CHAPTER

FIVE

HE SITS IN A CABIN DEEP IN THE FOREST. THE LATE afternoon sun casts long shadows of green and black. He spreads the magazines in front of him and runs his fingers over the pictures, stopping on the erect penis or the anus. He chuckles as he lifts the scissors and plunges them into the genitals. Porn magazines filled with pictures of nude men, the sexual organs torn or clipped out. He picks up a marker and blacks out the faces.

A start on the collection. He pulls a copy of The Boston Alternative out of a green garbage bag and leafs through the pages. He stops on a story published in May about two gay men tortured and murdered in Texas. He scrawls the words ‘DESERVE IT’ in black letters above the story. But he’s looking for a name and he finds it on a column titled Commonwealth Politics. The name is Stephen Cross. He circles it and marks the byline in all the other papers he has collected. Ten in all. He smirks at the picture of the smart-ass journalist who has the balls to defend his perverted lifestyle and to criticize those who challenge it. Stephen Cross is the man he wants.

He finds a fresh sheet of paper and draws in ink the smiling face of Hitler. Underneath, he pens a swastika, drawn expertly in three-dimensional view. He turns the sheet like a wheel and in crabbed script forces the pen hard down on the paper. The name Stephen Cross flows around the edge like a sacred illuminated manuscript.

Jack. Jack the Ripper. Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.

Jack, the little boy who lives inside him, full of tears. The house he hates and remembers.

His father whipped the puppy until it yelped in pain. He stood, tears streaming from his face, and shook, wondering if he might collapse.

“You’re next, you little shit,” his father said. “This dog craps in the house again, it’s dead.”

“Please don’t hurt her.”

The belt came down hard again on the soft furry back. The pup howled and wriggled its head away from his father, who held it by the scruff of the neck. The dog squirmed, dropped to the floor, and stumbled away, yowling.

“Get out of here, fucking mutt.” His father kicked blindly at the dog.

“Please, daddy, don’t.”

“Come here, sissy. I’ll teach you.”

His father loomed over him, a small shivering boy. The man undid his son’s pants, grabbed him by the neck, and bent him over his knee.

The belt bit into his legs and buttocks until he felt nothing. “You can join that worthless dog,” his father said after the beating was through.

The puppy was shivering at the door, waiting to go outside. The boy scooped up the dog and stepped into the frigid February air. The sun was setting like a pink ball, streaking the thin winter clouds with orange and red. He was only wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, but he didn’t care. He fought back tears and held the puppy close to his chest. The chubby warm bundle cried briefly and then snuggled against him as their breath puffed into steam.

“I hate you,” he said to the sky. “I hate you.” Then he cried over the puppy and swore he would never let his father hurt her again.

That evening, as his father sat watching television, drinking a beer and snickering at a family comedy, the boy traded his innocence for the hatred of a man. Any love he held for his father died.