The Docking
by Adam R. Patrick
The only thing worse than carrying around a secret was watching the persecution of someone with the same secret exposed. Billy Montgomery had thus far kept his secret. Floyd Banks had not.
“St-t-t-stop it...g-g-g-guh-guys!” Floyd said as he flailed, trying to catch the textbook flipping and flapping over his head as the Jenkins boys tossed it back and forth yelling, “Whatsa matter, freak?” and “Gotta learn how to use that good hand!” Billy winced each time the stump at the end of Floyd’s arm, still wrapped in clean white gauze, came within inches of the book.
When enough people had gathered and the whispering and giggling grew to a murmur, a teacher stepped into the hall, and everyone scattered. The Jenkins boys’ laughter echoed in the halls over the shuffling feet and sniveling Floyd.
Billy scooped up a couple of looseleaf papers that had fluttered from Floyd’s textbook and carried them over.
“Here,” he said.
Floyd sniffed. “Thanks.” He moved to wipe at the droplet of snot hanging from his nose, but the bandaged stump fell short, and his head bobbed forward in an exaggerated motion the way people pitch sideways when they try to lean their elbow on the desk and miss. Floyd whimpered and wiped instead with his right hand.
“Did it hurt?” Billy asked.
“This? N-n-n-no,” Floyd said, shoving the bandaged hand into his pocket as they stood. “I’m b-b-buh...b-b-buh...BAH!” Floyd doubled over and unleashed a scream that vibrated up Billy’s spine.
Floyd straightened. A bitter antiseptic scent stung at Billy’s nostrils as Floyd held the bandaged stump next to Billy’s cheek and shook it as he screamed, “I’M BUH-BUH-BETTER. OFF. WITHOUT IT.”
Billy’s jaw worked but no words came out.
“I’m normal now,” Floyd said, and slinked away.
“St-t-t-stop it...g-g-g-guh-guys!” Floyd said as he flailed, trying to catch the textbook flipping and flapping over his head as the Jenkins boys tossed it back and forth yelling, “Whatsa matter, freak?” and “Gotta learn how to use that good hand!” Billy winced each time the stump at the end of Floyd’s arm, still wrapped in clean white gauze, came within inches of the book.
When enough people had gathered and the whispering and giggling grew to a murmur, a teacher stepped into the hall, and everyone scattered. The Jenkins boys’ laughter echoed in the halls over the shuffling feet and sniveling Floyd.
Billy scooped up a couple of looseleaf papers that had fluttered from Floyd’s textbook and carried them over.
“Here,” he said.
Floyd sniffed. “Thanks.” He moved to wipe at the droplet of snot hanging from his nose, but the bandaged stump fell short, and his head bobbed forward in an exaggerated motion the way people pitch sideways when they try to lean their elbow on the desk and miss. Floyd whimpered and wiped instead with his right hand.
“Did it hurt?” Billy asked.
“This? N-n-n-no,” Floyd said, shoving the bandaged hand into his pocket as they stood. “I’m b-b-buh...b-b-buh...BAH!” Floyd doubled over and unleashed a scream that vibrated up Billy’s spine.
Floyd straightened. A bitter antiseptic scent stung at Billy’s nostrils as Floyd held the bandaged stump next to Billy’s cheek and shook it as he screamed, “I’M BUH-BUH-BETTER. OFF. WITHOUT IT.”
Billy’s jaw worked but no words came out.
“I’m normal now,” Floyd said, and slinked away.
“That can’t be,” Marge said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. The walk home from the schoolhouse usually took about twenty minutes, but Billy had feigned a bullheaded interest in kicking a clod of dirt down the dusty road to slow them down. “That just can’t be.”
“Well, it is,” he said, tapping at the rock with the toe of his sneaker.
“But we’re twins,” Marge said. “I ain't that way.”
“Well, I don’t reckon you have to be. But I am.”
The only sound for a long time was the dull tumbling of the clod bounding along in the dirt.
“Daddy can't know," she said, confirming a fear that had long occupied a permanent space in Billy’s mind. John Montgomery had a set vision of how the world ought to be. How people ought to be. How men ought to be. There was always hope that the man would feel differently about his own son, but the image of Floyd with his left wrist bandaged up had snuffed out that hope.
Floyd’s daddy had a similar vision of how the world ought to be.
