Chapter
Into the Darkness
He wondered if Tomlinson had gone back to nearly drowning his boy. He thinks nearly because he felt that Tomlinson wasn't really trying to drown Scotty. He was just making it a part of the punishment. A punishment in which he'd caused. Scotty told him they weren't supposed to play in the mud. He should have known his father would be angry but Joe didn't listen. Tomlinson had given to outbursts of temper, but he never thought he'd be capable of doing something like that.
Joe was sure that when Tomlinson had gotten over his anger that he would be released. Scotty would be cleaned up and Tomlinson would demand Joe clean before supper. Joe waited for this time. As the light was fading Joe caught the scent of a freshly cooked meal. Tomlinson had decided to make supper before releasing him. This meant that Joe wouldn't be released until the table was set and they were ready to eat. As the night wore on and the beautiful smells dissipated Joe feared that perhaps he wasn't to get supper this night. They went along and had supper without him. His stomach ached and churned. It was late now. Perhaps supper had been put away. When Tomlinson would release him, he'd probably make Joe go straight to bed. Still dirty? Who knows anymore? All light had faded from this hole in the ground.
He was too lost in his own pity to look about him and evaluate the situation he was in while he still had the light to do so. He had seen in this space a time or two when Tomlinson would open the latch to retrieve an item, Joe had been behind him playing with Scotty. This was when he'd come to visit. When his family was still here. He'd seen this one other time a couple of days ago. He turned his face to his left. Were their two shelves or were there three? He had never more than an inclination to see what was inside beyond just a passing glance. Now he had no chance of seeing anything. He never thought he would need to memorize the number or location of the shelves and what was on them. He never thought he'd be where he is now. Stuck in this hole unable to see his own hand in front of his face. He was afraid of exploring his surroundings now. Afraid of finding some critter waiting for a hand to bite. The second most compelling reason he had for not moving from this spot. The first was an underlining fear of disrupting the order of things. Disrupting Tomlinson. Afraid of breaking something valuable. He held on to the hope that at any moment Tomlinson would realize what he was doing and come down to get him. He just wanted to be in a comfortable bed, not on this dirt floor with God knows what around him, but at the center of the room lost in his pity was where he remained.
Hours had gone by and now Joe wasn't sure what time it was. He was sure it was late though. Late enough by now that the occupants of the house had likely gone to bed. For the first time he realized, and dread hit him as he did, this was how he was to spend the night. Cold and filthy, on this hard earth floor with nary a blanket to keep him warm. He laid himself down and folded his knees in.
It was difficult to fall asleep but in time he did. The night drug on languidly. He drifted in and out of sleep. As the night wore on it got colder. He tucked in tighter. He would fall asleep for what felt like hours and snap himself awake and stay awake for what seemed like twenty minutes or so at a time. It was a frequent occurrence that lasted throughout the night. Time passed funny in this way. It felt like 30 times he drifted off and thirty times he stayed awake, but that didn't make sense. For how often this happened he concluded that he must not have been asleep for as long as he thought he had or for that matter awake for as long as he was, otherwise it would mean that the night lasted weeks long.
Either his eyes had finally begun to adjust to his surroundings or light was coming in from the outside to illuminate the room around him. The clearer his environment became with the slow passage of time the more he was sure, it was morning. His stomach grumbled and his mouth was dry. When he was able to see with enough clarity, he propped himself back to a sitting position.
There was enough light in here now that he decided to glance around. He examined the shelves gliding his eyes over each jar. There were three shelves to his side and three more to his back although not even with each other. They were offset by just a few inches. The very top shelves to his side and back held jars of leather strips soaked in yellow liquid that Joe was sure was not food. The second shelf down to his back were empty jars. Salt and spices in various containers lined the second shelf at his side. Where were all the delicious jams and jellies that were in his pantry back at home? In fact, there wasn't any fruits or vegetables of any kind. Not dried or fresh. Neither jerky. It wouldn't be uncommon for a rack of beef or otherwise to be hanging in their pantry back at home. He guessed it was better there was none here at the moment. It's not like it would have been edible, plus he didn't really feel like rooming with a carcass for a day or two.
Thinking back, it did seem that the quality of their meals has diminished over the last few days. Tomlinson must have used all of his fresh stuff to entertain his family and then as leftovers after that. To his front were only two shelves. Beneath them was a large sack of potatoes and twice that amount in rice and cornmeal. Beans beneath the shelves on the far wall.
