Paper

          The first jab at the nest missed easily, the forked end of the crow bar puncturing two neat holes in the siding. He placed one foot on the highest rung to provide a more solid base for another attempt, the ancient wooden ladder creaking in protest. This time he made contact. The nest held firm, but a solitary wasp emerged, studied him briefly, then sank bank into the combs. Wesley realized he would need to make a sweeping motion to dislodge it from the wall, the paper structure being sturdier than anticipated. Switching the metal rod to his left hand he gripped the ladder tightly with his right, not entirely trusting the warped gray wood to hold him.

         “Whatcha doing?”

          The bar slipped from his hand, clattering off the side of the townhouse before pin wheeling to the ground and bouncing into the base of the ladder. The boy scrambled backward stopping several feet away, a grin formed on his face followed by a quick peal of laughter.

         “You almost bonked me!”

         The boy inched his way backed to the ladder and crouched down, picking up the metal bar with both hands, feeling its heft. Wesley watched him closely while easing himself down several rungs, his heart accelerating in his chest. He had not been this close since the first time he had seen him at the store, his head just above the height of the counter. Since that time, Wesley had only seen him at a distance as he stepped from the school bus or through the fence at the playground. The smile, the mottled green eyes, even the hair-the color of muddied straw- were identical.

(indent}The row of elms that stood along the side of the building spread long, late day shadows that began to dance upon the wall behind him. A steady breeze now cut through the heavy blanket of air. He let it pass over and through him, collecting himself, as it momentarily slowed the beads of sweat that traveled down his brow and cheek. A late summer Missouri boomer was not far off, a brief respite from the oppressive midwestern heat. Back east, where he had lived the last twenty-seven years of his life, august could be humid, but nothing like this. The air was a vise, an unrelenting pressure on the body and mind, like trying to breath in a smoke filled room. He couldn’t wait to leave it behind.

         “Carl.” The voice was lower, declarative.

         The boy arched his head back as far as it would go and peered up at him. He raised the crow bar above his head, the weight of it a struggle, offering it to him.

         Wesley reached down with one hand, gently lifting it from the boy’s outstretched hands.
         “I’m sorry?”
         “Carl-that’s what it says on your shirt. I can read you know.”
          Still hanging by the one arm ape-like, he twisted his body back towards the side of the townhouse and placed the bar upon a rung at eye level. He found himself even with the kitchen window, catching his reflection in the surface. A stranger, dressed in oil-soaked blue overalls sporting a full beard, light brown marbled with gray, met his gaze. A white oval patch was stitched over his left breast, red lettering and outline. Carl. He smiled; the image returned to him from the window more a pained grimace.
          “Yes, you can. Carl is my name. And who are you?” He still faced the window.
          “Alexander Lyon. But it’s spelled with a “y”, not an “i” like an African lion. What are you doing up there?” The boy’s speech was inquisitive, exhibiting the intelligence of a much older child, clear and thoughtful, but Lester put him at six or seven years of age, certainly not much more.

          “Well, Mr. Lyon with a “y”, I’m clearing out these wasp nests so they don’t sting you, or your mom and dad,” he said, turning away from the glass and facing the boy.

          “My Dad doesn’t live here any more. He lives with Melinda,” Alexander said, casting his eyes down for the first time, his confidence momentarily lost. Wesley filed that bit of information away.

         “Oh. Well, we don’t want them to sting you or your Mom, do we?”

         Alexander elevated his eyes once again, meeting Wesley’s. He saw now they were really a hazel, a touch of brown the color of wet cedar mingled with the green, much like his own.

“Nope. Got stung by a bee once. Didn’t like it one bit,” he said, stressing the “bit”.

“Well, that’s why I’m here. These are Paper Wasps, and when they sting you, it hurts a whole lot worse then some little old bee.”

Alexander’s brow creased.
          “How can a wasp made of paper hurt worse than a bee sting?”

