John Avery: Three Days To Die

Tom hadn't spoken a word since Aaron arrived, silence being one of his preferred methods of torture.

Aaron cast about frantically for a plausible excuse for being late for dinner; but his stomach was sick and his head was spinning, so he came up empty. He picked up his fork and poked his potatoes.

"So, how was school?" Ashley asked brightly, attempting to lighten the somber mood. It was obvious that Aaron had been in some kind of trouble, but she didn't want to say anything in front of Tom.

Aaron watched with dismay as his dinner moved about the plate like a food commercial directed by Salvador Dali. He glanced up at the question, then back at his surreal plate of food, clearing his throat carefully to avoid puking on his peas.

"It was okay," he managed, praying he sounded better to them than he did to himself.

"Go ahead, then," Ashley said. "Eat your dinner while it's still warm."

"Sorry I'm late," Aaron said, glancing at Tom. Then he forgot what he was going to say and had to ad lib. "I was at the library and lost track of time." Well, that certainly sucked, he thought miserably.

Tom poured gravy over a slice of steak then stabbed it with his fork and slid it between his teeth. A moist, brown dribble worked its way down through the stubble on his chin.

"That's it?" he said. "That's the best you could come up with?"

Aaron's white lie was all he had. What good would it do to tell Tom about detention? Or the dog? He wouldn't understand. He was on their side.

Tom washed the masticated meat down with cheap Scotch, then leaned forward in his chair and changed the subject.

"I got a call today from the manager of the Community Plaza Bank downtown," he said, sending a cloud of bad air Aaron's way. "We need to be there before they open for business in the morning to fix a broken toilet."

"But I've got school tomorrow," Aaron said.

"I know," Tom said. "I've got a business to run, and I need your help."

Aaron clenched his teeth, unable to speak. He couldn't miss any more school. No way. Not after ditching the whole first day and with detention and everything… He looked to his mother for support.

She looked back at him sympathetically, then turned to Tom. "Aaron really shouldn't miss any — "

Tom slammed an open hand on the table. "Did I ask for your opinion? I don't think I did."

Ashley's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she remained composed for her son's sake.

An angry scream rose in Aaron's throat, but he fought it down. He'd been on the receiving end of Tom's abuse plenty of times, but to hear it directed at his mother was too much.

He gripped the tablecloth, trying not to tremble, and spoke forcibly. "Don't talk to my mother like that," he said, bracing himself.

Tom looked at him like gum on his shoe. "What?" he said.

Aaron hesitated. "I said — "

"Shut up," Tom said, cutting him off with a pointed finger. "I'll deal with you later."

He turned back to Ashley.

Aaron stood up from the table and looked squarely at him. "I wish my father was alive and you were dead!" Then, with a quick glance at his mother he headed for the front door.

Ashley stood and threw her napkin at Tom, then ran after her son, making a solemn promise that before the night was through, Tom would be out of their lives forever.

She ran to the sidewalk and checked the street, but Aaron was gone.

Tears washed over Aaron's face as he pedaled his bike south through the downtown neighborhoods. He rode hard, flying on and off sidewalks, jumping railroad tracks, potholes, and puddles, gulping the crisp night air, his heart in his throat, feeling as if he could explode with tension. He rode to lose himself in the anonymity of the city, to shake off the weight bearing down on him, to mute the angry voices shouting at him from within his aching head.

He passed endless rows of apartment buildings, some with lighted windows behind which he pictured families having dinner or watching TV by the fire. He wondered how many of the families were happy and how many were as messed up as his, and he seriously considered stopping and knocking on a few doors to see if any of the households were functioning smoothly enough to take in a feral teenager.

At last he arrived at his destination: the city's waterfront, the dominion of the criminally inclined and the criminally insane. He skidded to a stop under a mercury-vapor streetlamp that cast a tawny light upon a vast cliff of rusting corrugated-steel siding the length of a city block, The Alton Brothers Fish Cannery — aka the hideout. Rebuilt in 1907 following the 1905 fire, the cannery had been in operation for more than a hundred years before it was condemned in the mid 1990s.

Aaron took a couple of slow, deep breaths. His head still hurt, but the pain in his stomach was easing a bit. He took out his cell phone and fired off a text message.

– Willy was working on his second cheeseburger when his phone beeped. It was a text from Aaron:

I'm at the cannery. Can you come down?

Willy rubbed his nose and read the message again — neither one of them had been down to the hideout in months, and he had assumed that Aaron had gone home mad. He glanced at the clock on the restaurant wall and entered his reply:

It's past your bedtime you big baby.

Aaron laughed and texted Willy back:

I couldn't sleep. Are you coming or not?

Willy took the last bite of his burger, washed it down with his drink, and thumbed in his reply:

Okay, Boss. I'm coming.

Aaron smiled and pocketed his phone. He had loved Willy as a friend over the years not simply because he was innocent, fun loving, and loyal (Willy would cut off an arm for Aaron), but because Willy was crazy; he was Aaron's alter-ego — the Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll. Willy encouraged Aaron to do things he would never do on his own, to act in ways unnatural to his shy, withdrawn personality. Willy liberated Aaron from himself, and Aaron was addicted to Willy like a drug.

This year, for instance, the boys had first-period biology together, and their teacher — in addition to being a jerk — was missing the thumb on his right hand. "This guy's a bit of a wanker," Willy had concluded (he was fairly well Americanized by then, but occasionally the British slang he picked up from his grandfather slipped out). So, whenever either of them raised their hand to ask a question, they folded their thumb in, and when the teacher was out of the room, Willy might hold up four fingers and make an announcement like, Attention class! You have five minutes to finish your test! In fact, Willy was so highly skilled, he was easily capable of sending Aaron, along with an entire classroom full of students, into fits of uncontrollable laughter whenever the urge struck, and laughter was something Aaron craved, something he wished he could do more of, especially at home.

– Willy dumped his trash in the nearest receptacle, grabbed his pack, and walked out of the restaurant. His beach cruiser was locked to a pole by the entrance; he unlocked it, strapped his pack to his back, hopped aboard, and stomped the pedals.

– Aaron felt around on the cannery's steel siding and found their secret entrance: a loose panel to the right of the large, steel roll-up door (retrofitted in 1965) that opened into the main warehouse. He pulled the panel open and ducked inside, dragging his bike behind him.

Slatted light from the streetlamp lit a cavernous space filled with the dusty conveyors, tables and miscellaneous machinery of a once thriving fish-packing business. The familiar smell of fish guts still hung in air, and Aaron wondered why after all this time — the cannery had been closed for years — it had not gone away. He also noticed that it was unseasonably warm, hot even, but it didn't seem important so he let it go.