Inspection

by Josh Malerman

  Dan. Who’s Dan?

  Maybe you should pay more attention to your coworkers, Warren. Maybe you shoulda made some friends.

  “One second!” Dan hollered back. “I’m grabbing some TP!”

  Warren held his breath. Other boots. The first voice much closer now.

  “That isn’t a TP closet. Come on, let’s get this done.”

  “I gotta get this done first.”

  A sigh. Movement. Boots on the stony ground.

  “That door there,” the first voice instructed.

  A door opening. A different door. Movement. Boots. Gravel. A door closing. A different door.

  “Thanks. Prick.”

  A pause. Silence.

  The men walked away in tandem, their boots and voices fading through the cobblestone hallways of the Parenthood’s basement.

  Warren stayed inside the closet another ninety seconds, then he quickly slipped out. He hurried, electric, back to his office. Saw nobody on the way.

  Once inside, he sat at his desk and simply breathed. Slowly. In and out. Out and in.

  After a few minutes he wrote down what he’d learned about the printing press. Wrote it in code on a bookmark. All that he could remember.

  He thought of his Luxley books. The many he’d written for the Parenthood. He imagined the pages spread out on the table like Mark showed him. Pages that brought him so much money he could be anywhere in the world he wanted to. Just five more years of this. Fifteen in whole. The contract. Then…paradise. Whatever that meant to Warren.

  But how to wait when you can…no longer…wait? The Luxley books. Pages that meant as little to him as they did to the pair of mismatched mechanics who bound them into a book. Books the twenty-four boys above would talk about over meals, talk about by the windows of their rooms, think about as they slept, and (oh merciless God) even use as examples for how to live their lives.

  When he was done writing down what he’d learned, he crumpled the bookmark up and tossed it into the garbage can. It made a soft thud when it landed upon the other trash, and Warren imagined the ripple effect of their landing, the way they must have infinitesimally touched the seventy-five pages there at the bottom of the same can. Thinking of those pages encouraged him, brought him the first sliver of peace he’d felt in many years, despite the horrors they implied. Simply put, Needs was the greatest thing Warren Bratt had ever written.

  And he was only getting started.

  THE BURT REPORT: DECEMBER 1, 2019

  To Be Read upon Waking

  Entering the Delicate Years Carefully

  So, we’re nearing “The Delicate Years.” But here’s the thing: They don’t exist. At least not in the way Richard assumes they do. The boys’ inevitable sexuality is not, as far as I can surmise, what worries Richard, though, of course, the platform that birthed the Parenthood would suggest that it is. Richard knows as well as any of us that sexuality is a locomotive, an unstoppable force that’s going to come in through the window if it’s not allowed through the front door. His real concern is something much more frightening:

  The evolution of the boys’ PERSONALITIES.

  Is it a coincidence that a man’s worldview solidifies as he grows hair under his arms? As he discovers what his body is for? The obvious connection between the two (body and mind) is the unseen thread that forces the well-being of one to be entirely dependent upon the other. Body and mind. The body develops; there is nothing one can do about it and there is nothing one should do about it. The danger, in Richard’s case, is that the mind will grow in direct proportion, making the thoughts and insights the boys carry with them as strange to us (the staff) as M’s sudden height or L’s ability to grow a mustache. In a word: unrecognizable. And if Richard cannot recognize the thought pattern and behavior of his boys, how is he to 1) predict their potentiality, 2) make use of all the data he’s compiled in the past, 3) fully comprehend exactly what a boy means when he poses a question or theory that is apparently irreconcilable with the boy Richard knows him to be, and 4) guard against the very thing the Parenthood was founded upon? I have no doubt in Richard’s intelligence, of course; I have no reason to think he’d ordinarily have trouble keeping up with the development of his boys; but in this case, extreme as it is, the mind of a boy may change seemingly overnight; F could suddenly withdraw, suggesting something akin to depression when he is actually just applying his proclivity for situational comedy to more-serious matters. Q, having mastered Boats, could give up the game out of boredom. Naturally, yes, but it might come off as some sort of rebellion. R could channel his anger into an astonishing, focused drive, a drive we might mistake for even more anger, us being the conditioned ones here. In other words, the transformation, if not noted, could make it seem like the whole Turret has gone pell-mell. That all the precautions Richard took a decade and a half ago have gotten loose now, shaken, so that the tower itself might fall. The change in behavior of twenty-four young men will be felt in every room, every floor, like the spreading of heavy air, filling the Body Hall to the roof, spoiling the kitchen, contaminating even our offices and bedrooms, choking us in our sleep. The “years” Richard has prepared himself for have less to do with the increased chances of things falling apart and more to do with his subconscious knowledge that one day the boys’ moods and personalities (as we know them) will be out of our control.

  This is the natural side effect of toxic masculinity. A sexist platform must be partially built out of fear…and one day that fear, like the boys’ sexuality, will sneak out that window if not let out through that door.

