Island
“He’s really a very nice boy,” the father said, shifting in his chair, adding, “when he’s asleep.”
The man behind the desk laughed. “Yes, we have a lot of them here on the island.”
The boy, uncomfortable in short pants, white shirt, black tie and sporty little jacket, squeaked his dress shoes on the floor when he moved, said, “Sorry.”
“It’s just his mother and I, well, we don’t have a lot of time to ourselves, and he causes…trouble.”
“I understand. We all understand here.”
“He has problems at school. Bullies pick on him. He doesn’t fight back. He always wants books and such. Not much for sports, you see. It’s not just the bullies. There’s other things. He wants lots of attention. We’ve tried medication. Doesn’t help much.”
“Well, there’s good attention, and there’s bad attention. And seldom think medication is such a good idea. As for good attention and bad attention, here he’ll sort them out.”
“I saw as soon as we got off the boat, as we were driven in, that this could be the right place for him. I can see it’s the kind of place that can mature a boy quickly.”
“Daddy, I don’t want to stay here.”
“It’ll be okay, son.”
“I don’t like it here.”
“It’s not about liking it, son. Is it Mr. Vesty?”
“No. Not at all. It’s about learning to stand on your own two feet and becoming a man. Many have come here who were, well, weak, a bit sissy. Some left here strong and powerful young men. That’s our hope for you. And, if it doesn’t work out that way, I assure you, my boy, everyone is better off.”
“But, daddy.”
“No, son. This is it. We’ve tried all the conventional methods, but you stay the same.”
“I can change.”
“You always say that.”
“But, Daddy, I just–”
“Enough. We’ve been over it.”
“You’ll need to sign here,” Mr. Vesty said.
The father picked up the pen and signed the sheet of paper. The scratching of the pen sounded very loud in the little room.
Finished, Mr. Vesty walked with father and son to the door.
“You’ll be escorted out the way you came in,” Mr. Vesty said to the father.
“And, your boy, we’ll start on him immediately.”
“If it doesn’t work out…you’ll call me?”
“Of course. And we take care of all arrangements. Your fee covers that.”
Father turned to his son, said, “Do your best. This is the way it should be, and the best for everyone all the way around. You pay attention to things, keep yourself alert, you’ll…probably be okay. And I’ll come to see you in a few years…to pick you up.”
“But, Daddy, I’m small…I, don’t know.”
“Good, bye, son. I wish you luck.”
The father took his son’s hand and shook it. “Keep your hands up. Anything goes in life, so you have to be ready. Hands up, now.”
The door to the armored car was opened and the father went out between two armed guards who had been waiting. They guided him into the vehicle and the father closed the door without looking back. The guards climbed in up front.
The car drove off.
Mr. Vesty put his hand at the boy’s back, said, “Good, luck. And don’t come back here. No one will answer the door.”
All about, boys were running wild, naked, with sticks and stones. Fighting each other. One child lay on the ground with his eye poked out, the stick that had done the deed was still in his face. He quivered and groaned, finally lay still.
Smoke rose up in the distance.
“But, I’m not a fighter,” the boy said.
“You better try and be. This place is about survivors”
Mr. Vesty stepped briskly behind the boy, and placing his foot to the seat of the child’s pants, shoved him face down into the dirt.
Mr. Vesty stepped back inside the bunker, and closed the door.
The boy rose up on hands and knees. His nose was bloody where it had scraped the ground. From his four point position, he saw a clutch of grinning, yelling boys, all of them carrying sticks and clubs, rushing right for him.
Copyright (c) 2006 by Joe R. Lansdale. All rights reserved.