Boys in the Valley(32)

All the boys tease him anyway, so what did it matter.

Lately, though, it hasn’t been too bad. He’s made a few friends this past year. It helps not being the newest arrival anymore, and he is a bit older. Plus, the oldest boys stand by him, keep things from getting out-of-hand from some of the others. Because of that, he loves Peter and David like big brothers. Peter is almost like a father. It feels strange to think that, but it’s true. Besides, Peter would be a priest one day, and then he would be a Father.

Basil giggles at his own internal play on words, finishes his business and rises off the wooden plank and its smooth, shit-stained opening, a dark portal to the trench below. Humming a tuneless song, he grabs a fresh cob from the bucket, wipes, and tosses it through the plank hole. He ties his trousers and stamps his feet—one, two—to get the blood going. He’s glad to be done with the chore, feels lucky to have been left alone this time. There are two other seats on the bench, but he hates to share. Plus, it’s disgusting, especially if he happens to get caught going the same time as Finnegan, who farts a lot, or Jonah, who likes to make fun of him while he tries to do his business. He makes vulgar jokes and laughs about his size.

He hates Jonah. And he hates being teased.

And these last couple days, things have gotten even worse.

It’s almost as if it’s no longer teasing. As if it’s meaner than that.

Dangerous, even.

The previous night, when most of the kids were asleep, a few boys got together at the end of the room and huddled there, talking quietly. They sat only a few feet from his bed, and even though he heard their whispers, he pretended to be asleep.

They discussed horrible things.

Unholy things.

Eventually, they must have realized he was faking, because Samuel started talking more loudly, as if wanting Basil to hear every word.

“When we’re done with the others, I say we get little Basil next. I’d like to kill that little shit. Strangle him to death.”

The others laughed, and Basil was terrified, but kept his eyes shut hard. They couldn’t know he was awake, not for certain. They were just hoping to scare him, make him open his eyes so they could get him—attack him in the dark.

Another voice had followed Samuel’s, and Basil wasn’t sure whose it was. He thought maybe it was Simon, but he hoped not. Simon had always been nice to him, and he is good friends with Peter. He prayed it wasn’t him.

“I’d like to cut him open,” the voice said. “Cut him open and play with his guts.”

There was a murmur of agreement at this, but Basil said nothing. He forced himself to focus on breathing steady, on keeping his eyes closed.

After that, they stopped, maybe believing him, maybe not caring anymore. They continued talking deep into the night, but their whispers grew quiet again, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying. At some point, he drifted off for real.

When he woke the next morning, with the sun shining and all the boys acting normal, he wondered if perhaps he’d dreamed it all. But he doubted it.

After he spoke with Peter—well, tried to speak to Peter, before he left for Hill farm—he noticed a few of the boys watching him. He ignored them, like he always did nowadays. He was tired of being picked on. Tired of being scared. And if they wanted to tease him, or attack him, he’d be ready. He’d give them as good as he got.

As Basil exits, the outhouse door is yanked hard by the wind, as if a giant hand has jerked it out of his grip. The icy wind has picked up something fierce. It whips against his face again and again, and it feels as though he’s being slapped. He’s pushed off balance, knocked back a step before he finally pushes outside the small building. He starts to close the door but the wind rips it from his hand again, this time slamming it so hard against the outhouse wall that it makes him jump.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph . . .” he mutters, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He’s anxious to be back inside, maybe find a deck of cards and play Patience. Perhaps Timothy would play a game with him; Timothy is always pretty nice. Potentially a friend even.

Basil stops at the pump, cranks it until icy water flows over his hand. He soaps them on what’s left of the bar sitting in the mud, then rinses as best he can before drying them off on the cold, filthy rag hanging from the pump’s neck.

His ears and cheeks are prickling from the frigid air, and he shivers beneath his thin clothes.

Damn, it’s cold.

Stuffing hands in pockets, he pushes on beneath the dismal sky, through the chill wind. Despite it being the early afternoon, it’s almost dark. Or, at least dim. A large, silver-tinted sun hides behind a slate of piled clouds. The surrounding trees are all leafless, their branches naked and twisted, as if screaming prayers to God. Growing uncomfortable (maybe even frightened), he strives forward, distracting himself with planning the rest of his day. He debates whether he should go to the dining hall before heading up to the dorm, maybe convince one of the kitchen staff to fix him a cup of tea . . .

“Basil!”

With a gasp, Basil spins around. Darting snowflakes blur past his vision.

Someone is standing outside the toolshed. They raise their hand and wave at him.

“Simon? That you?”

Simon, bundled in a coat and hat, nods and smiles.

Basil hears a random thump thump thump sound, and he realizes it’s the shed door, off its clasp, beating against the frame as the wind tugs at it.