Michael Christie - If I Fall, If I Die

Titus hobbled over to a tarp and drew it back to reveal a large stash of garden hoses — mostly green, some black, and a few orange — coiled neatly together. “I need you Icaruses to link these up. The lot of them. These go betwixt,” he said, tossing a paper bag of what looked like hundreds of rubber gaskets. “At conclusion I want a mythic snake. No leaks, so make sure to twist tight.”

“Marcus got you all these?” Jonah said.

“He was a persistent helper.”

“But what’re they for?” asked Will.

Titus turned to the wall. “A chore I should’ve perpetuated a long time ago,” he said with an empty look, as though reading some instructions on the inside surface of his eyes. “But I got an agenda to communicate with,” he said making for the door as the boys began untangling lengths of hose. “Rally in the workhouse when you’re through. The work should do you a kindness,” he said, leaving.

Wordlessly the boys set to their task. Maneuvering the hoses while keeping them from kinking or twisting was difficult, and getting the threads to match up required more precision than they’d expected.

“I knew it would be the hoses,” Will said, thrilled.

“We’re still leaving after this,” Jonah said, lifting a heavy coil.

“Would you rather be listening to Mrs. Gustavson talk about how creative her cats are right now?” Will asked, referring to the art class they’d endured the last time they’d attended school for a full day, two weeks ago now.

They worked through lunch, until hunger left them and their stomachs fell into an eerie quiet. “You ever sleep Outside in the woods like Marcus?” Will asked, to keep his mind occupied.

“No,” Jonah said. “Gideon always wants to take me up into the bush to teach me stories and hunting and traditional medicines, but I don’t like camping. It’s too creepy. Too exposed. Skateboarding and school are the only reason I go out.”

Exhausted, they left the job partly done and didn’t see Titus again that day. The boys cut school for two consecutive days to finish the project, their forearms deadened from hand-screwing the hundreds of coils together. On the last day, they discovered six crisp hundred-dollar bills rolled up and tucked in the final hose. They jammed the money into their underwear before gathering their skateboards and venturing back out onto the harborfront.

“The real mystery here is what Darth Hobo plans to do with the mother of all hoses,” Jonah said.

“That’s what I can’t figure out. Maybe he’s going to turn Pool Six into one big vegetable garden,” Will joked.

“Pffffffttt,” said Jonah as they turned the corner against a brick structure, its paint detaching in scales. “Not likely.”

“Be careful there, boys!” a man said sharply after they’d nearly run into him. “What’s the big hurry?” He had white hair and a soft voice and two leashless wolves panting at his heels. The Bald Man was beside him, shovels clutched in each of their hands, sharpened silver by use, bright as starlight. Near them another man pushed a wheelbarrow with something large in it, covered by an electric blue tarp. Will mumbled an apology and made to go around.

“You two boys look tired,” the Butler said, stepping in front of Will with a look of concern. His skin was pale as halibut, his hair, a tempest of ivory cowlicks, like an illustrated ocean in one of Will’s old storybooks. Despite his age, his face was strangely boyish, with an underlying pinkness and baby-soft cheeks that appeared polished. “Don’t they look tired?” he said to the Bald Man. “Been working hard, have you boys?” asked the Butler. “Parched? Would you care for some water?”

Worried the Bald Man would recognize him from his encounter with the wolf, Will tucked in his chin, taking the opportunity to note nothing boot-like on either of their feet: the Butler in dress shoes and the Bald Man in trashed sneakers. “We’re fine, thanks,” said Will. When he made to take another step around their group, one of the wolves growled with the same lawnmower chugging as the one that bit him, electrifying Will’s scalp.

“Sss … tas … stas … niabo … bo … vich,” a voice from the wheelbarrow murmured, a leg hanging out from beneath the tarp. It sounded like the deliveryman who used to come to Will’s house who was from a country that ended in ia .

“Sorry you have to see this, boys,” the Butler said. “I don’t want to judge … however, I’m afraid this particular fella has overdone his schnapps. But gosh, it sure is good to see some fresh young men down here, isn’t it Claymore?” said the Butler. “Hard at work. Just like the old Thunder Bay.” He stuck his long owlish nose, stiff with cartilage, into Will’s face. His gaze sharp and fearsome, and the high smell of Neverclear seeped through his teeth. Then the Butler raised a long, parsnip-white finger. “Say,” he said, “you wouldn’t happen to know a fella, lives down here somewhere — can’t breathe too well, unfortunately — was having a little trouble with his legs?”

Will swallowed the acorn in his throat. “No, we wouldn’t,” he said, his eyes on the wolves, who seemed to be inching closer though their feet weren’t moving.

“Thing is, he was supposed to contact me, and we’re a bit concerned about him, this particular man,” said the Butler. “We’re worried he might’ve gone somewhat misguided in the head.”

“He said we don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Jonah with that snarl that often arose without warning whenever he spoke to adults.

“I know you, don’t I?” the Butler said to Jonah, creepily delighted, as though they were old friends reconnecting. “Ah yes, you’re one of the Turtle Boys. The youngest, I assume. Good to see MacVicar hasn’t quite yet locked all of you up. And how about you, son?” the Butler said, turning to Will. “You don’t look quite as hardened as your friend. Do I know your family?”

“The girls are interested in him,” Claymore said, as the wolves began sniffing Will’s shoes. “What’s the matter, kid?” Claymore said gruffly. “You don’t like puppies?” Claymore was like a cannonball that had sprouted limbs, with knuckly ears stuck perpendicularly in his head like fleshy rivets. Though he’d run out of deodorant, all Will could do was pray that the smell of Inside Will on the Helmet they’d found at Marcus’s shack was vastly different from the Outside Will he’d become since he’d removed it. “Maybe you’d like a little Neverclear to settle your nerves,” Claymore said. “Or maybe your friend would?” he said to Jonah.

“We don’t drink,” Will managed to say.

“That right?” Claymore chuckled, still staring at Jonah, sharing some joke with the one pushing the wheelbarrow. “Well, he’s got a whole lifetime to change his mind.”

“Let’s go,” Jonah said, pulling Will by the arm.

The wolves growled, and there came an increasing wail from beneath the tarp. Claymore reared and whapped the highest point of the plastic with the flat of his shovel, as one would firmly tamp down the dirt of a hole they’d just filled. When the tarp kept stirring, Claymore struck again, harder this time, sounding like an aluminum bat hitting a base hit with a lemon.

“Where was I?” said the Butler, patting the breast pockets of his shirt as though he’d misplaced his glasses.

Sand filled Will’s throat and his head felt like it had been microwaved. Including scraps on the schoolyard and their most hideous skateboard spills, Claymore’s shovel strike was the most violence he’d ever seen a person endure.

“Yes, well this man,” the Butler continued, “this friend of ours, has been hiring boys to do his work for him. Dangerous, dirty work. Boys close to your age, in fact. And well, they aren’t always safe around him, I’m afraid. So I’d suggest, for your own safety of course, that you two steer clear of this man.” Then he turned to Jonah. “And as for you, since your brothers are no longer in my employ, don’t think anything could keep my wolves from paying a midnight visit to that squalid little duplex of yours in County Park. Just to ensure you and your brothers are keeping well. Understand?” he said.