Collars 'N' Cuffs: A Wayward Ink Publishing Anthology

ANTHOLOGIES

WALLS LINED THE highway, so high Trace could barely see the treetops above them. He’d always wondered why they built them so high. Was it to keep out the prying eyes of the foreign travelers who sped up and down these four lanes, north, south, east, west, heading somewhere beyond the Twin Cities with their too-clean concrete façade? The first time he’d seen Minneapolis he’d marveled at how it gleamed, with its high-rise buildings and all that shimmering glass. Concrete and glowing neon, towering sports complexes, and intricately designed cathedrals rounded out the city’s feel.

But it hadn’t taken him long to learn about the other side of the city—the places that even industrial-strength bleach couldn’t clean. The stench of garbage and oil, the grease-stained, grimy crevices of alleyways and pay-by-the-hour motels. Some days, those two to three hours of sleeping on scratchy, threadbare sheets had been a bigger treat than the meals he’d cobbled together from handouts and dumpster scraps. Just the act of laying his head down and closing his eyes behind a door that locked allowed him to feel safe for a little while.

Inside those four walls he could pretend he was home again, with its cheery yellow kitchen and those little bears his mother had managed to place everywhere. If he closed his eyes and listened hard enough, there were times when he could make out his father’s voice, dim over the traffic and light rail, telling his mother what a long day it had been, thanks for keeping dinner warm, let’s sit and watch a movie, hon; even if most nights he’d be asleep with his head in his wife’s lap before the movie was halfway through.

One thing that had always been clear to Trace was how much they loved one another. A love that had always stretched to wrap around him, locking him firmly as a central part of their world. They were the parents who never missed games: the father who volunteered what little free time he had in order to coach, the mother who baked for the team and came to all the PTA meetings. He’d grown up feeling lucky; not because they had a lot—they didn’t—but because they had love and time for one another. Picnics, weekend fishing trips, camping out beneath the stars, rainbow trout and s’mores cooked over the open flames. His mom was never afraid to stick her finger into the fish’s middle and scrape the guts out herself.

So, when the day came when all the scrimping and saving had added up to enough for a family vacation, he’d insisted they go by themselves instead. The honeymoon they’d never had. Of course, they’d been reluctant; but seventeen was plenty old enough to be on his own for the week. He could cook simple things—he assured them he wouldn’t starve—and it wasn’t as if he had enough friends for a wild party. He’d been proud, and a little bit thrilled, when they’d finally relented, looking forward to the chance to prove he could handle things on his own. He’d hugged them both the morning they left, kissed his mom on the cheek, then headed off to school like normal, never imagining that his entire world was about to end.

It was around lunchtime when the first whispers began: train derailment, two trains collided a few hours outside of town, people said. He’d felt a shiver of unease, dismissed it, and went on about his day. He’d been so engrossed in Mr. Andrew’s lecture on the battle of Gettysburg that he didn’t notice Principal Smyth come in until the whole room fell silent around him.

Trace? Principal Smyth said in the tone of someone who’d already made a request and wasn’t looking forward to making it again.

Huh?

I asked you to please come with me.

He knew then, without words, with only a glance at the mixture of patience, concern, and regret written on the man’s face. His feet had grown sore and his mouth had felt dry. His arms were too heavy to hold his things, so he left his book on the desk and his backpack beneath the chair, then followed on wobbly legs to the office, where words were uttered that brought his entire world crumbling down.

The days that followed were a dim collection of fuzzy memories. Pity in the eyes of the bank manager as she informed him of the note due on the house and how they would have to take it. Regret in the voice of the customer-service agent on the phone, who told him, no, the insurance policies he’d come across weren’t valid; they’d been canceled two years earlier for non-payment. He turned eighteen the week after they passed away, so there was no help to be had from Social Services, and his friends’ parents weren’t very tolerant of him sleeping over for more than a day or two.

But the final straw was the, I don’t know you, told my daughter not to marry that shiftless, no-account do-nothing, you’re probably just like him, from the grandfather he’d turned to in desperation. Though he’d rarely heard anything about the man, he’d never imagined the rift ran so deep that he’d be turned away when he had nowhere left to go. That had been what sent Trace fleeing to the city. Scared, hopeful, but most of all, desperate to fulfill the promise he’d made when his folks had walked out of the house that day.

