Phantom Load - Part 3
Monday, January 13, 1992
Gym class sucked. Out loud. Dean finally remembered to bring his new gym shorts and sneakers so that Dad wouldn’t have to write a note, but while the sneakers were okay, the shorts weren't. They were the wrong kind. Not wrong in the widest sense, they were gym shorts, they were dark. But they were the kind that guys wore in the army, not the kind that kids wore in school.
It would have been all right, except for the fact that Joel Booth, the bully he'd seen on his first day, decided to take go after him. It was one of those things that happened from time to time, from school to school, and usually Dean was ready for it. Had read the brain waves or something and knew how to lay low, as ordered, how to fit in or stand out in such a way that he didn’t attract any of the wrong kind of attention. But in this case, well, Joel had a nose for it, and being raised, as he must have been, without a lot of something, he seemed to set eyes on Dean and find him the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Dean had been able to ignore the stuff from the week before, but in gym class on Monday, the barbs had become sharper, and as Dean got out of his gym shorts and into his jeans in the locker room, Joel was right there.
“Looks like we got white trash,” said Joel, as if to himself.
Dean ignored him.
“Some apeshit dumb kid, wearing shorts that look like a plastic bag. Where’d you get the plastic bag, kid?”
Dean ignored him.
Joel snapped him with a damp towel, and Dean still ignored him. He managed to get dressed as fast as he could, stuffed his gym shorts in his messenger bag, and hauled his ass out of the dressing room and into the hall, headed toward English.
English classes were at the other end of the school, up towards the end of the long, left-hand hallway that ran in front of the library. Dean went to his locker and got his English book, and then went back to skirt up the right-hand hallway, and intended to duck back along the short hallway that cut across the school. He was halfway along when he heard the rattle of a garbage can on wheels, and through the bodies of teachers and kids, he saw Gunnarson. Coming. For a second, he could see it. The garbage can was empty, the rags and brooms hanging off the end of the rack attached to it were clean. Even from here, Dean could see that. The whole thing was a ruse, so that Gunnarson could look busy while he came looking. For him.
For a second, he thought he could just keep going, that Gunnarson hadn't spotted him, that he could use the bodies as a buffer. But his feet froze to the floor and his palms started to sweat. He clenched his hand around his book.
Then he bolted and backtracked, bumping into someone who gave him a quick, hard shove. Dean ducked under someone else's arm, walked as fast as he could. If he ran, some teacher might stop him, and that would give Gunnarson the opportunity to catch up to him. He kept to the wall, eyes smarting in the sunlight as he walked past the bank of windows, throat perfectly dry. Lungs burning rather like someone was baking him from the inside out.
By the time he got to his English class, he was almost late and the hallways were absolutely empty of kids. He heard the rattle of a garbage can on wheels, and slipped inside. Made himself take a deep breath and sit down like he wasn't sweating from beneath his armpits and along the backs of his knees and everywhere else. There was a swath of grey that passed in front of the long narrow window. Dean leaned back and watched to see if the door would open. It didn't.
The rest of the day marched forward like a dog straining on a leash, and Dean knew he couldn’t go to Dad with his hat in his hand and say he had the wrong gym shorts. Not only was there not enough money, not only would Dad preferred not to be bothered about the small shit; what difference did it make anyway? Shorts were shorts, and Joel would probably soon find himself someone else to bug the shit out of. Dean was going to keep his head down, as ordered. End of story.
Joel, he belatedly realized, was in his geography class, but it was easy enough to focus on Mr. Collins and ignore Joel. It was after school was over that the trouble broke out. Dean was in front of the school, waiting for Sammy next to the row of pine trees. His stomach was growling and he had another dollar in his pocket, though he couldn’t remember when or if he'd checked out the lunchroom. Joel’s bus was late, or something, and there he was. Sticking his chin out, making remarks.
“Can’t even afford a proper coat, can you, white trash? You know, at this school, we wear down jackets. We have sneakers without holes. We have lunch money.”
“I have lunch money,” said Dean, hefting his messenger bag over his head, settling it on his hip.
“Hey, I saw you,” said Joel. “I saw you pick up that donut from the ground and eat it.”
“It was a sandwich,” said Dean, without thinking.
