Duck Boy Read online

  Duck Boy

  Published by Bitingduck Press

  eISBN 978-1-938463-61-7

  © 2012 Bill Bunn

  All rights reserved

  For information contact

  Bitingduck Press, LLC

  Altadena, CA 91001

  http://www.bitingduckpress.com

  Cover image by Dena Eaton

  Introductory quote from from the Penguin publication The Gift: Poems by Hafiz, by Daniel Ladinsky. Copyright © 1999 Daniel Ladinsky and used with his permission.

  To my wife, who is life, my children, who are inspiration. Special thanks to Ken Rivard, Brad Quiring, and Diana Patterson.

  Whatever you can do in a dream

  Or on your mind-canvas

  My hands can pull—alive—from my coat pocket.

  —Hafiz, “Imagination Does Not Exist,” from The Gift (translated by Daniel Ladinsky)

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

  It was surprising how average the night seemed, considering Steve Best’s mom was about to disappear forever.

  Steve lay on his bed, watching a cartoon on his iPod, trying to put himself in a better mood after a rousing fight with his mom.

  I need to apologize.

  “Helllpppp!” Her shriek splintered the silence. Had she been stabbed? The terror in her voice made his skin crawl. The gap at the bottom of his bedroom door pulsed with light.

  “Noooo.” A second spine-chilling howl.

  A loud smash on the hardwood floor followed by a softer thump, and the line of radiation snapped into a black silence.

  “Mom?” Steve shouted. “Are you all right?” He felt for his night stand and set down his iPod. “Mom?”

  Standing, he groped for the door and knuckled the bedroom light on. He opened his door into the black of the living room. He skulked across the floor to the far wall. He could hear his dad fumbling in their bedroom.

  Steve’s fingers found the plastic bank of switches and flipped them on.

  His dad jerked through the door, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. A zombie. Hair a wild, balding nest perched on his head.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded, one hand shading his eyes from the light.

  “I dunno.”

  In front of them both, Mom’s yellow overstuffed leather chair. The chair’s right arm gashed with four lines made by her fingernails. Clawmarks. A brown pond of coffee on the floor, its edges creeping into a widening circle. A ruffled notebook seemed to float in the middle of the pond, soaking in the coffee, surrounded by the shark-fin shards of a shattered mug and smashed coffee table light. Chair empty. No blood.

  “What the…?” Steve breathed. The house waited in silence. No footsteps. No screams. No scuff marks on the hardwood. After a moment, Steve’s dad marched into the kitchen.

  “Did you hurt your mom?” he asked slowly, as he returned with a roll of paper towels.

  “No,” Steve answered, offended. “Of course not. You serious?”

  His dad met his stare. “That was a wicked argument. You told her to go jump in a lake.”

  “Dad, I didn’t touch her. I would never. I can’t believe you think I might have.”

  “Susan? Honey? Are you OK? Can you hear me?” Mr. Best returned and hurled the paper towels towards Steve. “Can you work on that, while I find Mom?”

  It was a wicked argument.

  Steve began applying patches of paper towel to what was now a brown lake, and went to fetch a bowl from the kitchen. He could hear his dad plunging into the basement and through the rest of the house, calling out, “Honey? Susan? Where are you?”

  After hollering through the whole house, Mr. Best returned to the living room, agitated. “Susan, this isn’t funny any more. Stop it.” His face was wild with dread.

  Steve sopped up the coffee lake, dropping the drenched paper towel into the bowl.

  “Have you seen her?” Dad squeaked.

  Steve shook his head.

  “You’re not in on this?” Mr. Best yelped, still apparently hoping it was some kind of weird joke. But he didn’t wait for an answer. He scoured the house again, searching behind furniture, peering around corners, opening doors, yelling into rooms.

  Finally he seemed to give up, laughing nervously. “Your mom does these things from time to time,” he attempted, eyes darting around the room.

  “You could have done a better job of cleaning up,” he added, suddenly angry. He tore the towel out of Steve’s hand and knelt over the stain. “Why would she do this?” he said quietly to himself as he mopped. “Why would she do this?”