I’ll be fine on my own, he’d insisted, meaning just for the week. He’d never intended those words to mean a lifetime.

This same highway had funneled him into the heart of the city, with a backpack, a duffel bag, and so much naïveté it was almost funny. He laughed, tasting bitter tears mingling on his tongue with the rain. It had only taken three days to lose the backpack, and less than a week before he was propositioned. He’d said he’d rather starve, and he had, more than once, but it was a line he’d never crossed. He’d fought, he’d foraged, and ultimately he’d met the man who’d changed his life and sent him fleeing back to the highway tonight.

Hard to believe all that had been just nine months ago. Sometimes it seemed like longer, like a lifetime had passed since he was sitting around the kitchen table in the house he’d grown up in, discussing term-paper research or the latest movie playing uptown. Other times he found himself still waiting to wake up from the nightmare of his parents’ deaths and all the changes that followed. He’d be forever grateful to the man who’d rescued him from the streets, but now that it was ruined, all he could do was look back and remember the day he’d met Finn.

HEY, WHAT THE hell are you doing in there?

The man’s voice was harsh, but Trace ignored it, desperate to find something to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent meal, and if he got too weak or lightheaded he’d have no way of protecting himself through the night. Hoping the voice would go away, he hunkered down.

Come out of there, now, unless you want me to call the cops.

Damn. Trace squeezed his eyes closed, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath to steady himself before peering over the edge of the dumpster.

The man who stood below had cold gray eyes and a frown that etched lines into the corners of his mouth. His red-and-black T-shirt was stretched across a chest and arms thick with muscle. Trace could only imagine how much damage the man could do if he decided to reach up and drag him out.

You won’t find any food in there, if that’s what you’re after, the man said, arms crossed. Nothing valuable, either. How many bags did you mess up?

Th-three, Trace stammered.

The man nodded, turned, and disappeared through the door behind him. Before Trace could decide if he was going to jump down and make a run for it or cower in there forever, the man was back with three empty bags he waved in Trace’s direction.

Re-bag the trash, then come inside and we’ll see about finding you something to eat.

Trace had to struggle to make his brain kick into gear. He took the bags and made hasty work of cleaning up the mess he’d made before climbing out. On the ground, he realized the man was taller than him by at least six inches. Trace’s eyes traveled from the shit-kickers the man wore to the metal flakes clinging to his arms, then darted to the mouth of the alley. When the man opened the door and gestured for Trace to go inside, he shook his head and backed away, flattening himself against the dumpster.

I’m not hungry, thanks.

Uh-huh, the man said, his mouth set in a grim line. Wait here. I mean it. Stay. Put.

The tone of command in the man’s voice rooted Trace to the spot, though he knew he should go while he had the chance. He tried to brush the ragged strands of his hair into something presentable before the man came back.

He’d regained control of his body and was creeping toward the street when the man stepped back out again, a cellophane-wrapped sandwich in his hand. I told you to stay, he said, holding out the sandwich.

Blinking, Trace scooted forward and took it, clutching it to his chest. Thanks.

Sit and eat, the man said, taking a seat along the wall. He offered Trace a bottle of water, chuckling at the way Trace protected the sandwich as he accepted it. Relax, I wouldn’t have given it to you if I planned to take it away.

Trace held his gaze for a moment, then sat across the alley from him, tore into the sandwich, and started wolfing it down, hardly taking the time to chew.

Christ, when was the last time you ate?

Trace swallowed a bite and thought. I scavenged half a slice of pizza yesterday before the dishwasher ran me off. Oh, and some soggy garlic bread.

The man grimaced, eyes roving over Trace. Do you do drugs?

Trace laughed. How would I afford them?

You tell me.

I don’t use, and I don’t sell myself. To anyone, Trace said as firmly as he could, beginning to stand. If that’s what you’re after, forget it.

Sit down and eat, the man said sharply. Trace sat before he could even give it any thought.

How long have you been on the streets?

Five months.

Runaway?

Trace shook his head. Not exactly.

The man nodded, looking thoughtful. I’ve been needing some help around the shop; sweeping up, fetch and carry, make pickups and deliveries. It’s part time and minimum wage, but I’ll feed you and I’ll pay you every Friday.

