But, then, so did this new feeling. It used to be he could push the young men from his mind. But the young men weren’t so young anymore.
“Good.” Gordon crossed the stuffy room. His black loafers were silent on the plush carpet Richard had ordered installed not six months back. At the door he turned to face Warren once more. “Now go write a bad book, Warren. For the boys. For the Parenthood. For Richard. For you.”
As Gordon slipped out of the office, Warren could hear the hum of the Corner from down the cobblestoned hall. He heard Gordon’s shoes, too, clacking a serf’s march. And when the office door clicked closed again, the sounds ceased, mostly, and Warren was left with the shitty vision of a banal window washer teaching a young man one of life’s many morals. But, of course, a lying fable.
Warren Bratt the cool, Warren Bratt the skeptic, Warren Bratt the Cocky from Milwaukee, had fallen as far from artistic grace as he could.
He slouched his way into his chair, his sneakers dragging on that same carpet. And as he sat down to write, to work, to pretend to be a writer, an artist, a man, he tried very hard to shove from his mind the thoughts and feelings that had worked so hard to squeeze their way in.
He tried not to think about the way the Alphabet Boys had ogled him during the morning’s speech. Christ, they looked at him like he was a celebrity.
The Guilts.
Warren opened a desk drawer and pulled forth a fresh yellow legal pad. He lifted a blue pen from the desk and brought it to the paper.
He wrote. He wrote a lot. As if each page, each word, each letter, played a small part in staving off those dangerous new feelings. For if Warren Bratt were to speak of them, even once, or if he were, as Lawrence Luxley, to slip one nugget of truth, even clandestinely, into any page of any book, why, God forbid…
…he’d be sent to the Corner.
Like A had been.
Like Z, too.
Outside the office, the Corner hummed.
Warren sat back quick in his chair. He breathed deep, intentionally, attempting to calm down.
He shouldn’t be thinking this way. Oh no. He shouldn’t even be considering it at all.
“STOP.”
He hadn’t yelled it, but it was certainly firm. Yet, rather than listen to his own wise admonishment, he opened his desk drawer again and eyed an untouched white legal pad that sat, uncluttered, unbent, to the right.
Richard, he thought, don’t make me do it.
But would it be Richard who was making him do it? Or were the words Warren imagined filling those white pages all his own…
He slammed the drawer. Caught a finger in it and yelped.
All of Lawrence Luxley’s books had to be submitted on yellow legal pads. It had been that way since Book 1. And so…
“So stop thinking about the white pad,” he said.
He flipped the bird to his closed office door.
Fuck you, Richard.
He couldn’t have phrased it any better if he’d written it in black Sharpie in a bathroom at Don Don’s in Milwaukee.
He wrote. He wrote a lot. And as the yellow pages were filled, in rapid, uncaring succession, Warren imagined a stack of white beside them, growing at the same rate.
It was a downright scary place to be: writing the book he should be writing, while imagining the one he shouldn’t.
After ten pages about the window washer, he opened the drawer again. The white pages shone like a spotlight. His desk the stage on which he wanted to perform.
He closed the drawer. Lest someone in the basement hall open his office door. Lest the bright white of those pages creep out under that door, illuminate the winding halls, reach the Corner.
What was he thinking of doing? Really? What?
But Warren didn’t want to answer that. Couldn’t begin to. And as he tried to eliminate the images of the boys, now twelve, from his mind, he found it wasn’t any easier replacing them with his old writing friends.
So who, then? Who to think of when thinking of the present was as troubling as the past?
Warren stopped writing. Stared at the desk as though it were a stage after all.
He looked to the door.
Then, sweating, opened the drawer.
He thought of the incinerator square down the hall, embedded in the stones. He could always torch whatever he wrote.
Yes. But could he ever burn the idea to write it?
At the Window Overlooking the Yard
Overly full and lazy, the four boys ignored their studies for an hour and sat by the window in J’s living room. Many years ago they had determined it was the Floor 8 window with the best view of the Yard. D and L sat on the couch near one another, L with his legs crossed as D leaned forward on his bony knees. D was the skinniest of all the Alphabet Boys, and compared to W, he was downright skeletal. His hair, long and black, was tucked behind both ears, in direct contrast to L’s curly brown mop, which shadowed his ears and gave the impression that he was never quite listening to what the other boys had to say.
Q and J sat upon the window’s ledge. Q not only scored the highest on every engineer exam and mathematical quiz, but he also had what D.A.D. once called itness, a term the other boys good-naturedly teased him about, until they realized they agreed with D.A.D. completely. A lot of the Alphabet Boys were smart, very smart, they knew, but Q’s particular brand of intelligence appeared effortless.
“I think I speak for us all,” L said, finally broaching the topic, “when I say I knew exactly what he was referring to.”
D knew what D.A.D. was referring to, too.
“I didn’t like it,” D said.
“No? What was there not to like?” L asked.
“It sounded to me like D.A.D. is getting…nervous.”
The boys shifted uncomfortably.
“Nervous?” J asked. “About what?”
