you can get them.”
“You mean to put Walter in there?”
“Yeah. Or maybe you, if you don’t make yourself useful and get this done. She won’t have a single reason to ever go in there, either—as long as she thinks it’s just a locked-up empty shed.”
Uncle Stewart tossed a long length of dog chain with a strong padlock on one end into Sanford’s lap. “Make a bed out of some blankets on the floor in there and stake these chains good and deep. I can bind him up so he can’t bang around or raise a fuss. Make sure he knows that I’ll kill him if he tries to yell out or attract any attention.”
“Uncle Stewart?”
“What? Let’s get going.”
“What will you do after?”
“After what?”
“After you get your alibi all set up and Grandma goes back home?”
“Oh. You mean what will I do with Walter.”
“Well, yeah.”
Uncle Stewart leaned in to him, plenty close with that familiar stink that the frenzies gave him. “I want to congratulate you for seeing it so clearly, Sanford. I’d like to think that after all this time, you do understand me. That’s why I only call you ‘Sanford,’ did you realize that? You take some bone-headed name like ‘Sanford,’ why, any normal person I am sure would automatically shorten it to ‘San,’ or ‘Sanny’ if you really have lightness in your step, shall we say, ha-ha! But no. No, I say Sanford. Sanford, I say! We share the same blood, you know. And if you can’t trust family, who in this five-cent back-alley butt-fuck of a world
can
you trust?”
“Uh”
“Quite serious, here. I ask you.”
“Well I just thought—”
“I cannot very well run him on back home and stop in for coffee with his mommy, now can I?”
“No, I just thought that when you brought him, you know, and kept him here and all, that you must already have a plan. Of what to do.”
Uncle Stewart made his Nasty Little Girl face. “With Walter?”
“Yes, Uncle Stewart.”
“Gee, I dunno, Sanford. Maybe I’ll have to go kill his whole family!” Uncle Stewart fixed him with his patented “I could kill you any time” stare. He held it for a few seconds, really cooked him with it. It burned the same way it did when Winnie looked at him like that.
How do they learn to do that?
Sanford filled in for him. “Okay then. I’ll tell him he should stay quiet. I’ll convince him. I know how to do it.” All he really knew was that absolute submission and cooperation were the least painful ways for little Walter Collins to go through the experiences that Uncle Stewart was going to continue to inflict.
“Good. Do that. Now—I’m going to go and fetch him, just as soon as you set that chain post into the ground good and deep. If he escapes out of there, it’ll be on your head.”
“I can do it,” Sanford replied.
“If you think about setting up a tie-line that would be strong enough to hold back a big dog, it’ll do for a boy that size.”
“Yeah, I guess that sounds right.”
“Ha! You know from experience, eh? Ha-ha!” He sauntered away, calling back, “Have that ready in a couple of minutes. I’ll be right back out with my new little darling. Don’t be jealous, Sanford—you’re my original little darling! Here on the ranch, anyway! Ha!”
Sanford moved so slowly that he had barely had time to form a single thought before Uncle Stewart was back with the boy, guiding him along by holding on to his ear lobe between his thumb and forefinger. Sanford knew from experience that Uncle Stewart could apply just enough pressure to either make the kid go along with him or buckle him straight to his knees.
Then he got a good look at the boy.
Oh. Oh, that used to be Walter.
The fragile creature standing in the doorway next to Uncle Stewart radiated mortal fear with every halting movement. Strike marks covered his exposed flesh, and deep bruises were already forming. The way he walked—the way his entire body expressed hesitation from every muscle and joint, Sanford could only think of a mother goat’s trembling kid struggling to walk for the first time, fighting to keep its balance. Walter’s eyes were wide open and looked about twice their usual size. He appeared to be glancing around at things that were not there.
“Take him over to the wellhead and strip him down. I want you to get him washed up, head to toe. Bring him back as fresh as a flower, you hear me? I will not abide a dirty boy.” He started to walk away but turned back. “Damn it, I cannot have a dirty face around me.
