The Inlands I: The Man with the Stone

When Jimmy came back to the room—which wasn’t but twenty minutes after he sent his brother crying—he wanted to apologize.  The boys had been caught outside the office door by the security guard; he had seen them on the stairs and was waiting for the right time to strike.  Indeed he had found it, and Ricky and James had to go home.  Ricky was on the verge of tears when he thought that his dad’s job was in jeopardy.

            Jimmy just didn’t tell him that the guard let them off with a warning; he loved to see the little guy whimper.  “What will he do?  He’s been in the Preparation Plant for seventeen years,” he kept saying, over and over. 

            Yes, Jimmy wanted to apologize, but that was before he saw the tobacco on the floor in front of the bunk beds, and the crumpled pack of cigarettes lying against the wall.  His jaw dropped, and he wanted to rip Cole to shreds. Only Cole wasn’t in the room.  He wasn’t sniveling in bed like a baby (though what he said was pretty harsh, he knew that much), and he wasn’t sitting in front of the television eating.  He ran over to the heap of tobacco and cleaned it before his mom got back from dropping off Ricky and James.  Why did he ever come in to apologize anyway?  He was certain Cole would do something like this; he must have known about the cigarettes.  Ricky had a big mouth and word got around, but what right did Cole have?  Did he know how long it took to find a kid old enough to buy the pack for him?  “Cole,” he screamed into the empty room.  He wasn’t expecting an answer.

            “In here,” Cole responded. He was in the closet.

            Jimmy was surprised by the playfulness in his voice, as if nothing had happened.  He walked into the closet and found Cole sitting on top of the clothes rack; he had used open drawers as a stepladder to get up.  He had a bed sheet tied around his wrist, which was anchored to the clothes rack by several loops.  It hung in a long droop from his wrist; he pulled it to see if it was taut.  “I thought I’d go down the tin here and see where I ended up.”

            “I thought we agreed it was just a vent, Cole.”

            “No, Jimmy, cause the door was painted—to hide it.”

            “Hide it?”

            “Yeah, you should know a lot about hiding,” Cole added, before submersing himself into the door.  He used his feet to pull him in as he held the sheets.

            All Jimmy could hear was this thin whine from within the walls.

            “Cole,” he said.  He climbed up the drawers.  “Cole,” he called into the open door with the sheet flapping out like a pallid tongue.  He received no answer; he stuck his head in the miniaturized door.  The sheet tickled his chin.  He could smell the tin; he could smell other things too.  He didn’t know what exactly, but he thought he could smell smoke and grease—the same things he and Cole smelt the first time they found this door, when they had agreed it was just a functionless vent.  “Cole, are you all right?”

            There was no answer.  The rope was firm.  Jimmy grabbed it and pulled.  Everything seemed fine.  And then he felt a nudge in the line, as if a fish had been lured by bait; it was becoming less tense.  The sheet quivered and Jimmy could hear faint thuds on the tin, followed by heavy breathing.  And then he saw Cole’s head peering through the darkness; he was climbing his way back up the vent, pulling himself with the sheet, and digging both feet at the vent’s sides.  Jimmy helped pull him up the rest of the way.  Cole was sweating. Both of his eyes were completely lidless and he gasped for air.  When he was out all he said was: “close the door, close the door.”  Jimmy moved aside and Cole slammed the little door