The Wisherman
Authors: Danielle
The Wisherman
By Danielle Racey
©Danielle Racey 2014
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my cover artist at TalPrints.com for the amazing cover, and for dealing with my nitpicking.
I would also like to thank
all of my friends, for listening to me talk about my dreams of being an author for hours on end, for years on end.
Table of Contents
Prologue
The
bus driver looked quizzically at his passenger as he stepped off the bus and into the dark street below. It was one of the only places in Las Vegas that wasn't illuminated by rays of neon lights and high hopes. It was, the bus driver thought, one of the strangest drop offs he'd done in a while, and that included the polyandrous foursome who demanded to be taken to Ripley's. No one ever asked for this stop.
"You have family around here, yeah?"
He asked.
The passenger responded by pulling his baseball cap even lower. The bus
driver thought he saw him nod, but he couldn't be sure, so he forced a smile back, closed the door to the bus and drove off into the night. He looked back once more, still uneasy, but the man he'd let off was gone.
~
He looked around to make sure he was all alone. The only noise he could make out was the gentle hum of street lights turning on as the clock struck 9pm. He looked down at the used bus ticket in his hand and closed his fist, crumpling it into pieces. As the breeze around him picked up, he let the remains of the ticket fly out of his hands. Las Vegas flew up the street, doing a little dance in the air before slipping away. Los Angeles started off eagerly, before hitting the ground as if it were reluctant to say goodbye. He bent down and picked up the stub, looking at the words in faded blocky letters for a moment before blowing gently. This time the stub gained traction and floated away with nary a protest. He smiled and re-positioned the travel bag on his shoulder. He'd never been to Las Vegas before.
He started quickly down the street, looking over his shoulder every so often. 12 cities later, and his plan was better than ever before, but nothing was foolproof, even he knew that.
In this life, he would be Tom Wilkinson the Mortician. Death made humans nervous, which made them stay away.
If all went well, this would be the last town.
The last town!
The words echoed in Tom's mind with such clarity that he looked around again to make sure that he hadn't actually said anything out loud. He quickened his pace, eyes set on a slow blinking Motel 6 sign in the distance. It would have been easier to take a cab, Tom reasoned, but it was safer this way.
Woof.
Tom nearly dropped his bag at the sudden noise. He whirled around and his eyes fell on a black Schnauzer. The dog stepped closer into the light, revealing a wagging tail and a lolling tongue. Tom felt himself relax, but only marginally. He bent down and peered at a red collar in which a phone number was engraved, and a name: Jack.
Woof!
"Ssssssh. Be quiet. Please."
Tom put his fingers to his lips, praying that the dog understood those few words, at least. The dog tilted his head in confusion, and Tom rolled his eyes.
"Just pretend I'm not here, Jack. Can you do that for me, buddy?" The dog's ears perked up at the sound of his own name.
"Woof, woof!"
Tom put his fingers to his lips again, and ran his hand over the dog's head. As he did he felt the gentle wind of the night come to a standstill. The streetlights around him blinked, casting the area into complete darkness for a moment. When the street lights came back on, a shiny metal bowl filled to the brim with meat and kibbles sat beside the Schnauzer. Relieved that the dog had another distraction, Tom took that time to slip away. As the shadows of the night swallowed him whole, he chuckled to himself. Dogs always had the simplest wishes.
"Okay, Oliver. I'm going to need you to open wide for me."
He opened his mouth as the doctor instructed, and rubbed his throat to calm the
dreaded gagging sensation. The doctor's office was stuffy, and smelled of antiseptic. Painted starfish decorated the walls in the pediatric wing of Brown Family Practice. Oliver sat on top of the examination bed, his feet dangling off the edge into what felt like an open chasm below. Dr. Brown was an unassuming man---he stood on his tiptoes so that he could see all the way down Oliver's throat. He was silent as he peered in, only muttering "ah" and "mhm" every few seconds.
Dr. Brown withdrew the Popsicle stick pressed on Oliver's tongue, and frowned slightly. "I really think he's alright. Nothing out of the ordinary really." His hand lingered on Oliver's shoulder, a calming force before the inevitable storm. Oliver was grateful for it.
"So he was faking."
His father's brusque voice came booming from behind him, startling
Oliver for a moment. His father wasn't a big man by any means, but his presence always seemed to take up too much space in every room he was in. Everyone else, Oliver included, shrank in his wake. He often forgot how harsh his Father was, even though this was to his detriment.
The doctor looked back and forth between Oliver and his father, his face uncertain. He opened his mouth, hesitating at first.
"Not....faking. It was probably the 24 hour flu." He turned to
Oliver, who responded by nodding vigorously.
"These things can happen. He probably picked it up at school. Tends to be very mild, but still worth getting a
checkup."
Dr. Brown spoke slowly, each word seeming carefully chosen.
"I recommend taking it easy for the rest of the day. Careful now."
Oliver
took the doctor's hand as he hopped off the examination table. As he did, he looked back at the doctor, and his face twisted into a grim smile.
The walk to the car was particularly long. His father had said nothing thus far, remaining
silent throughout the perky receptionist's rehearsed monologue of "Do either of you boys want a lollipop today?" and "Do you have the same insurance?”
Oliver's hand trembled as he took the lollipop. He plunged it deep in his mouth, savoring it as if it were the last sweet thing that he would have all day.
