Not Even A Mouse

  Not Even

  A Mouse

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Copyright © 2017 MariaLisa deMora

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  First Published 2017

  ISBN 13: 978-1-946738-09-7

  DEDICATION

  Thank you to my huge, extended, and still growing family for reminding me that—trite as it sounds—love truly is love.

  Contents

  Where things began

  Business as usual

  Take me on a ride

  Mister man

  Just a stranger

  I wish

  What I need

  Sideways

  Hold it together

  Party line

  I need him

  Perfect match

  The right move

  Going home

  Wishes and dreams

  Unka Myron

  The right guy

  What did you do

  Soup with sass

  Give me a tour

  Falling for you

  Not even a Mouse

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Every story is magic. They all begin with an idle thought. If allowed time to mature, if cultivated, that thought can become an idea. If fed and carefully tended, that idea can grow until it exceeds the bounds of anything the idle thought ever dreamed of becoming.

  This story began with an idle thought. The summer I was five-years-old, a beloved small-town country doctor removed my chronically-infected tonsils and adenoids. The surgery went well. Then, I nearly died a week later when I hemorrhaged from the site, gushing blood from my carotid artery. That was the second time in my life I almost died.

  Summer being construction season in East Texas, our county highway was being resurfaced, and long sections of it were closed for extended periods of time so the heavy equipment could do their work. Refusing to wait, my mother drove our 1964 Dodge Polara—I know the model because I’ve remembered the novelty of its push-button automatic transmission—through the ditch for a considerable distance to get us around the construction zone.

  When we arrived at the local hospital, the doctor met us in the lobby and the doctor whisked me away from my mother. I’d like to draw you a picture of how pale he was in response to the dire situation, but the honest thing is I don’t remember what he looked like, just the terrified expression on my mom’s face. I do remember the sound his feet made as he hurried up the rubber-covered incline leading to the second floor—slap, slap, slap. It was a head-bobbing awkward run which I am certain he felt in his bones for days following, as he wasn’t a young man. The cauterization was a success—obviously, as I’m still here—but…let’s just say traumatic is a too-frail word for the rushed procedure used to stop the bleeding on a completely conscious little girl.

  So, my idle thought was: What if a little girl went through what I did, but the story’s focus was on the parent? Not the scene from my remembered child’s point of view, but how it was for my mother to sit in that lobby, the shoulder of her shirt covered in drying blood, impatiently waiting to learn if her life would be the same at the end of the day. My dad was at work in Longview, and I believe it was that night before she was able to get word to him of what happened. That meant it was possible she sat alone for hours.

  Then, my next idle thought was: What if she could call on someone for support, but in doing so irrevocably change their lives in some way?

  In a flash, Myron raised his hand, and it was off to the writing-races, because I knew where we were headed, and I have to say…I like where we got to with this story. I hope you enjoy it, too.

  Remember, love comes in all sorts of packages. We just need to be brave enough to begin the unwrapping process. If we do that, and trust our hearts, then just like idle thoughts turning into stories, magic will happen. Promise.

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Where things began

  “Boy, you wanna explain what that school principal sent this paper home for?”

  No, fourteen-year-old Ronnie absolutely did not want to explain why the school wanted to have a parent-teacher conference. There were few things he was certain of these days, but explaining to Mr. Younger what the teacher had seen today was a definite no. He stood and tried not to fidget, gaze resolutely angled towards the floor, knowing from experience it was the only way to get through the next few minutes without catching holy heck.

  “Boy?” The tone of the single word question had changed, dropping an octave, growing a rough and jagged edge to the sound. Ronnie knew better than to even shake his head, because that would be an admission of something, which would open the door for the rest.

  Alan’s voice slithered through his head, repeating the same entreaty he’d spouted since Monday. “You wanna look at the pictures, you gotta do what they show.” Alan had stolen one of his daddy’s dirty magazines, no big deal, something he’d done before with no repercussions. Ronnie had never understood the draw, but the boys in class would cluster around the older Alan as if he held the Holy Grail, paying a penny per page to look at the crowded pictures of women on the slick sheets of paper.

  Monday, though, the magazine Alan brought to school had a special section in the back. Ronnie had gotten only a glimpse as Alan fanned through the pages, teasing his crew, and what he saw left Ronnie standing with his mouth open like he was a stupe. He’d lined up with the other boys, penny in hand, stepping out of line and back in behind the next boy, and the next, until he’d been the last one and they had only a few minutes before recess was over.

  “I wanna…see…those.” He pointed to the back cover and Alan tipped his head, staring down at him with wide eyes. “The ones at the back, there.” He held out his hand, one shiny penny lying flat on his palm. Alan smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. The expression on his face pulled his mouth wide, top lip lifting until he no longer looked like a fifteen-year-old boy, but more like a scary caricature of a man with too-big teeth.

  “Meet me back of the gym at lunch.” His hand swooped out, fingers plucking the penny from Ronnie’s palm. He leaned close and tucked it deep into the front pocket of Ronnie’s pants, fingers digging, rubbing and touching his privates in a way that made his pecker stiffen. “You can look all you want, no charge.”

