Read Online Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Scott Bell
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says he is sorry, sorry, please don’t do anything and The Dog puts his foot on the boy’s throat and holds him down like a butcher might hold down a live chicken.
The boy squirms and cries and begs for mercy.
Up in the sky, over the mountains, the moon is bright and glorious.
“Thank you!” Dag says to the moon.
Chapter 18
In his cell, Chuck realized this was his first forced absence from Stan since his brother had come to live with him.
As kids, Stan stuck to Chuck like cherry powder to a Lik-a-Stix. School had separated them––Stan needed special classes––but they both knew it was temporary. Even when Chuck went to Afghanistan, it wasn’t like being ripped away from his brother. Stan, who was still living with their mom at that time, talked to him every day on the phone in the two weeks before Chuck left. He was proud of his joke–– You can’t forget me, Chuck. It’s AfghaniSTAN!
Yes, it was. His brother was like a landscape for Chuck, a grounding. In the weeks after Julia’s death, there was Stan. His presence was an odd comfort, but comfort it was. They knew without speaking how much they needed each other then. They cried and laughed. Stan peppered him with memorized trivia, things he’d find on the back of cereal boxes or in The National Inquirer .
More memories buzz-sawed in, but the one that stuck out in full color and sound was the 7-Eleven incident. Chuck was twelve and Stan eight. It was raining that day and Chuck was walking Stan home from his special class at school. Chuck had his bike and the back tire was low, so he went to the Shell station to give it some air, while Stan went into the 7-Eleven.
When Chuck came in he saw Stan in tears, a store employee holding him by the shirt. Stan was struggling in the grip. He hated to be held like that.
“What’s this?” Chuck said.
Another guy stepped around the counter wearing a 7-Eleven shirt. “He tried to steal some candy.”
“Did not!” Stan cried. “I forgot I had it!”
“Look,” Chuck said, “I know he didn’t mean––”
“Forget it. The cops are coming.”
“Come on, I’ll pay for it. We won’t come back.”
The counter guy, who looked about forty, poked his finger in Chuck’s chest. “You can leave. He can’t.”
Before Chuck could answer, Stan screamed and broke free of the other guy’s grasp. He charged the counter guy and head-butted his stomach. It was a beautiful move, Chuck would reflect later, like a fierce lineman putting everything he had into a tackling dummy.
The guy let out an oomph , but caught the back of Stan’s shirt. He sent Stan flying into the chips rack. Stan cried out and hit the floor, bags of Lays and Fritos tumbling on top of him.
Filled with instant rage, not thinking at all—except that they’d hurt Stan and he was going to hurt them—Chuck grabbed a pot of coffee off the burner next to him and threw it across the store. It shattered on the floor, hot coffee bursting out in a satisfying explosion.
The only other customer, an old Hispanic man, watched motionless from in front of the hot dog rollers.
There were three other pots on the coffee service. Chuck pushed them to the floor with a single motion.
The store employees came after him.
“Run, Stan! Run home and tell Mom!”
Chuck darted down the aisle, toward the drinks case, leading the counter jockeys away from Stan. He snatched bags of corn nuts and cashews along the way, then turned and faced the enemy.
Chuck had one of the best fastballs in the Tustin Little League. He showed his stuff.
By his later reckoning he threw four strikes and only two balls at the 7-Eleven All Stars. Two of the strikes got face. But it only delayed the inevitable by a few seconds.
When the two guys got to Chuck they tried to lay hands on him. Chuck got in a couple of good shin kicks and a back hand across one chest. But soon enough he was on the ground with the older of the two sitting on him.
But at least Stan was gone. He’d
The boy squirms and cries and begs for mercy.
Up in the sky, over the mountains, the moon is bright and glorious.
“Thank you!” Dag says to the moon.
Chapter 18
In his cell, Chuck realized this was his first forced absence from Stan since his brother had come to live with him.
As kids, Stan stuck to Chuck like cherry powder to a Lik-a-Stix. School had separated them––Stan needed special classes––but they both knew it was temporary. Even when Chuck went to Afghanistan, it wasn’t like being ripped away from his brother. Stan, who was still living with their mom at that time, talked to him every day on the phone in the two weeks before Chuck left. He was proud of his joke–– You can’t forget me, Chuck. It’s AfghaniSTAN!
Yes, it was. His brother was like a landscape for Chuck, a grounding. In the weeks after Julia’s death, there was Stan. His presence was an odd comfort, but comfort it was. They knew without speaking how much they needed each other then. They cried and laughed. Stan peppered him with memorized trivia, things he’d find on the back of cereal boxes or in The National Inquirer .
More memories buzz-sawed in, but the one that stuck out in full color and sound was the 7-Eleven incident. Chuck was twelve and Stan eight. It was raining that day and Chuck was walking Stan home from his special class at school. Chuck had his bike and the back tire was low, so he went to the Shell station to give it some air, while Stan went into the 7-Eleven.
When Chuck came in he saw Stan in tears, a store employee holding him by the shirt. Stan was struggling in the grip. He hated to be held like that.
“What’s this?” Chuck said.
Another guy stepped around the counter wearing a 7-Eleven shirt. “He tried to steal some candy.”
“Did not!” Stan cried. “I forgot I had it!”
“Look,” Chuck said, “I know he didn’t mean––”
“Forget it. The cops are coming.”
“Come on, I’ll pay for it. We won’t come back.”
The counter guy, who looked about forty, poked his finger in Chuck’s chest. “You can leave. He can’t.”
Before Chuck could answer, Stan screamed and broke free of the other guy’s grasp. He charged the counter guy and head-butted his stomach. It was a beautiful move, Chuck would reflect later, like a fierce lineman putting everything he had into a tackling dummy.
The guy let out an oomph , but caught the back of Stan’s shirt. He sent Stan flying into the chips rack. Stan cried out and hit the floor, bags of Lays and Fritos tumbling on top of him.
Filled with instant rage, not thinking at all—except that they’d hurt Stan and he was going to hurt them—Chuck grabbed a pot of coffee off the burner next to him and threw it across the store. It shattered on the floor, hot coffee bursting out in a satisfying explosion.
The only other customer, an old Hispanic man, watched motionless from in front of the hot dog rollers.
There were three other pots on the coffee service. Chuck pushed them to the floor with a single motion.
The store employees came after him.
“Run, Stan! Run home and tell Mom!”
Chuck darted down the aisle, toward the drinks case, leading the counter jockeys away from Stan. He snatched bags of corn nuts and cashews along the way, then turned and faced the enemy.
Chuck had one of the best fastballs in the Tustin Little League. He showed his stuff.
By his later reckoning he threw four strikes and only two balls at the 7-Eleven All Stars. Two of the strikes got face. But it only delayed the inevitable by a few seconds.
When the two guys got to Chuck they tried to lay hands on him. Chuck got in a couple of good shin kicks and a back hand across one chest. But soon enough he was on the ground with the older of the two sitting on him.
But at least Stan was gone. He’d
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