The Night of the Parents by Christopher Suarez
CHAPTER FIVE
Squibb Park is right across the next intersection. How many times have I entered the park through the entrance right there on the corner?
“Yeah! The park!” I shout back, running a step ahead of my siblings now, pulling them along.
“I see him!” Lynda cries.
“Don’t look back! Just keep running!”
We race up the steps and into the park. The cobblestone footpath is lit by lampposts, but luckily the first two are out, giving us a brief cover of darkness. We veer off the path and run straight through the trees. Combined with the darkness the trees provide excellent concealment. Hopefully Dad won’t read our minds the way he so often seems to at home. If he does figure out our strategy and catch us, I’ll have no choice but to take him on so that Taylor and Lynda can escape.
As I try to figure out how long I would last against Dad before he beat me into the ground, I trip over an exposed tree root and sprawl forward. I instinctively let go of Taylor’s and Lynda’s hands but they still go down with me. That’s when I find out that Jobie and Madison decided to join us.
“You okay?” Jobie asks, helping me to my feet with one hand and gripping Gus’s baseball bat with the other.
“Yeah. Fine.”
Madison helps Lynda up. “Your dad’s not far behind us,” she warns.
“Then we better keep moving,” I snap.
We climb an embankment. On the other side we find a clearing and about two dozen people milling around in the dark, talking. Judging from their voices and their general height, they’re kids. One of them lifts what appears to be a baseball bat and rests it on his shoulder.
“All right!” Madison says, flipping a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Maybe they’ll help us.” Despite all the running she’s not at all out of breath. And I’ve never once seen her work out at the youth center. Jobie’s doing okay too. But my sibs and I are completely winded. Taylor and Lynda sit down on a nearby boulder and collapse against each other. I stand doubled over with my hands on my knees.
“How can they help us?” Jobie asks. “They’re probably in the same fix we are.”
“Even if they can help us . . . I think we should keep . . . to ourselves,” I gasp.
“Why?” Madison asks. “There’s safety in numbers.”
“Unless the numbers . . . are made up of morons,” I respond, revealing the general contempt I have for my fellow young people. I can’t help it. I’ve never been able to ignore the fact that the vast majority of them are self-centered, mean-spirited, and cruel. Just because my parents suddenly want to kill me doesn’t make that any less true.
“Look, if nothing else, I’m sure they’ll be willing to run interference with your dad.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. What’s wrong with me? “Okay,” I say weakly. “Okay. But if they turn out to be jerkoffs my brother and sister and I are moving on.”
“Let me catch my breath,” Lynda wheezes.
“Yeah. Sure.” As my eyes adjust to the darkness I see that the kids in the clearing have stopped talking and are watching us. Besides the baseball bat I can now make out other weapons: a pool cue, a golf club, a few knives, and what looks like a large branch.
Dad’s far away, enraged voice reaches us from somewhere on the other side of the embankment.
“Taylor! Lynda!”
I grab Taylor and Lynda by their jacket sleeves and yank them to their feet. “Let’s see what these kids can do for us.”
Jobie and I lead the way through the clearing. My brother and sister trudge along right behind us, with Madison taking up the rear.
“I hope Gus is okay,” Jobie says. “I feel really bad about leaving him.”
“He told us to run,” Madison reminds him, doing another hair flip. “Remember?”
“He’ll be okay,” I say, even though I’m really not sure. “He was just stunned.”
As we draw closer to the group one of the kids, the one with the golf club, steps forward. He’s a tall Hispanic boy of about fifteen or sixteen.
“Thank God you brought the bat,” I whisper to Jobie.
“I hope Gus doesn’t need it.”
Man his guilt is starting to piss me off! We had no choice but to leave him. What’s done is done.
When I’m only a few feet away from him the Hispanic boy raises his golf club and rests it on his shoulder. I’m sure he does this as a prelude to bashing my head in, but when he speaks his tone is mocking, not threatening. The full moon overhead provides just enough light for me to see that he’s smiling – and handsome.