          Wesley laughed a little too loudly. He had not expected to meet the boy this soon, to be this close. He just wanted to reach out for him, to run his fingers through his hair, touch his cheek. Slow down, breathe, he told himself

          “The wasp’s aren’t made of paper, their nests are. Stand back and let me knock one down and then I’ll show it to you.”

          Alexander dutifully backed off, settling under one of the elms. Wesley turned and climbed the ladder, taking the crow bar in his left hand. This time, his aim was true; the nest tumbled through the air. Two wasps were launched clear of the nest before it hit the ground and drifted off around the corner of the house in lazy spirals.

          Alexander crept back towards the house and the downed nest.

          “Alexander, stay back!” Wesley’s booming voice froze the boy as he descended the ladder and inspected the nest.

          “I didn’t mean to yell at you son, I just wanted to make sure there were no more wasps in the nest. Come here, I’ll show it to you.”

(indent} Alexander hesitated for an instant before moving towards him, wary, Wesley sensed, as much from the intensity of his warning as the possibility of being stung.

          The nest was not a large one, Wesley had seen bigger when he had first come up with the exterminator idea and had scouted the complex. They were everywhere. He had not checked the boy’s home, but gambled correctly that there would be at least one hanging from the eaves. It contained only twelve “cells”, several closed, containing, he guessed from his minimal research, larvae. He had actually found the study of the insects quite interesting and it helped to pass the tedious hours behind the counter of the convenience store. The shop was an independent operation (no background check) owned by a fairly prominent local family, the Hirschbaums. They were more than happy to hire him, a well-spoken adult who willingly put in long hours, and found his interest in science admirable. Before his Father had been transferred East, Wesley had lived the first eight years of his life in a town just a few miles down the road from here, called Pacific. The area had a large German community with roots as far back as the civil war, hard workers, but distrustful of outsiders, especially easterners. The Hirschbaum’s had shown the usual leeriness towards him before he revealed his roots to the area. From then on he was accepted as a local, the silence that had shrouded him his first several days on the job bursting into a flood of local history spanning his three decade absence.


          He held the nest in his palms as Alexander ran a small hand across the raised ridges of the cells, his wrist brushing against Wesley’s fingertips.

          “Doesn’t feel like paper.”
Wesley tried to snap the nest in half like a loaf of bread, but it was solid and did not give.

          “Well, it is paper in a sense. The Queen wasp uses bits of chewed up wood and mixes it with her saliva so that when it dries, it is very strong to protect her babies.”

          “You mean her spit?” Alexander tried to place his pinky inside one of the open combs, but even his diminutive finger would not fit.

          “Yes, exactly. She lays her eggs inside each hole along with some food for when they hatch. She then closes the opening, keeping them safe. They won’t come out until they are ready to fend for themselves.”

          “What kind of food?” He took the nest from Wesley.

          “Other bugs, caterpillars and moths. Things like that,” Wesley said, unsure of this, but surprised at how easily it had come to him. This was becoming easier for him.

         “Are they in there now?” Alexander raised the nest to eye level and gave it a violent shake.

         “Maybe one or two. Looks like most hatched already.”

         They both looked up, their dialogue interrupted, as the boys Mother came around the corner of the house. Her arms were folded beneath her breasts, an unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, just as when Wesley had met her an hour earlier. Her eyes were the same green as the boys, but tired, small black satchels hung below each socket, matching the dark roots of her blond hair. The roots formed a dark splotch on the crown of her head and had begun to seep into the longer strands of blond, like insect legs extending down. It appeared as if a huge spider were resting atop of her.

          He had failed to notice this earlier. After she had answered the bell, his focus was entirely on a convincing performance. Never being a great liar, he needed to disclose his purpose and presence as quickly as possible, how he worked for the complex and he just wanted to let her know, that, yes, he was going to clear away all the nests on the building, and that he would be done as soon as possible and would not disturb her. His name was ‘Carl’ if she wanted to check with the office. The entire delivery felt rushed (the reference check may have been a bit much as well), but the woman did not seem to be suspicious and had actually offered him a bottle of water, which he had declined. Once she had closed the door, he exhaled deeply, his fingernails digging into his palms leaving reddened indentations.

