Chapter 19 Stormy #2
He also made a big point of saying there were no strings attached.
I moved in that night. The room was small.
It had a bed with clean sheets and a bathroom with hot water and a lock on the door and a window that looked out over the yard.
For two weeks it was everything he said it would be.
I worked hard. I organized his parts inventory, which was chaos.
I cleaned the shop floor and I sorted scrap and I earned my keep and he told me I was smart.
He told me he didn't know how he ran the place without me. He told me I was valuable.
Nobody had ever called me valuable before. I didn't know what that word felt like aimed at you until he said it, and it felt so good, and I didn't know it was bait.
The lock on my door stopped mattering on a Tuesday night three weeks after I moved in.
I was asleep. I heard the key turn. He had a key. It was his building. The door opened and he filled the doorway the way big men do. He was drunk. Not sloppy. Controlled. The kind of drunk where the voice gets softer and the hands get harder.
He sat on the edge of my bed and put his hand on my leg and he told me how much he appreciated me.
How good I'd been. How he wanted to show me what I meant to him.
And his hand moved up my leg and his voice never changed and he said we don't have to make this difficult, do we?
Think about where you were three weeks ago.
Think about the gas station. Think about the cold.
Think about this room and this bed and ask yourself what it's worth to have a safe place to stay.
I told him no.
He didn't hit me. Not that first night. He just looked at me.
Squeezed my leg. Smiled the way he smiled at the Waffle House.
Then he got up and left and closed the door behind him.
I heard his boots go down the hall. I lay there with my hand on my knife and my heart in my throat and I knew.
I knew exactly what was happening because I'd been here before.
Different man, different room, same script.
I was ten years old again and the footsteps were in the hallway and nobody was coming to help me.
The second time he came to my door, I didn't say no.
Not because he forced me. Not that night.
Because I did the math, the same math he told me to do.
This room or the gas station. This bed or the ground.
Three meals a day or digging through dumpsters in the dark.
Him or nothing. And nothing is a place I've been, and nothing almost killed me more than once.
At least this was warm and the food was regular and I knew what was happening to me.
I let it happen. And then I let it happen again.
And again. And it became the routine, the way Mama's drinking was a routine, the way the men in the hallway were a routine.
It's the background noise of your life and you stop hearing it the way you stop hearing traffic when you live near a highway.
It's always there. You just learn to sleep through it.
The hitting started around the fourth month.
At first it was connected to something I did.
I made a mistake in the yard, I organized tools wrong, I looked at him in a way he didn't like.
I said the wrong thing. A shove. An open hand across the face.
There were rules to it and I learned them fast. Don't talk back.
Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't make eye contact when he's drinking.
Don't flinch when he reaches for you because flinching makes him angry and angry is worse.
Then the rules stopped mattering. He'd come home from the bar in a mood and I'd be there and that was enough.
The shoves became fists. The fists became boots when I was on the ground.
He was smart about it, only hitting ribs, back, stomach, sides.
Places a t-shirt covers. Never the face.
The face is what people see and Ron cared very much about what people saw.
To the outside world, he was a good man running a business, sponsoring the little league team, going to church on Sundays.
The kid living above the shop was his helper, his charity case, evidence of what a generous guy he was.
Food was part of it too. I ate when he said I could eat.
I ate what he gave me, when he gave it, and nothing else.
The refrigerator was his. The kitchen was his.
Everything in that building was his, including me.
I took a piece of bread once because I hadn't eaten in two days.
He found the twist tie turned the wrong way on the bag.
He noticed that and what happened after made sure I never touched his food again.
After that, I sat at the table and I waited for him to put a plate in front of me and some nights he did and some nights he didn't and whether I ate or starved depended entirely on his mood. Hunger was just another leash. It kept me close the same way the hitting kept me quiet.
I tried to leave three times.
The first time was about five months in.
He'd been hitting me for three nights in a row and something in me snapped and I just walked.
No plan, no money, nothing. I walked down the highway in the middle of the night.
I made it maybe fifteen miles. He found me before noon the next day, driving that truck of his slow along the shoulder like he was out for a Sunday drive.
He pulled up beside me and rolled down the window and his face was calm.
Patient. Not angry. He said get in the truck.
Let's go home. He said it the way you'd talk to a dog that slipped its leash.
I got in the truck because what else could I do?
The beating when we got back was the worst I'd had up to that point.
Ribs, kidneys, the soles of my feet with a belt so I couldn't walk the next day.
And then the gentle part. The part after.
He brought me food and he sat with me. He held ice on my ribs and he said he was sorry but I had to understand.
The world out there was dangerous. People would hurt me.
He was protecting me from all of that. Didn't I see that?
Didn't I see how much he cared? Why he couldn't allow me to leave? He was just protecting me.
The second time was about a year in. I planned it better.
I waited until he drove to a parts auction, a trip that would keep him gone for two days.
I packed my bag. I had maybe sixty dollars saved from the cash he gave me, fifteen dollars a week, which wasn't pay, it was an allowance, the kind you give a child so they feel like they have freedom when they don't. I got on the first bus out.
Made it all the way to Tallahassee. I found a shelter.
I slept one night in a real bed in a room with other people and I thought maybe this time.
He was in the parking lot of the shelter the next morning.
I never knew how he found me. At the time it felt supernatural.
It felt like he could see through walls and read my mind and there was nowhere in the world I could go where he wouldn't find me.