“Yo girl. What you doing in the park after dark?”
“Hiding from my parents,” I answer. “They’ve gone nuts.”
“Yours too huh?”
“Yeah. Did you hear that guy shouting a minute ago? That’s my dad. Mind if my friends and I hang out here for awhile?”
The boy shrugs. “It’s a free park.”
“Thanks.”
The boy lowers his golf club, grips it with both hands the way golfers do, and swings at an imaginary ball. His swing looks as graceful and powerful as a professional golfer’s. I know because my dad plays golf, and he watches the sport all the time on TV. I’m surprised – and impressed.
“Do you play golf?” Madison asks sweetly, stepping up between this boy and me. Unbelievable. Even with everything that’s going on she still can’t resist flirting with every guy she sees.
“Once in a while I play with my dad.”
“You swing like a pro.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve seen golfers on TV.”
I wonder what this boy’s parental situation is. He doesn’t seem all that concerned about what’s going on. Maybe his parents are incapacitated in some way, like Madison’s mom. Or maybe they’re out of town like her dad.
“Hey, if they want to stay here they should pony up!” says a boy with a raspy voice standing at the edge of the group, too far away for me to see clearly.
“Pony up what?” I ask.
This other boy makes his way through the group and stands next to the Hispanic boy. It turns out he’s a short but muscular black-haired boy with close-cropped hair and a mean face. Despite his height I’d say he’s about sixteen. In his right hand he holds a tire iron.
“Whatever you got. Got any money?”
“Why should we give you money?” I tilt my head towards the Hispanic boy. “Like he said, it’s a free park.”
“Not anymore.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
I look Tire Iron Boy in the eye. He doesn’t tense up or look away the way punks do when you look them in the eye. Perhaps he’s the apocalyptic leader here, not the Hispanic boy.
“Is that how it is?” I ask him.
“That’s how it is.”
I turn to the Hispanic boy. “So he’s the leader here?”
The Hispanic boy shrugs. “If he wants to be. I don’t care. I’m just looking after myself.”
I check out the other kids. Most appear to be my age. About two thirds of them are girls. There are no subgroups, no paired up friends. They all appear to be strangers to each other. And unlike the Hispanic boy and Tire Iron Boy they all look scared. None of them are brave enough to speak up in our defense, so it’s pay up or move on.
I’m about to tell Tire Iron Boy to go screw himself when Dad calls out again.
“Taylor! Lynda!”
I look towards the top of the embankment. Still no sign of him, but he sounds a lot closer. I reach into the right front pocket of my jeans and take out what’s left of my money. “Here,” I say, holding the cash out to Tire Iron Boy. “It’s all I have.”
“How much?”
I unfold the bills and count them. A ten and three singles. “Thirteen bucks.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Screw you!” Jobie snarls, tightening his grip on G
us’s bat. “We don’t need your help. Come on Caril. Let’s go.”
I start to stuff the bills back into my pocket.
“Taylor! Lynda! You’re just making things harder for yourself!”
“Tell you what,” I say, holding out the money again. “We’ll leave, but you hold off our dad until we’re out of sight. Deal?”
Tire Iron Boy makes a big show out of pretending to think it over. “For just thirteen bucks? I don’t – “
“Come on man,” the Hispanic boy interrupts, still smiling. “Sure girl. We got your back.” He’s acting as leader now, speaking for the whole group, but he doesn’t make a move for the money. Tire Iron Boy makes the move. Without a word to confirm that we do in fact have a bargain, he reaches out, snatches the money out of my hand, and retreats back to the far side of the clearing.
“Let’s go,” I order my siblings.
“Don’t kill him!” Lynda pleads to the group. “Even if he puts up a fight. Even if he really tries to hurt you.”
Tire Iron Boy responds with a laugh.
“Please!”
I give both my sibs a shove. “Move!”
We run right through the group. The kids move aside for us but say nothing as we pass.
“Taylor! Lynda!” Dad calls out again. His voice sounds even closer. I look over my shoulder and just manage to make out his silhouetted figure emerging from the trees.