  Steve winced as he thought of his last words to his mom. His dad probably heard them. As they reverberated in his mind, he knew they were words that should never have been spoken. “I wish you would go away, and never come back.” He sunk his head into his hands and sighed.

  Sorry, Mom.

  After a nervous clean-up, Mr. Best flopped on the couch next to Steve. He tapped his foot on the floor, his eyes darting with every little creak and groan in the house. Every few minutes he’d holler his way through the house again, then collapse once more.

  “Something’s not right.” He bounced suddenly off the couch.

  “Geez, Dad. Take it easy.”

  “Sorry, Son. I should call a few of her friends.” He strode to the imitation antique phone, pulled the earpiece from its cradle, and dialed.

  “Chrissy? Doug Best calling. Sorry to call so late. Is Susan over at your place?” Some muffled squawking. “OK. If she does drop by, could you tell her to call home?” More squawks. “Thanks. Goodbye.”

  He repeated this call at least fifteen times, different numbers and names but the same outcome.

  Steve closed his eyes and tried to imagine a happier ending to the argument he’d had with his mom.

  Dad appeared tormented after the phone calls. “Any ideas?” he asked Steve. “Did I check the bathrooms?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply and swept through the bathrooms. “Nada,” he said in an outlandishly cheery voice. He returned to the living room, his face contorted with suffering. Then an anxious smile. “The cars!”

  Out the front door, into the night in his PJs and bare feet. Steve could hear yells through the front door, still wide open, as his dad rummaged through the yard. Front and back. Then to the garage. A distant crash and a matching set of obscenities. Mr. Best darted back into the house, slamming the front door.

  “Something’s not right. This is not like her,” Dad sputtered, little globes of saliva spraying as he spoke. Eyes rimmed with red. Lip twitching. “I don’t know where she went,” he cried.

  Steve shook his head. It was official, he was drowning in guilt.

  She was gone. And gone she stayed.

  Steve stood in a short line at a checkout, staring out the mouth of the store at the banks of outlet shops and the empty corridors festooned with fountains. And, of course, the faces. He always checked faces. The elderly man in line ahead of him, the woman selecting headphones from the wall behind him.

  “Have a nice day,” the clerk said to the man, her smile as plastic as the bag she handed him. The old man clasped the bag with tremulous, aged fingers and headed out aimlessly towards one of the fountains, allowing Steve to step forward with a new iPhone.

  A woman browsed a display of cards set out on the tiled corridor at the front entrance.

  “No way,” Steve stammered to himself.

  He forced his eyes into a slow blink, to cleanse his vision. And gawped again.

  “Mom?” His heartbeat sounded like a drum in his ear. She continued to strum through the rack of cards. A few purchases dangled in bags from her left hand.

 
“How would you like to pay for your phone, sir?” droned the cashier. Steve meant to set the phone package on the counter, but he couldn’t stop staring at the woman. The phone slipped from his grasp and bashed on the floor. His wallet flapped open in his other hand, as though he held a bird by its wing.

  “Sir?” the cashier urged.

  “Mom? Mom? Is that you?” Steve yelled, a kind of sick, sticky thrill rising in his throat. The woman turned to Steve. “Mom?” he repeated. Her eyes opened in horror as the recognition burned home.

  “Um…ah.” Words stalled. Crimson blazed on her cheeks. She flung her purchases and bolted.

  The old man was still at the fountain, mesmerized by the fountain’s jets. The woman hit him square in the back with enough force that he toppled into the water, full of spare change. Steve began to move towards the fountain.

  “Sir, your phone is on the floor,” the cashier huffed. Steve’s open wallet dropped to the floor a few feet away from the iPhone.

  “Sir?”

  His mom had a head start, already slaloming through the food court tables. He chased, but his legs refused to work quickly. “Mom…Mom,” he screamed down the mall. “Why did you do it? Just tell me why you left.”

