In memory, everything seems to happen to music.
—Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie
He watched for two more days. Establishing a pattern. Mark and Joey came and went, unaware of the man’s presence, as he was even more careful than before.
Then, on the third night, it was time.
A five o’clock, he positioned himself behind the gate to the dog run, crouching, small teeth shining. Clifford lay to the far end of the run, the golden retriever’s throat slit. In the streetlight’s yellow glow, the dog appeared an immovable pile of fluff, as if it were sleeping. He realized his coat smelled of blood and dog kibble.
Damned dog took one good bite at him. Rocking his hand back and forth at the wrist, it hurt, but he could move it. Teeth marks oozed dark and ugly in the little light he could find. Turning his hand over, he could see three puncture marks on the top, just next to his index finger, two matching wounds in his palm.
Pain means nothing.
They will be here soon.
Looking around, above the fence, he waited for the neighbor’s downstairs lights to come on. Glancing up, he waited for some sign of life on the second floor, for eyes peering through blinds or curtains. Nothing. The neighbor’s house remained black. There was no movement. Thankfully, they weren’t home.
Like the other nights, a slow, steady rain began to fall. He crouched under the eaves but put his hand out into the stream, letting the cool water cleanse his wound. The fire started to subside…he had no time for it anyway.
Through a tiny vertical slot in the wooden slats, he watched double white lights speed by, reflecting on wet pavement. Crouched down on his haunches, his calves tightened, cramped. He pulled his raincoat closer.
Squatted and small, he couldn’t help but remember.
“Sandra!” he screams her name. “It’s dark in here.”
He is not sure how long he’s been in the basement, shackled to a hard wooden chair. He knows his limbs have fallen into a kind of languishing. His belly aches for food. Eyes burn with tears that have come and gone.
What day is it?
He has no answer, nor does he know the time.
Steal cuffs rubbing into raw skin at his wrists, ankles. A thick rope circles his waistline, then crosses in the back and doubles back over each leg. She has tied it together below the wooden seat and taped any of the rope’s stray ends down with electrical tape.
Though he has tried, he cannot reach the tape’s edges.
The rope has begun to fray from his pee, the sticky stuff on it giving way to the soreness, the stickiness he feels in his pants. Sitting in pitch blackness, he feels a spider crawl over his big toe. He screams but there is no one to hear him. He thinks to crush it with his foot but decides against it.
At least someone is with him down here.
At least something cares for him.
“Sandra, I know you are up there,” he chokes, then swallows his tears. “Sandra, get down here now.” His voice is stronger now, defiant. He rocks on the chair back and forth, straining against the shackles.
A loud hollow crash, a thud.
Success. He has wobbled the chair enough for it to fall over. He is lying on his side now, nearly in a fetal position, his sore bottom finding some relief.
He wonders if he has crushed the spider. Prays he has not.
Above him and to the left, the basement door opens with a hard clap against hardwood floors. Squinting, he can hardly see through the light.
“Sandra,” he whispers, seeing her huge frame fill up the light. He can’t see her face, but he knows she is angry. She is always angry.
The silhouette moves closer till there is only the hint of light in the room cast through her thick ankles.
She is standing over him, a two-inch-wide stick slapping rhythmically against her palm. The sound of it slapping, thump, thump, thump. It is music. It takes him out of this place.
Whump. Hot, tingling fire across his thigh brings him back. Pain in his stomach. He feels he will vomit.
Regrettably, the music stops. She stands over him. He is far more frightened than when he was alone.
His eyes adjust to the light. He can see the spider made it, is still alive. The creature saunters along, oblivious, just a half inch from the boy’s eyes. He smiles.
“Wretched child,” she scorns him, the thump, thump never stopping in her hands. He cannot see the stick but knows it is there. His body shows the scars from wars with it.
Pulling against the cold steel shackles, he listens to the chains go tight, hears the chair scrape against the cement floor.
No escape.
Stepping forward, heavy black orthopedic shoes come down right in front of his eyes, filling his frame of vision. Her left foot crushes the spider.
His eyes widen but he says nothing.
His urine and excrement have combined to form a foul odor. He notices it only now, for reasons he cannot explain. Terrified, he is sure she smells it too.
“You think I am here to clean up after your garbage?” Her voice booms over him, accompanied by the thump.
He closes his eyes, tries to think of the music, but it will not come.
She kicks him in the groin. Instantly, his body buckles over on itself, though still restrained. Vomit comes in small retched lurches. Black dots in front of his eyes, a strong, shrill whining.
“Answer me,” she commands, her voice bouncing off the hollow, empty room.
He says nothing, still coughing, gasping for air.
“Answer me.” He has no choice this time. It is a command.
“Sandra, I…” His voice is low, sheepish.
Thump, thump gets faster.
He knows what it means, braces for another blow.
Trembling, he answers her. “I didn’t mean to do it. It was a mistake.”
“I’ve checked your bed. Wet. Third time this week.” He hears her swallow. “You think it’s funny me cleaning up your piss?”
A clap of wood. His right forearm takes the brunt of it. Thankfully, the blow only brushes his ribs.
He is sobbing.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident.” He forces the words, his voice meek. Then the orthopedic shoes are gone, replaced by her ugly, horrid face, down on the floor with him. Leaning into him, she is barely a half inch away. Sour breath laden with scotch blows into his eyes, stinging them. Spit flies like a shower as she screams, “You’re a good-for-nothing dirty little bastard. I do my best with you, and this is what I get?” She holds up his soiled sheets to his face, then takes them away.
Coughing, gagging. Stinking cotton. The pee leaching into his eyes, stinging them. “How does it feel?” Her tone is suddenly gentle now. He prays the worst of it is over.
“I…I…” He chokes words but they will not come. More than anything else, he is angry for that. He wants to kick her, curse her, bash her head into this hard cold cement, but even words betray him.
His body trembles.
She draws back and claps him again, this time on the bottom. The blow is so hard it draws blood. Can smell it. Metallic, lingering in the air. Can feel it trickling down his bare leg.
Blood seems to appease her, if only for a second.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with you a good lickin’ won’t fix.” She turns away, the thump, thump, thump still echoing in his ears as she goes.
He wants the music to come. Where is it?
Like everything else, it has abandoned him.
Then the cold rage is back as suddenly as it left.
The thumping has stopped. He is thankful.
Grabbing his throat with the full force of one massive hand, she wrenches him up off the floor and plunks down his body, the chair upright.
“Please don’t,” he pleads, chin quivering.
“You know what comes next, don’t you, boy?” It is horrible in here. Her voice is a monster’s voice. Low and growling.
“No, please,” he cries softly, between a new wave of tears.
“Now sit still, boy.”
He feels her heavy hands on his crotch.
He waits for the music.