“Oh God! There he is!” Lynda cries, also looking over her shoulder.
“Don’t look back, just run!” I yell. I hope to reach the other side of the clearing without having to hear any of Dad’s confrontation with the kids, but before we make it to the dark safety of the trees I hear the Hispanic boy’s shouted warning.
“Back off man! I ain’t playing with you!”
Lynda trips over something and falls on her face. I pull her up by the arm and drag her along.
“Caril wait!” Taylor shouts.
I look over my shoulder again and see that Taylor has stopped and turned to watch the action.
“Taylor will you move your ass!” I scream.
“Caril they’re beating him up!”
“They’re saving us! Move!”
Someone screams, and I can tell by the pitch of the voice that it’s not Dad. It’s one of the kids, one of the younger ones. Dad must have hurt him somehow. Even outnumbered two dozen to one by punk kids he still managed to do some damage. That’s how badly he wants to get at us.
We reach the trees. I push Lynda behind one. “Stay with her,” I order Jobie and Madison, then run back to my brother. Taylor is still staring transfixed at our father, who’s now battling three kids simultaneously. I know he’s watching as much out of pride as out of fear.
“Taylor, he’s going to be okay,” I tell him. “He’s going to defeat them, but after he defeats them he’s going to try to kill us, so let’s go.”
It works. Taylor turns and runs with me.
“What did you see?” Jobie asks him when we reach the relative safety of the trees.
“Never mind,” I say. “Just – “
“No, I want to know. What did you see?”
“I saw my dad taking on all those kids,” Taylor answers, sounding both scared and proud. “And kicking ass.”
“Which means we better put some distance between him and us,” I advise.
We take off again. A few minutes later Madison trips over a root, and then Jobie. If only one of us had thought to ask Gus for a flashlight!
“Stop. Stop,” Lynda pleads, winded. She stops running and sits down on the ground. Taylor sits next to her.
“Shit,” Madison mutters, rubbing her sore knee. Once again she’s not the least bit out of breath. What the hell does she do for exercise? Whatever it is, it’s given her stamina but not the lean, sinewy body that athletic kids usually have. Her body is curvy, her muscles – at least her arm muscles – soft.
We all keep quiet for a while. I wait anxiously for Dad’s voice to break the silence, but all I hear is a breeze rustling the branches overhead.
Taylor is the first to speak.
“I never knew Dad was so tough. That kid with the golf club and the one with the tire iron ganged up on him, but he knocked the kid with the tire iron on his ass and grabbed it out of his hand, and then hit the other kid on the head with it.”
“So now he has a weapon,” Jobie says. “Great.”
“He’s not tough, he’s crazy,” I tell my brother. “Crazy people are always hard to put down. And he’s big too. That gives him an advantage over any kid.”
“What happened after he hit the kid with the golf club?” Lynda asks.
“He faced off with a third kid who had a baseball bat. After that I don’t know.” He gives me a look. “That’s when I started running.”
Lynda closes her eyes and leans her head against her knees. “I hope he wins. Even if he keeps on chasing us. I don’t want him to die.”
“I don’t want him to die either,” I say.
“Yes you do. You paid those boys to kill him.”
God, what a little pain in the ass! Even a parent apocalypse can’t wise her up!
“I paid those boys to hold him off, not kill him! Did you hear me say kill? Did you?”
“Hold off. Kill. Same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all you little brat!” Before I know it I’m standing over her with my fists clenched, ready to punch her upside the head, something I’ve never done before.
Madison, appalled by my rage, gets right in my face. “Hey! Give her a break! She’s scared!”
Lynda looks up at me calmly. There are tears in her eyes but not a trace of fear. Has she reached that traumatized state of mind beyond fear?
Ashamed, I unclench my fists and step back from her. Jesus. Am I losing it now? Could the madness be affecting older sisters now?
“Sorry Lynda,” I mumble. “I . . . I just don’t like being unfairly accused of things. I love Dad, even though he’s never loved me much. I don’t want him to die, so don’t say that I do. Okay?”
