Jaxon Lathan.
I hadn’t heard or said that name aloud in years. We had whispered it, in the dark, hiding in that cellar and keeping our voices low so he wouldn’t hear us.
And now, here, I can say it. No one will hit me for it. No one will tell me I can’t.
The memories come rushing back. The man. The stench of his sweat. The rotting smell of his teeth. The sting of the back of his hand or the crunch of his fist. We all suffered from his anger. And his appetites.
From the basement, we could hear the van when it arrived or left. Usually, it was empty, at least of anything other than boxes or bags or whatever else he hauled in it. But sometimes, it came back with human cargo. At some point after it returned, I would find myself outside, under his close supervision, hosing out the blood splattered inside. Necessary, he said, to get the attention of the boy.
I would pick up scraps of duct tape and hang up the dog leash, a strip of leather that probably had never been near a dog. He had enticed more than a few boys into his vehicle with his silly story. Silly, except it worked. The tale was the same for everyone, with only minor exceptions. How he would appear, leash in hand, looking around. His actions seemed innocent enough that he could easily disappear again into anonymity if someone else showed up and asked questions.
And every boy, every one, would be the first to ask, “Whatcha looking for?”
“A dog,” he said. “I lost my dog. The leash broke. He’s a little guy with short brown fur. I’m so worried he’s scared or hurt.”
And every boy, every one, would think how awful it was to lose your dog or to be the poor lost dog.
Oh sure, you didn’t talk to strangers. We all knew that. But you helped those in need. Like a little dog, lost and scared. And so you’d help search.
The man would spot something. “Is that it? Over there?”
And every boy, every one, would wander over, out of sight of others, not even aware they had been separated.
And no one could say what would have happened if someone, say an adult, had come along right then. Probably nothing, right, because the man would keep looking and wander away, and the boy would go home, never aware how close he’d come.
But the boys there, the ones I shared the cellar with… No one had intervened. No one prevented their fate. They searched for the lost dog until they ended up outside the van, where the man offered a Coke as a thank-you for helping.
And every boy, every one, went to the cooler inside the van and opened it. They reached for a Coke as the van door slid closed behind them.
And then it was too late. He was too big. Too powerful.
And every boy, every one, found the life he had known before was now gone. A new life was beginning.
And what a miserable thing that was.