The Bull

1

Stuart Finlay’s hand shook so badly, a full third of the Old Crow he was pouring into the glass ended up on the kitchen counter. Same with the orange Fanta he used as a mix. No one had ever accused Stuart Finlay of having refined tastes.

“There’s somethin’ not right about that kid, Char,” Stuart said after draining a third of his drink down his throat, and another third down his fading Dale Earnhardt T-shirt, in one gulp. “I’m tellin’ ya.”

Charlotte Daniels, Billy’s mother, fresh from the shower, hair still damp, skin pink from heavy scrubbing, eight hours of fry oil stuck like glue, and wearing a Marilyn Monroe Day of the Dead sleep shirt, crossed her arms in front of her as her weight shifted onto her left hip causing it to protrude slightly.

Stuart knew that pose. It was both universal and classic, stuck by women his world over. It conveyed one simple message – You really have shit for brains, don’t you?

Stuart raised his hands in supplication. “I’m not makin’ this up,” he pled. He picked up the glass and downed the rest of his drink, getting most of it in his mouth this time. He poured himself another drink, a little less shaky this time.

Charlotte pointed at the glass. “How many of those have you had today?”

“What?” Stuart asked. “Oh, these.” He picked up the glass, took a long pull. “Only a coupla three. I started after I finished the beer.”

“I bought you two twelve-packs.” Charlotte padded to the fridge. Opened the door. “And you finished them in less than a day?” Now her tone was incredulous.

“Light beer,” Stuart corrected. “That’s like drinkin’ friggin’ bottled water.” He took a large swallow. “And believe you me I needed them today.” He took another swallow. “There’s just something—”

“Not right about Billy,” Charlotte interrupted, holding up her hand like a traffic cop signaling stop, her hope it would be different with Stuart fading. Stuart would be just like the others. Unable to deal with Billy’s differences. His eccentricities. And, just like the others, he would run.

When she’d first met Stuart, hands bumping as they both reached for the same bunch of bananas, she’d had that immediate connection with him. Not love at first sight, she didn’t believe in that, but something like it. They’d chatted and she’d known, or thought she’d known, she’d met the one. The one who could and would accept her son and his oddities.

Stuart was a simple man with, apart from bourbon and orange Fanta noted, simple tastes. He liked sports and action movies but would watch anything, provided there was popcorn. He wanted sex but wasn’t pushy about it. Not that she minded that. He was pretty good in bed. He liked Billy and, most importantly to Charlotte, Billy seemed to like him.

So, Charlotte was happy when she’d told Stuart she’d been called into work that Sunday at the sports bar and Stuart had offered to stay with Billy.

“Who knows,” Stuart had joked, “our budding bromance might finally blossom.”

Charlotte was a little apprehensive as well. They liked each other, but the two had never spent any time alone longer than it took for Charlotte to get the popcorn or go to the bathroom. That was hardly any time for Billy to spook Stuart. This would be the entire day, from ten a.m. to eight p.m. Just the two of them. Alone. Unsupervised.

When she’d called at one o’clock, just to say hi, things were going well. Stuart had baked a frozen pizza for lunch, and they were flipping between NASCAR and the NFL. The two were having a great time and she had to admit she’d been a little jealous. By time she arrived home, things had changed.

Billy was in his room. Door closed. Lights off. Stuart was in the kitchen self-medicating with orange-sugared alcohol.

“So. What happened?”

Stuart let out a long alcohol-infused breath, looking lost. “Well, everything was going great. We’d had the pizza and we were on our second ice creams when Billy says, you wanna see a trick? I said sure. And then alluva sudden Kyle Busch’s car slams Kurt Busch’s car into the wall. I said, whoa! did you see that! And Billy says, all calm, did you like my trick? And—oh hell, I need a drink.”

The tremble was back. Bad. Stuart’s hand shook like a streamer attached to a fan. Most of the bourbon was missing the bottle, dripping from the counter to the floor.

Charlotte stepped quickly to Stuart, steadying his hand, guiding the mouth of the bottle to the mouth of the glass. She tilted the bottle back once the glass was half full.

“Thanks,” Stuart breathed. He didn’t bother with the orange Fanta. Just brought the glass up and poured the contents down his throat, dripping some of the Old Crow over his lip, down his chin, and onto his shirt.

Charlotte took the glass from his hand when he’d finished and filled it with water from the tap. She handed it to him.

“What happened next?” Charlotte prodded, feeling her heart sink past her stomach.

Stuart downed the water. Coughed. Took a deep breath. “I said, what the hell you talkin’ about? And Billy says, I made Kyle put his brother into the wall. Then he flipped back to the game. Bucs at the Packers. He says, wanna see Brady faceplant. Brady was scramblin’ outta the pocket. Then alluva sudden he just trips. Brady, I mean. Over nothin’. Not even time to break his fall. He just…faceplants.”

Charlotte took the glass out of Stuart’s hand, filled it from the tap again, and handed it back to Stuart. “And then?”

Stuart didn’t drink the water. “Then he flips back to the race and says, who you wanna win? And I said, whaddaya mean? And Billy says, I want Harvick. And then Harvick just blasts outta the back and drives like freakin’ Vin Diesel in a Fast movie. And wins.”

