Joey spent the rest of the day locked in the dark closet, thinking about the toys on the shelf, wishing he could hold the teddy bear or play with his truck, missing his momma and poppa, wondering what it all meant. Based on the silence, the boy thought the man was again gone. When he returned and let Joey out, it felt very late, and the man’s clothes were soiled and his shoes were caked with mud.
After handing Joey a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on a thin white paper plate and a green plastic glass of cold milk, the man began to undress. While he greedily assaulted his first meal of the day, Joey stood outside the closet in a long narrow bathroom. Another door, a few feet away, opened to a bigger room, a bedroom. As Joey watched, he realized the man looked tired and that he was getting ready for bed.
Once the sandwich was gone and the glass was empty, Joey put the plate and glass on the floor, then stood off to the side. In the closet, he’d decided on a plan. His back against the wall, the boy squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on disappearing. Like the cartoon characters he watched on television, the ones who hid behind magic spells and amulets, Joey was convinced that if he remained absolutely quiet and willed himself invisible, the bad man wouldn’t be able to see him. Then all Joey had to do was wait, like Jack did for the giant to fall asleep.
The main problem, Joey figured, was that he didn’t know where he was. The bathroom connected to the man’s bedroom, but the bedroom door was locked, blocking him from the rest of the house. Shutters covered the windows, nailed in place. What waited for him outside the bedroom and the house was unknown. But in his plan, once the man drifted off, Joey would find the key, unlock the bedroom door, and run.
Once he escaped, the boy had his actions all mapped out. His oma and opa always said that if he needed help, Joey should watch for a police officer. But the boy wasn’t sure that would work. He didn’t know if there would be a policeman or even a fireman close enough to help. Instead, Joey planned to run as fast as he could to another house. If someone was home, the people would answer the door, hide him, and call the police. Once the man was arrested, Joey could go home to his momma. She must be worried, Joey thought. He remembered how they played games together and sang along with the radio in the car. She must miss me.
Reviewing his plan to run fast, Joey looked down at his bare feet and wished he had his Batman tennis shoes. He wondered where they were and thought about asking the man, but then he remembered that he had to keep quiet, keep his eyes shut, or he wouldn’t become invisible.
Then, suddenly, as he stood there outside the closet, Joey heard his name coming from the adjacent bedroom. Curious, he opened his eyes and walked in, only to see that on the TV, a woman was talking about how he was missing. His oma and opa were on the screen with his momma, but Joey didn’t see his poppa. He wondered why he wasn’t there, too, looking for him.
“This Texas Ranger, Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong, has been harassing us,” his oma said. “That’s why she was here tonight, instead of looking for our grandson.”
“I want my son back,” his momma said, and Joey started to cry. “Bring our little boy home to us. We love him.”
Behind him, a voice, startling the boy.
“There you are,” the man growled. “It’s time for bed.”
“I’m not tired,” Joey said, disappointed that he’d forgotten to keep his eyes closed and get invisible so he could trick the man. “I want to watch TV.”
“It’s time for bed. Go to the bathroom first,” the man said, walking over and turning off the television. The boy didn’t move, and the man warned, “Now.”
“I don’t have to go,” Joey protested, his hands in tight fists at his sides.
“Go, now,” the man said again, this time raising his right hand as if he might strike the boy. Seeing the threat, wondering if the man would hit him, Joey walked slowly to the bathroom. Standing at the door, the man stared at him as Joey pulled down his khaki shorts, releasing a cloud of urine and sweat.
“Give me those,” the man demanded. “You reek.”
“No,” Joey said, his voice a determined whisper.
Again, the man raised his hand, and Joey did as ordered, peeling off his shorts and his Spider-Man underwear and throwing them at the man, who let them fall to the white-and-black tile floor.
“Your shirt,” he said. “Take off your shirt.”
Joey began to cry, “No, no.”
“Your shirt, too!” the man said.
Again, the boy did as ordered, pulling the shirt up over his narrow chest. It caught on his left ear, and he tugged it harder until it slid over his head, and then he dropped it on the pile with the shorts and underpants. The man stood there for moments, looking at the naked child.
“Wait here,” the man ordered. Joey watched as the man walked into the bedroom and opened a drawer in a battered wooden dresser, retrieving something from inside.
“I want my clothes,” Joey said, wrapping his arms around his chest.
When he turned toward the boy, the man ordered, “Come here.”
Joey didn’t move. He looked at the man, focusing on the short thick black object he held.
“Come here, now,” the man said, this time with a deep, angry voice.
Joey hesitated, then reluctantly moved forward. As soon as the boy was within reach, the man grabbed the boy’s right hand, isolated his small middle fingertip. He then flipped open a knife, exposing its long thin silver blade. At the sight of it, Joey shook uncontrollably. He tried to pull away, twisting his hand, crying, “Don’t, don’t.”
Going in, the knife slid effortlessly through Joey’s pale skin, then came out quickly, leaving a wound that pumped out a stream of dark red blood.
“That hurts!” Joey screamed, pulling to wrench his hand away, the cut stinging, the finger throbbing. “I told you, don’t hurt me!”
Ignoring the boy’s pleas, the man held the bleeding finger tight while he bent down and claimed the boy’s soiled underwear off the pile. Then he stared without emotion into Joey’s eyes as he smeared the rich blood flowing from the wound onto the front of Joey’s underpants, covering Spider-Man’s face.
“Stop that!” Joey said, tears running down his cheeks. “Stop that! That hurts!”
The man looked at the boy and said nothing, but he dropped the boy’s bloody hand, and the boy rushed the finger into his mouth.
“You made me hurt,” Joey cried. “Why did you hurt me?”
The man smiled, a small, self-satisfied smile. “For some things in life, Joey, there are no good answers.” For a moment, the man looked as if he might say more, but instead he pointed at the closet. Crying, the naked child turned and walked inside. The door shut, the man locked it, and Joey was again surrounded by darkness. Overflowing tears slipped silently down the boy’s soft cheeks, and he sucked on his injured finger, tasting the salt of his own blood.
“My momma and the police are looking for me. I saw it on the television,” the boy called out. “And when they find me, you’ll be sorry.”
A curt laugh, and then the man said, “You don’t realize how lucky you are. You’re very special, little Joey. You will be my masterpiece.”