Abigail exhaled smoke, tossed her cigarette away, and kissed Hug between the bandages that covered his repaired forehead. “We both still love you very much.”
“Okay,” said the anomalous boy, who had doubts.
At present, the mother and son looked toward the handsome man, who stood silhouetted at the grave on top of the hill.
“Scientifically speaking,” Hug said, “maybe I really am a monster.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But look at the evidence: Rex was my brother and my best friend, and he died because of me, and so did my first mom and Doctor Hannersby. I’ve got fangs and—”
“Hug,” interjected the mother, who then kneeled on the asphalt. “Hug, Hug, Hug . . . none of these things are your fault. Not one of them.”
Hug wanted answers, not sympathy, and he fought back the tears that currently stung his eyes. “But then why do I look like this? And why do so many bad things happen to the people I know?”
Sadly, Abigail shook her head. “There are no good answers to questions like those…
“There are no reasons why you’ve had so many hardships or why those people died. What really matters is how you endure—what kind of person you remain . . .
“The difficulties you’ve faced would’ve made a lot of people mean and angry, but always you’ve been sweet and good and hopeful and full of love.”
“Okay,” said Hug, who felt a little better.
Abigail wiped tears from her eyes. “Unlike most people—including me—you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are the least monstrous person I’ve ever known, and Meredith would have loved you just as much as I do.”
“I love you too, Mommy.”
The mother hugged her son, who in turn embraced her with his arm and his nubbin. This made him feel a lot better.
Grass squeaked, and a shadow fell upon the anomalous boy, who then looked up.
Staring down at Hug was Sandy. His eyes were red, and his face was pale.
The mother released her son, stood up, and cleared her throat. “Do you want to go?”
Without a word, the bereft father opened the rear door of the limousine and motioned for his family to enter.
“Thank you,” Hug said while climbing across the squeaky leather upholstery.
No response came from Sandy.
XXIV | Drafty Hearths
The summer air cooled throughout the autumn and plummeted at the onset of winter. Standing alone on a five-hundred-acre ranch was a dark, quiet home.
Hug Chickenpenny closed his notebook, adjusted his tailored pajamas, and walked across his room, which had only one bed and no longer contained any sports equipment. Half of this living space was a void.
Through the dim and quiet house the anomalous boy ambled. His mother was at the gallery, and now that he had finished his assignments, he intended to see what was on television.
Rubbing the pustule that had recently appeared on his nubbin, Hug descended the stairs and entered the den. This room was dark, except for the gray light that came through the picture window.
The anomalous boy looked outside.
Snow drifted to the frozen grass from a charcoal sky.
Ambling toward the television, Hug noticed something in the farthest corner of the room that he might have noticed earlier if his right eye worked better. He turned his head.
Hidden by shadows and sitting in a recliner chair was Sandy, who had grown gaunt since the funeral. A wiry, grayish-blond beard covered his face, and his dull red eyes stared at the picture window. Lying in his lap was a tall, empty bottle.
Quietly, the anomalous boy retraced his steps and left the den.
———
The winter melted into spring.
Prone in the den and five feet from the television lay Hug Chickenpenny, closing his milky eye so that the image would be clearer. Upon the luminous giant screen at which he stared was Neon City Crime Patrol, a cop show. The anomalous boy preferred science fiction programs over ones in which policemen beat up minorities, but sometimes, the latter contained exciting car chases.
Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Footfalls resounded and grew louder.
The anomalous boy turned his head toward the figure who darkened the den doorway.
Dressed in a raggedy robe and drinking from a rectangular bottle was Sandy. Liquor dripped from the wiry ends of his beard and onto his bare feet.
Hug switched off the television.
The silent man slumped in his recliner chair, and the anomalous boy departed.
———
The summer returned.
Abed and awake in the half-empty room, Hug Chickenpenny stared at the ceiling. Sandy had been in a car accident earlier that afternoon, though according to Abigail, he had not been seriously hurt.
Hoping to acquire some information, the anomalous boy opened his door and listened to the quiet conversation that occurred at the other end of the hallway.
“The faces . . .” said Sandy. “The faces are disappearing . . .
“All the ones I’ve committed to memory—tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands—they’re slipping away from me, one after the other . . .
“Sometimes . . . I can’t even remember what he looked like . . .
“Rex.
“My own son.”
“Sandy,” said Abigail. “Stop pacing around the room and come back to bed.”
Footfalls sounded, and mattress springs squeaked.
“Lie down,” said the mother.
“And that boy . . .
“That boy.
“Sometimes . . . when I look at him . . . I—I just want to—”
“Calm down,” said Abigail. “Just try to calm down.”
Hug closed the door.
Not for the first time since his brother had died, the anomalous boy wondered if he was too old to go back to the orphanage.
———
A heavy summer rain bent myriad blades of grass and crackled on the roof of the quiet ranch house. Abigail, Sandy, and Hug Chickenpenny sat at a table in the dining room, where they were surrounded by the mounted heads of wild animals. Upon the north wall and between two snarling boars hung a family portrait that the mother had painted just before the tragedy.
Rex was one quarter ounce of oil upon this canvas.
