Poor Tommy

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. No one would dare throw a stone at it except Tommy. Not Michael, not Darren, and Carly was only four.

“Do it and I’ll kiss you,” I said.

“On the lips? For ten mississippis?”

“For five.”

Tommy raked his fingers across the forest floor and let the dirt sift through, leaving a palm-full of rocks. He held his hand open and I pointed to the biggest one.

“Nah, that one’ll break the window.”

“That one or nothing,” I said.

It was a Saturday in summer when the days were long. We didn’t have the things kids have now. We had only summer, and we did with it what we wanted. There was Carly’s new Monopoly game, but Tommy had ripped the money in a fit. She sat crying at the base of a pine tree, matching halves trying to make them whole—the pink fives, the gold five-hundreds. No one comforted her. We weren’t taught to care about the feelings of other kids, not directly. There were no picture books with sad, bullied children to tug at our hearts. Carly cried over the money and we told her to shut her trap. Did she want to get eaten by the Cabin Man? Darren pointed to the pile of bones in the fire pit just outside the cabin door. “You think those are goose bones, Carly? They’re not. They’re little girl bones.”

We’d gone to the cabin because we were bored. Maybe if we’d had screens to keep our minds occupied we wouldn’t have gone where we shouldn’t have, and things wouldn’t be what they are.

Last week during book club, one of the mothers said boredom was crucial for children, that without it, they never learn to think creatively. I did not tell her that boredom can also summon the shadow side of an untamed child, that an idle mind is the devil’s plaything. I said nothing of the perversity of the human animal. Instead, I suggested we all read Lucretius’ two-thousand-year-old poem on the fear of death. “It makes you think about things like pain and pleasure and why we act the way we do. There’d be so much to talk about. We could make it a girls’ weekend—"

“Sounds like you’ve already read it, Tracie. We should pick something none of us have read.”

I learned young, the hard way, that it's best for everyone if I go along, that my ideas are not always good ones. I'm a "good sport" now. Better late than never. I sip their pink wine and read their pedestrian bestsellers. I cream my skin with their multi-level marketing products and wonder if they truly are woven as simple as they seem. Over. Under. Over. Under.

…

Tommy threw the stone and the window cracked, loud and sharp. A shard tumbled over the eave and landed in the dirt with a thud, sounding more like a raw steak than fallen glass.

“I’m telling mommy!” Carly screamed. Tommy reached for her but she bolted in the direction of the path, her arms flailing like snapped masts.

Michael stared at the broken window, his face dark with rage. Nothing bad ever happened to Tommy no matter what he did. His mom was too busy working double shifts at Woolworths, and his father, whoever he was, had never been in the picture. But Michael and Darren’s father would beat them just for breaking eye contact with a blink. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t thrown anything. They were trespassing. Meddling. And that was more than enough.

Darren nudged Michael in the direction of the path, his complexion sallow. “C’mon, Mike,” he said, turning his brother away from the window, away from Tommy who feigned interest in a scuff on his shoe to avoid Michael’s eye. It wasn’t fair and we knew it, but it was beyond us. Beatings were a part of life for the Evenger brothers. They turned toward home, walking slow and corpse-like, until the path swallowed them from sight.

“Well?” Tommy said, his arms outstretched. “It’s just us. Unless you count the Cabin Man.” He nodded toward the window, grinning. The color rose in his cheeks.

“Put your arms down. You look like a scarecrow standing there waiting to get shat on.”

“That’s not how it is in the movies,” he said. “The man doesn’t keep his hands down. He puts them around you.”

“This ain’t the movies.”

Tommy dropped his arms and closed his eyes. I told him to quit his smirking. “You’ve got no lips to kiss when you’re smirking!”

I set my closed mouth on his and twisted this way and that, like Joan Collins kissed on Dynasty. When I got to five mississippis in my head, I stepped back. His hair hung in his eyes, loose and tousled. He smiled, and there was something different about it. He reached down and tugged up a tiny marigold. “Here,” he said. “You should put this in your hair like the girl in the Blue Lagoon movie.”