The dirt clod crumbled under Billy's shoe, but their pace remained slow, and they didn’t speak again the rest of the way home.
“Well, it is,” he said, tapping at the rock with the toe of his sneaker.
“But we’re twins,” Marge said. “I ain't that way.”
“Well, I don’t reckon you have to be. But I am.”
The only sound for a long time was the dull tumbling of the clod bounding along in the dirt.
“Daddy can't know," she said, confirming a fear that had long occupied a permanent space in Billy’s mind. John Montgomery had a set vision of how the world ought to be. How people ought to be. How men ought to be. There was always hope that the man would feel differently about his own son, but the image of Floyd with his left wrist bandaged up had snuffed out that hope.
Floyd’s daddy had a similar vision of how the world ought to be.
The dirt clod crumbled under Billy's shoe, but their pace remained slow, and they didn’t speak again the rest of the way home.
Billy’s stomach was in knots by the time they got home.
“I’m gonna go see the puppies,” he said to Marge. Marge reached over and squeezed his hand. She smiled at him, and for a moment Billy felt like everything was fine. She didn’t say anything, just dropped his hand and headed toward the house.
The family’s rottweiler, Dutchess, had just had a litter of pups. Billy couldn’t imagine a more soothing salve than holding one of the days-old puppies against his cheek as they chirped and purred in his ear. He walked to the barn and heard rustling as he entered. The sun was still high in the sky over the barn’s roof, and he was several steps inside before his eyes adjusted to the dark to see his father and his father’s friend, Phil, crouching over something in the middle of the barn—a large stump. His father held one of the pups in place just below the stump’s top edge, its tail stretched out on the surface behind it. Phil held a hammer aloft and Billy’s breath caught in his throat as Phil’s arm pistoned down.
There was a dull ting as the hammer connected with the hatchet that his father held in place against the pup’s tail just an inch or so away from its base, and a squeal ripped through the darkness. Billy choked out a sob as he backed away, tears building in his eyes. The men turned and squinted in Billy’s direction.
Billy stammered something and sprinted away as his father’s muffled cussing crept through the spaces between the barn’s wooden slats.
“I’m gonna go see the puppies,” he said to Marge. Marge reached over and squeezed his hand. She smiled at him, and for a moment Billy felt like everything was fine. She didn’t say anything, just dropped his hand and headed toward the house.
The family’s rottweiler, Dutchess, had just had a litter of pups. Billy couldn’t imagine a more soothing salve than holding one of the days-old puppies against his cheek as they chirped and purred in his ear. He walked to the barn and heard rustling as he entered. The sun was still high in the sky over the barn’s roof, and he was several steps inside before his eyes adjusted to the dark to see his father and his father’s friend, Phil, crouching over something in the middle of the barn—a large stump. His father held one of the pups in place just below the stump’s top edge, its tail stretched out on the surface behind it. Phil held a hammer aloft and Billy’s breath caught in his throat as Phil’s arm pistoned down.
There was a dull ting as the hammer connected with the hatchet that his father held in place against the pup’s tail just an inch or so away from its base, and a squeal ripped through the darkness. Billy choked out a sob as he backed away, tears building in his eyes. The men turned and squinted in Billy’s direction.
Billy stammered something and sprinted away as his father’s muffled cussing crept through the spaces between the barn’s wooden slats.
“Why do you do that, Daddy?” Marge’s voice cut through the silence at dinner.
Their father didn't acknowledge her at first. He sucked at his teeth as he sat hunched over his plate, his forearms braced on the table, cords of muscle rippling under the wiry black hair as he gripped a fork in one hand, a steak knife in the other. The shrill of wind and spit sucked between his teeth and tongue was harsher than silverware on porcelain.
“Do what?” he eventually asked.
“Cut the puppies’ tails off.”
Billy winced as the ting rang in his ears.
Their father’s jaw worked as he repositioned a chunk of meat into his cheek. He pointed the knife at Marge. “It’s called docking, Margie. We dock their tails.”
“Why?”
Billy felt his father’s eyes boring into him. He didn’t want to meet them, but the man had sunk his hooks in, and they drew Billy’s gaze like a winch hauling a dead calf out of the pond. Billy watched the tendons in his father’s neck stand out as he forced the half-chewed animal flesh down his throat. “Just the way it is,” he said. “Them dogs shouldn't have tails. It’s unnatural. Unclean.”
Contempt and indignation roiled in Billy’s veins.
