unpleasant sensation of dry clothes dampening around me, and tuck the gun into
my back pocket.
V. Beaver
At first I can’t see him in the parking lot, but when I walk into the road he
flips his headlights on. Inside the car, the radio and controls glow green, outlining
Mr. Blink’s face just slightly, so that, despite losing his hat, he is still hidden from
me. As I climb into the seat beside him the scent of sharp cologne assaults me,
mixing unpleasantly with his cigar smoke and the minty sweet smell of the gum
that he’s loudly chewing.
36
“Where do you want to go?”
“The hospital.”
He glances at me straight faced, and I stare back innocently until his
emerald-tinted lips curl up at the edges. “The hospital sounds like a fun place for
a fun boy,” he says. “What’s at the hospital? Do you need an operation?” He
pokes my rib cage but I ignore him.
I remove the gun from my pocket and wipe the chlorine off of it.
“What’s your name, my boy?” he asks.
I consider giving my real name at first, but decide that it wouldn’t be wise.
“Beaver,” I say. My parents used to call me Beaver after a stupid character
from a corny TV show.
“The Beav,” he says with a sly grin. “A good name for my good boy.”
I used to like it as a name too, but only because I took it to mean the
animal. I think that’s why I’d always been so drawn to swimming: I was The Beav.
I’d swim as often as I could as a kid. The house I’ve now come to hate was perfect
for my parents when they bought it; it was the first house in the subdivision,
so it was inexpensive, unique and far away from all the others. Importantly for
me, though, there was a small lake within walking distance, just like the one
my father had grown up with. My father taught me how to swim in that lake,
holding my hand as we crossed the rocky floor and entered the deep. He held me