Chapter 2

From the deep gray murk of his sleep, a once quite and distant voice suddenly become like thunder echoing underneath an overpass.

"VIN! For the third time, get UP! If you miss the bus again, you’re walking!"

He opened his eyes with just enough time to see his father’s impatient face turn and dissapear from the crack of his partially opened bedroom door. His mind still remained a conflicted murk of images; the old man’s penetrating gaze, clear and potent through the hut’s falling debris, wrestled with the warm reality of his bedroom. He layed still a moment and listened to the hallway floor boards groan as the old man marched back downstairs to his morning coffee and weather channel. Through a poster on the back of his door Johnny Cash stared at him and gave him the finger.

One by one memories began seeping in, rubbing the dream from the front of his consciousness– the laughter at the lake last night; his unfinished geometry homework; the dull pain in his knee from that failed attempt at hurdling the north field’s barbed wire fence at last sunday’s barbeque– and as the memories rolled in, the field and the farm house faded and dissolved, leaving only a thin shell of a time line, and an an array of skattered images.

"Mornin’ John," he mumbled at the poster, and launched himself out of bed and onto his feet. He felt unusually energized and interested in his surroundings. The scent of his bedroom appealed more to him than it ever had before. It was the scent of morning, and promise, and he felt an intense warmth in his chest. An unnamed excitement for the the day’s unknown adventures burned and boiled beneath his skin, and he shivvered with wandering anticipation.

The room was as organized as a millitary cubicle, save the twisted pile of clothing from the night before, and he found the old boards at the foot of his bed to be as noisy as ever. Every corner of his room begain it’s routine symphony of response. The wooden dresser clicked lightly and incidentally against the wall as he stood, and the far wall by his closet made it’s usuall cracking sound a moment or two later. He reached over and twisted the gnob on the blinds, eagerly offering himself to the damp mountain sunlight that beamed in through the slants…and as he stood bathing in the beams he carefully watched two solitary pieces of dust weave a slow path through the rays of light, like miniature asteroids on an august evening.

He teetered on his feet and stretched his limbs, moaning boisterously as he did so. He felt that it was important to also stretch his vocal chords, or so he had told his friend’s mother on his last sleep-over, but in reality the moaning was simply an impulsve gesture that came with stretching, and Vincent was never partial to denying himself inconsequential impulses. The digital clock on his night stand flashed a number that he didn’t really notice, though the fact that it was at least twenty minutes beyond what it should have been did not elude him, and he lumbered down the hall to the bathroom to run water for a shower. Late or not, Vincent was not in a mood to do anything until he had one.

He cranked the handle to it’s rehearsed sweet spot and let the water come thundering out. In the still of the morning the sound of running bath water had a particularly sobering effect, and before he was even out of his boxer shorts all he had left of the once vivid dream was a lone image of an orange face in the darkness. Everything else just seemed to mix itself together in a gray paint bucket

of moody anxiety. He flipped the shower switch, endured the moment of bubbling silence naked and cold, and promptly stuck his hand out to greet the hissing shower water. The temperature was perfect, and he quickly slipped in, tugging the curtain closed as he did so. He stood there a moment, face down, and let the warm water saturate his hair and flow down his body. He thought that he had never been so comfortable in his life as he stood there and absorbed the shower’s warmth, and just as he was about to nod off again, he reached for the shampoo.

Directly beneath the sound of the sloshing liquid in the drain pipes, Vincent’s father sat alone in the cluttered coffee and cherry pipe tobacco scented kitchen, watching a mute TV and listening to the bassless radio in the windowsill twang out some old country music. He absently clutched half a cup of tepid Foldgers tar in his right hand, and contemplated his schedule for the day while he waited for Charlie Plaster the Auto Master to finish his fifteen seconds worth of commercial time. The weather forcast usually changed slightly every ten minutes, and he always gambled the morning hour away, waiting for the right forcast to start his day on. And now…your local 8s, on the 8s.

"Not like those boys ever have the slightest idea what the weather is going to be anyway," he thought. From the windowsill, Patsy Cline hauntingly reassured him that it didn’t particularly matter anyhow. If it rains, it rains. If it doesn’t… well, God will just have to come up with something else. It was already well into May, and if the apples were to have any chance at sweetness this year the almighty was going to have to do better than one measly sprinkling of water since the thaw several months ago. Unfortuantely, the all-powerful dopplar projected the same thing it did ten minutes ago– Sunny. Sunny. Partly cloudy. High around 68.