  In an instant, the mall was awash with a sea of people. Steve bumped his way through the crowd.

  By the time he arrived at the food court’s tables, his mother was slamming through the mall doors to the parking lot. Steve felt a familiar lump crush his throat. He ran to the doors and yelled at the tiny sprinting figure. “You don’t have to come home if you don’t want to.”

  From some distant place, Steve heard an annoyed voice. Oh, right, he thought. This is a daydream. More like a nightmare. Except during the day. A daymare.

  “Mr. Best?” The teeming crowd faded to black. Even the daymare wouldn’t stay.

  Mr. Pollock stood before him, frowning. His arms folded defiantly over his ample gut. A tie tied slightly too short. A white dress shirt with blue and red stripes, with a few straining buttons around his navel. A badly dressed frown with legs. And the frown was aimed at Steve.

  “Mr. Best! You’re traveling again.” The rest of the class laughed. The Frown marched along the row of desks to Steve. “Mr. Best, you still haven’t answered me! Well, Mr. Best?”

  “Huh?” Steve answered in a weak voice.

  “Would you answer the question, please?”

  Steve scoured the faces of his ninth-grade classmates for any clues. No one wanted to help. They seemed more entertained by Mr. Pollock’s tirade, more interested in what was going to happen to Steve.

  “Um, I guess I wasn’t listening, Mr. Pollock,” Steve replied. A tired pair of words flocked his thoughts. A reminder of an old wound, these words showed up whenever he felt like a loser.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  “I’d like to know where you go when you take these mental vacations. Next time book a two-way ticket,” the Frown said. “And book it over a holiday. It’ll be cheaper.”

  A tingle of embarrassment burned Steve’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pollock,” hoping to end the attack. But the Frown hadn’t finished with him.

  “Get out of my classroom,” snorted the teacher. “Principal’s office. Now.” He raised an arm and pointed dramatically toward the office and waited.

  Steve collected his books and shuffled through the door.

  The classroom door slammed behind him, leaving him alone in the hallway.

  Alone. Finally.

  He already had an appointment at the principal’s office, though Mr. Pollock hadn’t known it. His dad was supposed to talk to the principal to review Steve’s abysmal marks. The principal and Dad. Double whammy.

  Steve detoured to his locker. He spun the face of his combination lock. After a third try at the combination, it opened, and he placed everything he didn’t need inside. He collected his coat, gloves, hat, and his binder—he had homework over the Christmas break.

  Thank God the Christmas break starts tomorrow.

  Bowing his head, he rested against the locker shelf and closed his eyes. For a few moments, he stood there avoiding the thoughts pooling in his mind.

  I could drown, if I think too much.

  The bell rang and classroom doors burst open. Students flooded the hallway.

  Startled, Steve slipped on his coat, stuffing his tuque and gloves into the pockets, and tucked his binder under his arm. He swung the locker door shut and slid the lock into place.

  The short stretch of hallway towards the school door and the outside world tempted him for a moment. The winter weather would feel tropical compared to the chill he was about to face in the principal’s office. He fought the urge to leave everything and walk home.

  No point in making things worse.

  He crawled through the crowd toward the office. As he passed the entrance to Mr. Pollock’s class, the class bully crowed his arrival.

  “Hey, Duck Boy,” David said in a loud voice. “Duck, Duck, Ducky!”

  Steve clenched his teeth, but didn’t look up. As he passed, David lunged for Steve’s binder and whacked it forward. It flew from under his arm and into the crowded hallway ahead of him. The binder’s rings snapped open and class notes feathered the air. A pair of girls squealed with laughter. They turned away as Steve glanced at them. The brick echoes of their laughter still hit the mark.

  “Hey, you—Duck Boy!” yelled another classmate.

  Steve forced his eyes down and away from his schoolmates’ faces as he passed them, away from the paper, and up the hallway. Away, away. The pack of students kicked and frolicked through his notes, giddy with the thought of Christmas. David and his cronies eyed him, probably hoping Steve would frantically attempt to recapture all the paper.