Trace’s mouth dropped open and he nodded before even considering the logistics.

All right, then, you can start by giving me your name.

Trace.

Trace what, and where are you from, Trace?

Down near Albert Lea, he replied. And it’s Wilson. My last name is Wilson.

Okay, Trace Wilson from somewhere around Albert Lea, come inside so I can show you around.

Umm, Trace stammered, licking his lips to catch the last of the crumbs, what’s your name?

Finnigan Marlow, but most everyone calls me Finn.

Trace followed Finn into a warehouse filled with metal parts and pieces in what looked to be carefully organized piles. There were cans of spray paint and a number of blowtorches, all in some kind of order. Trace’s eyes drifted to the walls and the dingy windows. In front of the windows, towering over his head, were some of the most amazing sculptures he had ever seen.

Wow, he breathed, drifting over until he stood in front of a warrior angel with its sword raised, the head of a demonic-looking creature clutched in its other hand. Trace let his eyes sweep over it, taking in the various springs, gears, and miscellaneous bits that had gone into creating it. He studied the parts and pieces, then returned his gaze to the face of the statue, cocking his head. They’re amazing, he said reverently.

And a colossal pain in the ass to make some days, Finn said fondly, a slight smile smoothing the harsh lines of his face. Which is why I need help. I hate getting deep into the sculpting process only to have to drop everything to go to the junkyard or auto salvage to pick up a part. How well do you know the city?

I can find anyplace you need me to.

Right answer. I’ll make sure you have bus fare and a note detailing where you need to go, who to see, and what to get.

Okay, Trace said, then turned to face him. Why are you helping me?

’Cause I hate waste, kid, Finn said, then pointed to the broom. So get to it.

Some days, like the first, were easy. Trace swept and learned the names of the parts, the order to the piles. He brought what Finn asked for, cleaned up the messes the shaving and polishing left behind, and watched intently whenever he had down time. Each morning he woke to the sound of the church bells chiming the time, never late, even that first week when he was still sleeping in parks and alleys.

The first time Finn paid him, Trace divided it up, figuring out how many hours a night he could afford to sleep indoors. From a thrift store, he got two new pairs of jeans and three new T-shirts, adding them to the meager contents of his backpack, alongside the small collection of motel soaps and shampoos.

Sometimes pieces were heavy. He felt the effects of too many days without food even more then, as he struggled however many blocks he had to carry the materials. Still, the meals he was fed, and the daily showers, were worth it. God, those were something he’d never take for granted again.

SITTING AT A low table, Trace organized the notes and receipts by date, the way Finn had asked him to. There were envelopes to his left for him to put each stack in when he was done, and labels with the date and year to affix to the front. Finn had told him it was supposed to make tax time easier, keeping things organized that way. But damned if I’m ever able to manage it, Finn had muttered before walking away and leaving the task to Trace.

Trace didn’t mind it, though. It felt good to see the haphazard piles beginning to diminish, and the pleased nod he’d received from Finn when he’d last come to check on Trace’s progress was well worth braving the chaos of all those papers.

He was so engrossed in what he was doing, and the fact that the pile had been whittled away to one tilting stack, that he was startled when Finn placed a soda and a sandwich in front of him and plopped down in the chair on the other side of the table.

Blinking, he looked at the sandwich and then back at the older man.

What time is it? Trace asked, moving the papers aside and brushing a stray strand of hair from his eyes.

Almost two, Finn replied. Guess we both got lost in what we were doing.

Yeah, Trace said as he unwrapped his sandwich. Thank you.

No, thank you. I can’t believe how much of this mess you’ve already sorted out. After we eat I’ll go get the other box. I didn’t figure you’d get to that one until tomorrow.

Trace froze with the sandwich halfway to his mouth, gaping at the realization that he wasn’t even close to done. He must have looked amusing because Finn began to laugh.

You know, I’m glad you’re here. You do good work, Trace; keep it up.

Trace felt his face getting hot. He ducked his head and finally took a bite from his sandwich, chewing it slowly and enjoying the chance to not have to rush a meal.

Thank you, he replied, once the silence got too heavy and a quick glance revealed that Finn seemed to be studying him.