“Oh, you picked up a sandwich from the ground and ate it. Nice manners. Starve much? Your old man forget to feed you?”
Dean felt his jaw go forward at this. But stopped himself, watching the half-ring of kids forming around them. Remembering Dad’s orders.
“None of your fucking business,” he said, thinking that would stop it.
“What did you say to me? Did you say fucking?” Joel snarled this at him, his face bright with glee at having caught Dean saying a bad word. With witnesses.
Someone gasped, so Dean decided to up the ante.
“Fucking shit,” said Dean. “If you must know. You’re just a piece of fucking shit.”
Joel launched himself at Dean and started punching away. Dean moved back, but Joel had him by the strap of his messenger bag, and swung him around. Dean landed in a punch to the jaw, one to the side of Joel’s head. He grabbed Joel by the coat, and pulled him in close. It was a trick he’d seen Dad do when confronted with trouble in a bar. Pull the guy in close and you have him at a disadvantage. You could pop him in the stomach, snap him in the head and he won’t know what hit him.
Dean did this. A snap with his elbow to Joel’s stomach, and then one in the nose, and Joel was bleeding. The kids were shouting, and too late, Dean remembered Dad’s orders. His stomach fell and he let go of Joel.
In an instant, the principal, Mr. Mates, in his brown suit, was upon them both, pulling them apart, and Dean sank back, his hands clutching the strap of his messenger bag. Panting. Feeling the effects of Joel’s fingers on his arm, his face, mouth throbbing. Mr. Mates was scowling; the crowd was dispersing. Dean knew he was in big bad trouble. And Sam’s bus hadn’t even arrived yet.
“Both of you are in so much trouble,” said Mr. Mates. “Detention at the very least, after school every day for a week. Or suspension, we don’t allow-”
Dean’s stomach now tumbled. It was worse than it was supposed to be. It wasn’t the fighting so much as the trouble it caused. The attention it brought forth, and the fact that if he were in suspension or detention, he wouldn’t be able to walk Sammy home from school and look after him. That’s what would make Dad the maddest.
“Hey, now,” said a voice, and Dean looked up. It was the janitor. Coatless, looking chilly.
“Mr. Gunnarson,” said Mr. Mates. “What-can I help you?”
“What’s going on here is what I want to know,” said Mr. Gunnarson. “Looks like a fight.”
“He started it,” said Joel. Pointing at Dean. No one refuted him.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Gunnarson. “I saw you start the whole thing, Booth.”
“Dean Winchester, is that true?”
Both men were now looking at him, and now he felt as though it was him that had been smashed in the nose, not Joel.
“You know better-” started Mr. Mates.
“And you know better, Bob,” said Mr. Gunnarson. “Kids don’t tell on each other. Besides, I saw the whole thing.”
“You did, Roy?”
“Yes indeed. From my windows.” Gunnarson pointed. “This kid, Booth, he started it. Dean was just defending himself. You know I don’t like kids, don’t like to take sides, but this is a clear cut case to me.”
The crowd was gone now. It was just the two men and the two boys. And the buses had come.
“Come with me Joel, I’ll walk you to your bus,” said Mr. Mates. “Some days, you kids-” And then he walked off.
“Let’s get you cleaned up before your brother gets here,” said Gunnarson, giving a tug to the strap of Dean’s bag. Dean followed. His mind did a little jump and then settled into the back of his head, his feet marching as told, his hands gripping the strap, the cold air of the sidewalk replaced by the warmer air of the school. Mr. Gunnarson led him down the side hallway and then unlocked a door with his ring of keys.
“Got a sink down here, you can wash up. Otherwise, you’ll look like you were in a fight. Which you were.”
Dean nodded, and walked down the flight of metal steps, trying not to smell the air that reeked of mold and moisture and the sharp scent of some kind of cleanser that wasn’t Pine Sol.
“I don’t need to clean up,” he said as they came to the bottom of the stairs. “My nose isn’t bleeding.”
Mr. Gunnison's hand landed on the back of his neck and pushed him forward, made him walk. “You’ve got dirt on your face. And you look a little white. We’ll get you fixed up.”
The hand pushed him into the office, and Mr. Gunnarson went to the sink that was in the corner next to the worktable and began to run it. Cold. Then he took a white cloth and rinsed it out. Came over to Dean, frozen where he stood, and wiped his face.