         Wesley and the boy’s mother watched as Alexander silently turned the nest over and over, studying every cranny, until the first drops of rain began to speckle the concrete walkway that encircle the house.

         “Come on Alexander, it’s starting to rain and Mommy has to go to work. Leave that thing out here, the man has to get rid of it.” Alexander handed the pale brown nest to Wesley as the rain intensified.

         “Carl, is it? Are you done out here?” She had started back to the door, not waiting for an answer.

         “No ma’am, I guess I’ll wait out the storm in my truck. Just a late summer thunder boomer, should be over in a few minutes,” he said, nodding toward the yellow pickup parked in the lot, conspicuous only by its color from the half a dozen other trucks owned by people in the complex.

         She opened the back door and entered, Alexander nearly tripping her as he slipped by her and tore into the house. Wesley started for the lot at a jog, the rain coming down in sheets, the truck a yellow blur.

         “Would you like something to drink before you go?”

         He stopped. Rivers of water ran between his feet along the edges of the sidewalk, flowing towards the door.
         “That’s very kind of you.”

         Inside the doorway, he began to wipe his feet upon a woven mat covered in a brightly printed collage of blue jays. Some sang, others cavorted and hopped among pine branches, all seemingly happy to be in each other’s company. From what he knew of these birds as a boy, their true nature was nasty and aggressive, often attacking other species as well as their own. Reaching out with the toe of his right boot, he left a smudge of mud and water across the head of each bird in turn.

         “Here, I have to get ready for work,” she said, handing him a towel and a bottle of spring water. She looked past him and through one of the panes of glass in the country style door.

          “Looks like the rain is letting up,” she said, turning her eyes back to him, lingering long enough to say she was not entirely comfortable with his presence.

          Wesley broke her gaze by covering his face with the towel and wiping away the water streaming down from his sopping hair. Her footsteps receded into the next room and by the time he had finished wiping his face and removed the towel, she had disappeared upstairs. He took several steps into the small kitchen, and peered into the living room, but Alexander was not there. Retreating back towards the door, he folded the towel neatly and placed it on a counter next to the refrigerator. As he turned towards the entrance to go, he noticed the child’s drawing. A magnet, “Welcome to Branson”, held it in place upon the pale mustard door. It stopped him cold.

         A boy and his father drawn in bright yellow marker stood next to each other, their inside hands clasped together. In the other hand, they each held a fishing rod, the lines stretching out below them into a blue sea or river full of smiling orange fish. The two figures were smiling broadly as well, floating above the rippled surface, seemingly unconcerned about their lack of success, the fish ignoring the baitless hooks that dangled in front of them. All were happy.

         Wesley and Jeremy had fished often in the creek that ran behind their house in Princeton. They never had much, if any success either (he doubted there were any fish in the shallow creek to begin with), but Jeremy insisted that they go at least once a week in the summer months, determined to eventually pull something out of the stream. Wesley enjoyed watching Jeremy as his eyes would never waver from the red and white bobber for long stretches, almost willing it to disappear below the surface.

          The last time Lester had seen Jeremy outside of the courtroom had been on one of these expeditions. As they climbed the muddy bank to return home, awkwardly clutching rods and empty creel as they ascended, Jeremy lost his footing, sliding back into Wesley and between his legs. He laughed as he turned over and looked up at his father, his nose and cheeks covered in mud. Wesley smiled down at him and reached to flick the bit of brown of the end of Jeremy’s nose. The smile disappeared when he noticed the jagged cut along his brow and asked him about it. Were the boys still picking on him at school? Jeremy lowered his eyes and had said no, not the boys, and looked back towards their home through the trees. That is when Lester knew, the hot flood of realization spreading through his body. How could he be so blind for so long? There were too many instances, too many assorted gashes and bruises. Even bullies got bored eventually. Lifting Jeremy up, he hugged the boy tightly. It would be okay, he told him. He swore it would. No more lies.

