Remember how skinny he was? He had blonde hair and wore a button-up shirt that was thin as onion skin. And brown, polyester pants with a pair of cheap black Oxfords. He was covered in dust like he had been pulled from a drawer of old coats. When I learned the word sneered I immediately thought of him.
I’ve never imagined myself inside his pale skin. Never thought to be any closer to him than we were that day when he said I could play for the Cincinnati Reds. I could’ve played shortstop. I had a strong arm. But I will; I will crawl beneath his sickness-yellow, onion-skin thin, short-sleeve button-up. His words are another language inside layers of my memory. I’ll get close to his heart and see if it beats like ours, one second at a time.
***
I feel good about this one. I feel safe anyways. It’s Sunday and the gas station is closed and the cake shop is closed and the barber shop and there’s nobody, not even a little traffic coming from Pikeville through to Jonancy or back. Just nothing but this little boy throwing his rubber ball against the side of the building and catching it in his glove.
He’s beautiful. Blonde hair long down to his shoulders, athletic. Quick! Man is he quick. Better watch for that. I'm not quick. I’ve not been quick in a long time. But it’s a guarantee I’m stronger and more willful. Definitely stronger. He’s a boy and I’m a man.
Plain truth is, I have to have this. And it has to be today. This quiet Sunday.
He hasn’t so much as noticed me sitting over here. His mind is somewhere far away, some ballpark where he’s pitching a no-hitter. It’s not like I’m hiding, really. I’ve got this big boat of a yellow car, I stand out in a crowd myself with my hair the color of creek mud greasy down my back and my old clothes, those polyester shirts with the big collars from some years back that everybody stopped wearing except people who couldn’t afford to stop wearing them. The same with the pants. I’m skinny to the point that people remember it about me. I look exactly like the kind of person who would kidnap a little boy. Kidnap and maybe worse. I’ve not decided yet.
Not one miss. He’s been throwing at that wall for over a half hour and he’s made the stop every time. He’s actually really good. I mean he would turn some heads at a practice. And then there it was. The idea. The way to make this happen.
I step out of the car and shut the door. It rattles a sound across the whole street, but the boy doesn't turn. It wouldn’t matter if he did turn, it wouldn't matter if he saw me. I have a plan now. I’m looking for top talent, which is not so far from true.
***
Now breathe. Now try to breathe.
Sheldon Lee Compton is the author of eight books of fiction and poetry. His first nonfiction book, The Orchard Is Full of Sound, is due out from West Virginia University Press in 2022. Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish his Collected Stories in the fall of 2021. He lives in Pike County, Kentucky.