Be My Eyes Read online

  Other works by Dustin Stevens:

  Scars and Stars

  Catastrophic

  21 Hours

  Ohana

  Twelve

  Liberation Day

  Just a Game

  Ink

  Number Four

  The Zoo Crew Novels:

  Tracer

  Dead Peasants

  The Zoo Crew

  BE MY EYES

  Dustin Stevens

  Be My Eyes

  Copyright © 2014, Dustin Stevens

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  “I think we all suffer from acute blindness at

  times. Life is a constant journey of trying

  to open your eyes. I’m just beginning my journey,

  and my eyes aren’t fully open yet.”

  --Olivia Thirlby

  There’s something soothing about the sound of a mockingbird. Soft, sweet, melodic, it never asks for anything, never offers more than it can give. Just the early morning announcement that a new day is at hand, the sun is shining.

  It is the first sound Ruby Sewell hears most mornings, especially now, on the backside of a Virginia summer. One day after another of warmth and humidity, an oppressive heat that envelopes everything. Air so wet and heavy that the trained ear can even hear it weighing down the voice of a bird perched right outside the window.

  “That hot already?” Ruby asks before even opening her eyes, pushing out a groan and rolling over onto her back. The cotton sheets, already wet with perspiration, offer no resistance against her slight frame as she goes, her body coming to a stop less than a foot from the window sill.

  Most people want to believe that when someone loses one of their senses the others become heightened, that the body develops superpowers to compensate for the loss.

  It’s a line Ruby has heard many times before. Every time she does, she smiles politely, knowing that the offering comes with good intentions. She nods her head, tells them she hasn’t much thought about it, and goes on about her business.

  Deep down, she knows it’s nothing but hogwash, an attempt by others to make themselves feel better about her plight. The loss of a sense doesn’t magically heighten the others, it just makes an individual pay more attention. What was once taken for granted becomes examined, even cherished.

  Like the sound of a mockingbird arriving to say hello each morning.

  “I’m going to need a lot more than that from you out there today Mr. Mockingbird,” Ruby says, opening her eyes for the first time. They are large and chestnut brown, beautiful to look at, but useless to look through.

  There is no light behind them, no flashes of recognition dancing across their pupils. Instead they are mere pools of color, mirrored oases that reflect but never absorb.

  To Ruby, the world is just as dark as it was before her eyelids fluttered open.

  She is long since past noticing.

  “Today is going to be a big day.”

  The wooden screen door of the farmhouse swings open, the rusted hinges whining in opposition as they extend to the furthest reaches of their capacity. It stays there for a full moment, suspended in space, before the form of Cole Dixon passes through. He slaps a calloused hand at it as he goes, his leathered fingers hitting the faded pine and pushing it back to where it began.

  It slams home with a clatter that Cole barely hears, already halfway across the yard, lunch sack in hand, cigarette dangling from his lips.

  The brown grass of the front yard crunches beneath his work boots as he walks in purposeful strides, his gaze aimed down, a scowl on his face. He is dressed for another day of manual labor, paint-stained jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves removed. His hair, tussled into a misshapen mop on his head, makes obvious the fact that he is only a few minutes removed from bed.

  The sun sits an inch or two above the horizon, but already its affects can be seen splashed across Cole’s skin. A thin sheen of sweat stains his dark tanned body, rivulets running down his forehead and dripping from his nose.

  It is August in Virginia, an inescapable punishment leveled without trial on all who reside there.

  Cole crosses the yard without looking up, knowing that the same faded Ford Ranger will be sitting by the mailbox, just as it is every morning. Even without realizing it, he can hear the graveled whine of its engine, smell the sulfuric exhaust pouring from its tailpipe.

  “Well if it ain’t my old buddy Superstar,” Billy Sweeny says from behind the wheel. It is the closest thing the two ever come to saying hello, the same greeting employed each morning for the last three months.

  Cole ignores the statement, dropping his lunch sack into the bed of the truck, nestling it between a rusted out shovel and a dilapidated box of nails with the cardboard fraying at the edges. He doesn’t bother to push anything in tight to ensure it stays in place.

  They’ve made the drive enough times by now to know it isn’t going anywhere.

  The passenger side door screeches as Cole jerks it open, the angered squeal of metal-to-metal friction. He drops his frame down into the bucket seat, the springs wheezing beneath him.

  “When the hell are you going to quit calling me that?” Cole asks, agitation on his face, in his voice. The truck is filled with old food wrappers, reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke, but that isn’t what draws his ire. “I haven’t played ball in five years now.”

  Sweeny twists his reptilian face towards Cole, his crooked features bent into a smile. Yellow teeth peek out in a twisted row, his face pockmarked with acne.

  “Don’t give me that. Montana hasn’t played ball in twenty years, but he’ll always be a superstar.”

  “Yeah, well, I was never no damn Joe Montana,” Cole responds, pulling the cigarette stub from his lips. He grinds the end of it against the door and tosses it away, the small white projectile disappearing into the wind behind them.

