The Twelve-Fingered Boy (4 page)

“Stow that, you damned tool. It ain't your play just because you say it's your play. Prove it.”

Paulie states his first argument, a brilliant little piece of logic. He punches Ernie right in the maw, pushing Ernie back onto another table and sending plastic chairs scattering and tumbling, like, well … dominoes.

But Ernie pops right back up, wiping the blood streaming from his lip and nose with the back of his hand, like a prizefighter. His eyes bright, he begins his retort. There's a jab, a jab, a hook, pretty much by the book, with Paulie making little weaving motions with his head, trying to reach in there. Ernie's hunched up, getting low, and delivering blows to Paulie's gut.

I back up. It's about to get ugly.

Paulie hits Ernie hard, right on the cheekbone. Ernie's eyes roll back in his head—not as a prelude to unconsciousness, but as a harbinger of pure berserker rage. The nicey-nice fistfight is over. Ernie's eyes snap forward. He throws himself on top of Paulie, biting, grabbing hair, gouging eyes, bearing the larger boy to the ground. Paulie howls, inventing curses, throwing elbows, kicking out with his feet, swinging his head around like a rhino looking for something to butt.

I peek at Jack. He remains motionless. He's got his hands in his pockets, so it gives him this casual appearance that contradicts the expression on his face. He's hiding his hands. How often do you look, really
look
, at someone's hands? I see them because I
know
, but despite the extra fingers, they're perfectly formed and it takes a moment to even come to grips with the number. You have to be paying attention, looking at them. He can cough, or grab something, and you'd never even notice … but once you do, you'll never
not
notice.

“These knuckleheads will be at it for a while. Don't worry, the bulls will break them up before any permanent damage. And maybe, who knows? Maybe one of them will end up at the Farm. C'mon, I'm hungry.”

Jack blinks and falls in beside me, hands still in pockets.

In the mess hall we get our trays, fill our plates with powdered eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits with little packages of grape jelly. There are tiny tubs of strawberry jam with peel-off tops, too. I've never been able to figure out what's the difference between jelly and jam. It puzzles me.

Ox sits next to some of his C-Wing compadres. I wander over, motion to Jack to sit down, and I put myself between him and Ox.

Reasoner pops in, slings his tray halfway across the table, and sits down. “It's like
Clash of the Titans
out there, boys. Ernie and Big P have gotten into a tussle. Ernie's eating Paulie's lunch.” Reasoner speaks mostly in reference to movies.

Another kid, I don't know his name, pipes up: “Had a couple of bags of M&M's out there on the table. The pot looked pretty rich.”

“There'll be big trouble in little China if the bulls get wind of the candy whereabouts.” Reasoner looks at me. Why doesn't he just announce it?

His prices just went up.

“What? They can talk all they want, but I'm just a bystander, Greasy. I have nothing to do with that fight.”

Reasoner snorts. It makes me want to choke the sound out of him. But he's wiry and mean, and I might get the bad end of that deal.

Ox eats. He uses both hands—one clutching a biscuit, the other sprouting a fork. He's got big, ungainly fists. Even with six fingers per, Jack's got more articulate mitts. Ox makes short work of the grub. Swipe: two tons of eggs down the hatch. Swipe: a shovelful of grits. He peers over my head at Jack.

“Who's the fish, Shreve?”

“New roommate. Everybody, meet Jack. Jack, meet everybody.”

The boys murmur hellos over one another, and Ox says, “Niceta. He gonna mess up our deal?”

“No, he's cool, Ox. He's cool.”

Jack's doing his possum routine. Whenever anyone speaks to him, he hides his hands in his lap and goes still. Like a rock. Which isn't going to cut it. The more he does that, the more the boys will pay attention.

I whisper, “Hey. You gotta talk, or they'll get curious. And you don't want that.”

Jack looks at me, mouth open, eyes wide. He's like the poster child for the Big Surprise Foundation. I bark a little laugh around a spoonful of grits, and flecks of white fly from my mouth, out over the table.

“Hey!” Reasoner yanks his tray back. “What is this,
Animal House
or something?”

Kent, from down the table, says, “Hey, Greasoner, you seen any movies from this century?”

