Sex and Murder Magazine

By Jeffrey B. Burton

Dr. Pennington would be so proud of Leon.

Leon Torgerude absolutely loved what the current owners had done with the crawlspace. They’d ripped that dank spot out and turned the entire area into a sunken mud room, with coat racks, shelves, even a place for boots in winter. But Leon had a bias, his memories of the old crawlspace basically consisted of scampering in there to avoid more of Daddy’s backhand. There he had sat in the dirt and the darkness, his father cackling with laughter, while Leon pressed his t-shirt to a bloodied nose, split lip, or soon-to-be blackening eye. Other occasions, if Daddy didn’t want to set down his drink, Leon spent the time rubbing a bruised rib or stinging tailbone from the silver tip of the old man’s boot. Ya gotta piss-pound “em, Gladys, Leon could almost still hear Daddy bark at his mouse of a mother, else you get a faggot.

It was decades now since Dr. Pennington—he of the Father Christmas eyes and calming demeanor—at the Institute had worked with young Leon. Pried the boy from his shell. Explained to him about the cycles of abuse, about how Leon’s father should have been behind bars for what he’d done. Of course back then, kids were seen and not heard and whatever went on behind closed doors…went on behind closed doors.

Dr. Pennington had worked tirelessly with young Leon about confronting the past—the terrifying memories. Dr. Pennington repeatedly told Leon that confronting his childhood demons was the best path toward healing. They say you can’t go home again, Dr. Pennington had counseled young Leon, but taking a quick peek about the old place might provide you with some much-needed closure. But young Leon adamantly refused to return to Iona Lane—the old stomping grounds—with the good doctor because dark and dreadful things lay back there. He knew it in his heart. Dark and dreadful things.

But now, as the adult Leon roamed about the house where he grew up—confronting all the old memories—he found himself agreeing with the long-since retired clinical psychologist. Leon had spent several years at the Institute, and then the rest of his teenage years in Foster care. When his mother died of Leukemia, Dr. Pennington personally found him and told him of her death, personally drove the 17-year-old Leon to her funeral. With Dr. Pennington’s treatment, Leon had long since forgiven her. But that was something he could never say of Daddy. Dr. Pennington’s therapy could only go so far.

After Leon’s Kindergarten teacher made such a big production out of finding lice in his hair, the neighborhood kids took to calling him Licey Leo. But as Leon withdrew further and further into himself, virtually talking to no one, that Murchdorf kid down the block started calling him Tard-er-Rude for Torgerude. Soon enough the nickname truncated to simply Tard.

Tard’s here, he heard them giggle when he entered the school room. Who wants Tard? the gym kids queried when it came to assigning team members. Oh shit, do I have to sit by Tard? they’d say when the only remaining seat on the bus was next to Leon.

Leon had grown up tall, almost six-four, though a bit on the plump side. His bulk helped him as a mover for Beckman’s Furniture, helped him pop off doors and quickly get furnishings through seemingly impossible entryways. He’d gotten his Class B commercial license a handful of years back, so most deliveries Leon was able to accomplish by himself. He liked it that way—especially in a sweltering summer like this one—everyone's sweat as stale as a corpse's breath. This August had been a scorcher alright, with daily highs breaking 100 degrees. A virtual blast furnace, Leon thought, like that one particular summer from those many, many years before.

As a mover, Leon loved seeing new people inside their houses, observing how they’d decorated things, made their home nests. So when he found himself delivering two cherry wood end tables to a townhouse on Tarten Hill late one August afternoon, Leon realized that he was all of a half mile from the old house. He’d never returned for a look-see in the two plus decades since, and found himself, after unloading the end tables, being slowly drawn to the place, taking the twists and turns to the old address on Iona Lane, the house that butted up against Stump Acres, the woods where young Leon had cried out his eyes burying Tippy.

As it turned out seeing the old place wasn’t that bad. Not bad at all, actually. Hardly recognizable, Leon thought to himself as he drove by, great idea to fit a porch on the front. And by gosh if that wasn’t now a two-car garage. Leon stopped the delivery truck at the edge of the property, rolled his window down in the roasting heat, and strained his neck to peek around the side. They’d even added a deck. The sod was lush green, manicured, unlike the freckled dirt patch it had been those many years ago.

Late that evening, Leon wondered what the house looked like inside? If the current owners had changed his old room, that 8 by 10 prison cell with the greasy mattress in the middle of the floor? The endless nights spent staring up at the ceiling before thankfully drifting off to sleep. Leon bet they’d remodeled the bathroom, had to have, and, of course, they had to have put in central air by now. He never forgot the broiling, suffocating nights of those final weeks, his t-shirt a washcloth of sweat as he prayed for sleep. Was it the muggy August humidity that shrouds your soul? Or the unstoppable approach of Labor Day, pushing ahead of it the half-death of the Autumn Equinox?