  Excluding a true epiphany or something tragic enough to alter a boy’s persona inorganically, the transformation the boys are enduring is without question the most significant personality overhaul any boy would experience over the course of a lifetime. For twelve years, B has been kind. He could go mean in a month. These new personalities could seemingly be installed overnight, resembling something close to possession. There may be no warning signs. No red flags. This, of course, goes against everything the Inspections stand for: Richard, for all his wanting the boys to astonish him, loathes surprises.

  The days have come in which we may not recognize those we love.

  Those we study, too.

  Imagine the headaches that come from raising a boy in the “ordinary” sense. But here? At the Parenthood? Those headaches could crack the skull. For what we oppress in the Alphabet Boys must come out. Some of them won’t even open that window before going through it.

  Mind the broken glass, Parenthood.

  How will Richard steel himself from being swept up in the chaotic mood? How will he avoid burning eyes from the sight of his unrecognizable sons? (I apologize for the prose, Richard, but some subjects are more moving than others.)

  How is Richard going to change in step with the changing of his wards?

  Blooming sexuality has its own rules, rules the Parenthood simply cannot enforce. How are we going to talk to them about it? Directly? Truthfully? We’re not. As a result, the boys will probably have difficulty letting go of their younger selves (in that they aren’t making a clean break, the break we all made, into legitimate and isolated adulthood; in other words, sexuality defines ages and eras, separates the child from the man). It’s the ghost of the boys’ past that will haunt Richard first. And the forms they will take in the future are unknown. Once so familiar, Richard will overhear them laughing at jokes he does not understand, suggesting theories he cannot comprehend. Perhaps pointing out things about him, Richard, that he hadn’t even noticed himself.

  Is there anything more frightening than two dozen strangers you are sure you once knew?

  What was once dormant in G may rise. The phrase O learns today may be his mantra tomorrow.

  The meek traits may inherit the boy.

  Scary thought: What if these new traits include a thirst
to see the world beyond the pines? Surely one out of twenty-four will get curious….

  We’ve all been shocked at how close to organized religion Q’s thoughts have come. But can a modern boy invent God the same way cavemen once did? Will God turn out the same? And is Q a modern boy? Are any of them? Q is a theologian’s fantasy. But what if Q were to impress this thought upon his peers? What if Q begins preaching, instilling spirituality into his brothers, demanding they cross the pines and venture out together in search of meaning?

  Scenarios like these are not unlikely, Parenthood.

  As a child, I knew a boy named Roger Doll, who was very good with science. He won many awards in school. His instructors applauded him and universities offered scholarships. Years later, I encountered a mutual friend who, over drinks, asked if I’d heard that Roger Doll had dropped out of college. He’d found God and was running a ministry now, all his own.

  Roger Doll changed, greatly, not long after his own Delicate Years.

  We all did.

  Our minds are smarter than we are. This, of course, results in enormous sadness, depression, mania, and more. Once this is accepted, fully in whole, the changes our peers undergo enhance our appreciation of the elaboration of the mind. I did not write Roger’s actions off as desperation. Roger as a God-fearing man was the same to me as Roger the dedicated follower of facts. One part of him was simply lying in wait when I knew him.

  Be warned: The boys will behave like strangers. It is up to us to accept the new people they become.

  Richard’s boys, I’m afraid, are growing up.

  * * *

  —

  NOT HAVING QUITE finished reading the pages, Richard reached for the black telephone on his desk.

  “Gordon.”

  “Richard.”

  “Please inform Burt that I’m excited for the changes detailed in the newest report. I do not fear them.”

  Richard hung up and read again.

  Richard is obviously concerned with the amount of energy a man puts into courting women, energy that could be put to studying, to attaining expertise. But what really frightens him is what mature sexuality naturally implies: The boys will be men and, for this, Richard will lose much of the control he exudes over us all.

  In my professional opinion, the boys are as well adjusted as they could be, given their unique circumstances. They are almost teenagers, after all. The problem inherent in this is obvious: Teenagers lie to their parents. Teenagers should lie to their parents. It’s part of developing their private worlds and keeping those worlds private for as long as they can.

  Will the boys feel as comfortable expressing their coming, inevitable moods? Will they hide things from us? Will they suspect that we’ve hidden things from them?

  The point of these reports, of course, is to give an expert opinion on the psychological state of the Parenthood and its main components (in this case, D.A.D. and the Alphabet Boys). The simple answer, the overall assessment, is clear:

  Things are going according to plan. But things are going to change. And I fear the Parenthood’s plan doesn’t account for that.

  The boys are happy.

  The boys are healthy.

  The boys are brilliant.

  But the boys will hardly be boys for much longer. And men are much more difficult to control.

  CLOSING THOUGHT: Boys aren’t the only people who go through changes. Men do, too. And so, while the Delicate Years demand we pay extra-close attention to the Alphabet Boys’ every whim (the blue notebook has proven somewhat effective, and Boats of course, always), we may want to keep our eye on the staff as well. I’m not suggesting Richard needs to enforce sudden room checks, sending Inspectors into the accounting offices, snooping for signs of insubordination. But with a change so big, the change in the boys, the entire Parenthood must change with them.

  Warren at Work

  The Guilts.

