In America, we often associate the color white with innocence, purity, and goodness. In China, white is the color of mourning. And in horror depictions, white often symbolizes death. In this story, the color white simply describes the sheltered skin of a paralyzed 10-year-old boy who, after a traumatic accident, has spent three agonizing years indoors and out of the elements.  

 

All grins and giggles on an early afternoon tractor ride. Tubby’s loving grandfather, the driver, died more from guilt, than his injuries. And the accident instantly transformed the youngster grandson’s once skinny, tough, and fearless mobility to that of a potted plant. Thomas Tuttle’s freakish twist of fate diminished his maneuverability, caused him to pack on pounds, and earned him the nickname, “Tubby.” A once cute and cheerful boy, now nearly unrecognizable.

Dark swollen bags encircled Tubby’s bloodshot eyes. Dystrophic and atrophied features of mask-textured white skin frozen in a deadpan stare. Wheelchair pushed against the bedroom wall, nose nearly touching the tinted glass, his countenance but a faint-gray silhouette in the eyes of neighborhood children playing in the field beside his house. The pasture where he, not so long ago, loved to play too.

A prisoner to his afflictions—trapped inside a 12’ by 14’ bedroom—living life from pictures, books, or sporadic visions of jubilant little hellions outside his window. Often, he described his torturous solitude, and an eerie screeching of a solo violin’s dissonant melody reverberating inside his brain.

Tubby gazed toward the field; the playing children had apparently gone home. About to redirect his interests, he glanced just as Billy Thompson scampered up the old oak and out onto the huge branch draped over his bedroom window. Tubby’s wide-eyed surprise turned to glee at the sight of Billy. The old friends waved frantically, and giant smiles spread across their faces.  

Tubby reached up and flipped open the casement’s latch but was unable to lift the window’s frame. Spotting his difficulties, Billy leaned way out from his perch, barely hanging on by his opposite arm, feet twisted at the ankles atop the offshoot. Billy strained and pulled at the sash, moving it but inches with each grunt.

All at once, it sprung open. Billy’s feet slipped loose and left his bulk dangling by his weaker hand’s fingertips. But somehow, he eluded the hazardous fall, swung his feet upon the windowsill and made a desperate grab for the gutter. At last, he stopped swaying, seized control of his wobbly legs, and caught his breath to speak.

“Hey, Thomas.” Billy never liked to use Tubby’s nickname. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s okay.” Tubby refused to sound negative.

“No, it isn’t. It sucks. We miss you pal. Why won’t your parents let you come outside and visit with us? You could at least get some sun and talk.”

“They say such limited contact makes me too susceptible to viruses. I can’t fight off germs. And I catch everything.”

“Of course you do. You can’t buildup immunities and a tolerance to what you’re never exposed to.”

“Well, don’t tell me . . . tell my parents. They make the decisions.”

“It isn’t fair . . . for you, or for us.” Billy made faces, in deep thought. “Halloween is Thursday night; so, how would you like to trick or treat?”

“Billy, you know I can’t leave my room. I can’t even get downstairs to the refrigerator in this wheelchair or sneak a midnight snack like we used to do when you’d spend the night.” The boys got tickled and cackled like old times.

“Well, T, you just leave it to me. See you just before dark, Thursday.”

“No, Billy, I can’t . . . don’t come up with one of your harebrained ideas.”

“Trust me, T. If you’ll only believe . . . anything is possible.”

“It’s a nice thought, Billy. But not everything is doable for kids like me.”

“You’ll see, Thomas.” And with that, Billy lunged, wrapped the branch with his arms, swung his legs up scissoring his shanks around it, and methodically worked his way back to the tree’s trunk and shimmied to the ground.

Billy turned to walk away, smiling, and said, “See you Thursday, Thomas.”   

Tubby just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

________________________________________

On Wednesday, just past noon, Billy’s dad, Chuck, wheeled his battered Ford F-150 into the parking space nearest the Stumble Inn Tavern’s front door. Chuck instructed Billy to sit tight, keep the windows cracked open, and promised he’d be back soon.

Billy knew better. Drunks lose track of time, and everything else. So, he played games on his phone until its battery went dead—drew sketches and journaled story ideas on his iPad—glad he’d brought his data collectors along.

