The Wisherman (4 page)

Some details had grown fuzzy, but as he closed his eyes, Oliver found himself at the scene once more.
His father had been yelling. The spit drops showered the table in front of him for the most part, but a single drop landed on Oliver's nose. He had wiped it off, silently as the cacophony of rage continued on in front of him.

His mother's face had run the gambit of emotions, and as Oliver sat in the middle, he'd found himself dreaming of being anywhere else.
The table vibrated from his father slamming his fist down, his mother grabbed his hand, and then suddenly, it all stopped. It was as if he were watching a movie, and someone somewhere had abruptly pressed the stop button.

His mother grabbed his hand.
And then his father was quiet forever. Oliver rolled the sentence around in his head, as a sudden foul taste rose in his mouth and his heart thudded in his ears. Could he have unconsciously made such a wish?

"Dude, are you okay?" Paul had finished his
sandwich, and was staring curiously at Oliver. A spattering of bread crumbs decorated his collared shirt and Oliver found himself, for a fleeting moment wanting to laugh hysterically. Having considered the situation at hand, there was indeed a comical element to what had occurred, a dark comedy at that. It was the part in the comedy where the hijinks went terribly, terribly wrong. He wasn’t sure when he signed on to play the leading role.

"I'm fine." Oliver snapped back and he
retreated further under the bunk. He pulled his knees to his chest and cradled his head his arms.

Paul
peered under the bed, his eyebrows raised so far that they'd disappeared beneath his curly hair. "At least have some of this food. God, I don't eat this well at home." Paul reached under the bunk and handed him a plate. Oliver took it slowly, careful to avoid touching Paul's hands as he did.

The two sat quietly, with o
nly Oliver's occasional smacking breaking the silence.

"
You have family coming to get you?"

The voice startled both Oliver and Paul, who had fallen into what looked like a rather uncomfortable nap against the stone wall behind them.

Across from their cell, an older boy with wooly hair stood with his face pressed against the bars. Other than his question, he stood completely silent, and his face was completely blank as if he’d had years of practice.

"
What? What?"

Oliver looked up, taken aback by the boy's sudden appearance.
He hadn't really noticed the cell before, and the boy, he could swear, was not there. The boy wore a worn green shirt, and jean pants that were deeply frayed at the knees. When he noticed Oliver looking at him, he gave him a deep frown and Oliver looked away.

"I sure don't. Hell, if my dog shows up, that'll be a surprise." Paul called out from the top bunk.
His voice was slow, and drunk with sleep. “He would never come to me.” He muttered.

"And you?" The boy stared at Oliver. His eyes were wide, brown, and weary.
His eyebrows pointed downwards, and gave him the strange appearance of a young child who'd seen too much, too soon. He looked to be about fifteen, by body, but his eyes aged him years.

"I'm not sure."

"Me neither."

"What'd you do?"

"Paul…" Oliver cast the new boy an apologetic look, but he seemed nonplussed by the question.

"What else are we
going to talk about?"

"I didn't do anything."
The boy said, firmly.

"What did I tell you?
No one ever does anything." Paul chuckled.

"I wasn't even there for it
, and they got me still." The boy's face tightened, and his nostrils flared.

"Name?"

"Malachi."

"Talkative, aren't you?"

"There's nothing to talk about. We have to get out of here."

"We will, just as soon as our parents come."
Oliver said, but as he did, he found that the words tasted sour in his mouth.

"You really think our parents are coming? Look around you.
What do you see?"

Malachi banged his fist against the bars, and the ensuing vibration emitted an eerie, otherworldly melody.
He stared at the bars, before banging again. Apparently unsatisfied with that, he immediately turned around and hurled his cup at the wall. It shattered upon impact, and a shower of ceramic pieces flew rained down the cell walls. Malachi watched the pieces litter the floor before pulling off the ragged top blanket and throwing them across the room.

"So angry." Paul laughed. Malachi turned on his heels and approached the bars of the cell. He pressed his face against them once more, before speaking in a slow, deliberate tone.

"I am not angry, I am aware. You must lead a charmed life if you have the privilege not to be." If possible, Malachi's frown deepened. "You must be new, here."

"As in, never been arrested before? I wish. This one's green, though.
" Paul laughed and pointed at Oliver, who rolled his eyes in response.

"Then you would know that this is not proper protocol. Somebody should have been here by now." Malachi pressed his face against the bars again, his mouth forming a thin, solid line.

"Don't worry. They'll come eventually." Paul shrugged and looked down wistfully at his bowl of soup, as if he were trying to conjure some himself.

"DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? THEY ARE NEVER COMING BACK. THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE END OF THE ROAD. FOR YOU. FOR ME.
" Malachi paced back and forth around his cell, each footstep heavy with rage. His breath was ragged, as if he'd just finished running a race, and his eyes, still wide, had taken on a strange look. Oliver felt a shiver go up his spine, and he turned to Paul intending to speak, but when he opened his mouth he found himself speechless.

"They finally got me. They got me. I knew it, I knew it." He babbled on, his only recognizable words the first that came from his mouth---the rest devolved into an incoherent string
of syllables.

The more Malachi fidgeted, the colder Oliver's blood ran. All personal items had been confiscated upon entering the cell, but the tiny sliver of sunlight that shone through the cell window earlier had long turned to darkness.
It had been an awfully long time, Oliver thought. He peered sideways at Paul, who had settled back against the stone wall, evidently unperturbed, and over to Malachi who still muttered to himself. He didn't know their situations, but his own mother wouldn't leave him in jail. She
couldn't.
There was an explanation, there always was, although the reasoning sounded weak, even to himself.