Lynda puts her head down on her knees again. “Whatever.”
Taylor draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “So where do we go now?”
Jobie rests his bat on his shoulder. “If we can make it to the Lincoln Road exit there’s a church not too far from there. It might be open. Especially if the priest of minister or whatever knows what’s going on.”
I hear the distant sound of a fire truck. Are the firefighters responding to a regular everyday house fire, or did some psycho mom and dad set their sleeping little darlings on fire?
“Why would a priest keep his church open if he knows what’s going on?” I ask.
“To provide sanctuary for all the desperate kids. I know church doors are usually kept locked between services these days, but they used to be kept unlocked twenty-four/seven so that anyone who wanted to could go in and pray. In fact, criminals were even allowed to hide from cops in churches. I think if the priest of that church knows that kids are being murdered by their parents tonight he’ll provide sanctuary for them.”
I consider a moment. “Do you know how to get to the Lincoln Road exit from here? Because I don’t. I don’t even know where we are.
“I do. I hang out in this park all the time. If we keep heading that way” – he points in the direction we were running before we stopped – “we’ll reach a footpath. If we turn left on the footpath that will lead us to the Lincoln Road exit.”
I turn to Madison. She nods.
“What do you think?” I ask Taylor and Lynda.
Taylor shrugs. “What have we got to lose?”
“Lynda?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
We start off again, only walking this time instead of running. Jobie leads the way. Ten minutes or so
later we reach the footpath and turn left.
“Should we be walking out in the open like this?” Madison asks as we pass one of the lampposts. “Wouldn’t it be safer to walk off the path, along the tree line?”
“We’ll move faster this way,” I reply. “And we’ll be able to see where we’re going. I don’t want to fall on my face again.”
We haven’t heard Dad’s voice since we left the clearing. I honestly believe that we’re safe for the moment, and yet when we pass a fallen branch I pick it up. I break off the protruding twigs and swing it in front of me like a sword. It’s actually more of a switch than a branch, but it will still make an effective weapon, especially if swung at the face.
“See if you can find some other branches,” I tell the others. They’ll make good weapons until we can find something better.”
I cut the air with my branch again to encourage them, but they don’t even pretend to look. That pisses me off. Okay, Jobie has Gus’s bat, and Madison doesn’t have to worry about her parents, but Taylor and Lynda should at least make some effort to protect themselves. Their asses are on the line too.
We make it to the Lincoln Road exit without encountering anyone else, but as soon as we step out onto the street we run into four laughing red-haired boys. The oldest looks to be about sixteen, the youngest about eight. They’re pushing one of those rolling metal clothing racks that garment industry workers use, only there are no clothes hanging from it. Instead there’s a middle-aged, red-haired man tied to the cross bar by his hands and feet. Dressed only in pajamas, the man shivers uncontrollably and shouts something in a foreign language – I think French. No doubt he’s the boys’ father and he’s cursing them out for overpowering him and trussing him up like a prize porker. We step aside and let the boys pass. Without giving us so much as a sidelong glance they roll their captive into the park.
“Well, they’re certainly not letting this crisis get them down,” Madison quips.
“They’re just happy that they defeated their dad and survived,” I say sullenly.
Jobie taps his bat against the sidewalk like a cane. “Or maybe kids are going crazy now too.”
“Maybe,” Madison agrees.
“It’d be funny if Dad rescued that guy, wouldn’t it?” Taylor says, looking over his shoulder at the boys. When he turns back I see that he’s smiling. Actually smiling.
“No. I don’t think that would be very funny at all,” I say.
Jobie points with his bat. “The church is around the corner, two blocks down that street.”
At the intersection there are two abandoned wrecked cars, the remnants of yet another car accident. When we turn the corner the first thing we see, propped up against an apartment building’s hedge, is another dead child with a bashed in face, this one a blonde prepubescent girl. Lynda stops and gapes at her.
“Don’t look,” I tell her, taking her by the arm again.