“Better?”
Dean nodded, looking up. Feeling suddenly hot and cold at the same time. From the bank of windows above the sink, he could see the blue of the sky, though the glass was rippled, so he couldn’t see any details beyond that. It occurred to him that Mr. Gunnarson couldn’t have really seen the details of the fight through those windows, and he opened his mouth to ask about it, when Mr. Gunnarson sat on the chair at his desk.
“Come here, Dean.”
Dean walked forward, his mouth a little dry, his feet feeling numb. He shivered like he had a fever; wanted to button up his coat. He wanted to go back the way he had come.
“Here, Dean. I want to make sure you are alright.”
This was strange, seeing as the only marks Joel had left on him had been on his arms, bruises that would rise come the morning and would soon fade away before anyone could take any notice of them. Whether Joel would ever forgive him for being bested, Dean didn’t know. And he didn’t care. As long as he stayed off the grid, Dad would be happy.
Mr. Gunnarson reached out to grab his arm and pulled him close until Dean was sitting on his lap, his legs between Mr. Gunnarson's legs. He felt his messenger bag hit Mr. Gunnarson’s thigh, and pulled it up. Held on to it.
“I need to go,” he said.
“You want to stay,” said Mr. Gunnarson, his hand cupping the back of Dean’s neck again. “You know you do.”
“I-I don’t,” said Dean.
Mr. Gunnarson’s other hand slipped around the front of Dean’s waist, and then moved down to his crotch. Dean felt his eyebrows flip up, and his mouth drop open. It hadn’t been his imagination then, the other day. Last week. Mr. Gunnarson’s fingers on his balls.
“Mr. Gunnarson-” said Dean.
“Hold still, Dean. You need to hold still and be a good boy.”
The janitor’s hand slipped down between Dean’s legs and pressed. The collar of Dean’s pea coat felt rough and hot against his neck, and Mr. Gunnarson’s hand was clamped hard. The hand between his legs moved around over his crotch. The heel of Mr. Gunnarson’s hand moved back and forth, the strong fingers stroking him. Dean felt something harden and twitch down there, like Dad had always said it would if you did that, but that was grownup stuff. Time enough for that later. That’s what Dad had said.
“Does that feel nice, Dean?”
Dean waited a second. No it didn’t. His stomach was doing a strange dance, as though someone were scraping it with a spoon.
“No,” he said. “N-no-”
“Hold on, Dean,” said Mr. Gunnarson. “It will.”
Mr. Gunnarson was breathing hard now, his face was getting dark, and Dean tucked his chin down and away so he wouldn’t have to watch. It began to hurt, and suddenly Mr. Gunnarson grunted and made a little sound after that in his throat.
“You’re a good boy, Dean,” he said, his voice low.
“Can I go now?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gunnarson. “You go ahead and meet your brother’s bus. And I’ll see you later. See if you can stay out of fights with Joel, okay?”
Dean stood up, snapping his mouth shut, pulling his bag to him. His crotch felt as though it had been banged with a hammer, and Mr. Gunnarson’s crotch was darkened with damp. Then he turned and walked away. He had to hurry. He’d seen the flash of orange roll off through the bank of windows. Sam’s bus would be there any time. Any time. He had to hurry.
His heart fluttered as he raced through the empty school. By the time he made it through the front doors, all the buses were gone and the white van was pulling away. Sam was the only little boy standing there, just to the side of the trees. A few teachers lingered by the edge of the sidewalk, their eyes on Dean, silent but accusing him. He was late. He knew he was. He didn’t let himself shrink from their looks or stumble on the roughness of the sidewalk. He stepped off it, in fact, to walk over the snow-crusted grass to where Sammy stood, his grey messenger bag slung around his neck, his coat unzipped.
“Zip up your coat, Sammy,” he said, to say hello.
“Only if you button yours,” said Sammy, in reply. Smiling, seeming not to mind that Dean was late, he held out his fist, holding it there till Dean held out his hand. Into it dropped a quarter and two dimes.
“For the candy,” he said.
“You had lunch, then,” said Dean, putting the money in his pocket.
“Yep. Fish sticks.”
Dean’s mouth watered. He couldn’t remember what he’d had for lunch that day. Or whether or not he’d eaten. He felt his brow furrow as he thought about this.
