His uncle hadn't been heard from in two days (Not his uncle, mind you. It was his father's uncle. So it was the boy's great-uncle, or grand-uncle..whichever). That one man could go unnoticed for any length of time in a town of 300 was a feat in itself. The people knew everyone's patterns, their comings-and-goings, their work schedules, eating habits, love interests, financial standing, favorite color, education, athleticism, fears, and yet they had missed this one character. So, the morning of the second day, his father called around to check if Uncle had been to work, fallen ill, or was passed out somewhere.
No one had seen or heard from the graying Uncle since he shuffled from the pool hall three nights ago.
He dialed another number, and put his meaty hand over the mouthpiece, and called to the boy. "Hey. I need you to run over to Uncle's house. Don't roll your eyes. I know the place is a goddamn mess. I'm not done on the phone. I need you to see if he's there. If he is, fine. I'll be two minutes behind you, and we can load him into the car if he's sick." His father lifted the reciever, began talking, and shooed the boy to the front foor.
The boy walked down the street with his head down, scuffing the brown rubble in the road. He smiled and waved when spoken to, asked after his friend Larry when he passed Mr. Good walking out of the hardware store. He poked his head in the store at raised his eyebrows at the owner, Walker, a thick, frighteningly muscled beast who always had a piece of gum slamming in his mouth. "Hey Walker. Got any more?" Walker chuckled, reached into his apron and lobbed a piece of Bazooka to the boy. "Thanks, Walker. Pa says hi."
Uncle's house looked as most houses do. Normal. The boy peered in the smudged windows, but that proved pointless. Piles of newspaper, boxes, and empty Budweiser crates shielded the interior nearly completely. He knocked on the door and shouted for Uncle and got no reply. He looked down the avenue back towards his house and imagined his father's scowl, sighed and pushed the door open. There was no chill of doom, nor a flitting terror of wrongness and evil there. It was just quiet. And it smelled of dust and sour beer. He stepped lightly around the piles of rubbish and wrecked furniture towards Uncle's room at the back of the small house.
He saw the shape of the man beneath the single white sheet. He called to him, quieter this time, and moved into the room and alongside the bed.
Uncle was dead. His eyes looked smoky and dry, and his mouth was open, whispering something important to faces no one could see. The shock coiled along the boy's neck and back and tightened in his gut, and he couldn't stop staring. The tears wouldn't come, for it felt as if his entire body had dried up. All he could think to do was fight the shaking in his hands and grab the sheet and pull it gently over the dry, empty face.
Minutes later, his father arrived to find the boy laying across the bottom step of Uncle's porch. Father stepped in, and shuffled through the house. He stepped back out, lifted the boy from the step, and looked hard into his blue eyes. "Hey. I'm sorry you had to see that." Father patted him on the back of his head and whispered, "It's okay. Let's get going. It's okay."
He lifted him from the wood, and carried the child home, whispering comfort to him the entire way.
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