Lightning illuminated the clouds, still in soft glow from the sun that had just pulled the horizon above its head like a blanket. Though the thunder could not be heard, anyone in the small town who saw it, knew it was coming. Distant on the horizon, the storm as inevitable in the summertime as the cold winds from the north were destined to bring winter. Still the air was silent with a soft breeze ignorant except for the crunching branches through the wooded mound known as Tulip Hill.
He moved with a slow limp; eyes downward unaware of anyone that might be watching. The blind woods would have parted for him if it could, although the cut path provided direction. Reeking of death, the soft scent of honeysuckle and jasmine could not drown out the odor. The dirt slightly pushed itself down from his face, as tears dribbled down his cheek.
A wild dog ran toward him, pausing only a moment before turning to run in the opposite direction. Thunder, now just above an audible rumbled as the wind picked up causing his hair to stand on end. Stepping on a dandelion sprouting on the path, he felt himself sway as the wind began to push against him. Still, he pressed on. Another flash of lightning and the path glowed momentarily before the dark returned with the bursting thunder. Rain began to fly as his legs gave way. He tumbled forward before rolling down the path of Tulip Hill.
The boy rushed out of his backyard, eager to see it. His father had caught another one the day before and he was eager to look. Pushing the back gate open, he rushed without thinking toward Tulip Hill. The ground still wet, but calm in the near dawn twilight. The man stirred a little hearing the steps but was unable to respond. The rain had pelted him into the earth.
The boy froze seeing the man lay in a bed of wild tulip stems. The tulips hadn’t sprouted yet. They were fickle as most plants tend to be. The boy was unable to catch the word coming out of his lips before turning to run back for his father.
“Mista?”
The man reached out and grabbed the boy’s leg causing the boy to let out a scream and tumble backwards causing mud to cover his pants. The man let go. The boy hurried to his feet.
“Little black boy, please don’t. Sorry. Please. Please. People are looking for me. I’ll leave. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. Please.” The tears shocked the man as much as they shocked the boy. They pushed down against the drying caked dirt.
The boy’s head cocked to the side considering his options. Instinct told him to run and shout from the rooftops. But instinct wasn’t always right. Instinct had to be fine-tuned. It had to be worked into place through experience and pressure. Like forging a diamond out of mistakes. He took a sharp step back waiting for something to give way when the man lowered his head as if in defeat. He heard the echoing sympathy of his mother’s voice whenever they passed one of the bums on the side of the road.
Unable to get past his own awareness of mud caking the side of his pants, he knew he would miss the bus anyway trying to get back and change. The morning already ruined, what was another delay. His mother perched on his shoulder begging sympathy while his father sat on the other demanding order. “This town needs to be cleaned up!”
The boy turned to look and see if someone were watching. Each window of the houses lining the retention pond looked like eyes watching them. The small, wooded area was still out of sight from most of them. The other side was bare and hardly worth a glance. Open field where scattered tulip stems spread across.
“I don’t like you using Tulip Hill.” His mother had told him. “You know what goes on over there.”
He turned to look back toward his house. Third one down, gate still cracked open from how he had left it. The swing set in the backyard swayed gently in the wind. He had forgotten to put the cinder block in front of the gate. Something he should’ve been more careful with; his little brother could get out and fall into the pond.
“Ocean front property.” His dad had joked.
He had to get new pants. And maybe, just maybe, help this man on his way. The man looked at him, squinting in the bright morning sun as the boy nodded slowly as these thoughts fired a mile a minute.
“Please.” The man said.
“Okay.”
“What’s your name?” The man asked.
“Henry.”
“Henry?” The man said.
“Henry, like my father.” The boy said slowly feeling inside the weight of responsibility bearing down on him. “What’s in a name?” Shakespeare had asked and if he had asked young Henry Miller, he would’ve been told, the full weight of responsibility.
As if remembering, he looked down at the lunch box in the mud. He picked it up and felt a staggered breath as he tried to wipe it off. Everything was ruined. Seeing himself standing in front of his mother and father, he could feel their gaze and questions when he would tell them.
The mud betrayed him more than anything else would. His mother’s plea for mercy would be overshadowed by his father’s stern emotionless face. “What did you do about this?” His father would ask. Daddy didn’t joke about such things. Action was always necessarily. Inaction was unforgivable sin.
Henry pulled an apple from his lunch. The apple seemed to shake the dreaded thoughts of his father for a moment, just long enough to offer the man the apple. “What’s your name?”
“Vladimir.” The man scurried to sit and bit into the apple. Each gnawing bite, the image of the young baby-faced sheriff came to mind. The name tag bearing the same first initial as the boy. The sheriff who had dragged him off a park bench and to this mound on the edge of town. The shovel, the digging, the beating, but even worse, seeing the terrible vulture hovering on a branch near him hoping for something to eat. The man hid his face behind the apple realising the serendipity of being saved by the child of the man that tried to kill him.
Henry grimaced as the man bit into the apple. Watching the mud caked onto the man’s face begin to flake off onto the apple and then disappear along with the red and white as the man hardly chewed eating it so fast.
“You’re eating dirt.”
Vladimir nodded, “A little. I’m dirty.”
You are dirty, the boy thought but didn’t say. He had been taught just because it came into your thoughts didn’t mean that it should come out of your mouth.
Vladimir’s hands began to shake. He tried to hide them. Rage was not something you could veil. Not easily, but he was trying. His eyes stared at the boy wondering what he was thinking. Not hearing the boy’s question, “What?”
“What kind of name is Vladmir?” The boy’s words tumbled out of him. Fast and innocent clashing into each other as if he felt a need to say something but didn’t know what.
