INHUMAN BONDAGE

COVER SHEET:

Ellen Ziegler

“Inhuman Bondage”

3 Dore Court, New City, NY 10956

ellenziegler@optonline.net

845 634-2261

                                             Inhuman Bondage

            When the white disc of the moon shimmered between the skyscrapers and the last of the horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped through Central Park, sixteen-year-old Jamie Cole was sold to his Uncle Malcolm for two thousand dollars.

            Jamie’s father pocketed the check in the passenger seat of his brother’s white Jaguar. He opened the passenger door and turned to Jamie in the back. No response. He stepped out of the car. The door clicked in its frame, finalizing the transaction with Malcolm. Dodging traffic, Jamie’s father slipped into the shadows of Central Park.

            Jamie smelled the sedan’s soft leather seats and his uncle’s citrusy cologne on a back draft of air trapped in the car. The garlicky taste of the hot dogs he had wolfed down for dinner leaped up and bit him in the throat.

            “You’re well rid of him,” his uncle said. “Come, sit up front.” He patted the seat Jamie’s father had vacated.

      2.

Grabbing his backpack, Jamie opened the door and pushed himself out of the Jaguar. Rain misted his face.  He slumped into the front seat, trying to make sense of what just happened.                           

His eyes searched the park’s shadows for his father. Casting a shadow meant you existed. You didn’t feel invisible like Jamie felt because he was born with a genetic disorder that made the sun his enemy, trapping him in his dimly-lit apartment with his father.

            The Jaguar sped north. Raindrops splattered the windshield. On the wet, dark asphalt, red taillights gleamed like trails of crushed rubies. Jamie pictured the red ruby earrings in his backpack and the money his sister Holly sent to his post office box from overseas.

“Sell the earrings if you need cash,” Holly said about their mother’s earrings, but neither of them had wanted to part with the treasure that had matched the ruby color of their mother’s lipstick. Cancer had not dimmed her lips or her smile.

The windshield wipers swished back and forth, slowing down as the rain thinned, squeaking like the rubber soles of his father’s late-night entries into their apartment. Jamie shivered, glancing at his uncle’s profile. In the oncoming headlights it flickered like an old, silent movie. 

            “Uncle Malcolm?”

 His uncle turned onto the thruway. “Hmmm?”

                                                                                                                        3.

“How long will I live with you?”

Uncle Malcolm faced Jamie, his eyes pinpoints of darkness. “I want to spoil you, buddy. You deserve a better life than your father gave you.”

His hand settled on Jamie’s denim-clad knee, his fingers squeezing. “I’ll teach you magic tricks, kid. Hey, you can be my stage assistant.”

“I’ve got a cramp.” Jamie twisted his knee away.  He had to be nice to his uncle because he was stuck  like  he was in a stalled  elevator during an earthquake. “Magic’s cool, Uncle Malcolm,  you can teach me how to make someone disappear.”

Uncle Malcolm chuckled. “Magic’s just an illusion.” Leaning toward Jamie, he switched the radio on, his hand claiming Jamie’s knee. You’re my favorite nephew. All’s  well.” 

Maybe, for you.

A car cut in front of them. The Jaguar swerved. Uncle Malcolm cursed. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

Jamie released his breath as Reggae music spilled into the car. His heart pounded like a bongo drum, his leg crawled with hives.

A road sign announced a rest stop.

                   4.

“I’ve got to use the bathroom,” Uncle Malcolm said, exiting the interstate and parking in the semi-dark  lot. “Get me a cup of black coffee and something for yourself.”

Jamie looked at the soft lighting in the long glass building.  Is the light safe?  He hefted his backpack to his lap, opened the door and stepped into the damp air.

Two bikers sat on motorcycles beneath a lamppost. The tall biker hiked up his pants leg and scratched his calf, revealing a knife handle tucked into his boot.

The shorter, heavier biker wore a soft cast on his right  foot. They lit cigarettes, flicking their eyes at the Jaguar.

“Hurry,” Uncle Malcolm’s forehead creased. He glanced at the bikers. His eyes questioned Jamie’s. He pointed to Jamie’s backpack. “What do you need that for?”

Jamie shrugged. He raised the backpack to his chin. “To block the light inside.” 

“Oh yeah. Here’s my sunglasses.”