Jonathon Gray sighed and stood slowly, silently absorbing the morning pain in his lower back. He stepped over to the counter and drained the last of the coffee into his mug, filling it nearly to the brim, and breathing fresh steam into the cup. Upstairs the sound of the water sloshing through the pipes changed and then dissapated, and after a brief pause the cieling creaked and moaned twice as his youngest son marched back into his bedroom to get dressed. Posessing that sixth sense that home owners eventually tune their senses to, John could detect just about anything that was going on in his house from the kitchen.

Upstairs, Vincent sauntered into his bedroom naked and dripping, with a towel draped over his shoulders. He gave his hair one last super shake in the thing before tossing it on his pile of clothes from the night before, and blindly began throwing himself into the first clean clothes he could find, assembling his daily should-have-done-my-homework cram syllabus as he did so. First period, World History. No homework. Second period, Geometry. Ten minutes worth, maybe. I can do it on the bus. Third period, American Lit. Two chapters to read…but his train of thought was interrupted by the distant hiss of the brakes on the number 5 school bus, a sound he had come to know all to well, which more often than not heralded his impending five mile walk to school, if he was fortunate enough to escape a ride from his belittling father. It mean’t that the bus was at the end of the drive, and that he had approximately ten seconds to get out the door and into the driver’s sight before the bus carried on without him. So having only gotten as far as getting into a fresh pair of blue jeans, Vincent grabbed a shirt, a handful of socks, and his backpack, and bolted out of his bedroom door, reeling on his heels in the hallway briefly with a startled "FUCK!" before darting back into his room and hastily wrestling his wallet from last night’s jeans. At the end of his driveway Robert Sulvain surveyed Gray’s Orchard from behind the wheel of his bus, and began counting down in his head from five, eyes on the old house, hand tensing on the stick.

Vincent cascaded down the stairs, shirtless, arms wrapped around his belongings, and sprinted towards the front door the second his heels hit the landing, grabbing his boots by the laces as he went. "Bus is here," he heard his father call absently from the kitchen. Gee thanks, Dad. If you couldn’t tell by all the clammoring, I already knew that. But Jonathon Gray knew that he knew that, and although he was calloused and often short minded, he was not without a sense of dry humor.

Vincent plowed through the screen door, the old springs erupting into a shrill squeal; a song to rivel even the most ambitious of morning birds; and his bare feet were already making steady dull thudding sounds against the damp grass before he heard the old door sing again, a little softer this time, and then slam shut with an abbrasive clack. He cut through the front yard, towards the end of the driveway, an

d broke into a sprint once his calloused feet touched gravel, reaching the main road before even losing his breath. All around him the morning was bright and silent, and it’s humidity hung low and invisably thick across the land. The leaves on the tall sickamore trees that lined the old country road clung stiffly to their branches, frozen against the windless sky.

Robert watched the kid approach, and moved his hand from the stick to the door lever after wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the fledgling boy racing down the hill side, half clothed, arms wrapped around scattered belongings, boots dangling, shirt cloth flopping in the breeze like a flag on some amateur ambassador’s car antenna. He let the air brakes loose, and cranked the door open. Vincent hopped up and in, his face red, his expression relaxed.

"Thanks for waiting, Mr. Sulvain, sorry I was late."

"Get your shirt on, and sit down," Robert replied, low and without inflection. Vincent obeyed without reaction, awkwardly stretching his T shirt over his body while still clinging to the rest of his belongings, and meandered towards the back of the bus as it slowly lurched into action. He felt eyes on him, but for some reason didn’t really mind this morning. He had made it to the bus before it left, and his satisfaction at that small victory remained at the forfront of his thoughts. There was an empty seat halfway down the bus, between the front row crowds who just wanted to get to school quietly, and the rear of the bus crowds who would rather be going anywhere else but school, as was evident by their utter abandonment of anything remotely resembling the concept of "quiet." He tossed the rest of his stuff on the seat and sat down, brushing off his feet and unknotting a sock as he continued to gloat, internally, to himself.

