A Quiet Man

One sweltering day in August, a family of five moved into our village in a clunker truck that squealed as it gripped the road and purred as it slowed, carrying a stained mattress and a refrigerator.

Nobody took much interest as the family busied themselves, unloading and carrying the things they could bring into the house facing ours.

The family worked silently, reserved to themselves, and never uttered a word of greeting. This was fine for the rest of the villagers, for we neither offered a helping hand.

Their youngest son, named Samuel, was somewhere around twelve years old. We later presumed he was the only boy in the village who didn’t kick balls or beg his parents for ice cream.

Once in a while, in those meager times when he kept his curtains open, I could observe him from my bedroom window. From what I could tell, he was no more than a bony stick figure with distinctly outlined collarbones and shoulder blades poking underneath his shirt. The village was poor, and not everyone had enough to eat, but Samuel? He looked nothing better than a punished stray dog.

Some time passed, and the family adjusted well enough on their own.

Samuel’s mother purchased eggs and butter from the supermarket every Thursday morning, sober enough to apologize when she bumped into passersby, and smoke rose from the chimney every evening, signifying dinner preparation.

Soon enough, the neighbors lost the little interest they scarcely had from the beginning, and I wasn’t inquisitive in poking my nose into other people’s businesses either.

Besides, we had our own lives to live, which were demanding and depressing enough on their own. I was getting older every day, and I had to start preparing for my future, or so they say.

When things started to slide off, nobody noticed.

One autumn day, Samuel was swinging alone in an empty playground, wearing a handkerchief across his face pirate-style. Perhaps he was trying to look brave, but the purple and yellow edges of a bruise spilling out from his left eye were unmistakable.

At the crack of dawn, his father cussing at his clunker to get it moving was so loud that it woke me from my sleep across the street, and I could often hear his sauntering footsteps returning home late after darkness pervaded.

His father was a walking zombie during the day and a violent beast during the evening. A cold shiver ran down my spine from the frequent racket of dishes crashing onto the floor and leather belts being swung.

It continued that way for several months, then one day, in the glow of daylight, I watched Samuel’s mother leaving the house and crossing the sidewalks with a suitcase dangling behind her. She was dragging one foot behind the other.

When I searched her eyes for a sense of pain or regret, I couldn’t find any. Her expression was blank and empty, devoid of emotions.

As if following by example, as the seasons changed, his siblings began to leave one by one as early as they could manage. And soon, Samuel, aged fourteen, was alone in that dark house with his father.

The violence has never been so severe. Once, an old lady knocked on his door and asked what was happening. Samuel’s father waved her off, telling her that he was only correcting his son’s bad attitude and it was none of her business.

Sometime later, cops were summoned to the scene with a child abuse report. They banged on the door and announced they were not going away before Samuel’s father opened it. His father opened the door alright, well-dressed and shaved for the first time in weeks, offering coffee to the officers. In his gentle humor, he said his son had been misbehaving, and he was giving him a few spanks. The officer, hearing this, nodded and drove away.

Then there were other things happening in the village. A miscarriage, a wedding, a cheating scandal, triplets born. There were other things to gossip about, other things for people’s minds to be occupied with.

Samuel never came outside.

Like fading vapor, he was forgotten.

Years passed. I was accepted to a university in a different state and worked hard to get a degree in botany. My efforts paid off, and my dream came true. I got married, had two beautiful children, and got a job as an agriculture engineer, with not much but a satisfactory salary, enough to support my family and me.

It had been a long time since my mind had erased that little boy named Samuel.

Then one day, after receiving a one-week vacation, I decided to visit the village I grew up in. After driving miles after miles of vast landscapes that stretched on forever, doubting whether I was taking the right route a dozen times, I eventually managed to find myself at my destination.

The village was the same, as if time had frozen in this place. The flickering streetlamps and the hideous graffiti sprayed on the concrete walls, the little playground with peeling paint, and a truly intoxicating aroma rising from the bakery with freshly-baked buns in the display.

It was wonderful.

I rented a motel for two days.

I managed to hang out with the people I knew, socialize, make new acquaintances at the pub, and everything was peaceful until the day of departure. Around ten in the morning, I was awakened by sirens blaring, tearing open my eardrums.

“What the—” I shuffled out of bed and peered out of the dusty window. Below the motel were two officers hand-cuffing a man in his mid-twenties. The blue and red lights of the sirens flashed in all directions as if this was the devil’s party.

I furrowed my eyebrows. I had a long day ahead, and this was obviously not the best way to begin. I shook off the troubling thought of lousy luck awaiting me and went downstairs to the lobby to check out.

“Have you heard?” The woman by the counter asked as she counted the bills. She was a plump woman with graying hair and rectangle spectacles. “About the murder?”

I scratched my head and sort of nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to drop land prices,” she said, massaging her knitted eyebrows.

“Yeah… I hope it doesn’t.” I said, hoping to sound as sincere and apologetic as I could manage.

She handed me the receipt with hardly visible ink and heaved a sigh as if the world was tumbling down. “That man killed his own father,” she said. “Samuel Tomson, a disgraceful bastard.”