“You all right?” asked Sam.
“What?”
“You okay? You look like someone punched you in the stomach.”
“Hey,” said Dean, chuffing the back of Sam’s head. Light. More like skimming. “If I’d been in a fight, you would have heard about it. Right?”
Sammy nodded.
“Let’s get home,” said Dean, finding that he looked forward to the walk to the trailer. It was only a mile. It wasn’t snowing. They’d get there before dark. “Chili,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Sam.
“And then we can make pudding after.”
“Yeah,” said Sam again, looking up through his bangs. “Chocolate.”
“And if we have enough money on Saturday,” he said, settling his bag over his head so the cloth strap crossed his chest, “we can walk to the 7-11. If it’s not snowing.”
“Yeah,” said Sammy again.
Dean nodded. It would be good to go home.
Thursday, January 16, 1992
On Thursday the walk home was flayed with snow, and when they got to the trailer, steam heat coming out of the vent at the end, the Impala was there, unannounced. The Impala had no snow on it, and the tracks from the tires looked fresh and clean. Dean led the way around the car, stomping up the metal steps to clear the snow from his sneakers, waving at Sammy to do the same before he opened the door to the warm air. Dad was on the phone, standing, boots still on, dampness tracked in, his greygreen duffle bag on the floor with his jacket on top.
“Yes, I understand, Mr. Mates, and I’ll certainly check into it. Yes. Yes, that’s for certain. Goodbye.”
Dean froze as Dad turned around. He wanted to shrug out of his jacket, but the look in Dad’s eye told him that this had been no ordinary phone conversation.
“Phantoms,” said Dad, “give me less trouble than you do, boy.”
For a quick second, as Sammy bumped into him from behind, Dean wondered if this was about Mr. Gunnarson, if someone had called it in and his heart leapt up in his throat. But it couldn’t be because no one knew about Mr. Gunnarson, so it had to be something else.
“What is it, Dad?” asked Dean.
“Take your coat off, Dean. Both of you. And Sammy.” Here Dad stopped to motion at the back trailer. “Make yourself scarce for a bit.”
"But I'm not in trouble." This protest came out automatically, even as Sam was scooting around the kitchen table towards the back bedroom.
Dad gave him a mild chuff on the head as he went past. "Go anyway. I want to talk to your brother. Alone."
“But Dad,” began Sam.
“Now, Sam.”
Sam pulled himself out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair in the kitchen because this was not a hotel and never had been. His took his bag with him, disappearing down the short hall, where Dean could hear him flicking on the light with a click. Dean took off his coat too, but held it to his chest to cover his hammering heart.
“That was Mr. Mates. He says you’ve not been handing in any homework. You care to explain that one to me?”
“I’ve been doing my homework,” said Dean, thinking back. Yes, he’d sat at the table at night, across from Sammy. He could clearly remember the geography book open in front of him.
“You have, huh.”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“So why haven’t any of your teachers been getting it? Except for Mr. Collins, all your teachers have turned in a report, coming up blank. Seems early in the game for that sort of thing, but-”
“I have, Dad,” said Dean interrupting. His heart was like a tom-tom in his chest, stomach doing a good imitation of a roller coaster. Every night he’d been working, but it was hard to prove it when the report said otherwise. Otherwise, what had he been doing every night?
“What’s in your bag?”
Dean handed it over, his pea coat slipping out of his grip to tumble at his feet. He stayed motionless as Dad opened the bag and saw what was in it. Tipped the bag open so that Dean could see, as well. Just the geography book, bright and new and covered in pictures and maps of faraway places. His notebook. A pen.
“One book, Dean, is not homework. You have work due in all your classes, not just the one.” Then Dad slammed the bag shut and tossed it on the couch where it lay tumbled like a distressed child.
Then Dad loomed, like a tall giant over a forest it was soon to destroy. “Your job,” he said, speaking slowly, in that way he had when everything else but what he was saying was of no importance to him. “Your job is to go to school and keep your head down. Then your job is to look after Sammy when I’m not here. Two things, Dean, two simple things. If you fall down on the first one, you fall down on the second. If you don’t turn your work in and have to stay after school, who will walk Sammy home? I can’t leave him alone.”