Charlotte’s heart dropped past her bowels. She pushed the hand holding the glass of water to Stuart’s mouth and tilted it, so that the water ran into his mouth.

Stuart swallowed. “You trying to sober me up?” He asked.

“Yes.” She tilted the glass so the last of the water went into Stuart’s mouth. “What did you say?”

“I asked him if he was some sorta freak.” He filled the empty glass with Old Crow and orange Fanta. Took a long pull. “I tell ya, Char, there’s somethin’ diff’rent about that kid.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest. He was talking about her kid, after all. But she didn’t. Because the truth was, Stuart was right. There was something different about Billy. Something…not quite right. And Charlotte knew something else. Stuart would run tonight.

2

Billy sat in a chair in his bedroom, lights off, staring out his window.

In the distance, at the top of the horizon, two orange-red specks blazed in the darkness.

Billy smiled. Lifted a hand, beckoning the specks.

3

Charlotte felt her heart curdle in her bowels. She had really thought it would be different. Hoped it would be different with Stuart. Was sure it would be different with Stuart.

But why couldn’t it be different, she wondered. Why couldn’t they start over? It might not be too late.

4

Billy stared out the window. Smiling. Hand waving. The orange-red specks closer now. Set into a form darker than the darkness surrounding it.

5

Charlotte wrapped her arms around Stuart, pulling him close. Tight. Her right hand moved up behind his head, pushing his face into hers. Her eyes closed. Mouth opened.

Stuart let her hand guide his mouth to hers. He opened his mouth. Lips pressed to her. Ready to accept her tongue.

6

Hot breath fogged Billy’s window. Billy stood up. Opened the window, feeling its hot breath on his forehead and cheek, fluttering his hair. He inhaled its stinking breath into his lungs. Smiled as his brain deciphered the aromas of flesh, feces, and ichor. Reaching out a hand, he stroked the horns of the bull before him.

7

Stuart’s hands, no longer shaking, moved over Charlotte’s body as his kisses became hungrier.

Charlotte’s hands responded in kind, feeling his want against her belly, quickening her breath, her heartbeat. She wanted desperately to lead him back to her bed, or just draw him to the floor and let them have their way with each other. Like they had all night. Like they were alone in the house. Like Billy wasn’t in his room. Like he wasn’t summoning his damned bull.

8

Billy pulled a piece of pizza crust from a paper towel. Held it up to the animal’s nostrils.

The bull inhaled. Chuffed. Eyes moving, glowing orange-red embers in a pit.

Billy nodded. Looked back over his shoulder in a ‘just over there, on the other side of the door’ gesture and looked back at the bull.

The bull’s fiery gaze was on that place beyond the door, as if it could see Stuart. Smell Stuart. It chuffed again.

9

Charlotte’s breath hitched as gooseflesh prickled her spine. It wasn’t Stuart’s fingernails, as Stuart imagined, feeling her body shudder under his touch. She’d heard the chuffing. Known what that had meant. The bull, Billy’s bull, had Stuart’s scent in its nostrils just as surely as she did right now.

The bull scraped a hoof across the ground. It sounded like fingernails down a chalkboard.

Charlotte winced.

“What the hell was that?” Stuart said, pulling away from Charlotte’s neck. “That made my teeth hurt.”

Charlotte traced a finger over Stuart’s cheek as she looked into his eyes. What was that she saw there? Was it love? Genuine love for her? Not just affection or lust, but actual love. She felt her bowels churn her heart. “I’m sorry, Stu. So damned sorry.”

Stuart looked at her, completely nonplussed. “What’re you sorry for?”

“I thought it would be different. With you. I thought maybe…” Charlotte’s voice trailed off. Her eyes dropped from his.

“You thought what?” Stuart prompted, kissing Charlotte’s finger as it traced his lips. “What would be different?”

Charlotte sighed.

“What would be different?” Stuart repeated.

Charlotte wanted to tell him. She had a desperate ache to tell him that she loved him. And that she thought he loved her. And maybe Stuart could, would love Billy too. Accept Billy. And Billy would love and accept Stuart. And they could be a family. A real, honest-to-God, family. That’s all she wanted.

But she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. Her finger traced Stuart’s jawline. She felt Stuart’s hand on her cheek. His thumb traced her jawline. Stopped under her chin and gently raised her head.

Her eyes followed up to his.

“Is everything okay?” Stuart whispered. “What do you want me to do?”

She stared into Stuart’s eyes for a long moment before she whispered, “Run.”

10

Charlotte sat on the couch for a long time after Stuart left. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. There were no more tears left in her. Finally, she got up from the couch and padded to Billy’s bedroom door.

Twisting the knob, she let the door swing open.

Billy lay on his side under the covers.

Charlotte moved to the bed. Brushed his hair from his forehead. Bent over and kissed his cheek. Warm breath caressed her own cheek and she jumped, a thrill of horror dousing her like a bucket of ice water.

She looked. Saw the bedroom window open. She moved to the window. Reached for sash and stopped. There. In the darkness. Far from the house. It looked like two red dots. Glowing faintly. And floating on the breeze, the rancid odor of flesh, feces, and ichor.