Silk

Early mornings, well before his father’s shift, a posse of trucks and trailers would park outside the breeding shed. Billy had no interest in what went on, other that the fact that it woke him up. So, he watched.

        The trucks would sit there—their heavy idle engines humming—until the driver side door opened, initiating the same series of events. The big door off the back peeled open, falling hard, it’s hinges whining, then out comes a very small man with a rope attached to a horse. They’d clamber down the ramp and into the barn. That was the mare. The next trailer would open, and again the same thing, only this horse was different, much larger and mean. That one was the stallion.

        Billy did and didn’t know about what happened in the breeding shed. What he knew was that the mare never liked it. She’d make these awful human noises like words screamed through a pillow and the men would yell and beat her. The stallion, beside himself, would snort and huff. But then it was done. The screaming was done. The horses came out. The trucks went away. Billy’s father, in the kitchen, mixing booze with his coffee, got ready for work.

***

        At a very young age—an age Billy had no memories of—there was an accident involving a man and his car and Billy himself on a bike he’d received for his birthday. This accident left Billy, a healthy, chubby baby boy, crippled in his right leg.

It was a miracle for everyone but Billy and the driver, who after clipping Billy’s bike, veered off the road into a tree, killing himself on impact. There were medications that helped with Billy’s pain, but his family couldn’t afford them. So, Billy did his best to be happy and limped. His father shaved down a measured plank of wood to help with support, and it did help. Billy’s father would fasten the brace with leather straps, and watch, smiling, as his son went down-up and down.

Billy lied to his mother about things he felt, and she loved him for it. She loved hearing that he was fine and that his days were good. She’d lay back on the chair in the den, watching her shows, smiling to herself. She watched all kinds of shows. Her favorites were about people who lived in different countries. Billy found it hard to care about these people.

        And so, Billy all his life went down-up and down while everyone else simply went. Frank Evans went fine. There was nothing wrong with him. Frank’s father worked at the farm. They lived down the road. 

        Frank’s mother, an obnoxiously proud, chatty woman, thought it wasn’t right that Billy and Frank walked down the road for the bus every morning. Sure enough, after a week of loud, angry phone calls, in the seventh grade—freshman year for Frank—a bus stop was added to the front of Franks house; a single-story structure with clothes lines off the side. For the rest of the year and the years to come, Frank and Billy would wait together on Frank’s porch.

        On his way to work, Billy’s father would drop him off, and Frank’s mother would come out to greet him. She was a nice lady. She’d wave to Billy’s father as he drove away. One night Billy heard his father tell his mother that Frank’s mother slept with all the Mexicans on the farm. Frank said the same thing. But she was a nice lady.

        “You’re very polite,” she’d say to Billy. “I’m glad you two are friends.”

        Frank did most of the talking when they were together, and Billy listened. Many mornings Frank would set his backpack down, look to see that his mother wasn’t watching, and pull out a pair of women’s underwear. It wasn’t the sexy kind that showed the woman’s ass. They looked like Billy’s mother's, only smaller.

        Frank said they were Abby Pitman’s—one of the many girls he claimed he deflowered. He said she sounded like a horse when they did it and that she dug her nails in his back. Frank asked Billy if he wanted to smell them. Billy shook his head. Frank took a big whiff and smiled.

        “They don’t smell much like her anymore.”

        “Does she know you have them?”

        “She gave them to me.”

        “Why?”

        “Because she said it was special. They all say that… Once your leg heals, they’ll tell you the same thing—that you’re special… Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

        On the bus the kids were mean to Billy. They’d leave him alone if Frank was there, but Frank missed a lot of school. One morning, all alone, the children abused Billy, pinching his neck, pulling his hair, calling him names. One of the boys took Billy’s glasses and shattered them beneath his boot. All the others laughed, even the girls laughed.

        That was the Friday before spring break. The entire next week Billy spent in a blurry, abstract world devoid of lines or definition. When Frank finally came to check on him, Billy told him what happened. Frank was furious. The following Monday, Frank pulled a knife on the kid that smashed the glasses. Frank made a big deal of it and the girls didn’t laugh. Frank was suspended for two weeks.

***

Billy and Frank, without a car, went along with one another. They played pranks on the farmhands and built forts in the hayshed. In the dead of night, they’d sneak out and meet in the middle of large open fields at the center of the farm where the hills dipped and rolled into valleys.

It was one of these nights that Billy had his first taste of alcohol from a bottle Frank stole from his father. There wasn’t much in it. They split it even. It tasted like sparks. In a matter of minutes, they were red-faced and laughing. The horses standing by—their doll eyes glinting in whatever light there was—watched them as they stumbled around shouting their heads off.

Frank told Billy he loved him, and Billy said it back.

“You’re my best friend,” Billy said.

“We’re best friends,” Frank said.