“But, Dad-” began Dean, thinking of the books in his locker and the tests he’d taken and the pencils he’d chewed on, but for the life of him, other than sitting at the table with Sam, he couldn’t remember doing any work. Worse, he couldn’t remember sitting at a desk, handing anything in.
“This is not a game,” said Dad. His voice was dangerously low, like gravel, one pitch away from booming into a shout. “You may not like it, but this is where we are for now, and you will do as you’re told. Am I clear?”
There was the look, and Dean felt the quiver in his chin before he could stop it. Telling Dad it wasn’t fair was a baby’s trick, something Sam would do when he railed against the unfairness of the world. Telling Dad about not being able to remember most of his day would only invite further ire. Telling Dad about the boiler room-
“I’ll do my homework, Dad,” he said. “I promise.”
“And I’ll get no more phone calls from that principal?”
“No, Dad.”
Dad paused, looking him up and down. "Dean, is everything okay?"
He couldn't understand why Dad was asking him this question; he had everything under control, except for the homework. "Yeah, Dad," he said, "it's fine." Then he tried to look confident, realized that chewing on his lip was ruining the effect, and made himself stop.
Dad looked at the carpet, stained and now wet. Then he sighed. “I’ll get dinner. You hit the book, and tomorrow, there’d better be books.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Dad bent to pick up his jacket and his duffle, and took them into the little bedroom in the front of the trailer. Dean used the moment to quickly take off his sneakers, hang his coat on a chair, and settled himself at the table, bag in hand, with his back to the wall. From his position, he could see the open doorway to the back bedroom.
“Can I come out?” asked Sam, his hissing whisper like a steam kettle.
“Yeah,” Dean hissed back. He watched Sam come closer, his bag in his hand, far more full than Dean’s was.
Sam sat with his back to the hallway to the second bedroom and moved stuff around in his bag before pulling out some worksheets and a pencil. “Times tables,” Sam said.
“Didn’t you already do that?” asked Dean, bending his head low, pulling out his geography book. Listening for Dad.
“No,” said Sam, equally quiet. “That was addition and subtraction. Over and over.”
Dean opened his book with both hands, and panicked for a second while he realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. His mind clicked back. He could picture Mr. Collins with his blue tie that he’d worn today. Something about Siberia. Dean ran his finger along the table of contents till he saw Siberia listed and then turned to that page. The whole chapter or just parts of it? From the beginning, or near the middle? Why didn’t he know?
Stomach going like a tilt-a-whirl, he thought he’d start at the beginning. Then tomorrow he’d write down what Mr. Collins said, so he’d remember at the end of the day. And he’d do the same for all of his classes. Yeah. That was the answer.
Dad came out of the front room, sock-footed, flannel shirtsleeves rolled up, the front of his thermal shirt stained near the bottom with something dark. As he walked into the kitchen, he caught Dean’s eye and nodded. The lecture had been delivered, and Dean knew his place; nothing more would be said about it.
“Spaghetti?” asked Dad, wanting confirmation that his boys had not eaten any recently. He opened one cupboard, and then shut it. Opened another one. They’d not been in the trailer long enough for any of them to know where they’d put anything.
“Yeah,” said Dean. That sounded good. “There’s garlic bread in the freezer,” he added to that, hoping Dad would take the hint.
He did.
As the water boiled, Dad heated up a jar of store bought spaghetti sauce, one with a blue parrot on it, and whatever that had to do with tomato sauce, Dean didn’t know. Then, while the spaghetti cooked and the bread heated up in the little oven, Dad laid the dishes and mix of silverware on the table, taking up room. Letting Dean know, without words, that study time was over. For now. Sam had already finished all of his sheets, of course, and had just started on marking up a map of the United States, but he too stopped, and cleared away his work.
The meal was good and hot. Not that it was hard making spaghetti, but there was something about not having made it himself, having Dad home to make it, that made it extra good. He even managed to pretend to forget to pour the milk, which earned him a scowl from Dad, so that Dad would have to pour it for them all. It always tasted better when Dad poured it, not that that was something he could ever put into words.
And it was nice having them all at the table together. Even Sammy kept his dorky chatter to a minimum while Dean put away enough spaghetti and sauce and bread for two Winchesters. When he started to choke on his milk, he was chugging it so fast, Dad gave Dean a grin, patted him on the back, and took the glass away.
