Untouchable by Scott O'Connor

pickup.
    “You the father?”
    Darby nodded.
    “He wet his pants,” the janitor said. He was holding an empty paper cup, tapping it lightly against the door of the pickup as he talked. Darby had never seen him before, figured he was new to the school. Most everyone there knew Darby by sight due to his frequent visits.
    “Vice-principal told me he wet his pants and put them back in his gym locker and then didn’t know what to do about it,” the janitor said.
    “Who found him?”
    “I found him. Standing there in his briefs.” The janitor dug into his back pocket, pulled out a tobacco tin, wedged a plug between his gum and lower lip, worked it in tight. “I went and got the vice-principal because your son had a look on his face like he wasn’t going to move from that spot without some assistance.”
    “Did he say he wet his pants?”
    “He didn’t say anything.”
    The janitor lifted the cup to his lips, spat, rearranged the tobacco plug with the tip of his tongue.
    “When does he talk?” the janitor said.
    “He doesn’t.”
    “Is he mute?”
    “He made a conscious decision,” Darby said. “He made a conscious decision not to talk.”
    “How long’s it been?”
    “Ten months. Eleven months.”
    The janitor spat into his cup, whistled long and low, impressed.
    The Kid emerged from the front doors of the school. He was wearing clothes two sizes too big, stepping on his pant cuffs as he walked. He carried a plastic shopping bag in one hand, filled with his books and folders. In the other hand he carried his backpack, filled with what Darby assumed were the clothes the vice-principal had described on the phone as urine-soaked .
    The janitor pulled the rest of his plug from his mouth, dropped it into the cup. He knocked twice on the door of the pickup by way of signing off and headed in toward the school. He nodded to The Kid as they passed.
    The Kid reached the passenger window of the pickup, held up his backpack.
    “You wet your pants?” Darby said.
    The Kid shook his head.
    “Then let’s get rid of them.”
    They walked to a dumpster at the far end of the parking lot. Darby lifted the lid and The Kid tossed the backpack up, missing the shot. Picked it up and tried again. Picked it up and tried again, finally getting the pack up and over.
    The Kid pulled his notebook and pencil out of the plastic bag, wrote a line and held it up for Darby to see.
    How much do they cost?
    “Don’t worry about the money, Kid.”
    I’ll pay for new clothes. The backpack.
    “Don’t worry about the money. The money’s not a big deal.”
    Darby found a hose attached to the side of a small utility building, rinsed The Kid’s hands, rinsed his own. The Kid tucked his notebook under his arm to keep it from getting wet. They dried their hands on the fronts of their pants.
    “Whose clothes are those?” Darby said.
    Lost and found.
    “They look like they itch.”
    They do.
    “You want to tell me what happened?”
    The Kid ignored the question, stared at his hands.
    “I’m not mad, Kid.”
    The Kid nodded.
    “But if you don’t tell me what happened, I can’t help.”
    The Kid turned to a new page in his notebook, wrote a line, held it up for Darby.
    Loose lips sink ships.
    “I’m serious, Kid.”
    So am I.
    They went to the drive-thru of a hamburger place on Beverly Avenue for lunch, sat in the pickup in the parking lot with their burgers and fries. They ate fast food three or four times a week, ordered pizza or take-out for most of their other meals. The Kid was still toothpick-skinny, but Darby was starting to feel it in his gut, in his thighs, his shirts and jeans tight across his added weight. He knew their eating habits weren’t great, but he wasn’t much of a cook. That had been Lucy’s department, whipping around the kitchen, humming along with the country station on the countertop radio, slicing, chopping, pots and pans clanging, steam rising, smells forming, basil, oregano, garlic, onions, the aroma