  The metal is scalding hot as Cole rests his elbow on the edge of the window, leaning his body towards the breeze flowing in. It just manages to push around the foul smell inside the cab, but does nothing to alleviate the heat.

  “Where we at today anyway?”

  “You’re gonna love this,” Sweeny replies, one hand draped atop the steering wheel, the other holding a clear plastic bottle to his lips. He spits a stream of dark brown juice into it, adding to the viscous liquid already filling it half way. “Old man Riley hit me up this morning, said the fairgrounds called. Have a couple of roofs out there for us to tar.”

  The words manage to do the seemingly impossible, deepening the scowl on Cole’s face.

  The truck rolls into the edge of town, a weathered wooden sign with yellow letters welcoming them to Petersburg, Virginia, population 32,291. The sign slides by behind them as Cole’s gaze shifts upward, focusing in on the automated board above the Petersburg Valley Bank.

  It announces that the current time is 7:45am, the outside temperature ninety-five degrees.

  The math isn’t hard to do. By three o’clock, the fairground roofs will be a degree or two hotter than hell itself.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Cole mumbles, running a hand across his sweaty brow and throwing the droplets out onto the passing pavement.

  A sharp slap of Billy’s hand smacks against Cole’s skin, leaving the outline of four dirty fingers behind.
br />   “Cheer up big boy. We love this shit, remember?”

  Cole doesn’t bother to respond, to the comment or the slap.

  The kitchen of the Sewell home is clean, but sparse. The floor is solid wood, the boards laid almost half a century before, some of the seams starting to widen into gaps. A breakfast bar extends out from the side wall, dividing the room in two. Behind it are the sink and overhead cabinets, a butcher block table arranged in the corner. A single window sits above the sink, plenty of midday sun streaming into the room.

  Every single object, from the curtains to the countertops, is clean. Nothing is out of place.

  On the opposite side of the bar a solid, sturdy table fills the bulk of the open space. A pair of matching straight back chairs are arranged on either side of it, all three the same natural wood they were when Ruby’s grandfather first made them thirty years before.

  Bookcases line the walls to the back and side of the table, all of them covered with awards and achievements, newspaper clippings and photographs.

  The subject of every last one of them is Ruby.

  A science fair trophy, a 4-H ribbon, photographs of her giving the valedictorian speech at graduation just a few months before. A newspaper article about the clothing drive she organized the previous winter, a certificate for finishing elementary school without ever missing a single day, the team photo from the only season of soccer she ever played.

  The collection is expansive and far-ranging, not a single bit of free space to be found on any of the shelves.

  The clock on the wall says it is just shy of noon as Ruby leans against the bar, an old rotary phone sitting before her. She is dressed in a cotton dress with her hair pulled back tight into a ponytail, a matching ribbon holding it in place. The outfit is neat and pressed, if not a size too large for her thin frame.

  Her smooth caramel skin is bathed in sweat, the sunlight glistening off of her.

  In her hands is a faded envelope made out to an address in Eureka, California. The words scrawled across it are written in the looping hand of a woman, the penciled letters faded with time.

  Not that it matters, every single character has long since been committed to memory.

  Ruby turns it over time and time again in her hands, chewing at her bottom lip, debating what to do.

  “It’s time,” she whispers, dropping the envelope onto the bar and pulling the phone closer. She takes a moment to position her fingers, making sure they are aligned in the proper slots, before beginning to dial.

  The pace of her heartbeat rises, the increased blood flow bringing more perspiration to the surface. She can feel the heat flushing her cheeks and forehead, her breath faster than usual.

  She doesn’t bother to consult anything for the number, knowing it by heart. The line rings three times before a harried voice answers.

  “Petersburg Ledger.”

  In just two words the woman manages to relay not just where she works, but that she is tired and bored with it. Ruby can almost hear her sighing on the other end of the line.

  She knows the feeling.

  “Good morning, may I speak to the Classified Ads department please?”

  The woman transfers the call without saying a word, the grating sound of too-loud elevator music filling Ruby’s ear. She winces and pulls back the phone a few inches, counting off seconds until the ballroom jazz rendition of “It Had To Be You” mercifully ends.

  Once it does, the same band threatens to begin anew before a thick, gruff voice comes onto the line.

  “Classifieds.”

  The single word comes out so sharp, it sounds like a bark.

  “Um, yea, yes,” Ruby stammers, blinking in rapid succession to regain her bearings. “Good morning. I would like to place an ad to run as soon as possible please.”

  The sound of shuffling papers, followed by the loud clatter of beefy digits hitting a keyboard, finds Ruby’s ear. “No chance at today, sweetheart. Tomorrow don’t look good either.”

  The brusque nature of his hello has faded. He now sounds just as bored as the woman before him, another underpaid employee in a dying industry.

  “The day after tomorrow will be fine, thank you,” Ruby says. For the first time she notices her eyes are closed, her entire body clenched in anticipation of what she is doing. Feeling foolish she releases the tension, her shoulders sagging, her eyelids rising.