  I refuse to pick it up.

  Instead, he stomped through his own notes, the paper crinkling and tearing as he walked over it.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  The nearly empty binder lined up with his foot, and in a final act of defiance, he punted it. It flew between several students, shedding a last few sheets, bashing against a stretch of lockers. It collapsed to the floor, covers partly torn, like a robin that had hit a glass window.

  He stormed through the office door, stopping in front of the secretary’s desk. The secretary looked up sharply, as if he had startled her, but her surprise melted into a smile when she saw him.

  “Hello, Steve,” she said. Membership has its privileges. Frequent fliers were greeted personally at the door. “Your dad and Mrs. Wilcox are discussing your school performance. I’ve got to get some photocopying done.” She picked up a thick file and stepped from behind the counter. “Just wait until they finish their meeting, all right? They know you’re waiting for them.” As she stepped into the hallway, Steve sat down next to the principal’s office. A clock whirred and clicked just above his head.

  Steve felt ice close in around him as he sat. Life was such a drag. His nickname flew circles in his thoughts.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  As he waited, his thoughts migrated back to his foolish duck rescue—the day he earned the name “Duck Boy.”

  It was in November that the pond outside the junior high school had frozen over for the first time that season. The pond looked black under the smooth polish of the first coat of ice. But the day seemed cold enough for the ice to hang on until the rest of winter arrived.

  In the middle of that frozen pond sat a mallard duck, frozen to the ice. It had probably fallen asleep while the ice formed around it. When it awoke, it was frozen to the pond’s surface. It flailed and screamed for freedom, but the ice wasn’t listening.

  As Steve stood gazing at the stranded bird, a few of his classmates gathered by the pond.

  “That’s hilarious,” David said. “So much for the mighty duck.”

  “It’s a dead duck,” one of David’s minions added. “A frozen dinner.”

  David bent down, found a stone and hurled it at the duck. The stone hit the ice in fr
ont of the bird and scuttled into the bird’s side. The duck stopped trying to free itself from the ice for a moment and began to flap up a new panic. David carefully selected another rock from the pond’s edge.

  “Stop it, jerks!” Steve yelled towards his classmates. “Can’t you see it’s stuck? It’s utterly defenseless.” He rushed at David to stop his throw.

  Another spectator caught Steve and pushed him to the ground and sat on him before he could reach his nemesis. “Pinhead,” Steve spat in David’s direction.

  The rock missed.

  “That duck has more happening in its brain than you do,” Steve yelled with the last of his breath.

  His comment earned him a slug in the gut. “Stupid animal lover.” Steve fought to bring air back into his lungs. “Mind your own business.”

  “He’s the ugly duck,” David said, pointing at Steve. “So ugly that even his mom couldn’t stand him.”

  The group laughed. “He’s the Ugly Duck Boy!”

  “Leave the duck alone!” Steve wheezed.

  “The newspaper says there are too many ducks around, doofus,” David snarled. “That duck was stupid. It got itself frozen into the pond. Survival of the fittest.” David stopped talking as a fist-sized rock bashed the duck’s back, and the duck stopped its fight to look up towards the bank with a dazed look.

  “Nice shot,” a minion remarked.

  Steve heaved his captor from his body and ran, without a thought, to the pond’s edge. He focused on the dazed duck, mulling his choices, and then stepped gingerly onto the new layer of ice. For a moment he stood on the pond’s surface. But the ice snapped loudly, and in an instant the polished black surface around his feet burst into shards.

  He stood in ankle deep water, the pond filling his new Nike hightops. “Crap,” he muttered to himself. Somehow he remembered to remove his backpack, throwing it onto the shore behind him.

  Then step by soggy step he marched toward the duck, making pieces of the ice as he went.

  “Look at the idiot. He thinks he’s a duck,” shouted someone. “He’s ugly, and he can’t swim.” It was true. Steve couldn’t swim at all, and he sure felt ugly. The four on the shore laughed hysterically and mocked.