“Yeah. And they all suck.”

Jack clears his throat. “Hey. Um. You guys seen
Demon Down
?”

Reasoner guffaws. “Sure, guy, sure. They had a special screening with the director and all the stars right in Commons.”

Jack flushes so deep I can feel the heat from his skin like a radiator.

Ox mumbles, “You seen it, Jack?”

“Yeah. It's good.”

“That chick in it? The one with the bumps.” Ox holds his hands in front of his chest like he's cradling a watermelon.

“Yes.” Jack shifts in his seat. “Temple Wrath. She's amazing.”

Other boys start craning their heads to get a load of Jack. He puts his hands on the table. He's curling the extra fingers into his palm.

“What about the demon things? They ugly?”

“Yeah. But there's very little CGI in this movie. So…” Jack gestures at Reasoner. “It's more like an older movie. Like one from the eighties. Or before.”

“Sounds like
The Thing
. Buckets of goo and prosthetics.”

Jack nods. He's doing his best to act excited. “It's awesome. They take on any form they touch. They eat people from the feet up. The head down. It's crazy.”

“Heard there's some ugly bumping, you know, between Temple and Brad.”

Jack nods. “Shower scene. It's … it's really steamy. You can't see much, but what you can see…”

I don't know Jack. No truer words have ever been spoken. But I know Jack better than these lunkheads, and I can hear the deadness in his voice. He might have seen the movie, he might have appreciated it in some fashion, but he didn't like it. I don't know if our boy Jack is even able to like anything. His voice is dead.

But he does a passable imitation of a real boy.

I have to wonder, what's his story? He's been hurt, hurt bad, over and over again, seems like. You just don't have that hard a time smiling, or that hard a time describing some movie star's knockers, unless you've been hurt bad. It doesn't take a mind reader to see it.

I have a brother. Name's Vigor. The little dude doesn't come to see me—too young. He's stuck with Moms. Dealing with her, I guess. And by the time I get out of here, he won't be a little dude anymore. He'll be a piece of old charcoal. He'll be hard-eyed from mopping up Moms's puke, putting out her cigarettes before they burn down the trailer park. He'll be crusty from cooking and cleaning. From doing all the things a mom blotto from Ancient Age or nipply vodka isn't able to do for herself. And he won't be my little dude anymore. He'll sound like Jack.

I pat Jack on the shoulder. It's not much, but it's all I can do to let him know he's done good. He looks at his food, then looks at the boys surrounding us, each one nose-down in his cafeteria tray. Jack snatches up his fork and scoops up some eggs, pops them in his mouth, drops the fork and brings his hands into his lap. Like a bird darting in for breadcrumbs, fast and inconspicuous. He waits, watching, and then grabs a biscuit and takes a huge bite, drops it and places his hands in his lap. It's kinda amazing, really, how practiced his movements are. Everything is done quickly, like a turtle's head snaking out to nab a passing fish, then back into the shell.

There comes a jangling and footsteps.

“You boys smell that?” I say, loud enough for the room to hear. “Smells like they're cooking another batch of bacon. Mmmm. Pig.” I rub my stomach.

I look behind me, dramatically.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Assistant Warden. I didn't realize it was you.”

Reasoner, Ox, and the rest snicker. Booth's little pencil-thin mustache quivers with anger.

“Jack, I need you to come with me.”

Behind Booth is a nondescript man in a black suit. I say he's nondescript because I can see that's what he wants me to think. I don't know how I know this, but I do. He's not tall, not short, not thin, not fat. Sandy brown hair. Clear complexion. Totally unremarkable. But I'm remarking on him. I see him; I see through what he wants everyone to see.

He's holding a briefcase and looking at Jack, looking at him hard. I glance from the man back to Jack. Jack's twisted in his seat to stare at the new arrivals. But his hands are hidden.

I look back to the suited man—he's got a keen stare, and he's not paying attention to anything or anyone except Jack.

“Why?” I ask.

“Not your business, Cannon.” Booth snaps his fingers, as if that means anything. Another one of his little, impotent gestures. “Jack, Mr. Quincrux needs to speak with you.”

