unfocused, and the slurred incomprehensible noises he made indicated to Barry that he was mentally retarded. He was wearing nothing but a muddy, blood-stained diaper, and when he opened his mouth, all of his teeth were missing.
A chill passed through Barry, and though he knew that such a reaction was childish, that he should be feeling pity and concern rather than fear and horror, he could not help being spooked by the hideous figure before him.
The man flopped into the center of the path, looked up at him, and shrieked.
'It's okay,' Barry said. 'I'm not going to hurt you.' He looked around to see if there was anyone else about, but the trail was deserted. 'Do you need any help, any--'
The man shrieked again and began jerking convulsively on the ground, his limbless body moving up and down in obvious agitation. Barry had the feeling that the man was trying to communicate with him, was trying to say something, but whether the sharp cries and ragged movements meant that he wanted Barry to get the hell away from him or that he needed some sort of assistance was impossible to determine.
The bearded face twisted upward on the corded neck, eyes bulging hugely, toothless mouth opening impossibly wide.
Barry crouched down. 'Do you want something?'
The figure jerked, screamed at him.
'I'm sorry. I don't--' He broke off, unsure of what to say, not knowing how to respond.
The man cried out again, his flopping becoming ever more frantic.
Barry backed away. Should he just continue on, pretend as though nothing had happened? He looked ahead. The trail before him seemed dark and forbidding, and he immediately turned around, hurrying back the way he'd come. He had no plan, no specific course of action, but he knew that he had to tell somebody, had to try and get the man some help. As bizarre as the incident was, as much as it creeped him out, he understood that underneath the horror show grotesquerie, this was a real person with obviously real problems and that it was his responsibility to make sure that the authorities were alerted and made aware of it.
He was jogging by the time he hit the road, and when he reached die intersection of his own street, he saw Frank driving by in his pickup.
Barry held up his hands, waved him down, and the vehicle slowed to a stop.
'Barry. You look like you've seen a ghost.'
'You're not far off.' He was breathing heavily from the altitude and exertion. 'I was hiking along the east bridle trail, and I ran into ... a man. A man without any arms or legs who couldn't talk and was sort of slinking along the ground in a diaper.'
'Oh, that's just Stumpy,' Frank said, chuckling. 'He lives on the trails.'
Barry didn't know what he'd expected, but this certainly wasn't it.
He'd been prepared to run back down the bridle trail with Frank to show him the limbless man, even to help carry the poor unfortunate back to the truck so they could take him into the doctor's office, the sheriff's office, or wherever assistance could be found. But he was not prepared for this cheerful recognition that there was a hideously deformed person living in the forest surrounding them, this open acknowledgment that there was a freak who spent his days skulking along the green belts of Bonita Vista--and that apparently everyone knew about it. It seemed surreal, like something out of one of his novels, not like something that could happen in real life, and for once Barry was at a loss for words, uncertain of how to react or what to say.
Frank must have misunderstood his silence. 'Stumpy's harmless. Don't worry.'
'I wasn't worried about him. I'm worried for him. He's ...' Barry took a deep breath. 'He's all muddy and bloody. I mean, shit, the guy doesn't have any arms or legs and he's inching along on his belly in the middle of the woods--'
'That's our Stumpy.' Frank smiled sympathetically. 'Look, I know you want to help and all, but there's nothing to do. It's his choice. This is how he chooses to live. Who are we to deny him that and dictate what he's supposed to do with his life? He's an adult, it's a free country. Live and let live.'
'I don't think he wants to be there,' Barry said. 'He was howling like he was in pain, and I think he was trying to tell me something.'
'Oh, that's just the way he is. Don't sweat it.'
Obviously, Frank did not understand his anxiety, could not comprehend why the sight of a filthy limbless man crawling along the ground might give him cause for concern, so Barry dropped the subject. He nodded as the other man talked, pretended that everything had been cleared up for him, and said good-bye, watching the pickup continue down the road toward the gate.
He walked back up the street feeling at once disturbed by what he'd seen and learned, and at the same time oddly disassociated from it. The fear he'd felt was real, and a vestige of it remained with him, but his concern for Stumpy's well-being was more intellectual, less emotional, and did not hit him at the same gut level.
The Suburban was not in the driveway, so he knew Maureen was still gone, and Barry continued up the street, past his house and directly to Ray's. Liz was outside, weeding, and she told him to go on in, Ray was on the deck.
He let himself in through the unlocked front door, walked through the entryway and into the living room. He could see through the windows that Ray was on a chaise lounge, reading a book.
Barry opened the sliding glass door, and Ray looked up at the sound.
'Hey,' he said. He held up the copy of The Coming that Barry had given him. 'I'm reading your book. It's pretty damn good. I'm impressed.'
'Thank you,' Barry said awkwardly. He never knew how to handle compliments about his writing, and while he wanted people to like his work, praise made him uncomfortable.
Ray sat up, put the book facedown on the small table next to him. 'So what brings you up here to disturb my reading?'
'Stumpy.'
The old man chuckled and stood. 'So you heard about Stumpy, huh?'
'Heard about him? I saw him. I was out walking on the east bridle trail, just taking a break from writing to stretch my legs a little, and all of a sudden I heard weird noises in the bushes. A minute later, this man with no arms or legs came squirming toward me, shrieking like a lunatic. Scared the hell out of me. I tried to talk to him, but he seemed retarded and he obviously couldn't speak. When I
went back to get some help, I ran into Frank, who told me that it was just Stumpy, and that he lives out in the woods and, apparently, everyone knows about it.'
'Yeah,' Ray confirmed. 'Stumpy lives out there. I think he probably has a hutch or a lean-to or something, but for the most part he just crawls around wherever he wants to.'
'And the people who live here don't care? They just put up with it?'
'Well... yeah.'
'You don't think that's a tad bit peculiar?'
'Of course it is. But he doesn't live in Bonita Vista. He lives in the national forest next to it. We've sort of agreed to let him roam the trails. I mean, who's going to prosecute someone like that for trespassing? Even the homeowners' association isn't that hard-hearted.Stumpy's been around here longer than we have, and I
think most of the people have a sort of live-and-let-live attitude toward him. We don't bother him and he doesn't bother us.'
'But isn't it sort of irresponsible to turn a blind eye to someone like that? I mean, he was wearing a bloody diaper, for Christ's sake.
Shouldn't there be someone who at least makes sure that he's all right, that he ... I don't know, has access to running water and a toilet, that he has at least the minimum necessities of life?'
Ray smiled sadly. 'I'm ashamed to say I never really thought about it that way.' He sighed. 'Live here long enough, you get hardened to anything.'
'So you think I should call someone? Social Services or whatever kind of indigent help the county has?'
Ray thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. 'I'm not a knee-jerk, if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it guy, but in this case, maybe it would be best to let things be. Liz and I have been out here nine years now, and in all