“And one day I’ll have a girlfriend.”

Frank took the final swig and smashed the bottle.

“Damn right!” Frank said.

“And I’ll make her scream and she’ll love me and tell me that I’m special and it’s because you taught me, Frank.”

Frank laughed and fell over.

“And then I think I’ll marry her,” Billy said.

Frank stood up with great difficulty and unzipped his fly. He peed across a fallen tree, his aim swinging side to side. When he turned around, he kept it open. He presented his penis to Billy and laughed.

“This is what they want,” Frank said.

“Frank, your fly’s down.”

Frank looked down at himself.

“There it is!” he said.

“Come on man.”

“I showed mine, so let’s see yours.”

“No.”

“Let’s see what they’ll see. That pretty girl that thinks you’re special. What’s she gonna see?”

“Frank.”

“It’s the weirdest thing when they lay back. When they put their legs up… they’re all the same.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know.”

“You told me. I know.”

“So, forget about them. I showed you mine.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Billy, you have to.”

“No,” Billy said.

“You said it back!”

“Said what?”

Frank started crying.

“Will you cut it out?” Billy said.

“You know what they call you at school? They call you a faggot. All the girls do. They say, ‘oh there goes Hobbles, the little fag.’”

“Go home,” Billy said.

“This is my home! You go home.”

“I am.”

Billy turned to leave.

“You stiff legged fuck.”

“I’m going home.”

“This is my home, goddammit. Fuck you!”

“Frank.”

“You said it back!”

“I thought we were friends.”

Frank came fast at Billy and grabbed his jacket.

“How’d you like if your other leg didn’t work?”

Billy was sobbing and tried to say stop, but nothing came out.

It started and ended with a rock.

***

When Frank turned sixteen his parents bought him a used, beat-up Chevy Silverado. He didn’t take the bus after that. Weekends he was anywhere but home. Frank would pass Billy on his bike and wouldn’t wave.

When Frank was around, he had his friends with him. They’d drink cheap beer and whatever liquor his father wouldn’t miss. Billy would watch them drive by outside his window.

One day on his bike, going towards barn nine, Billy fought long and hard to climb the steady hill. When he reached the top, he saw silhouetted shadows inside the barn. One of the shadows saw him. Then, all alone, a boy—standing almost outside the shed row—puffed the long, orange floating spark of a cigarette and waved. It was Frank.

Billy laid his bike in the grass and down-up and down went in the barn. Frank put his arm around him and pointed to some other boys.

“These are my friends,” Frank said.

There were three of them. They were all in a dreamlike boozy state. One of them wouldn’t look up. He sat on the edge of a square bail staring at his feet. Nobody said anything.

Frank grabbed a bottle with one hand and Billy’s arm with his other, leading him farther into the barn.

“I wanna show you something,” Frank said.

“Alright.”

“We got a boat. A small one. You’ve seen it.”

“Sure,” Billy said.

Frank’s father had bought a small fishing boat, one that he could pull behind his truck. Since he bought it, he’d never used it.

“In the front yard,” Frank said. “He’s got a tarp on it.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve seen it. It’s nice. It goes fast. But this cat keeps getting in there. Under the tarp. This cat keeps pissing and shitting all over the floor of it. I’m serious.”

“Oh yeah?”

“This little black cat. I’ve seen it. It’s around here. It’s a mangy looking thing and my dad hates it. But I found it, Billy. Tonight, I found it. It was in this barn. Me and the guys, we cornered it. Chased it into the tack room.”

Frank pointed to the large wooden door beside the feed bin. It was open.

“We got inside,” he said. “Shut the door. I grabbed the twitch—you know what a twitch is?”

“A what?”

“This,” he said.

Frank grabbed a wooden stick—about a yard in length and two inches in width. On the end was a loop of thick string. It’s what they use on horses when they don’t listen. They grab the upper lip, slip it between the rope, then twist like hell, pinching skin until its teeth stick out and its eyes are large and white. Frank handed it to Billy who admired its weight.

“It was hanging there beside the door,” Frank said, “so I grabbed it and went in and beat it to death.”

“Beat what to death?”

“The cat.”

The twitch no longer seemed what it was. Billy moved his hand along it feeling the grooves—its imperfections. He thought about the word twitch… about how it didn’t sound right. And then he saw the blood that stained the handle. The blood was on his hands.

Frank dragged Billy into the tack room and pointed to a dark, shriveled clump on the concrete floor. There was blood everywhere.

“I didn’t think it’d bleed this much,” Frank said.

Frank moved it with his foot.

“Jesus, Frank,” Billy said.

Frank grabbed Billy by the shoulder and looked him in the eye. Frank’s eyes were bloodshot, the rivulets of veins spreading like broken glass.

“Why don’t you stay? I’ll get some more booze. You’ll like these guys. They’re jokers. They’ll teach you things. They’re good people.”