How could something they’re born with be unnatural?
It must have shown on his face. An act of insolence that set the corner of the old man’s eye to twitching. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back; eyes still locked on Billy.
“Just like that Banks boy,” his father said.
“John,” Billy’s mother said from somewhere far away. Billy’s breath grew shallow as the corners of his father’s mouth ticked upward.
“What?” he asked, a full-fledged grin creeping across his face. He raised his hands to his sides as if presenting Billy with something Billy couldn’t see. “Matthew. Book twenty-five. Verses thirty-two and thirty-three: ‘And he will separate the people as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.’”
Billy slammed his napkin into his plate, sprang from his chair, and sprinted toward the stairs as his father’s raised voice chased him.
“And ‘he will place the sheep at his right hand and the goats at his left!’”
Their father didn't acknowledge her at first. He sucked at his teeth as he sat hunched over his plate, his forearms braced on the table, cords of muscle rippling under the wiry black hair as he gripped a fork in one hand, a steak knife in the other. The shrill of wind and spit sucked between his teeth and tongue was harsher than silverware on porcelain.
“Do what?” he eventually asked.
“Cut the puppies’ tails off.”
Billy winced as the ting rang in his ears.
Their father’s jaw worked as he repositioned a chunk of meat into his cheek. He pointed the knife at Marge. “It’s called docking, Margie. We dock their tails.”
“Why?”
Billy felt his father’s eyes boring into him. He didn’t want to meet them, but the man had sunk his hooks in, and they drew Billy’s gaze like a winch hauling a dead calf out of the pond. Billy watched the tendons in his father’s neck stand out as he forced the half-chewed animal flesh down his throat. “Just the way it is,” he said. “Them dogs shouldn't have tails. It’s unnatural. Unclean.”
Contempt and indignation roiled in Billy’s veins.
How could something they’re born with be unnatural?
It must have shown on his face. An act of insolence that set the corner of the old man’s eye to twitching. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back; eyes still locked on Billy.
“Just like that Banks boy,” his father said.
“John,” Billy’s mother said from somewhere far away. Billy’s breath grew shallow as the corners of his father’s mouth ticked upward.
“What?” he asked, a full-fledged grin creeping across his face. He raised his hands to his sides as if presenting Billy with something Billy couldn’t see. “Matthew. Book twenty-five. Verses thirty-two and thirty-three: ‘And he will separate the people as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.’”
Billy slammed his napkin into his plate, sprang from his chair, and sprinted toward the stairs as his father’s raised voice chased him.
“And ‘he will place the sheep at his right hand and the goats at his left!’”
Floyd wasn’t at school the next day. Billy was anxious, and he hated himself for that. He wasn’t worried about Floyd, like a real friend might have been. He was worried about himself. Floyd’s absence made Billy more vulnerable. No one knew he was like Floyd—at least, he didn’t think. But bullies had a way of sniffing out the weak ones. And Billy was one of the weak ones. Just like Floyd. Billy was certain the Jenkins boys would be on him like dogs on a crippled squirrel.
So, he was surprised when he turned a corner in the hallway to see a crowd gathered around someone that was not him.
He was about to avoid it altogether when he heard his sister’s voice cry out over the noise.
Billy inched toward them.
“Shut up! Shut up!” his sister’s voice climbed over the laughter.
“Your freak brother is just like him, isn’t he?” one of the Jenkins boys yelled.
Another said, “If he is, you must be, too!”
Billy reached the crowd and worked his way through to find Marge pinned to the wall facing a semi-circle of jeering people, the Jenkins boys front and center.
“Leave her alone, you jerks!” Billy said, stepping to his sister’s side.
The crowd erupted. “Look at ‘em!” someone said. “Twin freaks!”
The phrase caught on, and people began chanting. The Jenkins boys laughed, frothing and wild-eyed.
Something flashed in the corner of Billy’s eyes, something flying from the back of the crowd and headed right for Marge. Before he recognized it as a thermos, before he had time to think, he reacted. He reached out and caught it just inches from Marge’s face.
The crowd went silent. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the thermos perched in Billy’s left hand.
“I knew it,” one of the Jenkins boys whispered. “He’s a God-damned lefty!”
So, he was surprised when he turned a corner in the hallway to see a crowd gathered around someone that was not him.
He was about to avoid it altogether when he heard his sister’s voice cry out over the noise.