“We never said a prayer for that girl back at the youth center,” she says. “We should say one for this girl.”
“Say it in the church.”
Squibb Park is right across the next intersection. How many times have I entered the park through the entrance right there on the corner?
“Yeah! The park!” I shout back, running a step ahead of my siblings now, pulling them along.
“I see him!” Lynda cries.
“Don’t look back! Just keep running!”
We race up the steps and into the park. The cobblestone footpath is lit by lampposts, but luckily the first two are out, giving us a brief cover of darkness. We veer off the path and run straight through the trees. Combined with the darkness the trees provide excellent concealment. Hopefully Dad won’t read our minds the way he so often seems to at home. If he does figure out our strategy and catch us, I’ll have no choice but to take him on so that Taylor and Lynda can escape.
As I try to figure out how long I would last against Dad before he beat me into the ground, I trip over an exposed tree root and sprawl forward. I instinctively let go of Taylor’s and Lynda’s hands but they still go down with me. That’s when I find out that Jobie and Madison decided to join us.
“You okay?” Jobie asks, helping me to my feet with one hand and gripping Gus’s baseball bat with the other.
“Yeah. Fine.”
Madison helps Lynda up. “Your dad’s not far behind us,” she warns.
“Then we better keep moving,” I snap.
We climb an embankment. On the other side we find a clearing and about two dozen people milling around in the dark, talking. Judging from their voices and their general height, they’re kids. One of them lifts what appears to be a baseball bat and rests it on his shoulder.
“All right!” Madison says, flipping a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Maybe they’ll help us.” Despite all the running she’s not at all out of breath. And I’ve never once seen her work out at the youth center. Jobie’s doing okay too. But my sibs and I are completely winded. Taylor and Lynda sit down on a nearby boulder and collapse against each other. I stand doubled over with my hands on my knees.
“How can they help us?” Jobie asks. “They’re probably in the same fix we are.”
“Even if they can help us . . . I think we should keep . . . to ourselves,” I gasp.
“Why?” Madison asks. “There’s safety in numbers.”
“Unless the numbers . . . are made up of morons,” I respond, revealing the general contempt I have for my fellow young people. I can’t help it. I’ve never been able to ignore the fact that the vast majority of them are self-centered, mean-spirited, and cruel. Just because my parents suddenly want to kill me doesn’t make that any less true.
“Look, if nothing else, I’m sure they’ll be willing to run interference with your dad.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. What’s wrong with me? “Okay,” I say weakly. “Okay. But if they turn out to be jerkoffs my brother and sister and I are moving on.”
“Let me catch my breath,” Lynda wheezes.
“Yeah. Sure.” As my eyes adjust to the darkness I see that the kids in the clearing have stopped talking and are watching us. Besides the baseball bat I can now make out other weapons: a pool cue, a golf club, a few knives, and what looks like a large branch.
Dad’s far away, enraged voice reaches us from somewhere on the other side of the embankment.
“Taylor! Lynda!”
I grab Taylor and Lynda by their jacket sleeves and yank them to their feet. “Let’s see what these kids can do for us.”
Jobie and I lead the way through the clearing. My brother and sister trudge along right behind us, with Madison taking up the rear.
“I hope Gus is okay,” Jobie says. “I feel really bad about leaving him.”
“He told us to run,” Madison reminds him, doing another hair flip. “Remember?”
“He’ll be okay,” I say, even though I’m really not sure. “He was just stunned.”
As we draw closer to the group one of the kids, the one with the golf club, steps forward. He’s a tall Hispanic boy of about fifteen or sixteen.
“Thank God you brought the bat,” I whisper to Jobie.
“I hope Gus doesn’t need it.”
Man his guilt is starting to piss me off! We had no choice but to leave him. What’s done is done.
When I’m only a few feet away from him the Hispanic boy raises his golf club and rests it on his shoulder. I’m sure he does this as a prelude to bashing my head in, but when he speaks his tone is mocking, not threatening. The full moon overhead provides just enough light for me to see that he’s smiling – and handsome.