That was the night that Leon decided he’d gin up the courage to go back there, connect with the current owners, and take the nickel tour as they say. Sometime soon. Heck, he’d do it for Dr. Pennington, so he could finally—how exactly would Dr. Pennington phrase it?—put it all to rest. There was no way that he could ever begin to repay the man for essentially rebuilding his life, but perhaps a short note of gratitude sent to Pennington’s retirement home down in Florida would let the good doctor know that Leon had finally achieved closure.

*****

Young Leon and his mother had been driving home from the Red Owl grocery store when Gladys spotted a “Free Puppies” sign in someone’s front yard. It was mid-July and the kids were out playing with the dogs. His mother parked the car and walked over to “Ooh” and “Ahh,” but Leon stayed glued to his seat. He watched through the open side window as the little critters—tongues panting in the blistering heat—turned and twisted and wiggled and pawed at each other. Eventually, Leon left the car and hovered quietly toward the gathering. A cute little fella, brown and black with dabs of white on each paw, noticed him, stumbled over and began chewing on the laces of Leon’s tennis shoes. Leon knelt down and the two stared at each other for several seconds before the puppy flopped over onto its back.

“Tippy.” Leon said.

Tippy was one of nine in a litter of mutts, predominantly German Sheppard with a hint of Doberman. The family had two kids, a boy and a girl, both younger than Leon. They clearly loved all the puppies, but there was no way they could keep nine dogs in addition to the brood’s mother. They were looking for good families to take care of the different puppies…and the price was right.

His mother took it up gently with Daddy that evening. Leon listened from his bedroom, lying on his mattress, staring up at the ceiling. He was surprised to hear Daddy mumble, “I had a dog as a boy, so why the hell not. Be sure’n tell the kid that he cleans up all the shit.”

No problem there as Tippy proved smart and was house trained in two days. All Leon had to do was use the scoop and fling the piles into the lightless woods of Stump Acres. Leon played with Tippy from the moment he woke each morning to right up until they both fell asleep on Leon’s mattress at night. With the scorching sun baking down upon them, they often sought refuge in the shade of Stump Acres, making their presence known, chasing squirrels and rabbits, sometimes birds. Even the head smackings or kicks to the backside were bearable as Tippy hid with him in the crawlspace, licking away Leon’s tears.

Playing outdoors with Tippy kept Leon out of Daddy’s orbit. At first Tippy tried to sniff and wiggle and work his charm on Daddy, but, inevitably, it was met with a backhand over some imagined slight. Within a week, Tippy had learned to give Daddy a wide berth. And that was fine with Leon. In fact everything lately had been fine with Leon, because Leon—Licey Leo, The Tard—was head-over-heels in love. Unfortunately, it was almost September and September meant a return to school. It meant avoiding eye contact. It meant pretending not to hear what was said in his direction. But even that would now be bearable because a certain best friend would be home waiting to spring on him the moment he set foot off the bus.

It really was too good to last. Surprising, Dr. Pennington had noted, that considering how the temperature of the house was set per Daddy’s vindictive mood swings and constant bullying, that Leon had the dog five weeks before it happened. And the inevitable it began with a shriek.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Daddy’s shout tore through the windows, drowning out the sound of Leon nailing together a makeshift doghouse for Tippy to loaf in during Leon’s impending school days. That dark spot in his gut told Leon that Tippy was in deep trouble, that Tippy had somehow displeased Daddy.

Leon dashed inside, followed the yelping to the furnace room to find Daddy, all red faced and pressed flat against the wall, kicking sideways at Tippy, who had squished himself behind the drying machine.

“Daddy, No!” Leon screamed above Tippy’s squeals of pain. “You’re hurting Tippy! Daddy! No! You’re hurting him!”

His father whirled on Leon, picked him up by a fistful of hair and tossed him into the other room. “Look what your shit-squirtin’ mutt did to my beer chair.”

Green fabric had been shredded and scraped down halfway across the footrest, with white upholstery sticking out at all angles. As if that wasn’t enough, Tippy had teethed up and down the wooden lever that Daddy used to recline. Daddy’s beer chair was sacrosanct; it was a major part of his nightly regimen, as he sucked down cheap suds in front of a ballgame.

“He’s teething, Daddy,” Leon pleaded. “He’s teething.”

“Take that goddamned tree-humper out back and I’ll teach “im a lesson!”

“No Daddy. Don’t hurt Tippy.”

“I ain’t gonna lay another hand on the little fucker unless you disobey me, boy. Now get him in the backyard right now!” His father headed upstairs and Leon heard him clomp into the garage.

Tippy looked up at Leon from behind the dryer. The dog’s bladder had released during the attack and the poor thing stood in a puddle of urine. Tippy slowly slid out from his hiding spot and limped awkwardly on three legs toward Leon. The boy bent down and hugged his puppy for several seconds, then picked him up and carried Tippy outside. It wouldn’t be good to keep Daddy waiting.

Daddy was leaning against an Oak tree on the property line, with a shovel in each hand—a spade and a flat head that he’d grabbed from the garage. Leon put Tippy on the ground and walked forward, his dog trailing behind him.