Billy inched toward them.
“Shut up! Shut up!” his sister’s voice climbed over the laughter.
“Your freak brother is just like him, isn’t he?” one of the Jenkins boys yelled.
Another said, “If he is, you must be, too!”
Billy reached the crowd and worked his way through to find Marge pinned to the wall facing a semi-circle of jeering people, the Jenkins boys front and center.
“Leave her alone, you jerks!” Billy said, stepping to his sister’s side.
The crowd erupted. “Look at ‘em!” someone said. “Twin freaks!”
The phrase caught on, and people began chanting. The Jenkins boys laughed, frothing and wild-eyed.
Something flashed in the corner of Billy’s eyes, something flying from the back of the crowd and headed right for Marge. Before he recognized it as a thermos, before he had time to think, he reacted. He reached out and caught it just inches from Marge’s face.
The crowd went silent. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the thermos perched in Billy’s left hand.
“I knew it,” one of the Jenkins boys whispered. “He’s a God-damned lefty!”
The walk home was longer and quieter than the last. This time, when they arrived home and Marge took his hand, there was no reassurance in her touch. Only fear.
Their father stood in the doorway of the barn gripping the hatchet at his side. “Head on inside, Margie. Help your mom with dinner.”
Marge met Billy’s eyes. She squeezed--Be strong--and ran for the front door.
Billy’s legs faltered as he reached the barn. His father caught him under the arm.
“Find yer feet, boy,” he said as he pushed Billy inside and went to the stump, picking dirt from under his thumbnail with the toe of the hatchet’s edge. “School called. Way they tell it, Phil and I wasn’t quite done, yesterday.” He met Billy’s eyes. “So’s it true?”
Billy’s face crumpled.
His father’s face hardened. “C’mere.”
Billy whimpered. An apology. A plea.
His father stalked toward him, the heavy thud of his boots muffled in the strewn hay. “I. Said. Get. Over here.” He dragged Billy by his left wrist to the stump.
“Wait...no!” Billy finally managed. The surface of the stump was cold and rough against his forearm as his father pinned him there.
“No son of mine is a by-God lefty, boy.”
“It’s not my fault!” Billy cried. “I don't want to be! I can change! I can change!”
His father frowned. Placed his face inches from Billy’s. Billy didn’t see anger there. Only resolve.
He shook his head. His tone was even. Righteous. “Just the way it is,” he said, and squared himself with the stump. He raised the hatchet over his head. “It’s unnatural, boy. Unclean.”
A puppy howled in the corner as a squeal ripped through the darkness.
Their father stood in the doorway of the barn gripping the hatchet at his side. “Head on inside, Margie. Help your mom with dinner.”
Marge met Billy’s eyes. She squeezed--Be strong--and ran for the front door.
Billy’s legs faltered as he reached the barn. His father caught him under the arm.
“Find yer feet, boy,” he said as he pushed Billy inside and went to the stump, picking dirt from under his thumbnail with the toe of the hatchet’s edge. “School called. Way they tell it, Phil and I wasn’t quite done, yesterday.” He met Billy’s eyes. “So’s it true?”
Billy’s face crumpled.
His father’s face hardened. “C’mere.”
Billy whimpered. An apology. A plea.
His father stalked toward him, the heavy thud of his boots muffled in the strewn hay. “I. Said. Get. Over here.” He dragged Billy by his left wrist to the stump.
“Wait...no!” Billy finally managed. The surface of the stump was cold and rough against his forearm as his father pinned him there.
“No son of mine is a by-God lefty, boy.”
“It’s not my fault!” Billy cried. “I don't want to be! I can change! I can change!”
His father frowned. Placed his face inches from Billy’s. Billy didn’t see anger there. Only resolve.
He shook his head. His tone was even. Righteous. “Just the way it is,” he said, and squared himself with the stump. He raised the hatchet over his head. “It’s unnatural, boy. Unclean.”
A puppy howled in the corner as a squeal ripped through the darkness.
Adam R. Patrick is a retired US Air Force veteran born and raised in the hollers of Southeastern Kentucky. He currently resides near Little Rock Air Force Base, Arkansas, where his wife, Lyndi, continues to serve as an active-duty Air Force officer. He is completing an MFA in Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University and spends his free time learning electric guitar and paying what is usually regarded as insufficient attention to their dog, Mo, and their cat, Otis.