He'd considered getting into Mr. Tomlinson's things then but again two things prevented that. The first was that everything that was edible was in its natural state and unable to eat. I mean he could eat it if he had to. It wouldn't kill him. If he were hungry enough, he would but he was not. The irony of being surrounded by food and unable to find satisfaction in any of it. The second was he didn't want to compound his troubles by stealing. Mr. Tomlinson had meant for this to be his punishment and he was going to be a good boy until it was over. He waited like this for Tomlinson to come in and retrieve him. He assumed it would be the first thing he did upon waking. He would need to eat breakfast after all, but as the morning wore on, he came to the belief that they went right on ahead and had breakfast without him. That's just cruel if Tomlinson was going to make him miss two meals. He sat there bitterly wallowing. After breakfast for sure. He held onto this. But time wore on still and there was no sign nor sound of him. Joe was sure it was late enough so that breakfast had been cleaned up and later still so that Tomlinson went right on to work. God, did he forget he was down here? He'd do anything to get out of this hole now. If Mr. Tomlinson was still mad at him, he'd take it. Anything to get out of this hole. Hopefully when he does get out, he could get Mr. Tomlinson back on his good side.
It was lunch time now. He had missed two meals already. Just how long was Tomlinson intending on keeping him down here for? Joe couldn't help but entertain that Tomlinson might really have forgotten about him. Forgotten he was in here? Forgot that he had a second boy to watch? That seemed near impossible to have happened. You'd have to be pretty numbskull for that to happen. Dimwitted. Tomlinson seemed many things about now. Joe could think of many choice words for him but numbskull and dimwitted were not among them. Flannel-mouthed, slum-guzzling, two-bit fice; maybe, but not dimwitted. That's one thing Joe could say Tomlinson was not.
This hole in the ground had warmed up. He could feel as the room was at its brightest and the sun was high in the sky. It wasn't what one might consider warm at all but at least it wasn't blistering cold at the moment. The coolness of the atmosphere didn't stop the thirst from coming. His thirst was outweighing his hunger by a long shot. He stared up at those bottles of yellow liquid and considered, really considered. No. He shook it away. He may be thirsty but he wasn't that thirsty.
Where was Scotty? He wondered. He hadn't come to visit him. Not one time. Perhaps he was locked up in his own room. He drew up his knees and held them again.
Midafternoon had rolled around. The room was exceptionally lit as if the sun was directly overhead. It had been a full day almost since the last time he had eaten. His vow to not compound his troubles by stealing was beginning to crumble. His sureness in Tomlinson to release him once he got over his anger had dissipated with the passage of time. His thoughts turned morose. A small seed of belief that Tomlinson never intended to release him had begun to grow. Was it possible that he was meant to die down here? A colorful image came to him. He pictured his family coming to pick him up and he not being there. How would Scotty's pa explain that to his pa and brothers?
Joe feared having to spend another night here but as the room had darkened it became ever more apparent that he might have to. What had he done to deserve this? Had he really pissed Tomlinson off so much? Without warning the door flung open recklessly allowing the fleeting light to brighten the room. Tomlinson charged down the stairs and grabbed Joe by the bicep which he flinched upward to protect himself and drug him up and out of the hole.
Evident by the way he was handling him, he still seemed to be rather upset. It was much brighter outside than it was in the hole but Joe could see the light wasn't expected to last too much longer. It was late afternoon now getting to be about evening. He took Joe to the middle of the courtyard, standing him about fifteen feet from the basin. Between he and the basin sat a few buckets. Joe scanned around for Scotty as Tomlinson left Joe's side. Scotty was nowhere to be seen. Before he knew it, Tomlinson had thrown the contents of one of the buckets, straight cold water, drenching Joe, which Joe gasped in reply. "Take off your clothes."
"What?" He shivered his shock.
"Take off your clothes!" Tom demanded. He gulped his acceptance. Joe knew better than to disobey. The shivering became more profound as he unbuttoned his top which only slowed the progress enough to make Mr. Tomlinson impatient. When Joe had removed his shirt, he slipped his thumbs into his waistline uncomfortable with exposing his parts to a stranger. "You think I want to see that?" Tomlinson spurned. "Leave your undergarments on." Joe was simultaneously relieved as he was insulted just by the way he said it, as if implying that it was something he wanted to do. He dropped his pants obediently leaving his pantaloons in place. Tomlinson dumped the second bucket onto Joe and washed him down. Scrubbing the reawakened mud away. The third bucket completed the task. When it was done Tomlinson wiped away the excess water with a towel. He was not gentle about it.
