The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(28)

“Hey, it’s the devil boy!”





9

David Bateman and his two bullies had been kneeling in the third-base dugout at the ball field. I would later come to learn they had been using a magnifying glass to burn ants and beetles and ignite small piles of dry leaves. I had the bad luck to pass just as Tommy Leftkowitz, the designated lookout, raised his head. At Leftkowitz’s pronouncement, the three of them saw an opportunity for infinitely more fun than burning insects, and they raced for their bikes.

My instinct for survival kicked into high gear. I pedaled as fast as I could, my pursuers speeding along the grass outfield on the opposite side of the cyclone fence. I had the advantage, riding on concrete, and probably would have made it safely to my driveway, but I lost focus when I looked back at them, no doubt a survival instinct, and my foot slipped from the pedal. The toe of my Keds struck the ground, acting like an unintended brake, and it sent me careening onto gravel. As I struggled to untangle myself from the bike, Bateman came to a skidding stop, back tire fishtailing and spitting rocks at me.

He dropped his bike and grabbed me by my shirt collar, shoving me into the park while Leftkowitz grabbed my bike and the baseball bat. Bateman pushed me toward the cinder-block bathroom building. I was certain he intended to make good on his promise to drown me in one of the toilets. Instead he pushed me around to the back of the building, out of sight from the playground equipment and whatever parents were there that afternoon.

“Hold him.”

O’Reilly and Leftkowitz each grabbed an arm while Bateman walked to where Leftkowitz had dropped my stricken bike. He picked up the baseball bat.

“Nice bike, Devil Boy.”

The first blow smashed the light attached to the handlebar. The second removed the license plate. O’Reilly and Leftkowitz laughed as Bateman raised and lowered the bat again and again, knocking off the chain and cracking the reflectors and spokes. He saved the final blow for the bell. It died with a sorrowful clang.

Breathing heavily, Bateman dropped the bat. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked like some deranged, sneering dog. And yet, at that moment, I also recall an odd sense of calm. Perhaps this was acceptance of my fate, resignation to the fact that I was about to be pummeled and there was nothing I could do about it. Or maybe it was an acknowledgment that I had it coming for peeing in David Bateman’s face, then sticking out my tongue at him. Or it could have been that I was so distraught over what Bateman had done to my new bike that I didn’t care what he did to me. My sudden lack of fear could have been due to any of those reasons, or a product of all three, but I no longer believe that to be the case. I remember thinking this was what I deserved, the devil boy with the red eyes. This was what I had coming to me for being different. It was only a matter of time before, as my father had predicted, I would encounter the cruelty the world held for me. David Bateman was just the person who would deliver the first blow.

His punch to my stomach knocked the air out of me and buckled my knees. I would have dropped had O’Reilly and Leftkowitz not held me upright. Yet the pain was almost a relief. Almost. In truth, it hurt like hell. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch my breath, and David Bateman didn’t wait until I could. He clenched both his fists and systematically smashed me about the face and stomach, just as he had smashed my bike.





10

I don’t know how long the beating continued, when it stopped, or why. I suppose that Bateman tired, or it could have been O’Reilly and Leftkowitz lost their courage. Initially riled, I recall the smiles on their faces fading to uncertain grimaces over the course of Bateman’s attack. Smashing a bike was one thing. Smashing another kid repeatedly required a completely different genetic disposition—emotionally primitive, impulsive, lacking any remorse, sense of guilt, or human compassion.

“I think he’s had enough,” one of them said.

“Hold him up or I’ll hit you,” Bateman said.

“He’s bleeding. You’re getting blood on your shirt.”

And that might have been the reason Bateman stopped. Maybe even then, just a boy, Bateman had already developed a criminal’s instinct to avoid incriminating evidence.

I slumped to the ground, unable to raise my head, and listened to the sound of their shoes in the gravel as they ran to their bikes and made their escape. Hidden in the shade behind the cinder-block bathroom, I felt my left eye swelling shut. The metallic taste of warm blood filled my mouth, and my lower lip was going numb. When I ran my tongue over it, I felt a small cut and a sharp, stinging pain. At some point, I managed to get to my feet and hobble to my stricken bike. I don’t recall how I lifted it or got it to roll. What I do remember, very clearly, were the mothers in the nearby playground pushing their children on swings and sitting on benches. I remember a man and a woman who had been sunbathing on towels sitting up and watching me make my way back to the fence. I remember a man walking his dog on a leash continuing past me.

My mother and father could call my red eyes a “condition,” but I realized it was more than that. I was different. I could not hide my eyes.

My bike and I wobbled down the sidewalk together, and though it was only two blocks to my home, I remember thinking the trek to be an arduous journey I would never survive. Leaving the park and halfway down the block, I saw the blue Falcon inching toward me. My mother looked to be standing behind the wheel, her head hovering just above the windshield, swiveling left and right. Mrs. Cantwell knelt on the passenger seat, eyes also searching. I could see the top of Ernie’s head in the back seat.