"Hey Vinnie," came a familiar voice from behind him, "hey dude, what the hell?" The voice belonged to Samuel Pickett, who had his hands and face on top of the cush faded black leather bus seat, looking very much like a child peeking through a tall window. Sam was unusually small for his age, only a few months younger than Vincent, and consisted largly of meak stature. His inadequaces had yet to fully shape him into the over compensating napolean he would later become in life, and he was, for the time being, generally pleasant and eager to please. Too eager, Vincent had thought, from time to time, but never really held it against him.

"What’s that?," Vincent said without looking, stuffing his freshly socked feet into his boots and grappling with the laces.

Sam’s eyes widened, and his expression stiffend with the lack of recognition. "What’s up with jumping on the bus ass naked, and then just sitting down without saying anything? Are you on crack this morning?"

Vincent took a moment to respond, reaching into his bag and retrieving his geometry book. "I don’t know, Sam…hey, did you do your Geometry homework?" he said, at last turning to look at his friend.

"Yeah…" Sam replied hesitantly, looking briefly away from Vincent’s sudden gaze. He knew where this was going, and although he had rehearsed it a thousand times; You know what? Why don’t you go fuck yourself? Yeah that’s right, how about you do it yourself for once instead of just stealing it from me?; he already knew in his heart what he was going to say.

"Can I see it?" Vincent asked, calm and polite.

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You want to see it? How about I pull out my knife instead and shove it in your eye? How about seeing that? "Sure," Sam replied neutrally, "hang on a sec." His face and hands dipped down and away for a moment, and Vincent glanced out the window. He must have seen these houses rolling past a million times, but there was something strange about them this morning. Something new. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but in the stark and piercing glow of the humid morning sun, everything seemed to stand out on its own. Each fragment and detail that flew past seemed to radiate life and significance…speckles of glowing buds on the sharp branches of a maple tree, glistening white siding on a mobile home, jagged washed out cracks in a dirt road winding up a hill with large white stones peering up from them like the bones of a decaying animal.

Sam’s face reappeared over the seat with a piece of slightly creased and hand-oiled paper, and Vincent snatched it quickly, not listening to any of the disclaimers regarding the uncertaintly of problems seven through ten. He layed it on the seat next to him and began transcribing, in detail, the scribbles that represented at least an hours worth of thought. Sam watched for a moment, completely ignored, before awkwardly slumping back in his seat. A large part of him was pleased to be useful, but a small part of him entertained a host of dark and repressed desires, which would only later culminate into active aspects of his personality.

Sam’s father was an Orthodontist, and a very clean cut feminine sort of man. He and his wife Janelle were both raised as only-children, and had never intended on having any of their own…but through some glitch in a pill factory, or other divine intervention, they concieved. Neither had the burdeon of any sort of moral background, and discussions on whethor or not to keep the child were tossed around. In the end, however, they decided to have, raise, and love it…although it wasn’t particularly what they wanted. It made logical sense to do so. They had a spacious house, ample time to kill, and were more well-off financially than most of the people in town.

From the day he was born they treated them as they were treated as only-children. He was spoiled, doted upon, or otherwise ignored. Inheriting his father’s frail and timid stature, he aquired many minor health related issues through the course of his childhood. In fact it seemed he need only hear of someone he knew being down with a cold or a flu, and he would catch it. Frank and Janelle, concerned that their child suffered from some form of immune disease, pampered him thoroughly whenever he became ill. They had him tested repeatedly, but no source of the child’s sickly nature was ever discovered. Something new and advanced, they thought, something they can’t yet detect. Oh my poor boy!

Samual took more time off from school than any other boy, and probably would have been the misbegotten school-scapegoat and punching bag, were it not for his unparalleled collection of toys and regular parties. Though he was often the brunt of many jokes, he escaped serious ridicule on status alone, taking insults in relative stride, thanks largely in part to his doting parents. For confidence he lacked, but of self esteem he was dangerously endowed.

The bus stopped three more times before it finally hung it’s bumpy left turn onto the patchwork cement of the school’s driveway. Vincent raced to complete the transcribing, battling the tense anticipatory air circling the bus at the impending moment of arrival. All around him students hoisted their baggage straps over their shoulders, and slowly rose to their feet as the bus slowed- and finally stopped, with a hiss and a clamor.

"Are you about done with that?" Samuel stood in the isle impatienly, speaking over the commotion of students vacating the bus. "Come on, Vin, I gotta-"

Vincent suddenly finished, and interrupted him as he handed the paper back. "-Here, thanks man."