Quincrux. The name comes to my mouth, and I whisper it to get the taste. A strange name. But when I look at the suited man, I know—don't ask me how—I know this is his true name. It's like I'm tuned into a certain frequency, the same frequency he's broadcasting, and I just know like a radio knows crappy country music or windbag sports announcers.

Jack stands, puts his hands in his pockets.

I have a bad feeling about this. This Quincrux, he has the same stillness as Jack. He holds his body motionless, hands dangling along with the briefcase at his sides. The only movement of his body is the rise and fall of his chest and his eyes scouring Jack.

“You don't have to go, pard. You can refuse, demand a lawyer or psychologist. They can't make you.”

Quincrux's gaze shifts, clicking over to me like machinery, cold but now mildly interested. Mildly.

I look back. I try to give him the grin that I've worked on for so long, the one that says,
I know something you don't
. The one that makes Booth livid. The one that makes Moms outraged when she's desperate and drunk. I try to give the smile to Quincrux, but it curdles under his gaze and I feel a kaleidoscope of emotions and images rising in me. I want to laugh, to cry, to rage and hit someone. I close my eyes, and my mother swims up from the deep. I see my old girlfriend Coco, my brother Vigor. Then our trailer, my old school, our dog, Cookie—the puppy that was pancaked on the interstate. Like cards being shuffled, they come to my mind's eye. For a moment, I worry that the food I've eaten has gone rancid and is causing hallucinations.

When my eyes open, Quincrux stands motionless, looking at me. The images continue to come, like ghosts overlaid on top of the visible world. Ox. Booth. Anderson. A phantom image of Jack hovers over Quincrux, superimposed and insubstantial.

I close my eyes again, and this time I push back with all my might. I try to think of something hard and unbreakable.

A bright blue jawbreaker.

I imagine teeth trying to crunch it, to tap its sweetness. But it's diamond-hard, and the teeth scrape and then crumble away.

I open my eyes and see Quincrux's eyes widen, just a little. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I see. I see him. And he saw me. More than I've ever let anyone see.

Booth says, “Mr. Quincrux is from the Department of Health and Human Services. Sorry, Shreve, but he's allowed to interview all wards of the state. It's law.” Booth gives me a smile, and the kicker is he's not being smart or smarmy or snide with it. He's just smiling at me because, I don't know, he's happy.

Jack looks at me, eyes wide, and nods in a way that's part acceptance, part thanks. He smiles, too, and this time his smiling doesn't seem to take an effort.

“It's okay, Shreve. I'll be all right.”

I'll be damned. The kid is reassuring me.

He pulls his leg from the cafeteria bench and walks, straight-backed, to where Quincrux and Booth wait. They turn and head back to Commons, Jack in tow.

On the inside, getting what you want requires giving up something you value. I guess that's the same as the outside, but I can't remember exactly. “Ox, I need to get into your room. You've got to get me in.”

“Why?”

“Because if they're gonna question Jack, I've got to hear.”

“Nah. It's almost time for English. Mr. Allenby will be pissed if we're not there. Demerits. And I don't want to work the kitchen again this month.”

On the inside, like the outside, you can do what you can get away with, but eventually someone will make you pay.

“Listen. It's weird, son. That Mr. Quincrux is … he's different. He made me … I don't know… feel weird.

” “He turn you on or something?”

For a split second, I imagine punching Ox right in his fat mouth. But the anger goes away quick enough, replaced by the urge to continue breathing—which I wouldn't be doing if I punched him in the face.

And my teachers say I've got poor impulse control.

“No. Listen. Listen. He looked at me and read my mind. He just picked my history right out of my head. Until I stopped him.”

“That right?” Ox picks up his tray, waves at Reasoner and the boys, and heads toward the slop bin. Not much slop left on his tray.

“Dammit, Ox. Listen to me. If they question Jack in our cell, I need to be able to listen.”

“Nah. Mr. Allenby'll give me demerits.”

“He's got twelve fingers, man.” It just pops right out there, without me even thinking. It's like my mouth is disconnected from my brain. It doesn't even make any sense. What does that have to do with anything?

So much for impulse control.

“The dude in the suit?”

I pause. I've said it, and there's no way to take it back.