August 2024
Jurriaan
THE NEXT NIGHT Jurriaan began his vigil at eight o’clock. His new broom handle lay across his lap. He had bought it that afternoon at the hardware store. It was four feet long and, according to the sales clerk, made from Forest Stewardship Council–certified wood, which Jurriaan hoped also meant sturdy.
He parted the curtains just enough to watch the bike rack. If the bullies came anywhere near his brand-new tires, he would chase them away with the broom handle.
He could set his watch by Surveillant Meyer. Each time he cruised past, Jurriaan penciled in the hands on the clock faces: eight fifteen, nine, nine forty-five.
He had been in a blue funk for weeks, but now he had a plan. He felt stronger—more like Willem. He could do most things for himself: clean his apartment, wash his clothes, shop, cook, get to work on time. But the bullies were a thorn in his side. As soon as one got bored, another took his place. They called him names, broke his window, slashed his tires. Until now, he had cried like a baby instead of acting like a grown man.
He kept asking himself: What would Willem do?
By ten thirty it was dark. Yawning, Jurriaan peeped through the gap in the curtains. Right on schedule the patrol car’s headlights appeared, but the street was quiet, and Meyer continued on his round.
No sooner had the car disappeared than Jurriaan saw a flicker of movement near the laurel hedge where Tricksy did her business. His heart quickened, and his hand slipped on the broom handle, his palms suddenly slimy with sweat. His body tensed. Timing was tricky. He wanted to catch the bullies red-handed, which meant being quick on his feet. No one had ever accused Jurriaan of being quick—not quick on his feet or quick in any other way. All he could do was be ready and try his best.
Two figures emerged from the shadows and slunk across the street like panthers. When they drew near his bicycle, he tried to stand up, but his legs were shaking too hard.
Footsteps sounded in the stairwell, and the outside door slammed. He saw old Mr. Verhoeven shuffle down the sidewalk in his bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Next to him trotted Tricksy.
His neighbor was going to spoil the plan; the bullies wouldn’t try anything right under Mr. Verhoeven’s big nose. Jurriaan wanted to say shit, but he had been taught not to swear, so he only thought the word. In spite of his disappointment, he was a bit relieved. Whatever was going to happen, it would not be tonight.
He watched Mr. Verhoeven pull an object from his pocket and shake something into his hand. A match flared. The old man and the boys exchanged words. Jurriaan couldn’t make out the conversation, but the tone was clear—Mr. Verhoeven complaining and the boys jeering.
His neighbor turned and pointed toward the repaired window. From reflex Jurriaan ducked, felt at once like a coward, and forced himself upright, telling himself that Willem wouldn’t hide.
To his amazement the skinny boy shoved Mr. Verhoeven. The old man stumbled backward, fell, and landed on his butt in the grass. Tricksy began barking and leaping into the air with excitement. Suddenly she lunged at the boy, her teeth latching onto the leg of the boy’s pants, or maybe into his flesh. The other boy kicked the little dog. Despite the double glazing, Jurriaan heard her yelp and saw her little body sail through the air and land a few feet away, where she lay still.
His head spun. Tripping over his feet, he rushed from his apartment to the building’s entrance. He flung open the door and charged down the sidewalk, yelling and waving the broom handle.
Mr. Verhoeven and the bullies gaped at Jurriaan, who was hurtling toward them with his odd loping gait and the broom handle raised over his head. The boy who had kicked Tricksy fled. The skinny boy laughed out loud.
“Go ahead, retard. Try to hit me.” He danced toward Jurriaan, then danced away.
Jurriaan threw worse than a girl. He couldn’t hit a ball with a hockey stick to save his life or knock over a bowling pin without kiddie bumpers. But when he was close enough, he swung down the broom handle. The boy leaped away—a mistake. He should have stayed put because he jumped right into the broom handle’s path. There was a crack when the sturdy wooden stick hit his skull.
Jurriaan stared around him in disbelief.
Mr. Verhoeven cowered on the grass, with his arms covering his head, as though afraid Jurriaan was going to attack him next.
Jurriaan let the broom handle drop to the ground. “Are you all right, Mr. Verhoeven?”
The old man nodded and lowered his arms.
Jurriaan knelt beside Tricksy, stroked her warm little body, and rubbed the wiry fur between her ears. After a few moments, she whimpered and got to her feet, tail wagging slowly.
The boy stayed motionless on the pavement. His face was partially concealed by a fan of blond hair soaked with blood. Drool hung from the corner of his mouth. Jurriaan blinked. Tasted bile. Something stirred deep inside his head, crawling out of a dark mire into a shadowy light—a secret hidden for decades. A chill rippled through him, and he started shaking.
“Don’t just stand there, Jurriaan, help me up. I’ll run inside and call 112,” Mr. Verhoeven said, holding out his hand. “The little bastard needs an ambulance.”
Jurriaan helped the old man to his feet and watched him scurry into the building. The boy on the ground didn’t move. Jurriaan hugged himself tightly, trying to keep his body from fragmenting into a zillion pieces like his front window had done.