About to pee his pants for what seemed like hours, he fidgeted, fanned his legs in and out, and in red-faced agony, squeezed his genitals.

Unable to enter the bar or see a restroom within walking distance, he spotted a Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle against the tavern wall and slid down out of the truck to get it.

Back in the truck, he unzipped his trousers and found his shriveled willy. He struggled to get situated and pull his little chum out the zipper hole; so finally, he undid his belt and yanked his pants below his bottom.

On his knees in the seat, he aimed willy at the bottleneck and cut loose. Pee sprayed everywhere. And by the time he finished his business, what urine hadn’t drenched the truck’s seat, his clothes, run all over his hands and arms, or splattered on the dash and windshield, had collected in a measurable two-inch volume in the bottom of the bottle. He wiped his face with his sleeve, hands on his shirt, and pulled up his pants. Then, he climbed out and put the bottle back against the tavern wall.

Within minutes, a scroungy boozehound wobbled around the corner of the building. Wearing a long, raggedy coat, sleeves hanging to his fingertips, a floppy hat pulled down over his ears, rheumy tired eyes, and a mouth full of deep-stained calculus and decay.

Dragging his feet he shuffled down the walkway, head twisting and turning, cautious to every sight and sound.

Once assured there weren’t watchers, he bent over and snatched up a Miller Lite bottle, held it skyward, until confident the liquid was clear. Then he turned it up and sucked it dry. Licking his lips he flashed a jagged-toothy grin and returned the bottle to the concrete walk.

Nearing the PBR bottle Billy had just sat against the wall, he glanced around for onlookers, grabbed the bottle, and held it to the sun. The light amber liquid appeared clear; so, he put it to his lips and gulped.

Immediately he spewed out a spray and his distorted face kept spitting as he sat the bottle down; almost, as quickly as he had picked it up. He moseyed back to the alleyway, as if nothing had happened, and slipped out of sight.         

The bank Marquee signage read: “Horse sense-The sense horses were given, not to bet on humans.” Its red-numbered clock showed 5:50 when Chuck staggered out, fell off the curb, and skinned his forehead on the bumper. Two men followed and helped him up and into the passenger-side seat: warning him not to drive, before walking off.

Chuck could hardly hold his head up, slobber drooled out the corner of his mouth and oozed down his chin. The scuffle to get Chuck in the truck seat had jostled the keys from his pocket and onto the seat. Soon as the men were out of view, Billy grabbed the keys and thrust them into the ignition.

Billy drove all the time around the farm and had even sneaked off a time or two for candy and a Yahoo chocolate drink at old Milford’s mom-and-pop grocery. He’d never driven on the main roads. But likely figuring first time for everything, Billy cranked up the truck and headed home.

A smooth operator, he wasn’t even nervous, and all was fine at first—until maybe a mile from home—where Sheriff McCarthy whipped in behind from Carter’s Lane, tailgating his bumper, gumball machines flashing red and blue.

Billy cautiously eased off the road and onto the graveled shoulder. The truck bucked, jumped, and slid, coming to a rather abrupt stop in a cloud of dust when he prematurely shifted into park.

Sheriff McCarthy, already at his door, snatched it open, and said, “What in the world are you doing boy?”

“Hello, Sheriff.” Billy knew this meant big trouble, since the lawman didn’t like his daddy or him anyway.

“Don’t hello me boy . . . what are you doing driving, and what’s the matter with your old man? Drunk again?”

There wasn’t much an 11-year-old could say to curb what was coming. So, Billy shut up, completely. And that only made matters worse. Chuck went to jail for public intoxication, and Billy ended up in the Kincaid Home, a juvenile detention center for troubled boys.

__________________________

Thursday morning, Billy woke up bloody and beaten. The juvie-bully agitator had wasted no time pounding him into submission. And the rest of the night—he cried and sniffled—pillow over his head so others couldn’t hear.

Billy remembered promising Tubby they’d Trick-or-Treat that night and planned to keep his word. So, he wandered repeatedly down every corridor, checked doors, and looked for any way out. He scrutinized the possibilities, examining the parking lot through plate glass, twelve floors below.

Metal grills incased the windows on the outside. There were no pipes, flues, cables, or weep holes to stick a toe or get a hand hold on the flat brick walls. A despairing situation, but Billy refused to become despondent.