“Yo girl. What you doing in the park after dark?”
“Hiding from my parents,” I answer. “They’ve gone nuts.”
“Yours too huh?”
“Yeah. Did you hear that guy shouting a minute ago? That’s my dad. Mind if my friends and I hang out here for awhile?”
The boy shrugs. “It’s a free park.”
“Thanks.”
The boy lowers his golf club, grips it with both hands the way golfers do, and swings at an imaginary ball. His swing looks as graceful and powerful as a professional golfer’s. I know because my dad plays golf, and he watches the sport all the time on TV. I’m surprised – and impressed.
“Do you play golf?” Madison asks sweetly, stepping up between this boy and me. Unbelievable. Even with everything that’s going on she still can’t resist flirting with every guy she sees.
“Once in a while I play with my dad.”
“You swing like a pro.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve seen golfers on TV.”
I wonder what this boy’s parental situation is. He doesn’t seem all that concerned about what’s going on. Maybe his parents are incapacitated in some way, like Madison’s mom. Or maybe they’re out of town like her dad.
“Hey, if they want to stay here they should pony up!” says a boy with a raspy voice standing at the edge of the group, too far away for me to see clearly.
“Pony up what?” I ask.
This other boy makes his way through the group and stands next to the Hispanic boy. It turns out he’s a short but muscular black-haired boy with close-cropped hair and a mean face. Despite his height I’d say he’s about sixteen. In his right hand he holds a tire iron.
“Whatever you got. Got any money?”
“Why should we give you money?” I tilt my head towards the Hispanic boy. “Like he said, it’s a free park.”
“Not anymore.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
I look Tire Iron Boy in the eye. He doesn’t tense up or look away the way punks do when you look them in the eye. Perhaps he’s the apocalyptic leader here, not the Hispanic boy.
“Is that how it is?” I ask him.
“That’s how it is.”
I turn to the Hispanic boy. “So he’s the leader here?”
The Hispanic boy shrugs. “If he wants to be. I don’t care. I’m just looking after myself.”
I check out the other kids. Most appear to be my age. About two thirds of them are girls. There are no subgroups, no paired up friends. They all appear to be strangers to each other. And unlike the Hispanic boy and Tire Iron Boy they all look scared. None of them are brave enough to speak up in our defense, so it’s pay up or move on.
I’m about to tell Tire Iron Boy to go screw himself when Dad calls out again.
“Taylor! Lynda!”
I look towards the top of the embankment. Still no sign of him, but he sounds a lot closer. I reach into the right front pocket of my jeans and take out what’s left of my money. “Here,” I say, holding the cash out to Tire Iron Boy. “It’s all I have.”
“How much?”
I unfold the bills and count them. A ten and three singles. “Thirteen bucks.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Screw you!” Jobie snarls, tightening his grip on G
I start to stuff the bills back into my pocket.
“Taylor! Lynda! You’re just making things harder for yourself!”
“Tell you what,” I say, holding out the money again. “We’ll leave, but you hold off our dad until we’re out of sight. Deal?”
Tire Iron Boy makes a big show out of pretending to think it over. “For just thirteen bucks? I don’t – “
“Come on man,” the Hispanic boy interrupts, still smiling. “Sure girl. We got your back.” He’s acting as leader now, speaking for the whole group, but he doesn’t make a move for the money. Tire Iron Boy makes the move. Without a word to confirm that we do in fact have a bargain, he reaches out, snatches the money out of my hand, and retreats back to the far side of the clearing.
“Let’s go,” I order my siblings.
“Don’t kill him!” Lynda pleads to the group. “Even if he puts up a fight. Even if he really tries to hurt you.”
Tire Iron Boy responds with a laugh.
“Please!”
I give both my sibs a shove. “Move!”
We run right through the group. The kids move aside for us but say nothing as we pass.
“Taylor! Lynda!” Dad calls out again. His voice sounds even closer. I look over my shoulder and just manage to make out his silhouetted figure emerging from the trees.