He threw the towel on top of the dirty clothes and drug Joe again by the arm away from the mess and back around to the far-side of the house. Where he was going to this time, he wasn't sure. As if answering an unspoken question Tomlinson said, "I'm not letting you spend another night contaminating my food." What? What did he mean by that? To his horror he went right back to the cellar. The day was just fading. Panic betook him. He was going to spend another night down here?
"No." He tried twisting away. This only angered Tomlinson all the more.
"Stop fighting you little brat."
"No Please." He cried now in his heart as he feared spending another dark night in this hole. He was thrown down bare and shivering. He frenzied up the steps but could not make it in time before the door closed above his head sealing him inside. "No! Please! Don't leave me in here again!" He banged on the door, begging to be heard. "Please! I'll do whatever you say! I'll be good! I promise! I'll be good!" But Mr. Tomlinson was gone. Joe strained against the door, hoping he could get out. It was secure. He pounded and banged, tear laden shouts reaching nowhere. He collapsed out over the steps and wept. He was feeling pretty darn sorry for himself now. How did he allow all this to happen? Had he really been that bad?
Was Tom really planning on keeping him in here a whole nother night? He again forgot to feed him or give him water, other than that in which was cruelly thrown over him resulting only in him being colder than he was before. The light had faded now. He was left alone cold and shivering and with even less now to warm him. His stomach screamed for sustenance. He wiped away his tears. He was angered with the thought of those two gathered around the table indulging in another warm meal without him. Be damned if they think he's going to spend one more night down here starving. But what was there? There had to be something. He knew the shelves of jars were on the left wall. The bags of dry food underneath the shelves. He remembered that. A few varieties of beans on the far wall. Empty jars and buckets carelessly strewn against the right wall, waiting for use.
It finally clicked. He remembered something that would work. On the lowest shelf just above the rice there were some crackers. He scrambled to them and felt around until his fingers touched upon them. He opened up the rag dropping a few into the dirt. These were the ones he'd chosen to eat, keeping the clean ones preserved. He'd get into less trouble if he got rid of the filthy ones first. He shoved them into his mouth finally glad to get some sustenance. But instantly regretted it. What little moisture was in his mouth dried out and the crackers turned to dust and he was unable to swallow. It was when his dry mouth attempted to swallow the viand that his need for water increased tenfold and he realized just how thirsty he had been. Coughing out what didn't soak up moisture and with difficulty swallowing what couldn't be coughed out. Now he was thirstier than ever, still feeling the lump which settled in his throat. Suddenly the crackers didn't seem as appealing to him as they once were. They took on an evil significance and he found himself almost humorously angry with them (as if he could find humor in his situation). Abjectly and ironically angry (would be a more accurate description) as if their only reason for existing was to cause him torment. He sighed at the ridiculousness of the thought and wrapped them back in their cloth and set it back on the shelf. If he could see, he no longer wished to set eyes on those vial things.
He wished now he had enough sense to swallow some of that water that was thrown at him. His hair was still wet as were his pantaloons, but not enough to get any of that into his mouth. That didn't mean he didn't try. It was a bitter irony that both the food and water he needed were here but neither could be consumed. He felt his way back to the steps and laid out upon them. Dried pieces of cracker, what couldn't be spit out or swallowed stuck in his mouth. He closed his eyes to his misery and fell asleep.
When he'd awoken, he had no idea what time it was; it could have been 10, it could have been 2 in the morning. He could see nothing around him. There was a feeling of disorientation that came over him. He knew where he was but losing his sight for such a long period of time gave him a funny sensation. He considered with how thirsty he felt that probably had something to do with his woozy feeling. The irony. He'd been soaked in water and not the sense to drink any of it. He'd lick his own arm had it still been wet.
He adjusted his position, his body rather ached now, and rested his head again bidding himself to go back to sleep. His thirst, hunger, cold, lack of a decent place to rest and pity were all things that kept his sleep from being restful but the heaviness in his limbs on account of his weakened state countered this.