I felt something like a flutter in my stomach, like nerves but good ones. I slipped the flower behind my ear and thought a moment. “I’ll kiss you five more mississippis if you go in and fetch something from the Cabin Man.”

...

Tommy didn’t go to my school. He didn’t know how low I ranked, how untouchable and ugly I was, how unliked. He lived two blocks away in the apartments just outside the Hanover school zone. I’d never been given a flower before, but he wouldn't know that. I wondered if this is what it felt like to be popular and pretty like Jill Sallidan. It seemed anything Jill asked, the boys did. “Throw worms at Tracie’s legs and make her hop like the fat toad she is.” And they did.

…

“What should I fetch, Tracie?”

“I don’t know. Something. But it has to be from the room with the candle.”

“No,” said Tommy. “I’ll get something from right inside the door, but I’m not going upstairs.

“Then no kiss.”

We stood a moment, saying nothing. The heat hummed in my ears, it was that kind of hot—the kind you can hear radiating. The trees, tall and black, veiled the fast-fading light but did nothing to dull the heat.

“Something from the front room,” he said, “or nothing at all.”

I wanted to kiss him. Everyone in my grade had been kissed, or so they said. I’d lied once, making up a boy I met on vacation. “What’s his name?” Jill Sallidan asked, daring me to lie.

“Joey.”

“Joey? Joey Talcott!”

“No! A different Joey!” Joey Talcott was the most popular boy in school. He played tackle football, not flag, but tackle. He looked like Leif Garrett. He and his mom were invited to Hollywood by a real producer. They were going to make Joey a teen star.

“His last name is Wolf. Joey Wolf.”

“And you kissed him? On the beach? Like Danny and Sandy in Grease?”

“Yes.”

“French kiss?”

“Yes.”

“Did you nibble noses?”

I didn’t know if that was something people did. “Yes. We did.”

Jill burst out laughing. “You’re such a fucking loser, Tracie. No one would ever kiss you. Try washing your hair. It’s a grease pit.”

I’d made a fool of myself. And they’d all been there to see it. All of them. They howled when I passed in the halls, like wolves. Tracie Wolf. The nose nibbler. She’ll eat your face. Who wants to take a grease bath with Tracie? Ahhoooow.

…

Tommy stepped onto the porch and something in me fell. I wanted to tell him to forget it. The impulse pressed on my gut like it was trying to claw its way out.

“Tracie?” He turned and looked at me, more curious than worried. “How are we going to get home? I mean. How are we going to see… you know?” He gestured to the dark metal sky.

“Hurry up and get something and we’ll be fine,” I said, smiling. But it was a forced smile. I had recently started using these forced smiles more and more. They were a new discovery, and I was getting good at them.

“You swear you lit that candle, Tracie? You swear no one’s in there?”

“I told you I lit it this afternoon. With my grandma. On our walk. It’s one of those air freshener candles.”

His hand was on the knob, turning. “How come though? How come your grandma would want to make a broken-down place smell good?”

“I told you. Because she wants my grandpa to turn it into a playhouse for us kids. She said there’s no use in it sitting empty all these years. He’s coming to clear it tomorrow.” I smiled sweetly, like a Strawberry Shortcake doll, just enough to scrunch my nose.

Tommy pushed open the door and stepped inside. I stood on tip-toe to see better, but there was only darkness, and commotion. He was scrambling, I guessed. Looking for something to take.

I counted ten slow mississippis loud enough for him to hear before calling out his name. The light was nearly gone, taking all the colors with it. The canopy of pines lost its shape in the rushing blackness. I waved my hand and watched the outline fade from gray to nothing.

“Tommy!” I yelled again. Panic closed my throat. I opened my mouth to tell him to forget it, to say I would kiss him a hundred mississippis if we could just please leave now, but nothing came. In the stillness, I heard the silence. The commotion, gone.