“Oh God! There he is!” Lynda cries, also looking over her shoulder.
“Don’t look back, just run!” I yell. I hope to reach the other side of the clearing without having to hear any of Dad’s confrontation with the kids, but before we make it to the dark safety of the trees I hear the Hispanic boy’s shouted warning.
“Back off man! I ain’t playing with you!”
Lynda trips over something and falls on her face. I pull her up by the arm and drag her along.
“Caril wait!” Taylor shouts.
I look over my shoulder again and see that Taylor has stopped and turned to watch the action.
“Taylor will you move your ass!” I scream.
“Caril they’re beating him up!”
“They’re saving us! Move!”
Someone screams, and I can tell by the pitch of the voice that it’s not Dad. It’s one of the kids, one of the younger ones. Dad must have hurt him somehow. Even outnumbered two dozen to one by punk kids he still managed to do some damage. That’s how badly he wants to get at us.
We reach the trees. I push Lynda behind one. “Stay with her,” I order Jobie and Madison, then run back to my brother. Taylor is still staring transfixed at our father, who’s now battling three kids simultaneously. I know he’s watching as much out of pride as out of fear.
“Taylor, he’s going to be okay,” I tell him. “He’s going to defeat them, but after he defeats them he’s going to try to kill us, so let’s go.”
It works. Taylor turns and runs with me.
“What did you see?” Jobie asks him when we reach the relative safety of the trees.
“Never mind,” I say. “Just – “
“No, I want to know. What did you see?”
“I saw my dad taking on all those kids,” Taylor answers, sounding both scared and proud. “And kicking ass.”
“Which means we better put some distance between him and us,” I advise.
We take off again. A few minutes later Madison trips over a root, and then Jobie. If only one of us had thought to ask Gus for a flashlight!
“Stop. Stop,” Lynda pleads, winded. She stops running and sits down on the ground. Taylor sits next to her.
“Shit,” Madison mutters, rubbing her sore knee. Once again she’s not the least bit out of breath. What the hell does she do for exercise? Whatever it is, it’s given her stamina but not the lean, sinewy body that athletic kids usually have. Her body is curvy, her muscles – at least her arm muscles – soft.
We all keep quiet for a while. I wait anxiously for Dad’s voice to break the silence, but all I hear is a breeze rustling the branches overhead.
Taylor is the first to speak.
“I never knew Dad was so tough. That kid with the golf club and the one with the tire iron ganged up on him, but he knocked the kid with the tire iron on his ass and grabbed it out of his hand, and then hit the other kid on the head with it.”
“So now he has a weapon,” Jobie says. “Great.”
“He’s not tough, he’s crazy,” I tell my brother. “Crazy people are always hard to put down. And he’s big too. That gives him an advantage over any kid.”
“What happened after he hit the kid with the golf club?” Lynda asks.
“He faced off with a third kid who had a baseball bat. After that I don’t know.” He gives me a look. “That’s when I started running.”
Lynda closes her eyes and leans her head against her knees. “I hope he wins. Even if he keeps on chasing us. I don’t want him to die.”
“I don’t want him to die either,” I say.
“Yes you do. You paid those boys to kill him.”
God, what a little pain in the ass! Even a parent apocalypse can’t wise her up!
“I paid those boys to hold him off, not kill him! Did you hear me say kill? Did you?”
“Hold off. Kill. Same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all you little brat!” Before I know it I’m standing over her with my fists clenched, ready to punch her upside the head, something I’ve never done before.
Madison, appalled by my rage, gets right in my face. “Hey! Give her a break! She’s scared!”
Lynda looks up at me calmly. There are tears in her eyes but not a trace of fear. Has she reached that traumatized state of mind beyond fear?
Ashamed, I unclench my fists and step back from her. Jesus. Am I losing it now? Could the madness be affecting older sisters now?
“Sorry Lynda,” I mumble. “I . . . I just don’t like being unfairly accused of things. I love Dad, even though he’s never loved me much. I don’t want him to die, so don’t say that I do. Okay?”