  Ronnie had wolfed down his lunch, shoveling the school food into his mouth until it was a wonder he hadn’t choked. Alan was a grade ahead of him, and their lunch was earlier. Ronnie was afraid he’d miss the boy and that wasn’t something he was going to permit. That single glance of the pictures in that special section had set his heart racing, made all the spit in his mouth dry up.

  Empty tray handed through the window to the lunch lady, he’d forced himself to carefully walk to the door and out into the hallway. Turning left, he wound through the maze of halls that led to the back of the activity building, a combination gymnasium and auditorium, blinking at the bright sunshine when he pushed through the door and outside. He looked around in dismay and muttered, “Man,” because he didn’t see Alan. Lost my chance.

  Ronnie turned to head back inside, mind already on his next class period, running through last night’s homework when he heard his name.

  “Ronnie. Pssst. Over here.” Looking around, he saw a hand waving from the tiny alcove next to the gym. When the builders adde
d the gym, decades after the school itself was built, they’d left a tiny strip of space between the sides of the buildings. The area was soggy in rainy season, because the runoff from both roofs turned the ground to mush. It wasn’t raining now, and hadn’t been, so the dirt was packed. It was where the teachers who smoked went to get away from the kids, where the upperclassmen went to kiss their girls. And now, it was where Ronnie was going to look at dirty pictures that made his stomach dip and sway.

  “Lemme see.” He was anxious, already anticipating the moment of unveiling, ready to know for sure if what he’d been feeling was real. “Come on, Alan.”

  Six inches taller, Alan stood in front of him, magazine folded and tucked under one arm, hands shoved into his pockets. “Won’t take your money.”

  A ball bounced inside the gym, hitting the wall beside Ronnie with such force the smack echoed in the space where they stood. No free rides. He thought of a bumper sticker he’d seen on a semi that touted Ass, Gas, or Grass, nobody rides for free.

  There were no free rides in life, and Ronnie knew that truth better than most, because while the Youngers weren’t great, they were a far sight better than some of the other fosters he’d lived with in the years since his parents were killed in a car wreck. If Alan didn’t want money for Ronnie looking at the magazine, he’d want something else. “Then what?”

  “For every page you wanna look at, you gotta do something.” The words came out in a rush, tripping over themselves to vacate Alan’s mouth.

  “Do what?” His brain buzzed with ideas of homework assignments, or carrying lunch trays. Being Alan’s toady for a few days might be worth it if what he expected to see was real and not a trick of his imagination.

  “What one of the pictures shows.” Ronnie stood, mouth open, not breathing. Alan hurried to say, “One picture per page. Whatever one I pick, you gotta do.”

  Another ball smacked against the inside wall, but Ronnie was so focused on Alan he scarcely heard it, and didn’t hear the murmur of voices growing louder in the gym, signaling the lunch period was nearly ended.

  “I gotta…” He let his voice trail off. Alan nodded. “Whatever you…” Another truncated sentence, another nod.

  It was as if Alan had reached into his head and pulled out the one thing that he wanted more than anything. A reason to try the things that were burning his brain. He opened his mouth but before he could respond, and he might never know what that response might have been, the two-minute bell rang, a shrill warble that held a tinge of warning. Don’t be late. Don’t be tardy. You’ll regret it.

  Alan pushed past him and Ronnie felt something smack against his buttocks. Twisting, he saw Alan tuck the magazine back under his arm just before he rounded the corner.

  That had been Monday and by the time Tuesday rolled around, Ronnie had a sleepless night under his belt and second thoughts in his head. Wednesday and Thursday, the same, lack of rest coloring deep circles under his eyes.

  Then today, Alan had asked a final time, telling him the magazine had to be back in the toolbox in his dad’s garage before it got to be beer-thirty. And Ronnie had met him in the alcove. Alan picked a page, folded the magazine so that would be all Ronnie got out of the deal, and had given him two minutes to look his fill.

  And look he did, gaze coasting up and down the page, criss-crossing the pictures that were jammed every which way on the printed page. Men. Naked men. Men in some elaborate harness things around their shoulders, and nothing else on their body. Men on beds, asses in the air, one hand back to clutch their cheek so they could show their hole to best effect. There were words too, of a sort, a language Ronnie’d never seen, dots and dashes over and under letters. He looked beyond that to the pictures. Men on their backs, fingers wrapped around their hard peckers. The picture in the center had arrested him, and he spent precious seconds staring at it. Two men, one on his knees with eyes turned up to the face of the one on his feet. He had the man’s whole pecker in his mouth, cheeks hollowed out like he was sucking on a straw.

  “That one,” Alan said, hand appearing over the top of the magazine, finger tapping on the center image. Ronnie didn’t look away, kept his gaze on the picture, ignoring Alan’s dirty fingernail scoring a line across the man’s face. “You’ll do it.”

  “Here?” Ronnie wasn’t aware his mouth was still working, thought his tongue had come unhinged in his maw.