“I am Cuban. My family are named after strong people. They do not know who Putin is. They don’t care. Strong names. My grandfather was named Hitler. My family did not know. They just wanted a strong name. We fled to America to start a new life.”
“You’re a fugitive?”
“I suppose if you want to call me that. What kind of name is Henry?”
“Come on,” the boy said turning waving his hand. Shakespeare’s dreaded question ringing in his ears.
“Where?” Suspicion. Had the boy seen the anger rising.
“There’s a hose in my backyard. I might be able to find a shirt that you can wear. Then you can go.”
Vladimir nodded. He held his hand out to the boy who tugged on it but did nothing against Vladimir’s size. Vladimir rose to his feet feeling like he had dignity once again. Somehow control seemed to be in his grasp again. He turned seeing what looked suspiciously like a vulture fly off a branch and flutter away.
Maybe it had been luck or foolishness, he wasn’t sure. It was a stupid decision for the cop to bury him so close to his own home. Your home is where you are the most vulnerable. Vladmir used the back of his hand to wipe off some mud caked on his chest. He grunted.
They walked a few steps. The man, playing feeble, reached out to grab the boy’s shoulder. Strength was slow in returning. The beating from the day before, every movement still felt like a chore.
The boy paused and pulled out a dandelion from the path. “Daddy doesn’t like weeds. They need to be pulled up.”
“Do you have another apple? I am so hungry.” Vladimir said as he stumbled, stepping on a pine-cone.
It was good to always look for an opportunity. You never knew when one would present itself. But somehow in the world, the cosmic scales sought to be balanced. He didn’t understand it. It was not something anyone whether a boy at the age of 8 would understand nor an older man. Justice, even delayed, sought to emerge. It didn’t matter who you were, justice would always prevail.
The boy turned and smiled. “I’ll take care of you. Watch your step here, there’s a dip.”
“You’re a good boy,” Vladimir grunted.
The boy’s face scrunched up, but he said nothing. They walked, the dip in the grass still caused him to stumble. As they approached the backyard with the fence half cracked open, Vladimir paused.
“Do you have a dog?” Trying to seek out any obstacles as he tried to put his plan into action.
“No.” the boy said looking at the open fence, again seeing that he forgot to perch the cinder block in front of it.
“The value of an animal is in its training.”
Maybe he would teach the young sheriff the value of treating people with respect. Someone who would try to kill you and bury you for being homeless was an animal. Maybe it would start with this young boy. Maybe it would start with his young family. He could hear a vulture squawking somewhere nearby. The vulture could smell death.
The boy noted another dip in the earth and as the boy reached out, he helped Vladimir avoid it. His young hand grabbing Vladimir’s dirty pant leg. He looked at the boy’s small hand The boy looked up at him and smiled.
Losing his wife had not been easy. The bills were too much. You pay for treatment even if it doesn’t work. Even if the patient dies. There had never been kids. Miscarriages caused them to investigate. Investigation found cancer. Not that that was why there were miscarriages. Maybe it was. No one ever said anything. The line was drawn between the two events. They stopped wanting babies and started fighting for survival.
That hand, that little boy’s hand brought it all back. The smile that resonated his wife’s. The angry vultures inside his heart began to flutter away. One after another. He wanted a boy. Maybe every man does in his heart of hearts. Maybe it was just so he didn’t feel so alone.
“This way,” the boy said.
His wife’s face called out to him. Her dark hair tucked behind her ears. Her smile that tried to hide her concern as she shook her head inside of him. She was right. He didn’t need to act this way. Get the shirt, maybe some food and be on my way.
Another dip in the grass, this one the boy hadn’t warned about, was deeper than the others. Were those little hands pushing me? Vladimir wondered unable to stop from tumbling forward and rolling to down the steep hill into the retention pond. Landing with a groan as his leg twisted the wrong way.
Vladimir tried to pull himself up. The beating from the day before, the pain of his leg, the exhaustion of digging his own grave all came to him. He tried to climb up grabbing grass and dirt but to no avail. He looked up and remembered looking down the wrong end of the barrel of that sheriff’s gun. He heard the vulture someone nearby commiserating and waiting with the others.
“Homelessness was the first problem I promised to fix.” The young sheriff had said holding that gun and the promise to kill.
He had to get out of here. His leg throbbed. The boy wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Surely, he had seen him fall.
Vladimir tried to get up but stumbled back. The boy appeared above him. Glowing in the rising sun like an angel of hope. Croaking for help, he thought it was the father at first. Vladimir paused as his eyes came into focus.
“Daddy thought he might have beaten you too hard.” The boy’s voice was soft. “I wanted to see if you got out.”
The sky above him stretched out still clinging to a few dark clouds from the storm last night. A cool breeze pushed through causing the tulip stems to sway back and forth. He could hear the angry vultures calling for blood. Blood inevitable to be shed now. His eyes widening with the realisation that the boy knew all along.
“Most of them, go up the road away from the town. Most of them know not to even go into the woods.” The boy took a careful step down the hill, he saw the boy holding the cinder block that lay near the open gate.
“Wha….” He tried to ask.
“I told daddy, if you bury them close, we’d see if they tried to come back into town.”
The vultures came closer. They perched on outstretched branches trying to get their view. Vladmir tried to move but couldn’t. As the cinder block tumbled before bouncing up and landing nearly hitting his face, Vladimir groaned.
The boys shadow blocked the rising sun as he held a hammer in his hand. Vladimir’s eyes widened in horror trying to find the strength to get up.
“Daddy is on his way home.”
DoubleSpeak 