Lynda puts her head down on her knees again. “Whatever.”
Taylor draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “So where do we go now?”
Jobie rests his bat on his shoulder. “If we can make it to the Lincoln Road exit there’s a church not too far from there. It might be open. Especially if the priest of minister or whatever knows what’s going on.”
I hear the distant sound of a fire truck. Are the firefighters responding to a regular everyday house fire, or did some psycho mom and dad set their sleeping little darlings on fire?
“Why would a priest keep his church open if he knows what’s going on?” I ask.
“To provide sanctuary for all the desperate kids. I know church doors are usually kept locked between services these days, but they used to be kept unlocked twenty-four/seven so that anyone who wanted to could go in and pray. In fact, criminals were even allowed to hide from cops in churches. I think if the priest of that church knows that kids are being murdered by their parents tonight he’ll provide sanctuary for them.”
I consider a moment. “Do you know how to get to the Lincoln Road exit from here? Because I don’t. I don’t even know where we are.
“I do. I hang out in this park all the time. If we keep heading that way” – he points in the direction we were running before we stopped – “we’ll reach a footpath. If we turn left on the footpath that will lead us to the Lincoln Road exit.”
I turn to Madison. She nods.
“What do you think?” I ask Taylor and Lynda.
Taylor shrugs. “What have we got to lose?”
“Lynda?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
We start off again, only walking this time instead of running. Jobie leads the way. Ten minutes or so
“Should we be walking out in the open like this?” Madison asks as we pass one of the lampposts. “Wouldn’t it be safer to walk off the path, along the tree line?”
“We’ll move faster this way,” I reply. “And we’ll be able to see where we’re going. I don’t want to fall on my face again.”
We haven’t heard Dad’s voice since we left the clearing. I honestly believe that we’re safe for the moment, and yet when we pass a fallen branch I pick it up. I break off the protruding twigs and swing it in front of me like a sword. It’s actually more of a switch than a branch, but it will still make an effective weapon, especially if swung at the face.
“See if you can find some other branches,” I tell the others. They’ll make good weapons until we can find something better.”
I cut the air with my branch again to encourage them, but they don’t even pretend to look. That pisses me off. Okay, Jobie has Gus’s bat, and Madison doesn’t have to worry about her parents, but Taylor and Lynda should at least make some effort to protect themselves. Their asses are on the line too.
We make it to the Lincoln Road exit without encountering anyone else, but as soon as we step out onto the street we run into four laughing red-haired boys. The oldest looks to be about sixteen, the youngest about eight. They’re pushing one of those rolling metal clothing racks that garment industry workers use, only there are no clothes hanging from it. Instead there’s a middle-aged, red-haired man tied to the cross bar by his hands and feet. Dressed only in pajamas, the man shivers uncontrollably and shouts something in a foreign language – I think French. No doubt he’s the boys’ father and he’s cursing them out for overpowering him and trussing him up like a prize porker. We step aside and let the boys pass. Without giving us so much as a sidelong glance they roll their captive into the park.
“Well, they’re certainly not letting this crisis get them down,” Madison quips.
“They’re just happy that they defeated their dad and survived,” I say sullenly.
Jobie taps his bat against the sidewalk like a cane. “Or maybe kids are going crazy now too.”
“Maybe,” Madison agrees.
“It’d be funny if Dad rescued that guy, wouldn’t it?” Taylor says, looking over his shoulder at the boys. When he turns back I see that he’s smiling. Actually smiling.
“No. I don’t think that would be very funny at all,” I say.
Jobie points with his bat. “The church is around the corner, two blocks down that street.”
At the intersection there are two abandoned wrecked cars, the remnants of yet another car accident. When we turn the corner the first thing we see, propped up against an apartment building’s hedge, is another dead child with a bashed in face, this one a blonde prepubescent girl. Lynda stops and gapes at her.
“Don’t look,” I tell her, taking her by the arm again.
“We never said a prayer for that girl back at the youth center,” she says. “We should say one for this girl.”
“Say it in the church.”