  “Here.” Alan agreed and plucked the magazine back, arranging the pages just so as he closed it, plain brown backing covering the pictures of naked women on the cover. From looking at it now, no one would ever guess it held the reason for Ronnie’s heart to be thudding along like it was. Alan’s fingers worked at his belt then his pants, and Ronnie watched as he reached inside, hand reappearing, cradling a length of pecker that was impressive. “Put your mouth on it.” Alan’s fingers gripped the base, splaying out across his crotch, angling his pecker straight out. “Come on, we don’t have all day.”

  Ronnie bent at the waist and hesitated a moment, then slowly swayed forwards that last fraction of an inch and touched his lips to the tip of Alan’s pecker, surprised at the dry heat emanating from his flesh.

  “Lick it.” Alan’s directions were easy to follow; simple and to the point, which was good because Ronnie’s brain had stopped working a few minutes ago. He pressed his lips to it again, then gave it a lick, as if it were a frosting spoon. “Put it in your mouth.”

  Ronnie shuffled to the side and angled his head, bending over farther. He reached out and grasped Alan’s wrist, holding himself steady as he aimed the pecker at his mouth. “Oh, man,” Alan groaned when Ronnie put his lips around the end, memorizing how it felt in his mouth, the weight of it on his lips, how slippery the skin was when he swirled saliva over it with his tongue. He remembered the picture, how the man had been on his knees and Ronnie was attempting to crouch lower when a shocked inhale broke the spell he’d been under.

  Straightening, he whirled and looked to see Mrs. Ednell standing there, hand covering her mouth. Alan pushed past him and shoved the math teacher out of his way, leaving her staggering in his wake. Ronnie lifted a hand and swiped at his lips, surprised they weren’t wet.

  “Boy, I find out you’ve caused trouble at school, you and me will have a chat out in the barn.” Mr. Younger hefted his considerable bulk out of his recliner and stalked to where Ronnie stood in the center of the room. His hand landed on Ronnie’s shoulder, fingers digging in with brutal strength. “You know what this is, you should just get it over with. You got all weekend to think on it. Come up with the right answer. Be smart. Tell me now, it’ll go easier on you.”

  No it won’t.

  ***

  The heavy atmosphere in the cab of the truck was toxic. Their ride back to the foster home taking forever, moments ticking by as slowly as sap pooling on the cut end of a branch.

  Ronnie and Alan had stuck to the story they’d come up with in a hurried bathroom conversation that morning. No, sir. We don’t know what Mrs. Ednell thought she saw. Ronnie was just looking at something on the ground. Ronnie didn’t think the principal bought it, and he knew Mr. Younger hadn’t believed them for a single second.

  Throughout the entire meeting, the parts Ronnie was involved in anyway, Mr. Younger’s neck and face gradually had grown a darker and darker red, his blustering words never once defending Ronnie, just working to ensure the school authorities knew he wouldn’t stand for such perversion in his house. No siree bob, he’d be taking care of that as soon as he got the boy home.

  At least Ronnie knew what he had in front of him.

  He thought.

  “Pervert, go to the barn.” Ronnie jerked and turned to look at the man, seeing only his back as he climbed out of the truck on his side. Not even boy, this time. He slipped out of the truck, careful to close the door gently, knowing slamming it would trigger another round of punishments. He walked to the barn and pushed open the smaller door, going inside and standing for a moment in the soft darkness.

>   How bad can it be?

  A footfall telegraphed Younger’s approach and Ronnie turned. He felt lightheaded as blood rushed from his head, fear clotting his brain when he saw the belt in one of Younger’s hands, Bible in the other.

  “On your knees, pervert. You like it so much, get down there now.” Younger didn’t even sound mad, so Ronnie stared at him a moment, hoping he’d heard wrong. With a roar, Younger lashed out with the belt, the tail catching Ronnie full across the face in a brutal blow that staggered him. “I said get on your knees, faggot.”

  Stumbling backwards, feet tripping over each other, his ears buzzing loudly, Ronnie managed to drop to his knees, balancing there by an act of will. His face was numb, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking rapidly, vision scored through with stripes of shadow and brilliant light.

  Younger’s boots scuffed through hay and packed dirt on the barn floor as he stepped closer and Ronnie’s gaze came into focus, aimed at the front of the man’s pants, where he saw an unmistakable tenting.

  The belt came down again and again, each target a new agony as it wrapped over his shoulder, and lashed his ribs, leaving a trail of fire behind every strike. Ronnie cried out as the belt landed unceasing, his whole back screaming in pain.

  Younger took another step and stopped in front of Ronnie. “You a little cocksucking faggot, pervert boy?” He bent over and clutched Ronnie’s privates, squeezing hard until Ronnie was retching, his hands battering at the tree trunk of an arm connected to the hand that would not let go. “Like sucking cock?” A final squeeze left him blind and mute, mouth open in a silent scream at the explosion of agony that settled in his groin.

  Fingers gripped his chin and lifted, squeezed his cheeks in against his teeth until he tasted blood mixing with the bile already in his mouth. “Pervert.” He opened his mouth to yell and was choking, gagging around some foul-smelling thing obstructing his airway. Deeper and deeper it pushed, then pulled back and he sucked in air.