I didn’t want to be alone in the dark. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t see where to run to. I stood in the emptiness, feeling the rise and fall of my chest. How does it work, breathing? What if I forget how? There’s no one to help!

“Help!” I screamed, and it jarred me. No screaming. Screaming could draw things from the woods—wolves, and bad men. Tommy will realize it's pitch black and come out soon. He'll quit playing. I hummed, and it slowed my heart.

Wonder Woman

All the world's waiting for you

And the power you possess…

I sang under my breath and spun slowly in blindness, changing into Wonder Woman like Linda Carter on the TV show.

All our hopes are pinned on you

And the magic that you do

Stop a bullet cold…

I felt for the marigold in my hair and pulled it to my lips. Wilted already, but soft and real. Tommy loves you.

A firefly flashed in the upstairs window. Not a firefly, a candle flame.

Go to the candle! Go to Tommy! I lowered myself to the ground and felt my way toward the porch. Stones sank into my knees, and something else, something sharp and full of stings. I sat back and gripped my knee. Water gushed into my hand… not water. Blood. The shard. The broken window. I felt dizzy, sick.

Go to the candle. Stupid fucking Tracie. Grease-pit Tracie. The tears came, slicking my face and burning my eyes. Hate tears, full of fury. My hand hit something hard—the porch step. I could do it from here. I could get there. I felt for the open door and crawled over the threshold.

“Tommy?” I whispered, and my voice swung free. “Tommy! Please! It’s not funny! Please!” My sobs echoed off the ceiling, thundering in the emptiness. If there had been moonlight, there would have been shadows and outlines. My eyes would have adjusted, but this was a void.

Were the stairs on the left, the right? I didn’t know. I held out my arms and felt for a wall. I could follow it like a river downstream. My left foot squished in my shoe… blood from my knee. You’re going to die here, Tracie. Stupid fucking Tracie.

“Stop it! Stop it!” I screamed, gripping my hair until it hurt.

“He’s real, Tracie.”

“Tommy!”

“He’s real, and he’s upstairs.”

I turned toward his voice and reached for it. “Tommy! Please. Come here. I’m bleeding. My knee… Can you find me? I’m here!” I said, clapping my hands. “I’m here!”

“You’re not listening, Tracie. The Cabin Man is upstairs.”

My cries grew hysterical. “I think I’m dying! There’s too much blood. I can’t stop the blood!”

“You lied. You didn’t light the candle with your grandmother. You lied to me, didn’t you?” He sounded sad. His hand found mine in the darkness, and my crying softened.

I laced his fingers through mine and they felt warm and perfect. “We can stay like this until morning," I said, folding into him, my tears sinking through his shirt. “We’ll be okay here. I’m so tired and I just want to close my eyes.”

“The candle, Tracie. It isn’t an air freshener.” He squeezed my hand gently. “Just… tell me why you lied. It’s all I want. Okay? I’m not mad. Honest.”

Something about the scent of his shirt… I’d never been that close to a boy’s chest before. He smelled like summer earth and starlight… if stars were marigolds.

“I don’t know why I lied. I just did.”

“Were you trying to hurt me?”

“No! Never! I wanted to be like… Jill, the pretty girls who tell boys to do things and…”

“But I wouldn’t have come in here if you hadn’t told me that your grandma lit the candle. Do you understand that? Because I'd like you to understand that.” He sounded like an adult, steady and serious.

"Who did you think lit the candle, Tracie?”

The room fell silent. I pressed into his chest, breathing in starlight, feeling it fill me. Was this what it felt like to be in love?

“Will you do something for me, Tracie? Since I did something for you.”

“Anything,” I said, feeling for his face. He gripped my wrist and held it away from his body.

“I have something for you,” he whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “You wanted me to fetch something, and I did. But when I give it to you, I want you to run for the path and don’t come back. Ever. Do you understand?”

“You’re scaring me. I don’t like the way you’re talking!”

“Be quiet!” His lips were hard against my ear. “I’m dead, Tracie. I’m dead. The Cabin Man killed me.”