His father's red Buick came into focus, and Oliver felt the blood rising in his cheeks. His father strode ahead, and clicked the remote control. The car lights flashed like sirens and Oliver thought he heard the whoosh of ambulances rushing by. He craned his neck, but the ambulances were nowhere to be found.
"Get in the car."
He took a glance around the parking lot, before ducking into the Buick. It was busy, for a doctor's office, he noted. A woman two parking spaces over shuffled out of the car with a diaper bag on one arm, and a baby sling on the other. A Lexus raced a Honda to a parking spot close to the door. It was a typical day, and the alarm bells ringing in Oliver's head were only for him.
His father closed the car door behind him. The car shook from the impact, and
Oliver did as well. His father eased his way into the front seat, and as the engine rumbled on, Oliver felt the roar in his ears. His father twisted around in his seat, his eyes level with Oliver's own. His mustache was less thick than usual, Oliver noted. It usually curled around his lips, like an overgrown vine hugging a shady window pane.
"Now, what did I tell you about pretending to be sick?"
Suddenly, he couldn't understand the words coming out of his own mouth. He was underwater. He was saying something about how he wasn't pretending, but it sounded like the tired, garbled chorus of a popular song that everyone has already heard before. He almost didn't believe it himself, but his lips kept moving fueled by what, he did not know.
The first smack
sent him into outer space. The second sent him diving again on an inexplicable journey further and further down into the black waters, until Oliver saw nothing but darkness.
"Do you underst
and me now?" His father's words floated above Oliver's head like a nightmarish mobile. Stars and rubber ducks, born of a violent imagination.
"Yes, I do."
Oliver croaked out the words. His voice was so low, he was sure that sonar would be necessary for anyone to hear it.
His father turned around,
and reversed the car. Oliver felt his heartbeat slow, like a time turner stuck on its last grain of sand. There was still time, but only until something heavy forced the grain loose, and then it would spiral down to join the rest in the well below.
~
"I'm not going to keep doing this!" Aiding and abetting our crazy kid. What would you know about this? You only come over to pick up the pieces." Although the voices were warbled by walls of concrete and his own attempts at distraction, Oliver could still hear his Father's choice phrases, and his mother's silent agreement. Although this was nothing new, his father's words stung even more than his hands.
"He can't keep this up, you know. Skipping school. Lying."
It was in times like these that Oliver wished his door was thicker. He knew what was said---it was the same script every time. It was as if an irate director couldn't perfect his scene, and demanded that it be redone until it was perfect.
"He's a liar, Missy
."
Oliver
recoiled at the venom in his father's voice. "Nathan!" His mother's voice pierced the air for the first time, and he secretly hoped that she would defend him. He pressed his ear against his bedroom door, his breath slowing.
"I think you need to calm down.
I'm going to go talk to him, and ask him why he's lying. Maybe he's being bullied at school." The breath he'd been holding in flew out of Oliver's chest, along with a disappointed sigh. His mother had always been soft spoken--this he knew--but he'd always retained the fleeting hope that she would stand up for him. But today, was not that day, he supposed. He turned to his window, figuring he'd people watch until the inevitable "question".
His window seat was worn from years of use. The cushion was years past replacement time, but Oliver kept it. He sat down, the remains of the down feathers scrunching up around his frame, and turned towards the window. A sliver of golden light peeked in through the curtain, bathing just the window seat in its soft light.
The rest of Oliver's room was dark, with the exception of his glow in the dark horror movie poster. Only the eyes glowed, their gaze resting uncomfortably on Oliver's back.
From
the window, Oliver watched the yellow school buses roll up to the bus stop across the street from his house. A crowd of eager stay at home mothers huddled around the bus stop. They wore hats and long dresses. Southern women never dressed down and Oliver wondered if that was worth sweltering in the Memphis heat. The bus rolled to a stop and people began piling off. Only freshman took the bus. He felt a bit wistful as he watched the other students greet their parents and hand off their backpacks. It was impossible to hear what was actually being said, but as he watched the others wave their hands excitedly, mouths moving rapidly, he could only imagine.
The crowd of mothers thinned
soon, leaving only one mother, who peered anxiously into the darkened bus. After a few seconds, a girl with curly black hair and glasses emerged, carrying poster board in one hand, and a teetering pile of books in the other. He knew her name to be Emily because he peeked at her pencil box on the first day of school. He was working up the nerve to ask her for a pencil, but his own courage often fell short, and soon weeks passed by without a word. Finally, fate stepped in, perhaps because it pitied Oliver. Or perhaps it wasn’t fate at all, just luck of the draw. Oliver forgot his pencil one day, and he had stared at his desk in embarrassment, too afraid to raise his hand to ask for a pencil. Emily opened up her blue pencil box and slowly placed it on his desk. “You can borrow it.” She said, adjusting her glasses and turning back to her own work.
Oliver leaned closer to the window, his face less than an inch from the glass, and a small smile tugging at his lips. Emily spoke softly to her mother---or so Oliver imagined. They talked about school, and life, and what was to be for dinner that night. Maybe hot dogs and hamburgers, but she looked like might be against eating meat. Oliver had seen her holding a "No Meat!" sign one day for an afterschool protest. The girl and her mother then set off down the street, and Oliver wished with all his heart that he could follow. She had tried to help him once, after all. The least he could do was return the pencil.