Toby didn’t feel like answering to this accusation. He had been stealing. It was a lot easier to get things from the house than to keep making extra trips to the grocery store or the drug store. And it was free. What could his uncle do about it?
“I’ll tolerate disrespect,” Uncle Neal said. “I’ll tolerate thinking you’re something special. I tolerate that stuff all the time. But there has to be a line, and I’m the one who has to draw it.”
Toby kept quiet. He felt each of his uncle’s fingertips digging into the bones of his shoulder. Uncle Neal hadn’t laid a hand on him in years — hadn’t pushed him around or even mussed his hair, hadn’t dug Toby in the ribs after making a joke, hadn’t slapped him on the back when he was coughing. Uncle Neal looked at his hand and flexed his fingers. He inhaled greedily.
“And I gave you a fucking allowance. That was my choice. That was my own poor rearing.”
Uncle Neal hit Toby then, a kind of open-handed punch. He rushed it and it didn’t land squarely. He hit Toby a second time. Toby wilted, but not out of pain. Uncle Neal seemed surprised that his blows were having an impact.
“I want it to hurt me more than it hurts you,” Uncle Neal said. “It doesn’t, though. It doesn’t hurt me.”
“It doesn’t really hurt me, either,” Toby said. He didn’t look up, but he had the feeling his uncle was staring at his own hand.
“I can’t be hurt anymore,” Uncle Neal said. “I’m that low.”
“You’re tough, is all,” Toby told him.
“I’m not even ashamed.”
Toby kept crouching there, still. He couldn’t tell exactly where Uncle Neal’s blows had landed because his whole head felt hot. Somewhere inside, he was glad Uncle Neal had hit him. It was a relief. Uncle Neal backed away, his shadow lifting. He walked out the front door and Toby got himself standing. He heard Uncle Neal’s footfalls across the porch and then his truck starting up with the wail of an old frail dog. Toby went to the bathroom and took a look. He was going to have a bruise on his neck and a mark on his forehead, but they wouldn’t last. He shook his shoulder out. That was probably the last time his uncle was going to touch him. The man was desperate. Something in him was rancid and weak. He and Toby had to put up with each other. Kaley and Toby had to put up with each other. Shelby had to put up with the whole world. How did anyone keep from going rancid? How come everyone wasn’t like Uncle Neal?
Toby’s nose was running but his eyes were dry. He ran the hot water and got out a washcloth. He let the water turn steamy and then he let it run and run until he could no longer see himself.
Toby and Shelby had agreed to meet on Sunday, and Shelby decided they should go for a ride on the old folks’ trolley, a stout yet aerodynamic-looking bus that, three times a day, drove a big loop that included a pharmacy, a supermarket, the movie theater, the county offices, and a cafeteria-style restaurant. Shelby gave the driver two crisp dollar bills and she and Toby took the back row. There were only two other passengers, a frail old woman adorned with jewelry and a younger guy with a box of T-shirts on his lap. They sat in the middle of the bus, across the aisle from one another. The woman was hugging herself, shivering. The driver, a lanky black man, had the trolley’s air conditioner pumping.
At the first stop, the pharmacy, no one got on or off. Same thing at the supermarket.
Shelby elbowed Toby and he looked away from the window. She got a good look at his face. She could tell he was dreading being asked about it, so she decided she wouldn’t. She didn’t like people in her business. She knew how he felt. If his dings had been the result of a fistfight with another kid or a pole-vaulting injury, he would’ve said so. Something had happened with Uncle Neal.
“When’s the last time you let someone be your friend?” Shelby asked.
Toby thought. “Last year.”
“What happened?”
“He transferred to a middle school in Gainesville so he could play basketball there.”
“Still friends with him?”
Toby shook his head.
“Why, because you guys don’t have a phone?” Shelby draped her arm across Toby’s lap.
“Even if we did, probably wouldn’t still be friends.”
Toby fidgeted into a straighter posture. Shelby’s hand was resting flat against his thigh. He didn’t notice, or else he was acting like he didn’t notice. The mark on his neck almost looked like a paw print. Shelby was going to make him forget about his uncle, for a while at least.
They pulled up near the movie theater. There were a few people standing outside, but none of them made a move toward the trolley. It was a two-screen theater, showing a horror flick and a kids’ movie. A poster of a bald guy hanging upside-down, one of his eyes bulging out, hung next to a poster of cartoon automobiles.
The old woman turned in her seat. She cleared her throat, and this action sent a chill through her.
“Excuse me, sir,” she chimed.
The guy with the box on his lap looked at her.
“I’d like one of those T-shirts, one of the long-sleeve ones. Would you entertain a trade?”
“I might make a trade.”
“A bracelet?” The old woman hoisted her arm. “They’re real.” With her finger, she separated one bracelet from the others. “This one’s worth sixty bucks.”
The guy looked in his box. “A small, I guess.”
The two of them exchanged their goods. The guy dropped his new jewelry into his shirt pocket and the woman slipped the T-shirt on over her head. She tugged it this way and that, getting it straight, a faint smile on her face.
The trolley jogged into motion.
“I had lunchtime friends last semester,” Toby said. “Dina and Tom.”
“Who are they?” asked Shelby.
“They’re that couple. I wasn’t really friends with them.”
“What couple?”
“Dina and skinny Tom. The two that say they’re going to get married when they turn sixteen?”
Shelby was at a loss.
“I used to sit at one of those four-person tables with them. We’d pile our stuff in the fourth chair.”
Shelby pressed her palm against the inside of Toby’s leg, squashing the notion that it was resting where it was resting on accident. Toby talked more quickly.
“I’ve never seen much reward to friendship,” he said. “Starts as an interview and ends as a job.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“It’s part of a toast.”
Shelby moved her hand until it rested against a lump that could’ve been what she was looking for or could’ve just been a fold of Toby’s bunched-up shorts. The trolley pulled up to a cluster of two-story glass buildings. There were spindly oak trees everywhere, newly planted. It was the government offices. They were closed today. The old woman and the guy with the T-shirts exited the trolley and went their own ways. Shelby had no idea where they might be going. The driver got off for a moment and spoke on his cell phone. When he got back in, he adjusted his rearview mirror and put drops in his eyes. He held his hand in front of a vent, making sure it was blowing cold air.
As soon as they were back on the road, Shelby unbuttoned Toby’s shorts and burrowed her hand. Toby made a deft adjustment of his hips, making it easier for Shelby, and then he stilled, eyes forward, back arched off the seatback. Shelby’s hand was hemmed in so she took short strokes, trying not to squeeze, trying not to hurt Toby. He was motionless. Shelby ceased her stroking. Toby’s legs were shaking. She didn’t want him to finish already. She resumed, slower, working her hand luxuriantly. Toby was holding his eyes open. The next stop was in sight. Shelby executed some rough jerks and a small sound escaped Toby. He fumbled with his shorts, yanking them down, exposing himself to the air and the light. Shelby watched Toby’s face, on which still rested a bland expression, and felt cheated. She wanted to see some exaltation. She wanted to see him reel into another, better state. Toby put his hand on Shelby’s, aiming himself toward the seat in front of them. The stuff ran most of the way down the seat and then lost its liquidity. It was unmistakable. Anyone who saw it would know what it was.