“I’ve got a pair.” Jamie couldn’t bear to put on anything his uncle had worn, imagining the sunglasses would feel slippery like an oil slick.

A horn beeped. The nine-o’clock- bus pulled into the parking lot, discharging passengers at the glass-walled shelter. The engine idled and in his hyper-vigilant state, Jamie flinched as its sound.

                                                                                                                        5.

 “Damn, it’s dark out here.” 

Take off your sunglasses. Jamie had become expert  maneuvering through darkness. His sister Holly had been blinded in a rocket explosion in Afghanistan. He could be her eyes.  She could be a green light for him - help him become the artist of his dreams.

On the desk in his room, beneath a dull light beam, rested Jamie’s plastic action figures. He had studied how their shadows fell, as  he drew backgrounds for them, using real scenes he memorized before the sun and certain types of light became his enemies.

Holly said he was a gifted artist. She said he made magic on paper – magic that looked more real than Jamie’s plastic action heroes.

Jamie smiled, patted his denim jacket pocket.  A piece of paper, with the address of the veteran’s hospital where Holly convalesced, rested in his denim jacket pocket. Over his heart.

 “Better come with me,” Uncle Malcolm said. “We’ve got a long trip ahead.”

Jamie still felt the hot imprint of his uncle’s hand on his knee. He remembered how he stiffened when Holly called his uncle, “Lester the Molester.” She told Jamie the nickname fit  like the white gloves he wore in his magic act.

                                                                                                                                  6.

Jamie could never remember the word “pedophile.” When he did, he felt like  melted ice cubes had slipped down his throat.

            Why doesn’t my dad love me?

            A rush of adrenaline thawed Jamie. “The lights are too bright in the restroom,” he announced when they got to the door. 

Uncle Malcolm’s dark eyebrows lifted. A muscle quivered in his jaw. “I don’t know how to deal with this Jamie. Except for all your freckles, you look normal. Are you putting me on? Inventing this allergy to the sun shit?” Perspiration polished his uncle’s smooth face. “Shit. Don’t you move. Stay here, and stay put.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled a twenty-dollar bill from a gold money clip, tearing the bill in half,  shoving half the bill into Jamie’s hand. “You get the other half when I come out.”

Jamie glanced into the cafe where people sat eating . He talked to himself like he talked Holly. Chill. You can do this. An idea flew into his head. Glancing at the bikers, he folded the torn twenty into his pocket. He wiped the hand his uncle’s fingers had touched on his jeans, hitched up his backpack and took a step forward.

          7.

He smelled exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke as he approached them. He pointed to the Jaguar. Cleared his throat. “Those wheels are my uncle’s. I’m trapped into going with him. He’s a perve.” 

“Whoa.” The short biker said.  “He looks like a rich perve.”

“Shut up,” the tall biker said, regarding Jamie. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Jamie.”

            “Okay Jamie. I hear you.”

            Jamie liked those words. He nodded and released a long breath.

“How old are you?” The short biker ground his cigarette out on the asphalt.

Jamie’s backpack straps cut into his shoulders. He shifted on his feet. “Sixteen.” He lied. The tall biker’s calm eyes, the way he leaned forward to listen made Jamie consider confessing how stranded and scared he felt . Shame silenced him.  Was he a freak because his uncle was a freak? Why did the sun’s rejection make him feel invisible?

 “My son’s your age. I’ve got no tolerance for abusers.” 

Jamie smelled his own sweat. “I can’t go in his car again.”            

“Look kid, you have a choice.” The friendly biker pulled out a roll of bills.

                                                                                                                              8.      

He peeled off three twenties, extending them to Jamie. “The bus is changing drivers.  Catch it. Try to relax. Let your head help you decide your next move. Is someone waiting for you?”

“My sister.”  Jamie stared at the three twenties.  “I’ve got money.” Saying it ballooned his chest. Believing that Holly was waiting fluttered his pulse.

The biker retracted the bills, tucking them into Jamie’s backpack. “Don’t over-think things. There’s sixty seconds in a minute, don’t waste them.  Catch the bus, Jamie. Run!”

“My uncle?”

“We’ll have a good talk with him.”

A pain in his chest, like he’d been punched, caught Jamie by surprise. He swallowed and shook their hands. “Th…thanks.” 

He ran for the bus, his heart rising like the moon over the bus stop.                                                                                           

                                                    The End