Billy polite and shy, scared for his life, knowing that his parents wouldn’t worry, took the bottle and drank until he forgot about the cat or his bike or any of the other boys. All he saw was Frank. Good old Frank. His friend—his best friend. Here he was, back again.

The five of them hopped in Frank’s truck. Frank drove with two others in the cab beside him. This left Billy and the quiet boy hanging on to the sides of the open bed. Frank took the corners fast and drifted where the road became gravel. He’d brake hard and peel out. All of it was magnificent. The wind whipped their ears making everything seem far away.

Billy asked the quiet boy what his name was.

“Andy,” he said.

“I’m Billy.”

The boy said nothing.

“Did you see what happened?” Billy said.

“What happened?” Andy said.

“At the barn. In the tack room.”

The boy paused, then said that he’d seen it, the whole thing. He said that it was awful.

They sped past the rickhouse and up a hill where the sky opened up. The sun had descended beneath the clouds, exploding in a brilliant molten red.

“Where are we going?” Billy asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Andy said.

They slowed down passing barn eight and turned into the shop. The engine died and they all got out. Frank whistled a song. One of the boys passed Billy a bottle. Billy took a pull and handed it to Andy. Andy held it to his mouth and sat there.

“Come on,” Frank said.

Down-up and down Billy followed the boys behind the shed. Frank went up to a pile of pointless objects and peeled back a layer of plywood. Behind it were two live traps. Each had a cat inside it. They growled and hissed.

    What happened next was a long, choreographed effort that ended somehow with each of the cats out their cage, their feet bound in string, laying on the ground.

     One of the boys had bite marks across his hand. Frank told him he had rabies. The others assured him he was fine. The boy himself looked worried. Andy stood a ways away, pacing beneath a sycamore.

     “It’s very simple what you have to do,” Frank said, “take each of their tails, and then tie them together. Get down beside them.”

     Frank forced Billy to the ground. He found his hands, rising to his knees.

     “What do I do?” Billy asked.

    “Tie them together.”

     “Don’t do it,” Andy said.

    “Tie their tails, Billy. You wanna be a man, don’t you?”

     Frank grabbed Billy’s hands and forced them forward like a puppet. And so, Billy, pried open for all the world to see, grabbed each of their tails and broke them. The cats made awful noises. They spun their bodies. Billy couldn’t hold them still.

     Frank pushed Billy aside and did it himself. When their tails were knotted, he tightened them, loosening the strings that bound their legs.

     The cats got up and tried running in opposite directions. In their sudden confusion, they blamed one another and fought. It lasted five minutes. The smaller one sunk its teeth into the others neck, killing it. Frank took his knife and cut it loose. It stood there for a moment, panting. Then it ran off, stopped, looked back, and died.

     They stood there, the five of them, as children might after dropping and breaking something.

***

     A month later the breeding shed burned to the ground. Billy was asleep when it started.

He woke to his mother screaming. He smelled the smoke and looked out his bedroom window in time to witness the metal roof of the shed collapse into itself. The wood was dry, and the fire was fast. The fire department showed up and did nothing but shoot water on a pile of embers.

     The farm moved their breeding operations off Iron Works Road. They laid off a few workers to help budget for a new breeding shed. One of those workers was Billy’s father. Their reason for doing so, they said, was drunkenness.

     Billy and his father and mother moved to trailer park in Cynthiana. His father found another farm. His mother picked up shifts at the Dollar General. Billy finished out the school year and saw Frank when he could. But then the year ended, and he never saw Frank again.

     The following fall, Billy’s mother, in her chair watching the local news called out to Billy, telling him to come quick. Billy down-up and down went into the living room and saw Franks house on the TV. Policemen and paramedics and a crowd of faceless onlookers—people Billy didn’t know—stood around, going in and out of Frank’s front door.

     The upbeat, hollow voice of the newscaster informed them that a young man in the early hours of the morning had gone into his parents’ bedroom with his father’s gun and shot them as they slept. The story ended thirty seconds later with the ending everyone expected—Frank at the kitchen table with a hole in his head.

     What the news didn’t know—something Billy found out later—was that Frank, after killing his parents, got dressed in his mother's clothes, applied a full face of makeup, and drank half a bottle of good whiskey before his fateful moment.

     Billy’s mother touched his arm. She told him how sorry she was. Billy found it hard to care and down-up and downed out the front door.

     He remembered a time with Frank at the hayshed in the early spring, when the square bails were stacked to the ceiling. They’d climb to the top and build their fort in likes of a castle with turrets and windows and things to hide behind. They’d pretend they were under attack. When the trucks went by, they threw rocks and hid. Only once were they caught. And Frank was so happy. It was then that Billy thought that life would turn out to be something. Now he wasn’t sure.