The hours stretched on, with the boys playing a very bizarre version of musical chairs. Every few minutes, Malachi would bang on the bars and scream, before retreating into the darkness of his cell, Paul would wake, complain about how "he was trying to sleep", and Oliver found himself pacing
incessantly until his leg began to cramp. His body soon gave way, and he found himself curled up on the bottom bunk, his eyelids growing heavy with sleep.

~

Oliver found himself standing in the middle of a cornfield once more. The sky above was streaked purple, and Oliver had the distinct feeling that he had been here before. The cornfield stretched for miles, and he walked blissfully through the stalks before coming upon a forest. With sudden and unusual clarity, Oliver remembered where he was. As fast as his feet could carry him, he backed away from the forest, though his eyes remained hypnotized by the darkness. He broke into a sprint, whipping through the cornstalks like a whisper. The rows grew long before him and before he knew it, Oliver could no longer tell where he was. A sudden clap of thunder startled him and he looked up into the purple sky. A dark speck appeared, no bigger than that of a distant star making its way around a separate galaxy. But as Oliver focused on the speck, he felt a rush of cool air on his neck. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, at the gust of wind that felt almost like a smooth caress. And in his ear, he heard clearly the words: What makes a man?

The door to the holding cells slammed shut, startling Oliver out of his dream. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, blinking his eyes to clear his hazy vision. Across from his cell, Malachi was being was being led out of his own, handcuffed with his arms behind his back. His face
was contorted with rage, and he when he noticed Oliver staring, his eyes grew wide.

"I told
you! I told you!" He yelled out. At the sound of his voice, two guards rushed forward to subdue him. "Oliver, you can't let them get you. You can't! Get off me!"

"What? What's going on?" Paul's
voice came from the top bunk, muffled by the pillow on top of his head.

"They took
Malachi."

"Who?"
Paul asked.

"I don't know."
Oliver felt another shiver creep up his spine. This one was slow moving, and familiar, like a long lost relative making their way over at a family gathering.

Malachi's screams grew more and more distant, and as the door to the
cell holdings closed, effectively cutting them out for good, Oliver began his pacing routine once more. Paul jumped down from the top bunk and joined Oliver in his pacing. Together they walked the length of the cell, neither boy looking the other in the eye, for fear of what they would discover. As day once again turned to twilight, as evidenced by the lone sliver of light, the gentle hum of daily business turned to silence, Oliver could not shake the impenetrable feeling that whatever had happened to Malachi, he was next. Malachi's cries echoed in his mind with such ferocity that had he not seen Malachi leave, Oliver would have been convinced that he was still in the room.

             
The door to the holding cells opened again, and two cops entered, each carrying steel trays. Without a single word, they pushed the trays under the bars and stood there. Oliver supposed this was his cue to look hungry, and he hobbled over and grabbed both trays despite hunger being the last thing on his mind. He thought of asking the guards what was going on, but before he could formulate the question, they were gone. Oliver set Paul’s tray on the chair and looked down at his own. Bread and cheese sandwich with one overripe pear. A cup, similar to the one that Malachi broke earlier sat on his tray, unfilled. In this moment, there was nothing Oliver wanted more than a good home cooked meal in his mother’s pleasant kitchen, but the prospect seemed so foreign that he could barely remember what the kitchen looked like.

~

"Oliver Donovan?"

The following day came without incident, though Oliver suffered through a restless night.
The dream returned, but instead of clapping, black hands, his attackers were true crows, their caws the cries of Malachi. A burly officer appeared in front of the cell Oliver shared with Paul. Oliver squinted his eyes in response, and made no motion to get up. The man was not one of the officers he'd seen earlier, or for that matter, one that he'd ever seen at the police station.

"Oliver
Donovan? I'm going to need you to come with me." The cop reached into his pocket and removed a pair of keys.

"And what if I refuse?" Oliver put his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were shaking.

The cop froze, his hand perched on the lock to the cell. "Then, we'll have to find other ways to get you to comply." The cop's face twisted into a terrible smile, and he stepped back to study Oliver. "I heard you might give us some trouble. But don't worry, we have come prepared."

~

Oliver shuffled out of the police station, feeling very much like a prisoner. His hands were handcuffed behind his back and his eyes were glued to the back of the police officer's head as if he might somehow find the answers he was looking for there. His mind was racing. The officer led Oliver through the door through which he had last seen Malachi, and his screams still occupied Oliver’s memory like the unpleasant after taste from lunch. Immediately, his eyes burned from the sudden exposure to sunlight. He closed his eyes, yellow stripes dancing in the darkness as he shuffled forward into the unknown.

"Open your eyes." The voice wasn't harsh, but certain. This was the voice of someone who was very used to being in charge.
Oliver cracked an eye open, struggling to bring his vision into focus. When it had settled, a grey van sat parked before him. The van bore no insignia, but its plain exterior raised alarm bells in Oliver's head.

"Get in." The police officer heaved open the sliding door of the van, revealin
g an armored inside, with a steel partition between the drivers and passengers seat. The seats were cracked pleather. One long crack ran down the middle seat, revealing stained foam stuffing. For a fleeting moment, Oliver's foot muscle twitched, as if it alone was plotting an escape. He turned to look at the police officer. The officer wore dark shades, so dark that it was impossible to see even the outline of his features. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, but the edges of his lip quirked up, giving the strange impression that he liked what he was seeing.

“Where are we going?”
Oliver asked.

The van turned out of the police station parking lot and soon they were on the highway, going north.
The police officer did not respond, instead he simply sped up and merged into the left lane of the highway. The exterior of the van rattled as the speed increased, and Oliver wondered if the van was made to go fast at all.