There was a point in which he'd awoken. It was still dark down here but he had the sensation that it would soon be morning. He was fooled about twenty times the night before with this feeling, but it felt like the sleep he got this night was deeper. Morning came a little bit longer than he'd anticipated but he still felt like he had a better sense of the time.
A dim glow finally began to illuminate the items in the room. It streamed in from no place in particular which is why it was difficult to discern that the room had actually been lighted. He sat himself up and held his knees. The morning was here now as evident and he waited for release. He wanted to believe that Tom would be down here to get him out. He prayed that it would be before breakfast. He found himself playing the same game as he had yesterday of not 'if' but 'when'? There was no way Tomlinson was going to keep him down here another day unless he surely meant for him to die which by how thirsty he was, he was sure would happen. As the room slowly lighted and Joe waited, he played with the timeline in his head. It was breakfast now, they were eating. The crumbled pieces of crackers were still in his teeth, at the back of his cheek and in his throat. He couldn't do much about that. Not without something to wash his mouth with.
He kept his mouth closed because it felt better somehow. It soothed the scratchy feeling he had at his throat. He breathed out through his nose. Hot, dry breaths from his throat; hot, dry breaths from his lungs. His fear in not knowing how long Tomlinson was going to keep him in here for sickened him.
It was after breakfast now. Where was he? Oh God don't let me be down here another night. Tomlinson most surely had gone back to work. Joe fought the tears again and the rising panic. Didn't he know how hungry he was? God, how thirsty? He stared up at those poisonous jars again. That's it. He was resolute. He couldn't believe his need to quench his thirst was actually fighting through his sensibility. He pulled one down unscrewing the lid. The scent assaulted his nostrils before he could think of taking a sip. It smelled something of turpentine or formaldehyde. This was straight poison. Still, he stared. He really stared, considering it. He could at least rinse his mouth. Wet his tongue. That wasn't enough. He needed something in his throat. He almost gagged as he considered. Drinking this would be death absolute.
The longer he stayed down here the more he crumbled into thinking he was going to die anyways. He had to drink something. What would be better? A quick death or a slow one? Both might be painful. No, he's got to get himself out of this mindset. He screwed the lid back on and set the jar back in its place. If only he could find himself something real to drink. He had to find something. He would drink the turpentine from the jars if he had to but he'd soon rather lick the morning dew from the shelves if he had the sense to do it when he could. Before it had evaporated. He had to find something to drink. His uncontrollable judders distressed that fact. His mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow. There was no sign whatsoever that he would be released anytime soon. He scrounged the shelves now with a sickening desperation. He had to get a drink. God there has to be something in here. Anything.
Search, search, search. You've got to find something. Just then his hand tipped something that had a funny weight to it. A soft slosh greeted him. He pulled down an oversized ceramic jug prying it open to peer inside. It was the darkest purple he'd ever seen but it had the sweetest smell, like ripe berries. He knew what it was or at least he thought he knew. Wine. This stuff had to be good. He was staring at a purple heaven. No, not heaven. It was the golden calf. So beautiful to lay eyes upon but so evil to indulge in. He attempted a dry swallow. The mere fact that he couldn't told him he needed this. Against all reasoning, trusting only on instinct he knew he needed this. He tipped the jar to his lips and took a sip. The burn had hit him before the fruity taste. In fact, the fruity flavor that he smelled was hardly there at all, which made him wonder why people actually drink this stuff. He pushed out a hard breath to rid himself of the burn. He knew why he was drinking this and knew he needed more. Knowing now what to expect he took another drink doing his best not to breathe in the burn as he did. He drunk and drunk until the burn built up and became unmanageable and he coughed again. Before he could convince himself otherwise, he went back for more this time swishing it to loosen the crackers that embedded in his mouth. He continued to drink on in this fashion moistening his throat. A fuzzy feeling washed over him before he felt his thirst actually quenched. It quenched him a little he considered but not by much. He collapsed down jug in hand and leaned against a rice bag. Every time he felt parched, he took another swig. Even if this wasn't helping like he wanted it to, it was helping in another way. It made his mind drift in a way he never felt before. He was relaxed in a way he couldn't help. Brought to the sleep world. Lifted up and carried to a place which he found peace in. Willingly. Floating. Drifting. Gladly ignoring his troubles.