He pushed an object into my hand. “Take it and don’t say another word or you’re dead too.”

I felt sickness rise in my throat. I turned my head and vomited into the void. Something tore—a cloth, his shirt. He pulled my bleeding leg across his lap and twined a strip of fabric above my knee, cinching it tight. I felt nothing. My body detaching from reason, from feeling. A beautiful and saving numbness fell over me like warm, thin rain.

“He wants me now, Tracie. All of me. Not just what he has already, but all of me.”

A soft amber light filled the room, and Tommy’s brown eyes shone like golden coins. His beauty took my breath away. “Will you marry me, Tommy? When we’re grown up?”

He nodded.

The cabin was not so old, not so abandoned. I looked around, amazed at its readiness. “Tommy, we could live here. It’s nice on the inside.” He reached for me, helping me to stand. The amber light flickered, casting spots of color like a mirrored ball. I wanted to dance with him. I had never danced with anyone.

"Will you dance with me?”

He shook his head no and pointed to his throat where the blood drained down his bare chest.

“Tommy,” said a voice.

His finger went to his lips, making the shush sign. He looked beautiful standing there, in his crimson necklace. More beautiful than Leif Garret. More beautiful than Joey Talcott.

“I like your necklace,” I whispered, giggling. He smiled and turned me toward the door.

“Tommy!” The voice thundered.

“Uh oh,” I whispered. “Is that your dad?”

He shook his head no. I wanted to go up the pretty carpeted stairs. The iron balustrade wound high, like the stairs in Gone with the Wind. “I want to meet your dad, please. Is this his palace?”

Tommy pushed me through the opening of the cabin and I landed hard on the porch. Stunned, pain from my leg flooded my body. I looked up and saw him bleeding from his throat, a gash so wide that it tilted his head to the side. He kicked the object at me. It spun across the porch floor and dropped off the side into blackness.

He pointed to the path. His hair, lank and bloody, fell across his face. His eyes grew lambent and large as he tried to speak. Tiny candle wicks filled his open mouth, then sprung through his skin across his arms and chest. The wicks lit, and Tommy burned. He burned bright enough for me to see where the object, the flashlight, had fallen.

…

“You don’t worry about your son being on screens as much as he is?” One of the mothers asked as she settled onto my porch swing. I handed her a glass of prosecco.

“I don’t think of screens negatively. They’re ways of travel, you know? He can talk to his friends, play games, watch movies, explore Minecraft worlds. He's got plenty to do." I shrugged and tossed my hair, the way pretty women sometimes do.

“Boredom is crucial for children. Without it, they never learn to think creatively,” she said, thumbing her book. “Don’t you wish kids today had the childhoods we had? We were free to roam and explore. As long as we were home before dark.”

“And did you always make it home safely before dark, Sharon?”

“What?” She cocked her head and laughed.

“Did you always get home safe? Not all kids did back then. Milk Carton kids… freak accidents. The Boogeyman, Slenderman, all that stuff.” I smiled. I was very good at smiling without smiling.

I took a long drink from my glass and set my feet casually on the wicker coffee table. “Have any of your kids ever mentioned the Cabin Man? Where I'm from, kids used to say stuff about an old cabin and a candle... probably just local lore.”

Sharon slipped a slice of English cheddar into her mouth. “Mmm—” she said between chews, waving her hand at me. “Earlier this week when the kids went hiking in Myer's woods—I let them go alone now that Charlie earned his first-aid badge—they asked if I knew about the Cabin Man, the one who burns trespassers and piles their bones outside of the abandoned Myer cabin—do you know that cabin?"

I shook my head no.

"Mmm," she said, taking more cheese. "The kids say he travels from town to town looking for someone who got away long ago. Too funny! This is what I mean about boredom, Tracie. It fuels the imagination. They're out there now 'trespassing,' having a ball! You should really let poor Tommy join the fun next time. You never know who he'll meet in those video game chat rooms. At least the woods are safe."