I don’t get it, Finn said at last. You’re on time, you work hard, you don’t do drugs, you don’t come in reeking of alcohol, and, despite living god-knows-where, you make a very noticeable effort to keep clean. You’re polite, you don’t have an attitude, which all goes to show that you were raised right, so what the hell are you doing living on the streets?

Trace swallowed hard and picked up his soda, hoping his hand wasn’t shaking as he tried to take a long, cold drink with those eyes boring holes into him. Finally he put it down and met Finn’s gaze.

My folks were killed in a train accident, he blurted out. I don’t have any other family that wants me, and the bank took the house I grew up in. I thought it would be easy to find a job in the city, but I didn’t have enough money for a place to stay, and it’s hard to get work when you don’t have an address to give a potential employer.

Finn let out a long, low whistle. Sounds to me like you had a ton of shit dumped on you all at once.

Yeah.

I should have asked this the day we met, but how old are you?

Eighteen, Trace replied. When my folks passed it was just a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, so I was already too old for Social Services to get involved. My grandfather wasn’t interested in getting to know me. He was mad that my mom married my dad. He never thought my dad was good enough for her, so he never came around when I was growing up. Still, I didn’t really expect to be told to go away.

That’s pretty damn shitty of him, if you ask me. You’re still his blood.

Trace turned his attention back to his sandwich. He didn’t have to be told how shitty it was—he’d lived it.

I’m going to grab that box now. Take your time and finish your food… and if you ever want to talk, I’m here, okay?

Trace nodded. Okay.

The scrape of Finn’s chair being pushed back was followed by the echo of his boots as he retrieved the box. Trace kept his head down so Finn wouldn’t see the tears that had begun sliding down his cheeks as soon as he’d started telling his story. As much as he didn’t want it to, it hurt that his grandfather wanted nothing to do with him. In his head, he’d allowed himself to build up hope that there was still someone who cared about him; a hope his grandfather had shattered with his callous words. Now, as he finished his lunch, he found himself wondering if there would ever come a time when he’d feel safe getting his hopes up again, or if this was how life was, and he’d have to learn to accept it.

Shoving those melancholy thoughts from his mind, Trace focused on the large box of papers Finn set in front of him and reached for the small stack he had left from the previous box. At least here he had a purpose and someone who seemed to have plenty of work for him to do.

I SAID A coil, not a spring, Finn snapped. Trace had been working there several weeks. He should have known the difference, did know the difference, but his head had been in the clouds all morning, thinking about how this would have been his parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. The pain had sliced through his chest as soon as he’d seen the date on the calendar, and he’d been flustered and fucking up ever since.

Finn’s voice snapped him back to the moment; it raised the hair on the back of his neck and sent a shiver through him. Biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, he fetched the coil and passed it over, shivering when Finn treated him to a scathing look.

Pay attention, he snapped.

Yes, sir, Trace muttered, on his way to get the broom.

Of course, as luck would have it, he grabbed the middle of the broomstick, turned with it, and wiped out half a shelf, sending a loud clatter of parts and pieces to the ground.

Finn came stalking over to assess the damage, eyebrows scrunched up in a scowl that darkened his whole expression, again. Trace stood there staring at the mess in disbelief, unable to make a move to even start cleaning it up. He could feel the prickle of tears behind his eyes and tried his hardest not to let them fall.

What the hell is up with you today?

I-I’m sorry, Trace stammered, brushing at the stray tear that slithered down his cheek.

Don’t be sorry; tell me what’s going on.

Trace blinked and looked up into Finn’s eyes, shocked to see that the annoyance had faded, replaced by a look of concern.

W-would have been my parents’ anniversary today, Trace managed. I-I just, I-I can’t stop thinking about them. I’m so sorry I keep fucking up.

Trace almost stopped breathing when, instead of reprimanding him, Finn enveloped him in a hug.

Finn’s voice was rough and low when he spoke in Trace’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. You never have to apologize for that.

It had been months since he’d been hugged, and Trace couldn’t help but snuggle into the embrace and rest his head against Finn’s chest.

D-do you want me to clean this up and go for the day so I’m not in the way? Trace asked as he stepped back from Finn’s embrace with a harsh reminder to himself not to get too comfortable there.

No, let’s clean this up together and order some lunch, Finn replied, reaching for the broom Trace had dropped and placing it back in the corner. "The damned legs weren’t working out well anyway, so