“You heard him,” D said. “All that garbage about us coming into our own…as if we weren’t there already.”
“Garbage!” L said. “Goodness. First J accuses him of lying and now you’re calling his speech garbage. Times are certainly changing! Maybe he has a right to be nervous!”
“I didn’t say he lied,” J said again. But his voice came out quieter than he’d meant for it to.
“Well, where does he think we’ve been?” D went on. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t know a thing about us.”
L lifted his blue notebook. He wrote something down. “He will, D, so long as we write our thoughts down.”
D frowned.
“But what if I don’t want to do that? What if I want to keep my thoughts”—his hair swung down in front of his eyes—“to myself?”
“D,” Q said, shaking his head no. “What a strange thing to say.” He opened his blue notebook and set his eraserless pen to the paper. “Have you felt this way before?”
D looked to the notebook, then to J. In that moment J wondered why D had looked to him. Did he know J was feeling the same way? At breakfast, J hadn’t outright called D.A.D. a liar. But still, he had insinuated something.
“You going to Inspect me, Q?” D asked. “That notebook is for your thoughts. Not mine.”
Q smiled.
“But what of my reaction to your thoughts? That’s certainly my jurisdiction.”
D flailed his hands and fell back into the couch.
“Whatever. Go ahead. Write all about me.”
J looked out the window, across the manicured acres of the Yard to the wall of pines that signified the boundaries of his world. He thought of the shape he’d seen crouched there. He almost spoke of it.
“Wild as his words may have been,” he said, “they articulated a feeling I gotta admit I’ve been having.”
“And what’s that?” L asked.
J turned to face the others. “I feel…new.�
��
“Yes.” Q said. His glasses slipped to the end of his nose. “Me, too.”
“Really?” D asked. “Because I don’t feel new at all. I feel like my old wonderful self. And to be honest, I’d like to stay that way.”
“Scared of change?” L asked.
“Not scared, nitwit. Happy. Already content. Sorry if I’m the only one in this room who doesn’t mind being the boy he’s always been.”
“Is this about the shuffle?” Q asked. “Because I’ll agree with you there. Who wants to change rooms? Not me. And yet…”
“And yet,” D mocked. “Always and yet with you.”
Q held up his pen. “And yet…change is good. It must be natural. Otherwise, why would D.A.D. spend so much time thinking about it? Obviously he has. So one can only surmise that, there being no option but to change, D.A.D. is graciously preparing us for our internal growth with a little external one. That’s balance, boys. Homeostasis.”
J turned to him. “What have you been thinking?”
“Me?” Q asked.
“Yeah. You said, Me, too, a minute ago.”
Q pondered this. The shadow of the snowflakes falling outside the window made brief, ever-changing patterns on his face.
“I’ve been thinking of locating the Living Trees, for one.”
The four boys were quiet. J felt words trying to squirm their way up his throat. A vague description of a figure. The way the branches and leaves met in the moonlight. The ghost of a dead brother. Or a hysterical vision at midnight.
“Then you should write about that in your journal,” L finally said, breaking the loaded silence.
“Right,” Q said. “I plan to.”
“This conversation is weighing on me,” D said.
“Why?” J wanted to know.
“I mean…come on! Listen to us. Are we changing? I sincerely hope not.”
L smiled, leaned over, and patted D on the shoulder.
“Right before our very eyes.”
Another block of silence. J thought of the morning’s Inspection. The fact that he wasn’t entirely honest with D.A.D.
“And if you feel like keeping secrets,” L said to D, “you should write that down, too.”
“But first,” Q said, wiggling his eyebrows, “tell us what those secrets are.”
The boys laughed, but there was some nervousness to it. J heard it in his own voice, too.
“While it’s true that some thoughts are probably best kept until we really understand them,” Q said, more seriously now, “we don’t want to ignore the Recasting Years, either.”
“Recasting,” D echoed. “So now it’s just…official. We heard the phrase this morning and now it’s just…recasting.”
“Well, of course,” L laughed condescendingly. “That’s how it goes! D.A.D. said so.”
“But what does that mean?” J asked suddenly. He got down from the window ledge and stood before his brothers on the couch.
“What does what mean?” L asked. “And don’t fly into that lying bit again.”
“D.A.D. said so and so it is,” J said. “But who told him?”
Q laughed. He wrote something down in his notebook.
“D.A.D. is older than us, J,” he said. “More experienced. All it means is that D.A.D. knows more than we do and for him to organize a speech must mean something. I don’t claim to know all the answers, but I do believe we were warned of something today.”
“And what’ll happen to us if we don’t write everything down?” J asked. “What then?”
Q shrugged. “We’ll have to ask him.”
“Oh, come out with it!” D said. He tossed his blue notebook to the carpet. “Just tell us what’s on your mind, J. If you’re not saying he lied today, you’re still trying to say something.”
J paused. He hadn’t realized how obvious he was being.
“I think…I think I have a disease.”
His brothers looked justifiably surprised.
“What sort?” Q asked, hopping down from the ledge.
“I…don’t know,” J said. “But I don’t think it’s physical. Or…I think it’s invisible.”