  That’s what Richard ought to have been inspecting for. The GUILTS. Of all the things to contract…

  See Warren walk. See Warren walk the halls of the basement. See Warren wipe his slippery hands on his increasingly stained button-down shirt. See Warren unraveling. See Warren freeing himself. See Warren pushing back.

  See Warren writing.

  See Warren putting his life in danger. Real danger.

  Cowered over a white legal pad, Warren Bratt was in the midst of another word marathon, pumping out two books at once, one for the Parenthood, one for himself, one for the Parenthood, one for himself, one for the—

  Bootheels outside his office door, and Warren furiously slid the white pad onto his lap, eyes wide and fixed on the doorknob. He could feel the sweat drip from his thinning hair to his ears.

  Things change things change people change things change people change things change I don’t have time to think about how things change people change I’m writing people change I’m writing things change I’m writing two fucking books at once.

  Who was outside his office door? And, more important, who was he inside his office?

  People change.

  Things had changed, indeed. The once-flippant antisocial self-aggrandizing author rose from his desk chair and waited. Listened for those boots. Hadn’t heard them pass yet.

  You’ll write your way out of this.

  But that phrase fell horribly flat in light of what his imagination could conjure: the door exploding inward, a pair of Parenthood ex-cons entering, grabbing him by the shirt, Richard emerging from the dust in the hall.

  What do you think about writing in the Corner for a change, Warren?

  Still, he tried to hang on to the concept. Writing his way out of this. The ink of the words rising, creating a set of stairs that could lead him out of the basement to the first-floor hall. There the words from the white pad might become a skateboard, a boat on wheels, anything to carry him out of the Parenthood, across the Yard, through the pines.

  Get out of here. Get out of the state. Get out of the country. Get anywhere, but just write enough words to get there.

  Warren, once so pompous, once so above the daily rules and riddles of the Parenthood, didn’t move. He kept his eye on that knob. Someone was in the hall. There was no doubt of this.

  What’s the matter, Warren? Going soft?

  Gone. Yes.

  Suddenly you care about the Alphabet Boys? Suddenly you care about their education?

  Warren recalled Richard, a little drunk, confiding in him the reason he’d hired him: You care about nobody but yourself, Warren Bratt. You are guilt-free.

  And now, the Guilts.

  People change.

  Warren couldn’t look the boys in the eye at this morning’s breakfast. Couldn’t wait to get out of the cafeteria. Did anybody else feel this way? Any of the teachers, the cooks, the Inspectors?

  Mutiny.

  That was one of the words he wasn’t allowed to include in his books.

  He stepped out from behind his desk at last, quietly took the carpet toward the door. Stopped halfway. It struck him that if the door were to open he wouldn’t have an explanation for what he was doing, standing in the middle of his office. He looked to the coffeemaker on the counter. Looked to his desk. Thought of the white paper on the chair there. Thought of the yellow pages, too. Can’t write the white without the yellow. Gotta have the yellow to show them, to show them a book, to say, Hey, yes, I’ve been writing, writing a book, what of it?

  Silence from the hall.

  Who goes there?

  His mouth half-open; he didn’t know he was baring his teeth.

  Slow, he went to the door. If it opened now he’d simply say he was on his way out, out into the hall, out for some fresh—

  Fresh what, Warren?

  He could almost hear Richard say it. Could hear the condescension in the man’s vexat
ious voice.

  His ear to the wood, Warren heard the boiler, hissing, and beyond it, the rumble of the Corner.

  He opened the door.

  “Hello?”

  His voice sounded very small out there in the hall. Like the voice of someone afraid to answer their phone, afraid of the news it might bring.

  The hall was empty and Warren frowned. It was one thing to have decided to go against the Parenthood. It was another to live in complete, abject horror of that decision.

  Yet…

  “That’s where you’re at, asshole. Utter horror.”

  He shut the door, returned to his desk.

  Instantly he got back to work, the pencil moving slower at first, a word or two, half the idea, the small bones of the story connecting.

  In a way, writing this book, this terribly dangerous book, was like teaching himself to write all over again. Like he was reading the book he was writing, wishing he could write just like it. At times, it moved quicker than Warren could speak. The feeling then the idea, the bones then the flesh. The letters then the words.

  Oh, how these particular words thrilled him. Almost as much as the vision of the Alphabet Boys reading them, their faces scrunched with confusion, their gasps, their voices as they spoke of it with one another.

  So many questions. Big ones. Like how to explain the characters the author called women.

  Warren finished a page, got up, set the pad on his chair, and went to the small office refrigerator. He removed a carton of milk and drank straight from the lip. He heard another soft click from the hall and turned.

  Gordon was standing silent in the open doorway.

  Warren looked to his chair. From here, the seat was hidden by the desk. The pages upon it, unseen. Just.

  “Mind if I come in?” Gordon asked.

  Warren took another swig of milk, wanting the extra beat of time.

  “You don’t knock, Gordon? Richard never taught you that?”

  Gordon smiled. “I gotta say, Warren, at this hour, you gave me a little scare yourself. Worried you might have collapsed in here. It’s not like you to work so hard.”