The thought sent a thrill shivering down Tim’s spine.
With the last fragment of tough meat still torturing his teeth and tongue, Tim slid off the chair, stacked his dishes beside the sink and headed for the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” A piece of asparagus flew out of his father’s mouth and landed on the dinner table as he spoke. Everyone pretended they didn’t notice. Tim’s soles squeaked on the linoleum as he skidded to a halt.
“To finish the yard work,” he said with a nervous smile.
“You got to do the dishes first.”
“But I did the raking, Dad. It’s Kyle’s turn for dishes.”
His father lowered his fork and fixed Tim with a ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ look. “Do as I tell you.”
Tim opened his mouth to protest but the scrape of his father’s chair pushing away from the table killed any objection before it emerged. He needed no more threat than the sound of chair legs on floor: if his father was willing to get up, things wouldn’t go well for Tim. He hung his head and slouched to the sink, cleared dishes from the bottom and wiped out the garbage collected in the drain: potato peelings, coffee grounds, left over rice and chicken rinsed from someone’s lunch plate. The Palmolive bottle wheezed a last gasp of liquid soap into the running water as the rest of the family finished their meals and piled their dishes on the counter beside him. Kyle — a year younger but two inches taller and ten pounds heavier; built more like their father where Tim developed a slight and dainty frame like their mother — cleared their father’s plate for him, provoking a grunt of thanks. He smirked, whispered ‘pussy’ in Tim’s ear and prodded him in the ribs with his elbow as he set the plate down. Tim frowned but kept his mouth shut.
Forget the bastard, he told himself. Get the dishes done. Then the fun begins.
Their mother rose and excused herself, headed for the worn chair in the living room which provided her haven. She’d sit there for the evening pretending to read a book or knitting a sweater which she never seemed to finish while their father watched reality t.v. and news programs. Occasionally, he’d curse what he saw but neither of them would speak other than when he commanded her to get him another beer. She’d do it without protest. Kyle made a beeline for the basement stairs, making for the Nintendo Wii meant for the boys to share but which Tim rarely touched.
“Go finish the yard work.”
The muscles in Tim’s arms and legs froze, turning him into a statue, a half-washed plate in one hand, the other hand dipped in the water, rinsing the washcloth. Kyle stopped, teetering on the edge of the top stair.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Your brother’s doing the woman’s work.”
“But he—”
“No buts, Kyle. My rake can’t stay out there all night.”
Panic jarred loose Tim’s paralysis. He let the plate slide into the sink with a clunk and faced the other two, his throat tight.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll do it.”
“Like hell you will. You’re a lazy little shit. You always forget.”
“I won’t forget. I started the job, I’ll finish it.”
His father glared at him over top of the paper. He pushed his chair away, folded the newspaper and set it on the table, then stood. His belt made a hissing sound as he pulled it through the loops of his pants and set it menacingly on the table beside the paper. Another time, the implicit threat would have made Tim nervous, scared, but not tonight. No way he’d forget to go back to the shed.
“Bring me a beer, Kyle. Your sister will put the rake away.”
He slouched out of the kitchen and down the hall to the living room where he’d sit on the chair close enough to their mother’s she’d be able to hear him speak but not close enough to touch. It would be no more than ten minutes before he drifted into his after-dinner nap. Tim turned back to the sink, intent on finishing his chore quickly so he could get back to his secret in the shed. Kyle went to the refrigerator and plucked a bottle of beer off the shelf in the door then crept up behind Tim. He jammed the long neck of the bottle painfully into his older brother’s ass and leaned toward his ear.
“Fag-boy.”
He gave the bottle another push making Tim flinch, then took it out. As he crossed the kitchen, Kyle twisted the cap off and flicked it over his shoulder. It hit Tim in the forehead and fell into the sink with a plop. The muscles in Tim’s jaw bulged as his back teeth ground together; a pulse beat at his temples.
He held his tongue and finished the dishes.
The man’s eyes didn’t show surprise when they finally opened to see Tim squatting beside him, not at first, anyway. They appeared bleary, unfocused, the eyes of a man with a monstrous hangover.
“What are you doing here?”
Tim kept his tone conversational if not friendly. No point in scaring the man: not yet. The man’s cheeks bulged as he attempted to speak, unaware of the gag across his mouth. This fact still didn’t seem to startle him. He shrugged in reply instead.
“You don’t belong here.”
The man looked at him but made no move to comment. Tim reached around and pulled out of his back pocket the pair of shears used for pruning small branches. They normally sat on the shelf a couple of feet away and he had no reason for them to be in his pocket, but he liked the dramatic effect. The man strained to see what his captor held, head wobbling on his neck like it weighed too much for him to hold. Tim moved to show him. The sight of the shears cleared some of the glazed look from his eyes.
“Should I let you go?”
Tim released the shear’s safety clasp and they popped open. He fit its jaws around the rope, feigning an offer to cut it, to free the man.
“Would you leave if I did? Would you go back where you came?”
The man nodded and the action seemed to sap all his strength. His head sagged to the floor, clunking against the concrete. His eyelids fluttered, eyes spinning circles, searching to find focus. The teen leaned in closer to allow their gazes to meet. It took a second for the man’s to settle in. When it did, Tim saw some recognition of his situation beginning to dawn; that realization brought the thrill back to his stomach, bile to the back of his throat. His expression transformed into a sneer.
“I don’t think so.”
Tim moved the sheers away from the rope and grabbed the man’s bound hands. With his thumb and index finger, he wrestled one of the man’s pinkies out of the pack of digits. The man watched, eyes wide and nostrils flared, until the sharp edge brushed the skin of his finger, then he thrashed away. His movement drew blood from his finger and an exasperated sigh from Tim.
“Come on, now. You didn’t think I was going to hurt you, did you?”
A muffled, strangled sound like the lament of a distant fog horn caught behind the duct tape covering the man’s mouth. He thrashed and wiggled, his bound feet kicking against the side of the shed. If the noise kept up long, Tim’s father would soon be drawn out of his chair to seek out the cause of the racket.
“Be quiet, for fuck’s sake.”
Tim leaned his weight on the man’s legs, attempting to pin them, but fear must have given him strength. Where seconds before he didn’t have enough to support his head, now Tim couldn’t contain his thrashing. The oft-repaired boots slammed against the wooden wall, the impact echoing in the small structure, Tim expecting each sound to draw his father one step further out of the after-dinner nap, then eventually to his feet and finally out the door to the back yard.
“Stop it.”
The flat side of the sheers hit the man’s head hard enough to leave an impression of the safety latch on his temple, though not hard enough to knock him unconscious. It knocked the fight out of him, nonetheless.