“Location!” L said. “J! You definitely need to speak to D.A.D. about that!”
J shook his head. “But I don’t want to do that! And I don’t think Location is what they say it is.”
The others were confused.
“What do you mean?” D asked.
“Are you saying the Parenthood is lying to us, J?” L asked. “Again?”
J could feel his face turning red. He wished it wasn’t.
“Listen, guys,” he said. “Whatever is going on—this…feeling—if it’s Location or if it’s not, it feels…good.”
He looked to D, and D averted his eyes.
“Please,” Q said, “go on.” He spoke like D.A.D. himself, conducting an Inspection. “Tell us what feels good about this confusing, complex, and invisible condition you have.”
“Okay,” J said. He stepped to the window and brought a finger to the condensation. “Here’s the Turret.” He drew a tower. “And here’s a boy.” He drew a boy with long, funny hair. Nobody laughed. “And just like Q said, he wants to locate the Living Trees, the things that birthed us….” He drew a question mark far from the tower. “I’m wondering what’s beyond ourselves.”
“Our minds,” Q clarified.
“Yes! Our minds. I feel as though…” J looked to the ceiling, then out the window. “I feel as though someone is splitting the pines up here.” He pointed to his head. “And through them, I’m seeing something new. Only…only…”
“Only you don’t know what it is yet,” Q said. “That’s exactly the kind of thing you ought to write down. D.A.D. will adore that.”
“This is all making me uncomfortable,” L said. He got up off the couch. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He walked to the door. “I’m off to study. If you guys find yourselves talking about less dangerous things, please let me know. Also, you, J.” He pointed two fingers at J. “You need to talk to D.A.D. right away about any…invisible problem you’re having!”
Then L was out of the room. The door closed behind him.
Q rolled his eyes and said, “L has never been much of a trailblazer. If our talks are getting too advanced for him, well…maybe he’ll like his new floor mates better.”
“Ugh,” D said. “Sounds awful.”
“I’m worried that it’ll show in the next Inspection,” J said. “Nobody’s ever failed an Inspection before.”
“Failed an Inspection?” Q echoed. “Don’t you think you’re being a little…hasty? You’re experiencing new thoughts, just like D.A.D. told us we would. He told us so today. Seriously, don’t give yourself nightmares over it.”
J looked at him quickly, his eyes wide.
“Nightmares,” he said. “I’ve…I’ve…”
He almost told him, almost told them both. The figure behind Mister Tree.
“Why don’t we take a walk through the Orchard?” Q asked, obviously changing the subject for J’s sake. “A nice snowy walk might do us some good.”
“Maybe you’ll find the Living Trees,” D said.
Q shrugged.
“You’re humoring me, but…maybe. Maybe I will. Maybe we will. Either way, I’m putting it in the notebook. And don’t worry so much, D. Truly. Change is good. I imagine it might even be fun.”
“A walk sounds good,” J said. “You in, D?”
D looked to the notebook on the floor.
“Sure, but I’m not bringing that with me. It already feels like an invader. Like it can read my mind.”
The boys knew he was referencing Luxley’s The Invaders, the story of a quiet staff member of the Parenthood who clearly wanted what was worst for the boys.
“It’s supposed to,” Q said, crossing the room. “That’s exactly what it’s supposed to do.” He opened the door. “I’ll grab my coat, be right back.”
Then Q was out the door and J and D were left alone. J went to the front closet and removed his blue-plaid winter coat with the lamb’s fur collar. He’d got it as a gift from D.A.D. All the Alphabet Boys had received the same for their communal birthday, January 1.
“We’re growing,” J said, trying to limit the new, frightening feeling.
“Think so? I don’t.”
“Oh, come on. I don’t know how much of this I can handle in one day.”
“I think that, whatever we’re feeling, it’s going to go on for a lot longer than one day,” D said.
J looked to him. It was clear to them both that they’d shared something over the course of the post-breakfast conversation.
“In any event,” J said, opening the door, “D.A.D. may as well have been speaking directly to me. He knows something new is happening inside of us.”
“Sure,” D said, following J into the hall. Above them, the silver Inspection speaker stood inert, not to be heard from again until tomorrow morning, when a new day’s Inspection would be announced. “But one thing about it is bothering me.”
“What’s that?” J asked.
“The feeling that D.A.D. wanted us to talk about these very things upon returning to our rooms.”
“What do you mean? Why does that bother you?”
D took J by the arm, stopped him in the hall. Behind them, the Check-Up door reflected the dull overhead lights.
“He’s always a step ahead of us. Always. Like he knows we’re worried before we have anything to worry about. Like he knows we’re laughing before a joke has been told. And doesn’t that bother you? Is everything so…preordained? Are we so obvious? It bothers me. I want to have my own thoughts, J. Is that so wrong? And I’m certainly not going to do that by writing them all down in that little blue book.”
“This one?” Q had snuck up behind them. He held D’s notebook between two fingers.
“Hey!” D said. “I left that in J’s room! How’d you—”
Q slapped him on the shoulder.
Inspection Page 5