You
already know that, so explain it to
him.”
Uncle Stewart failed to mention how Walter had gotten so “dirty,” or that the dirt was mostly dried blood. Sanford realized that it would be stupid to point that out. Still, keeping his mouth shut made his stomach feel like it was full of arrowheads.
Uncle Stewart walked away for a second time, calling back, “Do the thing with his ear lobe to make him walk with you, you know what I mean. Then put him in there, chain him down, and keep him quiet. You know how it goes. I need six solid hours of rest, or at least until Mother gets here. The entire time she’s here, and I mean until she is 100 percent
gone,
there has got to be no sign that this boy even exists. I’ll stop in when she’s busy. Check on him.” This time he walked away and kept on going, dragging his feet in an exaggerated show of exhaustion. “It’s all on your head, Sanford.”
“Jesus, Uncle Stewart. This boy looks about half dead.”
Uncle Stewart kept on walking and did not even turn back. He yawned deep and wide and spoke through the yawn, “Half alive is good enough. Long as he’s clean.”
Sanford watched him go. He looked, Sanford thought, like his entire body was bragging to the universe, all about himself and the things he had done. His body silently screamed threats about the things that he planned to do next and the things that he was going to keep right on doing. Those most of all.
Uncle Stewart disappeared inside the house. Sanford couldn’t hear whether he locked the door, but he did not doubt that the house was well sealed against anyone who might walk in and surprise him. It was just one more element of the nonsense of that place, since any lock on that door really ought to have been set in reverse to keep Uncle Stewart from getting out—from ever getting out.
It was still pitch black when he got to the wellhead. Sanford pumped the water in a continuous stream for Walter to splash around in, but he kept his eyes on the ground to show the kid a little something, respect or whatever. The problem was that splashing around was about all that old Walter was doing. He didn’t seem clear on the situation, even after Sanford had persuaded him to strip and stand next to the big faucet. The trembling boy only stuck his arms under the flowing water and then patted the wet hands onto himself, over and over, with his teeth chattering away as if the warm night air was freezing.
“Sanford?” Walter asked for about the tenth time.
Sanford dropped his head with a sigh. He decided that maybe if he finally answered the boy, he might leave him alone after that. “Yeah, Walter.”
Walter snorted a delighted giggle at the sound of Sanford’s reply. But then his terrified face returned. “Sanford! You have to tell him I’m sorry! Tell him I’m sorry, so he’ll stop!” Walter’s little-boy emotions took control of him and he began to cry for just a couple of seconds, but a moment later he stopped himself cold. Sanford noticed it right away. The kid actually took a gulp and turned his own hysteria right back off. Sanford loved Walter for that. He would have traded hearts with him.
He hated to look right at the boy, though. It was worse than staring into a mirror. He told himself that it was okay not to look at Walter. He was naked, after all, trying to take a bath, and the decent thing to do was to avoid looking in his direction. When he spoke again, his voice felt weak under the weight of his shame. It absorbed nearly all of his energy. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything, Walter. Just keep washing, though, all right?”
Walter speeded up his process of absently wetting his hands and patting them over his shivering naked body, a little pink skeleton of a boy with a mop of brown hair. This halfhearted washing seemed to be the best he could do. He kept his eyes in rapid motion, staring out into space as if looking for the next direction of attack. “No! But if I’m sorry and he won’t be mad, then we can go now and I don’t care that there’s no pony. Tell him I don’t care, Sanford! I don’t even want to ride any more!”
“You’re forgetting to wash, Walter. You have to wash.” Sanford turned to Walter with the intention of meeting the boy’s eyes just for a second to help reinforce his message, but he was surprised to see that Walter wasn’t looking at him. The boy was staring around in all directions without really looking at anything. Sanford passed one hand in front of Walter’s face. The boy made no reaction, even though Sanford already knew that he could see. Walter had showed up at the ranch without glasses on and he could see just fine, looked straight at him when he talked. But now he just kept on staring around into the darkness. He resembled a terrified blind man.