Rain crackled, and distant thunder rumbled. These sounds seemed unnaturally loud to Hug, who sat near Abigail in the cavernous dining room that summer night.
“Do you like the lamb?” inquired the mother.
The bereaved father nodded his head while staring up at the two-dimensional face of the scrappy youth.
Abigail looked at Hug. “Do you?”
“It’s delicious.”
The anomalous boy held his fork with his nubbin thumb and cut into the lamb chop with his steak knife. His grip slipped. Metal clinked, and his fork clattered on the table.
Hug reached for the utensil and knocked Abigail’s wine glass. The crystal piece fell from the table and shattered.
This crash echoed throughout dining room.
Sandy looked at the mass of shards that lay upon the tiled floor. His distant eyes narrowed in anger.
“I’m sorry,” said Hug.
Abigail raised a finger to her lips. “Hug . . . shhh.”
The quiet man rose from his seat and left the room.
“I didn’t mean to knock it over,” defended the anomalous boy. “I promise.”
“I know you didn’t.”
From the adjacent hallway came the sounds of a door being slammed, something metallic clanking, and booming footsteps.
Sandy reentered the dining room. The man wore a camouflage poncho, ripped jeans, and a cowboy hat. Held in his hands was a double-barreled shotgun.
All of a sudden, Hug felt very afraid.
The bereaved father stormed across the room, flung a door, and strode out into the hissing rain.
———
Four days later, Sandy returned, filth
y and wild.
Abigail told Hug Chickenpenny to go to his room and stay there. The anomalous boy was worried that something might happen to his mother, but she said that things would be all right.
He had doubts.
For three hours, Hug sat at his desk and looked at the many rocket ships that he had drawn in this house with Rex, as well as the ones that he had designed at the orphanage and the primitive sketches that he had done while living with Doctor Hannersby.
Some new ideas came to the anomalous boy, who then turned to a blank page in his spiral and grabbed a mechanical pencil.
Quiet footfalls sounded in the hallway.
“Hug . . . ?”
“Mommy?”
There was a sniffle. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
The door opened and in walked Abigail, whose eyes were wet and red from crying. Tightening the belt of her blue robe, she walked across the empty half of the room.
“What is it?” asked Hug, who felt tingles on his back.
The mother reached the desk, took her son’s hand, and cleared her throat. “It looks like you’re going to have to go away for a little while.”
A nubbin waggled, and mismatched eyes blinked asynchronously. “Okay.”
“It’s for Dad. Until he feels better.”
“Okay.”
Trembling, Abigail bit her lip. “This’s just for a little while. Your father, he’s just not . . . doing very well since Rex.”
“Okay.”
“I was able to find a place that will accept you. You won’t be there too long—I promise.”
“Okay.”
Abigail kissed Hug on the forehead, hastened from the room, and shut the door.
A small and very sad sound came from the hallway.
The anomalous boy scratched a pustule and shook his disappointed head.
“Darn it.”
XXV | Miscellaneous Junk
Set in the middle of a collapsed industrial zone was a gray factory. Thick steel bars covered all of its windows, and a sign atop its front door read: The Program for Productive & Disciplined Youths.
Inside a concrete cafeteria that smelled like boiled rice and ammonia and standing at attention were nineteen boys who wore gray overalls, matching work boots, and plastic safety helmets. Hug Chickenpenny was the smallest of these uniformed children and the only one who was of teratological interest.
A bolt snapped, and the lone door opened.
The anomalous boy turned his head.
Into the room strode Vladimir, a heavy man who had small eyes, a lesser fraction of his hair, a crooked nose, thick arms, a black jumpsuit, and heavy boots. Held in his right hand was a heavy rubber cudgel.
The instructor slammed the door and surveyed the assemblage. “Is everybody r—”
A cough came from a purple mouth and echoed throughout the cafeteria.
Vladimir eyed Hug, took three big strides, and swung his cudgel at the safety helmet. Rubber smacked plastic, echoing like gunfire, and unbalanced the anomalous boy.
“Sorry, I—”
Hug clasped his mouth and coughed a second time. Purple glitter sprayed between his fingers.
Again, the rubber cudgel smacked his helmet.
“Do not interrupt me again, Nineteen,” warned the instructor, whose accent made him sound like a robot. “Do you understand?”
Ears ringing, the anomalous boy nodded.
Vladimir eyed the assemblage. “Is everybody ready to go to the recycling area?”
“Yes,” replied the boys.
The instructor saw something. “Fifteen.”
“Yes?” responded Egg Roll, a skinny boy of twelve who had once been at Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted with Hug.
“Empty your pockets.”
The Asian youth grew fearful.
“Now.”
Cellophane crinkled as Egg Roll withdrew two pieces of hard candy.
Vladimir frowned. “Did you find those in the recycling area?”
“Yes, but th—”
“Quiet. Four. Go discipline Fifteen.”
The instructor extended his rubber cudgel, and the skinny black boy who was named Four took the proffered instrument and walked toward Egg Roll.
Footfalls echoed throughout the cafeteria.
Hug grimaced.