“Take it easy there, kiddo,” he said, a good mood having taken the place of the earlier bad one. “And, Dean, I’m leaving in the morning for another job, if it doesn’t keep snowing. You do your homework and make sure Sammy does his. I’ll do laundry when I get back.”
Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on his plate, on the fork curled up in his fist. “Okay, Dad.”
“And the books, Dean, I mean it. When I come back-”
“I’ll do it, Dad,” said Dean, swallowing. Looking up, the dark eyes of his father’s meeting his, that mouth working as though over a sore spot. “I promise.”
After dinner, Dean did the dishes in the shallow metal sink and left them in the drainer to dry. At one point the idea had been to make Sammy dry them, to give him more responsibility, but he managed to drop more than he dried. Even getting used Corelle from the Salvation Army hadn’t made any difference. Besides which, Dad had found out that letting dishes air dry was actually healthier, so Sam was off the hook. Forever.
Then Dad planted himself in the Dad chair, sock feet up on the ottoman, the TV on to some old movie, something with horses. It looked like a Clint Eastwood movie, but Clint wasn’t on screen, so Dean couldn’t be sure. He settled on the couch anyway, his geography book up, reading, hoping it was the right chapter, hoping Dad wouldn’t notice and exile him to the dining room table. Sammy settled himself at the other end of the couch, some book open under the lamp on the side table, lips moving slightly as he worried his thumb with his teeth, eyes tracking each word.
Then it got later. The movie turned into the evening news, and Dean nudged Sammy, already half-asleep, with his foot. Sam’s head jerked upright and he looked at Dean, head tilted back, eyes mostly closed, like he could already feel a pillow behind him. Dean tipped his head in the direction of the bedroom and closed his geography book as quietly as he could. As he got up, he left it on the couch, and walked over to the TV to turn it down a little.
“Don’t change the channel,” said Dad, without opening his eyes. His head was resting against the lumpy pillow at the top of the chair, and Dean nodded without saying anything. He hustled Sam to the bathroom, where both of them brushed their teeth, and flipping that light off, he reached around to turn on the bedroom light. Not that they couldn’t get dressed in the dark, of course, but the room was so small and still somewhat new to them that bumping into something sharp-edged was a good possibility.
Dean took pjs from the drawer and put them on. He would soon be too old for pjs, and would sleep in his underwear and a t-shirt like Dad did. Sammy put on his striped pjs and slipped into the bed, taking the spot against the wall. Dean turned off the light and crawled in beside his brother.
“You gonna have a nightmare again, Dean?” asked Sam. Whispering in the dark. Dean could feel him pulling the covers up to his chin. The room, with only one heating vent coming up from the floor, was chilly. Dean thought about getting the space heater, but it was in the living room, and he didn’t want to get up.
“No,” he said. “I never have nightmares. You’re the one who has nightmares all the time.”
He felt rather than heard Sammy sigh. “Okay. But you make the bed shake sometimes.”
“Do not.”
“You do too.” Sammy nodded his head, moving it against the pillow, making the bed shake. “You do.”
“I do not, you jerk. Quit saying that.”
“Boys.”
This from the living room, quiet, but loud enough and fierce enough to shut them both up.
“So shut up,” said Dean. Whispering now.
“You shut up.”
“You.” He reached over and socked Sam in the arm. Heard Sam grunt in his throat as he took it and immediately felt bad. “Sorry.”
“S’okay.” This said low, almost under Sammy’s breath, like the faint sound of a faraway ghost.
Then Sam rolled over, facing towards the wall, and Dean lay on his back, with only his face and the tips of his fingers out of the blanket and sheets. His heart was still settling down from pounding, his stomach full of spaghetti, and his head feeling like it had a huge concrete wall in it. He didn’t know what was on the other side. He didn’t know if he wanted to know.
In the morning, he woke up, curled into a small ball against Sam’s ribs. Sam was already awake, his hands behind his head, stretched out, looking down at Dean. He didn’t say anything, but Dean already knew, knew by the soft, appraising look in Sam’s eyes, that yes, he’d had a nightmare that he luckily couldn't remember, and yes, he’d shaken the bed with it. But Sam, being Sam, didn’t need to say a word to make his point.
Part 4