It had become rather stuffy in that room from the afternoon sun which he barely registered due to his fuzzy state. He was lost in his own wanderings when the door opened flooding light down. His heart fluttered with excitement and he opened his eyes. Tomlinson silhouetted the opening. Joe's clothes were thrown down clean and dry now. At Joe's lethargy he stepped into the cellar. Going to Joe he lifted his face to examine him. His lips were stained purple. He smelled his breath and his eyes darted first to the jug at his side then to the ones on the shelf. He didn't have to ask. He knew.
"I give you half an inch and you steal from me?"
"I was thirsty."
"You were being punished. Of course, you were thirsty. It was a punishment."
"I didn't know what to do."
"Take your punishment and get it over with. That's what any normal child would do. No, but not you. I should have expected this from you. You got to go making things worse for yourself. You just can't keep your hands out of the cookie jar. Always got to go making things worse than they have to be. I should have expected this from you."
"I didn't know how long you were going to keep me in here."
"Two nights. You couldn't last two nights."
"It's been three."
"It's only been two nights."
"Three days!" Joe pronounced teeming with emotion. This only angered Tom. He grabbed Joe up by his chin and slammed him back against the shelves. The back of his head met one shelf. His back and thighs hit the two below. He held him there with these three shelves digging in.
"I told you once before, you will not get mouthy with me boy. Your pa may tolerate this from you but not me. I'm going to teach you today, you insolent heathen." He dropped Joe to the floor and left. He didn't latch the door, Joe observed. He forgot to latch the door. He scrambled up the steps to freedom, to safety. He touched the door but the door opened beyond him. Tomlinson reappeared as a shadowy dark figure above him which caused him to fall backwards, away from him, down to the dirt floor again. He held something in his hand. A strap of some sort. He charged down the steps to retrieve his prey, lifting Joe and shoving him to the banister which the boy fell against. He pulled Joe up and grabbed for his wrist and wrapped the strap around it.
"No please." The boy supplicated. He threw the strap around the banister and grabbed for the other wrist securing that one too. He pulled the wrist in together so that the two wrist and banister met as one. Tying them in tight. When they were secure, he began to unbuckle his belt. Somehow Joe knew what was coming next. "No. Don't do this. I'm sorry." Stripping his belt away he folded the two ends and swung down striking Joe across his bare back, which in Joes haste to escape had forsaken to clothe. Joe struggled to pull away but he was struck again. His heart pounded within the walls of his flesh. He tried to get free. He was struck again and then again. "Please stop. I'm sorry." He cried piteously. "Please." He sobbed between strikes. A few less successful strikes hit his torso. Mr. Tomlinson kept at it. It wasn't until Joe collapsed to his knees; arms strangled above his head, that the man finally ceased. Joe was crying into his arms.
Tomlinson mounted the steps. "Looks like you just bought yourself some more time. Two more days." He couldn't believe it. He was going to leave him in here again.
"No. Please." Joe supplicated as Tomlinson ascended.
"This time. We're going to make sure you can't steal from me. You leave those ties on. If I find that you got out, the punishments will only get worse." Tomlinson closed the latch but continued to fiddle about outside.
Why was he being so mean to me? He must really hate me. I must have really rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn't mean to Scotty. That wasn't true. At least Tomlinson hadn't tried to drown Joe, but of course that was his fault too. Why was he a bad kid? Why couldn't he just be a good boy like his pa asked him to be? He was feeling pretty darn sorry for himself now. Why was he such a bad kid? Why did he do the things he did? How could he have fallen so far? He was thirsty sure, but what did that drink really give him? A few minutes of reprieve, only to have a drier mouth than he had before. It was disgusting too. Tasted nothing like how it smelled. The sweet fruity scent of mixed berries. This stuff burned. The one good thing about it is the more he drank the more he forgot about his troubles. A lot of good that did him. Now he was worse off than before. Why didn't he just hold out? Then he wouldn't even be here now.
A moment later something heavy was being drug across the door. It was like a blanket which cut out what little light there was until he was left in complete darkness. It was as if he'd been left in a tomb. There was an engrossing sense of desolation. Abandonment. Forsakenness. He slumped down as far as his bound hands would allow and wept. He wept himself into exhaustion. When there was nothing more to weep, he slept.