Four swung the rubber cudgel. Rubber smacked plastic, and under the helmet, Egg Roll gritted his teeth.
“Again,” ordered Vladimir.
“Don’t hurt him!” cried Hug.
The discipliner ran at the anomalous boy and whacked his helmet.
———
Flies buzzed.
Sitting in the cab of a flatbed truck, Vladimir raised a pair of binoculars to his little eyes and monitored the nineteen small gray shapes that clambered upon a mountain of garbage. Gliding over this tableau were the shadows of ugly birds that had crooked beaks.
At present, Hug Chickenpenny circumvented an overturned refrigerator, coughed, and saw something shiny. Towards this object and across assorted junk he dragged his ponderous burden. Gnats and flies buzzed around his sweaty head, but he did not swat them away. Sometimes, the noises that they made sounded like music.
The anomalous boy soon reached the shiny object.
Lying at his feet was a crushed beer can. This recyclable was on the list that had been memorized by Hug and every other child who was in the Program for Productive & Disciplined Youths.
The anomalous boy deposited the can in his treasure bag, which was a burlap sack that had once held fertilizer.
“Better take this down before it gets too heavy.”
Hug ambled and scrabbled across junk with his burden. His curved leg sank into a soft mass that squished, and he pulled the limb loose. A wire hanger scratched his overalls, and an ugly bird dug its beak into the belly of a baby doll.
Orbited by insects, the anomalous boy descended the mountain of garbage. All of his pustules throbbed and itched. His little lung burned, and his heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped as he leaped from the bottom of the pile onto the dirt road.
Hug dragged his burden toward the flatbed truck.
A gnat flew into his mouth.
Choking, the anomalous boy dropped his treasure bag. Recyclables spilled, and he fell to his knees.
His paroxysms turned into a coughing fit. Purple glitter flew everywhere, and stars appeared at the edges of his monocular vision.
“Vladimir’s coming!” cried Three and Egg Roll.
Coughing, Hug fell over. His stomach and throat felt like they were on fire.
Two huge boots landed in front of his face.
“Nineteen,” Vladimir said, “gather these recyclables and stop being a distraction.”
Hug convulsed continually and the rubber cudgel appeared in front of his face.
“Nineteen, do you hear me? Stop this right now.”
The anomalous boy coughed. Something scraped the insides his throat, shot out of his mouth, and clanked against a hubcap.
The seizure abated, and Hug wheezed in the dirt. It felt like somebody had knifed his lungs, especially the little one.
Vladimir wrinkled his brow, leaned over, and claimed the projectiles, which were two sparkling amethysts. “Nineteen?”
“Y-y-yes?”
“Have you ever coughed up these things before?”
“Sometimes . . . when I get sick.”
Sympathy that might have been genuine played upon the face of the instructor. “Then I will make sure that you are properly treated.”
———
It was a miracle of science.
Hug Chickenpenny looked at himself in the mirror and admired his smooth, unblemished skin, his strong, symmetrical limbs, his upright posture, his brunette hair, and his clear brown eyes. With this amazing, supernormal physique he could be an astronaut or an athlete or both.
“Now we can play football together,” said Rex, who was alive for some reason. “You could tackle anybody with that.”
“I bet that I can.” Hug made a muscle with his left arm and nodded. “And everyone will accept me—one hundred percent.”
A violent cough sent the anomalous boy back to his sick body.
It was cold in the sleeping quarters and had been for months. The nearest window was open, admitting a frigid draft that blew on his chest and neck, and once again, somebody had stolen his blanket. For some reason, he was supposed to go to sleep with wet hair, which made things even worse.
Hug coughed up amethysts all the time, but was not punished for so doing. It seemed as if Vladimir had become a nicer and more tolerant human being.
———
The winter warmed into spring.
This change did not improve the smells of the recycling area in which toiled the Program for Productive & Disciplined Youths.
Atop a garbage summit and on an overturned baby crib sat Hug Chickenpenny, bleary, feverish, and wheezing. His white hair was falling out, and purple pustules covered his nubbin and right hand, which were currently digging around in the back of a broken television set. From this old appliance, he removed a garish purse.
The anomalous boy bared his fangs and bit into his newest find. Twisting his head, he tried to wrest a brass buckle from the imitation leather.
A fang cracked. “Darn it.”
Hug dropped the entire purse into his treasure bag and spat out an enamel splinter.
“Don’t put recyclables in your mouth,” advised Egg Roll. “We’re not supposed to.”
“But I’m already sick,” said the anomalous boy. “I probably have every kind of germ in existence.”
“Nineteen, are you feeling o—”
The world moved, and the sky darkened. Somewhere, somebody shouted.
Groaning, Hug fell off of the crib. Garbage received and covered up his anomalous body.
A familiar voice said something.
Hug Chickenpenny opened his eyes.
Standing at the foot of a long white hospital bed and next to Vladimir was Abigail.
“Mommy,” rasped the anomalous boy.
Unshed tears sparkled in the mother’s hazel eyes as she leaned over and kissed her son.
The instructor cleared his throat and bowed his head in contrition. “I thought it was influenza at first, and I gave him some expensive medicine, but he—”
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