  Just like this morning, every morning, there is no change in what she sees.

  “Suit yourself,” the man says, Ruby able to visualize his shoulders lifting and falling in a bored shrug. “Buying or selling?”

  Ruby shakes her head from side to side. “Help Wanted, please.”

  “Alright, Help Wanted,” the man intones back, more sounds of keys clattering audible over the phone. “Ready when you are.”

  One more deep breath.

  Again Ruby’s eyes close, her body’s natural reflex as she searches her memory, careful to get the words just right.

  “Wanted: A driver for a cross-country excursion. Car provided, expenses paid for. Must have a clean driving record and references. Trip to commence as soon as possible. Please contact 804-555-0854 if interested.”

  The air seems to suck out of the room as the keyboard goes quiet, not a single sound heard over the line. The silence lasts almost a full minute, forcing Ruby’s eyes open, a look of concern on her face.

  “Um, hello?” she asks, pulling the receiver away from her cheek, feeling a droplet of sweat fall down onto her forearm.

  “Miss, are you sure...?” the man asks, concern apparent in his voice.

  The insinuation is obvious, but Ruby doesn’t take the bait. She pauses just long enough to make sure any frustration is clear from her voice before pushing on, ignoring the half-asked question.

  “Oh, and add ‘Ask for Ruby,’ if you’d please.”

  The line is quiet for another moment before the man sighs again, his fingers starting to do their job once more.

  “Thank you,” Ruby says and drops the receiver back into place, ending the call before the man has a chance to question her again.

  She remains in place at the bar, soaking in the silence of the room, as a broad smile grows across her face. After several moments, the joy of the moment becomes too much for her face to contain, spilling into her limbs, her hands slapping at the polished countertop beneath her.

  A small squeal slides from her lips, echoing through the empty house.

  The bucket rotates as it descends through the air, spinning in a clockwise direction, its sides stained with tar. The handle is extended up from the sides, a frayed piece of white rope tied into a hasty knot around it. A series of handles rise in a tangled mess up over the brim, all spotted black with tar.

  It drops downward in a steady pace, covering almost twenty feet before Cole’s dirty, blackened hands snatch it from the air. He holds it at shoulder height just long enough to untie the rope and tug on it twice before lowering the bucket to the ground and rifling through the objects inside.

  Above him, the rope goes back in the direction it came, already in search of its next load.

  Sweat continues to drip from every pore in Cole’s body as he works, drawing out moisture he no longer has to spare. His jeans are soaked through, his shirt long ago discarded. His entire upper body gleams in the afternoon sun, his skin a dark russet brown.

  Cole’s face is drawn tight as he works, no longer the open scowl he wore that morning, but not far off.

  His work is interrupted by a truck door slamming shut behind him. The sound draws Cole’s attention away from the task at hand, his head rotating at the neck to see the familiar Chevy Silverado of his boss, Wendell Riley.

  It doesn’t take a genius to know this isn’t going to end well.

  Riley isn’t exactly a hands-on leader under the best of circumstances. The fairgrounds on a one hundred degree day are far from that.

  “Afternoon Cole,” Riley says as he approaches, raising a hand to the brim of the snow whi
te Stetson he is never without.

  Why a man that has never been west of Tennessee insists on wearing a cowboy hat every day is something Cole has long since stopped trying to figure out.

  “Boss,” Cole says, his hands hanging empty by his side, an out-with-it-already look on his face.

  Riley is slow to approach, his prodigious stomach lending itself to a stiff-legged gait. A snow white circle beard encases his mouth, matching the hair poking out from the bottom of his hat.

  “How did it go up there today?” Riley asks, stopping several feet away and hooking his thumbs into the front of his jeans. An uneasy look is splashed across his face, it already obvious that he is there to deliver bad news.

  Still, for whatever reason, he insists on going through the charade of making small talk.

  The move only serves to anger Cole, who draws his mouth tight, forcing his hands not to form themselves up into balls. Instead he stands and stares at the man across from him, fighting a losing battle to keep his face impassive.

  “Hot. Tar spread like water.”

  Riley picks up on the tone in Cole’s voice, relaying what the actual words don’t. Reflex forces him to take a step backwards, shifting his gaze to the ground, kicking at a lose stone with the toe of his boot.

  “Yeah, I imagine it did. Ground temperature got up to one hundred and two, don’t even want to think about what it was up there.”

  “Hot,” Cole repeats, his voice bearing an edge so sharp it could cut. Veins have started to bulge in his forearms, along the backs of his hands, the body’s natural reaction to a rise in blood pressure.

  “Listen, Cole, there’s no easy way to say this...” Riley manages to push out before pausing and raising his gaze. He waits there for several long moments, almost as if asking, begging, for Cole to pick up on where this is going and let him off the hook.

  Cole knows where it is going, but there’s no way in hell Riley’s getting away without saying the words.