When he awoke still exhausted somehow his hunger pains slaked. His stomach shrunk. He found himself weaker though. He had no way of knowing if it were night now or not. Sitting on the second step offered him the greatest amount of comfort. His wrists were above his head and he buried his face into the cradle that his arms provided. This was his only repose. What did it matter what time it was to him anymore? It would be forever night down here. Night until his death. He drifted to this thought.
Joe opened his eyes to Tomlinson descending the steps. He yanked Joe's head back and shoved a roll into his mouth and filled it with water before he could swallow. Joe spit out the food as he ascended back up the steps. The bread only got in the way of the water. He drank down what little there was in his mouth but before Joe could beg for more water the latch was again closed above his head and blanket thrown back in place. It wasn't enough. He needed more. Didn't he know he needed more?
Since he put the blanket over the door the darkness became suffocating. Joe hurt. He ached tied to the banister like he was. His wrist hurt as he was barely able to get blood to his fingertips. His shoulders and back hurt from the strain in his arms and being in this position for so long. He played with kneeling versus standing versus sitting on the ground. They were all painful but for different reasons. All he wanted to do was to close his mind off and forget his troubles but that was not easily obtained. It was hard to sleep at all in this quandary.
He couldn't help but think about what brought him to this moment. Who knew throwing mud balls could have such dire consequences. He most certainly did not. Scotty seemed to know. He tried to warn him. But if he knew it could be this bad, then how come he didn't just come out and say it? 'Hey my father would punish us and it will be bad.' It wasn't Scotty's fault really. It was his, but how could he know? His family should have known. If they'd had let him go along with them like he wanted to, he wouldn't be here now. It was his family's fault for leaving him here in the first place. He mulled. It really wasn't. He knew it. He was doomed from the moment they were introduced into his life; his fate had been sealed. It all started with that fight. That stupid fight. Had it not been for Jaxon, he'd have never gotten to know these people. If only he knew what kind of a man Tomlinson really was, he'd have never stepped in.
Time moved so slowly down here. Of course, he didn't really know what time it was nor how long he'd been down here for. Not since Mr. Tomlinson moved that blanket over the door. It felt like a coffin in here. It was dark, lonely, suffocating. If he'd just held out, he wouldn't be where he is now. Tied to the banister, here in the darkness, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. He thought of his family again. He was missing his pa a whole awful lot now and wished his pa would just hurry up so he could go home. He imagined his pa coming down to lift him out. Take him home. Away from this place of misery. But his pa wasn't going to come. They were still out there. Far away from his misery. Too far to know what was happening to him. Where were they? Still in the Sierra's. What was beyond those mountains? Joe had never been out that far as far as he can remember. He couldn't feel his family now. They were out there wandering the dark and vast expanse of space. He was in darkness too. A different kind of darkness. A darkness with no moon or stars to light the way and no fresh breath of freedom. His world alternatively was cramped and small, that was until he closed off his mind and let himself float beyond these walls. At some point, not really sure when that was, he was able to do that. He found a strange peace in his exhaustion. He settled in it. This peace cloaked him and he could allow himself to imagine floating to that same expanse of space. He drifted into that darkness.
~.~
There was a bright yellow hue his mind saw even before he opened his eyes.
He had awoken in Scotty's bed. Mr. Tomlinson was lifting his head and pouring water down his throat. Little Joe came to and began to take it in. He was weak as his arms lifted to take control of the jug. Scotty kneeled at his head on the other side.
"Slow. Drink slow." He needed the water, but Tomlinson said 'slow' so Joe slowed. He was afraid of defying this man, though this man did not seem angry now. He seemed kind and genuine in his efforts to want to help him. Joe had done it. He had taken his punishment and gotten out of there.
Authors Notes: It is historical obscurity as to what type of underwear was worn by boys in this time period on the western front, or whether any at all were worn. Most of my research suggest none at all. The pantaloons (which were the style I decided to go with) weren't even patented until 1860. I beg the reader's pardon for my creative liberty in warping the timeline a bit to keep that young lad dressed. There are many parts throughout this story in which I'd rather this child have some semblance of modesty. As dark of a story as this is already, I really needed (for my own sake) not to add any suggestions or hints that anything might be going on outside of what is written. I'd like to keep Joe's innocence and dignity intact in that regard. Lord knows we don't need this story darker than it is already.