         But there would be. He had seen much more fabrication of truth over the last several years, from his wife in court, her family, and the most painful, from his son. Jeremy’s lies, of course, were excusable, but still lies- from embarrassment, intimidation, fear, and saddest of all, love for his mother. Wesley’s lawyer had begged him to put Jeremy on the stand, but he could not allow it. The boy had been through enough, and his Mother’s testimony too convincing for it to make any difference. Besides, he would be safe from her now he thought- Gretchen was no fool. The social worker would be checking in on them periodically. If fresh welts and bruises were evident, they would not be able to blame him this time. But, if he had underestimated her limitations, she had not. Gretchen had disappeared with his son only weeks after the verdict-over three years ago. He had done all he could to find them, but his options were few, hampered by his own legal problems and dwindling funds, there not being a large market for convicted child abusers in the teaching profession. As the hopelessness of his situation set in, frustration became despair; despair being the last thread on the spool of sanity. Once it is unwound, reality branches into countless directions. One of which has brought him to Polk, Missouri.




         He reached out and touched the two figures with his still damp thumb and forefinger, leaving two wet smudges upon the drawing.

         The sound of hurried footsteps on the floor above him filtered down through the ceiling bringing Wesley back to the present, scattering memories of Jeremy and New Jersey. Wesley looked to his left. Afternoon sun poured through the window, leaving latticework shadows across the floor as it sifted through the rungs of the ladder still propped against the exterior. Reaching up, he flipped the brass latch on the window unlocking it.

         “Alexander, when Grammy wakes up, tell her your dinner is in the fridge and she’ll heat it up for you, okay?”

         He could not hear the reply, the small voice too distant. He hurried to the door and stepped outside. The sky still rumbled, a flash of lightning here and there, but showed more blue than gray, sunlight splashing through and off the wet concrete walkway. His pace accelerated as he moved toward the truck, becoming almost a full jog by the time he reached the driver’s side door. Slipping into the seat, he grabbed the wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. This had been intended as merely a “scouting” trip, to see the boy up close again. But he may not get another opportunity, and in truth, he did not think he had the courage to return. It had to be now.

         He watched as the mother exited the house, closing and locking the door behind her, waitress apron in hand. She came directly toward him then veered to the rusty blue Honda parked to his left. He rolled down his window.

         “Just waiting for the lightning to stop, then I’ll finish up with your unit ma’am.”
She nodded and gave him a slight wave and her first smile, though forced, before disappearing into the Honda. He leaned his head back against the rest and watched in the rear view mirror as the car pulled out of the lot and on to the main road.

         Where would they go? He hadn’t really thought about it a great deal. West. Interstate 70 to Kansas City. From there, they could branch off in any direction. He would take whichever fork looked the most desolate and remote, the farthest from people- he would trust his family to no one but himself ever again. Of course, Alexander’s mother would say something similar to the police. Officer, he seemed like a good man. My son, please, just find my son. He closed his eyes and bent his head forward, pressing his brow into the hard plastic of the steering wheel between his clenched fists.


         Slipping into the house had been easier than he thought, the window only waist high. He was in and out in less than two minutes, not bothering to clean the tracks of mud left on the floor.

         Wesley accelerated the truck up the ramp and merged onto the interstate. Steam rose from the blacktop, the evening sun out in full force now, the storm heading east behind him. He cracked his window halfway and let the stilted air rush over him. He took it in with a deep breath- It smelled green and earthy. A rustling from the passenger seat distracted him and he looked over and smiled. The gust of air from his window had taken the drawing and pinned it against the far window. The bright sunshine accentuated the colors- the blue ripples of the water, the yellow figures, and the hunter green fish, all still smiling contentedly.

         He slowed the truck and guided in to the shoulder. The drawing dropped from the window as the wind from the speeding truck had dissipated, slipping down between the door and the seat. He reached over and pulled it out, carefully folded it in half and placed it in the glove box.

         As he put the truck into gear and eased it back on the highway he tried to recall the moment when he had left the house. Had he locked the door behind him? It bothered him that he could not remember, but if he hadn’t, he hoped that Alexander would be safe.