I know what anyone reading the journal would say: we’re nuts. Nuts to keep him. Something is wrong with him. Badly wrong, and we don’t know what it is. We know it’s dangerous, though. So why do it? Why go on? I don’t know, exactly. Because we love him? Because he’s controlling us? No. Sometimes there are things like that (Herb twisting his lip or me slapping myself), things like a powerful hypnosis, but not often. He’s mostly just Seth, a child in the prison of his own mind. He’s also the last little bit of my brother.
But sure, beyond all that (and over it, and under it, and around it) is just loving. And every night when Herb and I lie down, I see in my husband’s eyes what he must see in mine-that we made it thru another one, amp; if we made it thru today, we can make it thru tomorrow. At night it’s easy to tell yourself that it’s just another aspect of Seth’s autism, really no big deal.
Footsteps overhead. He’s going to the bathroom. When he finishes, he’ll come downstairs, hoping we’ve found his missing toy. But which one will hear the bad news'? Seth, who’ll only look disappointed (and maybe cry a little)? Or the other one? The stalky one who throws things when he can’t have what he wants?
I have thought about taking him back to the doctor, sure, of course, I’m sure Herb has, too… but not seriously. Not after the last time. We were both there amp; we both saw the way the other one, the not-Seth, hides. How Seth makes it possible for it to hide: autism is one hell of a big shield. But the real problem here is not autism, it doesn’t matter what all the doctors in the world see or don’t see. When I open my mind amp; set aside all I hope amp; all I wish, I know that. And when we tried to talk to the doctor, tried to tell him why we were really there, we couldn’t. If anyone ever reads this, I wonder if you’ll be able to understand how horrible that is, to have something that feels like a hand laid over the back of your mouth, a guard between your vocal cords and your tongue. WE COULDN’T FUCKING TALK.
I’m so afraid.
Afraid of the stalky one, yes, but afraid of other things, as well.
Some I can’t even express, and some I can express all too well. But for now, the thing I’m most afraid of is what might happen to us if we can’t find Dream Floater. That stupid goddam pink van. Where can the damned thing be? If only we could find it-
Chapter Eight
At the moment of Kirsten Carver’s death, Johnny was thinking of his literary agent, Bill Harris, and Bill’s reaction to Poplar Street: pure, unadulterated horror. Good agent that he was, he had managed to maintain a neutral, if slightly glazed, smile on the ride from the airport, but the smile began to slip when they entered the suburb of Wentworth (which a sign proclaimed to be OHIO’s “GOOD CHEER” COMMUNITY!), and it gave way entirely when his client, who had once been spoken of in the same breath with John Steinbeck, Sinclair Lewis, and (after Delight) Vladimir Nabokov, pulled into the driveway of the small and perfectly anonymous suburban house on the corner of Poplar and Bear. Bill had stared with a kind of dazed incomprehension at the lawn sprinkler, the aluminum screen door with the scrolled M in the center of it, and that avatar of suburban life, a grass-stained power-mower, standing in the driveway like a gasoline god waiting to be worshipped. From there Bill had turned his gaze upon a kid roller-blading down the far sidewalk with Walkman earphones on his head, a melting ice-cream cone from Milly’s in his hand, and a happy brainless grin on his pimply face. Six years ago this had been, in the summer of 1990, and when Bill Harris, power agent, had looked back at Johnny again, the smile had been gone.
You can’t be serious, Bill had said in a flat, disbelieving voice. Oh, Bill, but I think I am, Johnny had responded, and something in his tone seemed to get through to Bill, enough at least so that when he spoke again he’d sounded plaintive rather than disbelieving. But why? he asked. Dear Jesus, why here? I can sense my IQ dropping and I just fucking got here. I feel an almost irresistible urge to subscribe to Reader’s Digest and listen to talk radio. So you tell me why. I think you owe me that. First the goddam puddy-tat detective, and now a neighborhood where fruit cocktail is probably considered a delicacy. Tell me what the deal is, okay? And Johnny had said okay, the deal is, it’s all over.
No, of course not. Belinda had said that. Not Bill Harris but Belinda Josephson. Just now.
Johnny cleared his mind with an effort and looked around. He was sitting on the living-room floor, holding one of Kirsten’s hands in both of his. The hand was cold and still. Belinda was leaning over Kirstie with a dishtowel in her hand and a square of white linen-it looked to Johnny like a for-best table napkin-folded over her shoulder like a waiter’s towel. Belinda’s eyes were tearless, but there was nevertheless an expression of love and sorrow on her face that moved Johnny’s heart, and made him think of how it must have been when the two Marys-Magdalene and the one Matthew simply called “the other Mary”-had prepared the body of Jesus for its interral in Joseph of Arimathaea’s tomb. Brad’s wife was wiping Kirsten’s blood-masked face with the dishtowel, uncovering what remained of her features.
“Did you say-” Johnny began.
“You heard me.” Belinda held the stained dishtowel out without looking, and Brad took it.
She took the napkin off her shoulder, unfolded it, and spread it over Kirsten’s face. “God have mercy on her soul.”
“I second that,” Johnny said. There was something hypnotic about the small red poppies blooming on the white linen napkin, three on one side of the draped shape that was Kirsten’s nose, two on the other, maybe half a dozen above her brow. Johnny put his hand to his own brow and wiped away a palmful of sweat. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
Belinda looked at him, then at her husband. “We’re all sorry, I guess. The question is, what’s next?”
Before either man could answer, Cammie Reed came into the room from the kitchen. Her face was pale but composed. “Mr Marinville?”
He turned to her. “Johnny,” he said.
She had to mull it over-another classic case of shock-slowed thinking-before understanding that he wanted her to call him by his first name. Then she got it and nodded. “Johnny, okay, sure. Did you find the pistol? And are there bullets to go with it?”
“Yes to both.”
“Can I have them? My boys want to go for help. I’ve thought it over and have decided to give them my permission. If you’ll let them take David’s gun, that is.”
“I don’t have any objection to giving up the gun,” Johnny said, not knowing if he was telling the complete truth about that or not, “but leaving shelter could be extremely dangerous, don’t you think?”
She gave him a level look, no sign of impatience in her eyes or voice, but she fingered a spot of blood on her blouse as she spoke. A souvenir of Ellen Carver’s nosebleed. “I’m aware of the danger, and if it were a question of using the street, I’d say no. But the boys know a path which runs through the greenbelt behind the houses on this side. They can use it to go over to Anderson Avenue. There’s a deserted building over there that used to be a moving company’s warehouse-”
“Veedon Brothers,” Brad said, nodding.
“-and a waterpipe that runs from the lot behind it all the way over to Columbus Broad, where it empties into a stream. If nothing else, they can get to a working phone and report what’s going on here.”
“Cam, do either of your boys know how to use a gun?” Brad asked.
Again the level stare, one which did not quite come out and ask Why do you insult my intelligence? “They both took a safety course with their dad two years ago. The primary focus was on rifles and hunting safety, but handguns were covered, yes.”