He was leaning against the truck with his arms crossed and that patient smile and he said come on. Let's go home.
The beating was much worse. Bad enough that I couldn't get out of bed for three days and I pissed blood for a week. He told me if I went to a hospital he'd tell them I was on drugs and they'd believe him. Not me, because look at me. Who was going to believe me over him?
He was right. Who was going to believe me? I was a homeless kid with no ID, no family, no history that anyone could verify. I didn't even have a driver's license. He was a business owner with a firm handshake that made people trust him. I was nothing. He was somebody. That's how it works.
I didn't try to leave again for a long time. The third time wasn't a plan. It was a last-minute escape. He had his friend Carl over. They were drinking in the shop and I was upstairs and I heard Ron say my name.
I crept to the top of the stairs. I couldn't hear all of it. But I heard enough.
Ron was talking about me the way you talk about a tool you might lend to a neighbor. Casual. Offhand. He mentioned Carl staying the night and Ron saying he'd make sure I was "available" and Carl laughing in a way that told me he understood exactly what that meant.
I don't know if Carl would have come to my room.
I don't know if Ron was serious or bragging or testing the waters.
I don't know what would have happened if I'd stayed one more night.
But I knew one thing. If Ron gave me to Carl, there would be two of them.
And if there could be two, there could be three and four, and this would never end.
The cage would get smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of me inside it.
Ron's motorcycle was in the shop bay. He'd been rebuilding the carburetor, had the keys in the ignition because he was going to test it in the morning. My duffel bag was upstairs. Forty-three dollars in cash was everything I had in the world.
I waited until they were both deep into a bottle of Jim Beam.
I moved quiet. I'm good at quiet. I've been practicing quiet since I was ten years old.
I got my bag. I went down the back stairs.
I walked the bike out of the shop bay and down the gravel drive without starting the engine.
I pushed it a hundred yards down the road in the dark, gravel under my shoes, my heart beating so hard I could hear it over the crickets.
I climbed on and turned the key. And for one second before the engine caught, I thought about every other time I'd run and every other time he'd found me. I almost got off the bike and walked back inside and went to bed because that's what I'd learned. Running doesn't work. Running makes it worse.
He will always find me and drag me back there.
The engine caught. I twisted the throttle and I was gone.
I went south because south was away and away was the only direction that mattered.
I didn't have a driver's license. I didn't have a phone.
I didn't check the weather. I didn't have a destination or a plan or any reason to believe this time would be different from the other times.
Except that I was on a motorcycle instead of a bus and a motorcycle is faster than walking and maybe faster was enough for once in my goddamn life.
I rode until the gas ran low and then I put in what cash I could spare and I kept going.
I rode through the night and into the morning, and the sky started to change color in a way I didn't understand yet, going gray and yellow and heavy.
The wind picked up. The rain started. I kept riding because stopping meant he was catching up and catching up meant it was over.
I ended up under the overhang of a souvenir shop on a beach road in a town I'd never heard of, in rain that was coming sideways.
I was on a stolen motorcycle with only a few dollars left and a knife that couldn't cut butter and no idea that a Category 5 hurricane was about to make landfall right on top of me.
That's where you found me.
That's the whole story. That's who I am.
That's who I was before I was Stormy. A kid who has been running from rooms and men and hands in the dark since he was ten years old.
Who has never had anyone come back for him, who learned that kindness is a trap and nothing is ever free.
And if someone is nice to you it's because they want something and the something they want is always your body.
That's my story.
My real name is Matthew. But I'm not Matthew anymore.
I'd rather be Stormy forever, if that's okay with you.
Because Stormy is the special name you gave me.
And Stormy is the one who gets to live here with you.
—Stormy
I put the pen down. My hand is cramping from writing. The bar is so quiet I can hear the ice machine humming in the kitchen.
I read it back. All of it. Every word. I don't change anything because changing it would mean editing the truth and the truth doesn't get edited. It gets told or it doesn't. This is me telling it.
I fold the pages. Once, twice. I write TEX on the front in block letters. I carry it to the kitchen.
His coffee maker is on the counter. The one he sets up every night before bed so all he has to do in the morning is press the button. The mugs are already out. The sugar is already next to mine.
I set the letter next to his mug. Leaning against it so he'll see it the second he reaches for the coffee.
Then I go to our room. He's on his back, one arm thrown above his head, breathing deep and slow.
I take off my clothes and I climb into bed.
I fit myself against his side, my head on his chest, my arm across his stomach.
He stirs and his arm comes down around me, automatic, even in sleep, pulling me closer.
"Hey," he mumbles. Half asleep. "Where'd you go?"
"Nowhere," I say. "I'm right here."
His arm tightens and his breathing evens out.
I lie there with my ear over his heart and I think about the letter. In a few hours he's going to wake up, reach for the mug and see his name in my handwriting. He's going to sit on his stool and read every word and then he's going to know me.
All of me.
I'm not afraid.
For the first time since I tried to tell my Mama, I'm telling the truth and I'm not afraid of what happens next. Because whatever happens next, he's here. And he's not going to open a bottle and close a door. He's not going to say I'm making up stories.
He's going to read it and then he's going to make coffee. And then he's going to come back to this bed and hold me. He'll joke and make me laugh. I've told him my worst.
And that's how the morning will go.
I know this because I know him.