Kealan Burke: The Turtle Boy

The way Mr. Marshall was looking at him now, it appeared he had given it a lot of thought.

“Yeah. It was weird,” he said with a lopsided grin.

“Weird? It scared Pete half to death and from what he tells me you were scared too. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

“Yes, but it was just a ki—”

“Don’t you know how many children disappear every year around this area? Most of them because they wandered off to places they were warned not to go. Places like that pond, and while I don’t believe for a second that either of you saw anything like Pete described, I don’t want you bringing my boy back there again, do you understand me?”

“But I didn’t—”

“I spent most of last night prying ticks off him. Is that your idea of fun, Timmy?”

“No sir.”

“I told him not to hang around with you anyway. You’re trouble. Just like your father.”

Caught in the spotlight cast by the morning sun, dust motes seemed to slow through air made thick with tension.

Timmy’s jaw dropped. While he had squirmed beneath his friend’s father’s angry monologue, this insult to his own father made something snap shut in his chest. Anger and hurt swelled within him and he let out a long, infuriated breath. Unspoken words flared in that breath and died harmlessly before a mouth sealed tight with disgust. He felt his stomach begin to quiver and suddenly he wanted more than anything to be gone from Pete’s house. The departure would come with the implied demand that Pete go to hell in a Zip-Loc bag, the sentiment punctuated by a slamming of the front door that would no doubt bring Mr. Marshall running to chastise him further.

Fine , he thought, the words poison arrows in his head. Let him. He can go to hell in a baggie too.

“I gotta go now,” he mumbled finally, and without sparing his treacherous comrade a glance, started toward the front door.

Hot tears blurred the hallway and the daylight beyond as he left the house and closed the door gently behind him. The anger had ebbed away as quickly as it had come, replaced now by a tiny tear in the fabric of his happiness through which dark light shone. He was dimly aware of the door opening behind him.

Pete’s voice halted him and he turned. “Hey, I’m sorry Timmy. Really I am.”

“Oh yeah?” The hurt spun hateful words he couldn’t speak. With what looked like monumental effort, Pete closed the front door behind him. With an uncertain smile, he said: “My Dad’ll kill me for this, but let’s go do something.”

“Good idea,” Timmy said, aware that an errant tear was trickling down his cheek. “You can go to hell. I’m going home.”

“Timmy wait –”

“Shut up, Pete. I hate you!”

He ran home and slammed the door behind him. His mother sat wiping her eyes, engrossed in some soppy movie. He waited behind the sofa for her to ask him what was wrong and when she didn’t he ran to his room and to bed, where he lay with his face buried in the cool white pillows.

And seethed.

That night, he dreamt he was standing at his bedroom window.

Down in the yard, beside the pine tree, a boy stood wreathed in shadow, despite the cataract eye of the moon soaring high in the sky behind him.

And though the window was closed, Timmy heard him whisper: “Would you die for him?”

He squinted to see more than just shadow, his heart filled with dread.

“Darryl?”

And then he woke, warmed by the morning sun, nothing but the distant echo of the whisper in his mind.

Shortly after Mr. Marshall made his feelings known about Timmy and his father, he sent Pete to summer camp.

Although the anger and hurt had settled like a stone in the pit of his belly, Timmy missed Pete and hoped Mr. Marshall would realize his cruelty and allow things to return to normal before Timmy found himself minus a friend. Summer was only just beginning and he didn’t relish the idea of trudging through it without his best buddy.

Early the next Saturday, he came home from riding his bike to find his parents grinning at him in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. It made his heart lurch; he couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing.

“What?” he asked. They were sitting next to each other at the kitchen table, looking fresh and content. His mother was looping a strand of her hair around her finger, his father nodding slowly. They almost looked proud . As soon as Timmy’s eyes settled on the source of their amusement, he felt as if someone had forced his finger into a light socket.

Kim Barnes.

“What is she doing here?” he asked, pointing at the black-haired girl with the braces who stood in the hallway behind them. Her arms were crossed and she shifted from foot to foot as if no happier about where she had found herself than he.

His mother scowled. “Is that any way to talk to a lady? Kim’s sister and her friend have gone to camp too, so she has no one to play with for the whole summer. Isn’t that a nice coincidence?”

Timmy was appalled. “She’s a girl! ”

“No flies on him,” said his father.

“But…she doesn’t even like me!”

“Now how do you know that? Have you ever asked her?”

“I know she doesn’t. She’s always making faces at me in school.”

Kim smiled. “I don’t mean anything by it.”

“You see,” his mother said. “You have to give a girl a chance.”

Timmy felt sick.

“I don’t have to play with you if you don’t want me to,” Kim said in a pitiful tone. Timmy felt an ounce of hope but knew his parents, who melted at the sound of her feigned sorrow, would vanquish it.

“Don’t be silly. Timmy would love to play with you, wouldn’t you, Timmy?”

He sighed and studied the scuffed toe of his sneakers. “I guess so.”

“Speak up, son.”

“I guess so,” he repeated, wondering how this summer could possibly get any worse.

His mother went to Kim. With maternal grace, she eased the girl into the kitchen. Timmy felt the color rise in his cheeks and looked away.

“Now see,” his mother said. “Why don’t you both go on outside in the sunshine and see what you can find to do. I bet you’ll get along just fine.”

I bet we won’t , Timmy thought, miserable. With a heavy sigh, he turned and opened the door.

They were standing in the yard, Kim with her arms still folded and Timmy watching the bloated white clouds sailing overhead when she said: “I didn’t want to come over here, you know.”

Without looking at her he scoffed. “Then why did you?”

“Your mom called my mom and told her you were bored and lonely and—”

“I wasn’t lonely . I was doing just fine.”

“Well, your mom thought you weren’t and asked if I could come over. I told my mom I didn’t want to play with you because you are dirty and smelly.”

Timmy gaped at her. “Really?”

She shook her head and he had to restrain the sigh that swelled in his throat.

“So I guess we’ll have to do something for a while at least,” she said. “What do you want to play?”

“Not dolls, anyway. I hate dolls.” He watched a blue jay until it flew behind her. Tracking it any further would have meant looking in her direction and he wasn’t yet ready to do that.

“Me too,” Kim said, startling him, and he looked at her. Briefly.

“I thought all girls liked dolls.”

He saw her shrug. “I think they’re dumb.”