“We got us a situation here, boy. You know that recliner cost me a week’s pay and that’s why you don’t ever sit in it. I got nut kicked at the plant for five fucking days to buy my beer chair and your goddamned dog used it as a chew toy!”

“I’ll pay you back, Daddy. I’ll deliver papers and get you the money.”

Daddy shook his head back and forth, sweat flopping off his brow. “I don’t do installment plans. There’s gonna be a lesson taught today, boy. A big fucking lesson.”

“Don’t hurt him, Daddy. Tippy’s just a puppy.”

“I already told you I wasn’t gonna hurt the mutt, but you got a choice, boy. So listen up cause this offer’s only good for five seconds.” His father threw the flat head shovel at Leon’s feet. “You can do it quickly and there’ll be no pain. But if you make me do it, boy, if you make me do it—it won’t be quick, and it’ll be anything but no pain.”

“Daddy, no,” Leon whispered, unmoving.

“Five.”

“Daddy?”

“Four.”

“Tippy didn’t mean to—“

“Three.”

“I love him, Daddy.” Leon cried. “I love Tippy.”

“Two.” His father raised the spade over his head.

“Don’t Daddy! Don’t!” Leon kept in front of Tippy and held up his arms. “I’ll do it.”

Leon bent down, held the little dog to his shaking chest, and sobbed uncontrollably.

“Get on with it. It’s hot as hell out here.”

Leon nuzzled him nose to nose. “It’s gonna be okay, Tippy. It’ll all be okay.”

“Don’t go faggot on me, boy.”

Leon stood up, lifting the flat head high into the air. Tippy stared up at him, confused, tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth, smiling as always.

“I love you, Tippy.” And with that Leon brought the shovel down on Tippy’s head as hard as he could, crushing the dog’s skull and killing him instantly.

10 days after the occurrence—after he’d buried Tippy in Stump Acres—Leon stood by the side of the garage and watched as his father worked the barbeque. A real meat and potatoes man, Daddy loved his barbeque. Get the charcoal ash white, was Daddy’s motto, before you put the food on.

Leon looked up at the sky and felt a wave of dizziness pass quickly through him. Though the days had passed into September, the clammy summer warmth continued. Forecasters called for thunderstorms as with this massive humidity, something had to break. Leon crept slowly across the dirt and patches of lawn, barefoot. As silently as possible. He stared at his father from behind, watching Daddy work the old Weber like a symphony conductor, tossing the brats and burgers on the grill, farting, wiping the perspiration from his eyes with a dirty forearm. Sensing something wasn’t quite right, Daddy suddenly froze—his opus complete—and that was when Leon swung the shovel with all his might. It connected with a sickening thunk. Daddy brought both hands to the back of his head and turned around, his mouth a perfect O, when Leon swung the shovel a second time, the flat head smashing Daddy square in the face, shattering his nose and jaw, teeth flying in a mist of red. Screaming with pain Daddy fell backwards, tried to steady himself with a hand on the grill, but the charcoal was ash white. He snapped his burning hand back, and crumpled to the ground. Leon and his shovel went to work.

And it wasn’t quick, and it was anything but no pain.

*****

Leon stood at the sliding glass door, staring out into the backyard patio, at the place where events past had culminated. Dr. Pennington would be oh-so-proud of him; here he was—confronting the demons from so long ago—and finally putting the past to rest. He saw that the current owners had put up a chain link fence where their property met with Stump Acres. And a makeshift water fountain covered the spot where Daddy used to barbeque. Leon stood still for several seconds, allowing a hint of lightheadedness to pass, then slid the glass door shut to the unforgiving heat, turned off the outside lights and headed back upstairs.

The kitchen, for all practical purposes, was unrecognizable. It had been gutted and reborn. A marble-top island held court in the center, replacing the old card table where many a silent meal was devoured. Contemporary maple cabinets lined the walls and a stainless steel refrigerator and gourmet range completed the picture. Of course the very best thing for Leon’s money was the air conditioning. Especially the way early September was following in August’s footsteps, a stifling 95 degrees even at this late an hour.

He walked down the hallway and peered into the master bedroom, where his parents used to sleep. The ratty old shag carpeting had been ripped up, likely eons ago, and replaced with hard wood. Roman shades, fresh paint, everything was so clean, hardly a dust bunny to be found.

The current owners had taken such great care of the house—so obviously filled the place with loving details—that they had no reason to fear. Not from Leon. He had done it quickly, so there’d be no pain. The two figures lay motionless beneath the covers on opposite ends of the platform bed, splotches of crimson discoloring the otherwise white sheets.

Leon turned back and headed into his old room, now refurbished as a guestroom with an antique desk under the window and a sewing machine tucked in one corner. Along the wall sat a trundle bed, probably a great pullout for company. Still hours till dawn, Leon sat on the middle of the trundle, then twisted and lay down, his legs straddling atop the foot board.

It had been a long night of closure.

Leon stared up at the ceiling—as he’d done so many times as a child—and waited for the restful sleep to overtake him.