Stuck in Neutral Read Free Page A

think about it, I haven’t really got a body. Because of my condition, I get confused about things sometimes. Hearing things, or hearing about things, is different from actually experiencing them. I can imagine what it’s like to walk, talk, or sigh, but I don’t really know. I’ve seen thousands of people “die” on TV, so I thought I understood what death looked like. But watching that dog lose his life, watching death take his life away, made my stomach weak, my skin tingle, and my heart pound harder in my chest. It made me feel sick.
    Death. That was the closest I’ve ever been to it. I could feel what it was like, which was just like Cindy said—nothing, a big fat nothing. It looked to me like when you die, you just, I don’t know, your life just disappears. That day death stared at me through bloody eyes, and it terrified me.
    Of course I didn’t know then what my dad might be planning. I didn’t know then what I know now. Thinking about death again, I get that same sick feeling inside.

4
    I guess I should explain about my father, about why I think he’s planning to kill me. It’s not as though he’s stated it directly. It’s more an intuition—intuition and a thing that happened last week when my dad stopped by the house.
    It was a nice day, sunny and warm. Mom had me out on the deck that runs along the back of our place. I remember that the breeze was kind of tickling my nose and ears. Dad, who hardly ever comes by, showed up, walking through the family room and coming outside to where Mom and I were. He and Mom hugged, and for a moment he didn’t say anything to me. Then he walked over and kissed the top of my head. I felt his lips lift a few strands of my hair and the rough palm of his big hand beneath my chin. Dad and Mom began to chat and then the phone rang inside.
    Mom disappeared through the sliding glass door, and Dad and I were alone. I remember exactly how many times Dad and I have been all alone together, just the two of us, since he left ten years ago: six times. Exactly six times. This one was the sixth.
    Dad began small talk to cover the silence. “How’re you doing, big boy?” he asked. “Everything going okay for you? Any hot news for me?” He laughed at his joke, not a big or happy or mean laugh, but a quiet, sad one. Then he leaned over in front of me and brought his face down close to mine. With his brown eyes only inches away from my eyes, it felt as though he were trying to stare through me, straight through my eyes and into my brain. “You’re not getting any of this, are you, Shawn?” he asked softly. In fourteen years I’ve heard him say my name aloud in my presence a total of sixteen times.
    Suddenly a big, black crow landed on the telephone line that runs down the alley directly behind the house. It cawed so loudly that it startled both Dad and me. The bird’s beady eyes stared at us, its fat black body so huge and heavy that the wire, which held its weight, sagged under it. It cawed loudly once again, then twice more.
    Dad looked at the crow and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing a little too hard.
    â€œYou wanna get at this boy?” Dad said, his voice sounding like a stick breaking. Dad didn’t yell, but his voice was cold and hateful.
    â€œYou guys peck the eyes out of babies, don’t you?” Dad asked. I’d never heard him sound so mad. “You would love a shot at this boy’s eyes, wouldn’t you?”
    The crow cawed again, as though answering Dad’s questions. To my dad I’m sure that caw sounded like “Yeah, that’s right, what’re you gonna do about it?”
    â€œAssholes,” Dad muttered, although only one crow sat there staring at him. “Black rainbow, my ass,” Dad said, his words low but filled with that same hard anger.
    Mom had been drinking a glass of iced tea. The glass sat on a small table on the