Wait Until Twilight

by Sang Pak

  Dad gets a twinkle in his eye and leans back. “You know your mother was the creative one between us. Not me. Don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I guess you might have got it from her side. Back when I first met her she was really interested in the arts, but then Jim and you came along, and next thing you know we got other things to think about.” He takes a drink of sweet tea and continues. “When she found out she was sick, she spent some time on her own coming up with things. Ideas, designs just for herself. She gave me one of them. Called it a piece of installation art. Ever heard of that?”

  “Sure. It’s like sculpture, except you can use anything, everyday materials to fancy media stuff, whatever, to make some area feel different than before.”

  “Right. I figured you would. But anyhow, she gave me a design for some installation art, and I told her I’d make it come to life. Her creativity and my hands. I never got around to doing it. Made me sad just to think about it, especially after she died. I don’t know, son, I just figured it was time to do it. I promised I would. Better later than never.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “It’s hard for me to explain, and I don’t really understand it myself. She called it ‘art for the sake of art.’ ‘Something to make you feel. Feel anything you want,’ she said. Just wait till I finish it, and you can see for yourself.” He went back to his paper, officially ending his talk.

  It was about the weirdest thing Dad has ever done. Art? Dad’s right about him not being the artistic type. If anything, he was the opposite. Mom definitely had an artistic streak. She liked movies and music and books, but Dad? No way. I ponder a little bit more about this strangeness while Dad reads the paper. Then the steaks come. They’re good: nice and juicy. As we eat the conversation in the adjacent booth is becoming more and more intense. They’re keeping their voices low, but the two sitting together are really pissed off at the one sitting across the table from them. I’m watching them while I eat, and it looks like it’s going to calm down a little when the black guy with a mustache pulls a gun out of his jacket and points it at the bald one wearing the leather jacket. Dad must have seen the gun, too, because he says, “Son, don’t move, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Eat your dessert.”

  “I don’t think I can finish it.”

  “Just pretend to, then.”

  The booths are high enough to where we can’t see the booths in front or behind us, just the one across the aisle. So we’re the only ones who can see the gun. The man who’s holding the gun is talking about being disrespected and how he isn’t at all like him, the bald guy, who’s got his hands up. The gunman then gets up, careful not to expose the gun, and sits down next to the bald guy. He puts the gun to his head, and I can hear the bald one silently begging, “Yo man, don’t do it. I got kids.” The gunman’s friend on the other side seems scared, too, and is quietly talking to the gunman, telling him to chill out and put the gun away before something bad happens. I can see him out of the corner of my eye pointing the gun at his neck, his head, his guts, just all over his body to scare him even more. He keeps talking about how serious he is. “Man, you know I’m serious right?”

  I get that cold dark feeling again down in my guts, and it’s as if there’s no sun and the light of day doesn’t have a source—it’s just there with no starting point. It’s the kind of faint glow you see at dusk. The fork I’m holding starts to rattle against my plate, and I realize it’s my left hand shaking. I put my hand below the table, where I try to calm myself by rubbing my thigh, but it won’t stop trembling. I look over at the black man and then at the gun pointed at his terrified face that’s contorted and twisted with fear, his eyes as big as saucers. In that instant he doesn’t look human. More like a grown-up version of one of those alien babies. But those babies aren’t scared, they’re just deformed. Or are they? What the hell do they feel? My hand keeps shaking. Suddenly, the bald guy shouts out, “Oh!” and raises his hands as water squirts out of the gun. He wipes his face and looks at his wet hands. The guy with the gun shoots some water into his own mouth and drinks. The two wearing the nice suits start laughing.

  “You think that’s funny?” asks the bald guy angrily. “That ain’t funny! Mothafucka!” He curses and cleans off the water with a napkin while the other two are slapping their knees and hunched over from laughing.

  Dad looks at me and asks, “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I follow Dad out of the booth and up to the cashier, where we pay. As we walk across the parking lot to Dad’s car he puts his hand on my shoulder, and I’m so tense I reflexively jerk. He doesn’t say anything and keeps it there as we walk. It isn’t until he pulls out of the parking lot onto the road that he says, “Son, some folk are just plain crazy and stupid. All you can do is avoid people like that, but if you have to interact with them, keep it cool, leave them behind, and forget about the whole thing ASAP.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He drops me off at home telling me, “Take it easy the rest of the day.”

  “All right,” I say halfheartedly as I get out.

  “I’m serious, son. Just relax,” he says before leaving for the hardware store.

  I LIE DOWN IN BED but can’t unwind no matter how hard I try. I keep seeing that scared, bent-up face and the way it made me feel, all dark and clammy. I even start cold sweating on the bedspread, so I give up on relaxing and go out for a bike ride to try to clear my head and get some fresh air. The morning sun has been enveloped by a fluffy layer of gray clouds, but it doesn’t look like rain. The wind cools me down. I keep going out farther and farther on the back-country roads, aimlessly riding around until I come upon the dirt road that cuts through the old swamp. I stop on the rickety old bridge and look out over the bog. A chorus of frog croaks rise from the surrounding tall grass. The mosquitoes start ganging up on me, so I push on to Underwood. I’m going to see Mrs. Greenan and apologize again. No matter how strange those babies are, no matter how disgusting, I want to see them again because I don’t want to be afraid, and I don’t want to feel the repulsion. I hate it. It just doesn’t seem right for me to feel that way.

  I go down the hill at the top of Underwood Street and stop at the house. Down the way that kid, Dusty, sees me from his front yard and comes running. “You came back.”

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home, though.” But behind the screen door the main door is open. I go up and knock. “Hello? Anyone home? Mrs. Greenan?” I wait, but there’s only silence. I turn back, but then I hear a high-pitched squeal, “Eeeeeek!” and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. It’s one of those babies.

  “Did you hear that?” asked Dusty.

  “Hey, do me a favor and keep watch. I just wanna make sure they’re all right.”

  “I wanna come in, too.”

  “Here, take my bike and go put it in front of your house and come right back then.”

  Dusty runs and takes the bike down to his house. There’s some distant thunder that sounds millions of miles away. He comes back and joins me at the front door and says, “Hold on a second,” and then screams at the top of his voice “Heyyaah!” into the old house. We both scamper down to the sidewalk and wait. No one comes to the door, so we go back up to the porch. Dusty holds the screen door open for me and I enter the dark foyer. It’s real cool in there. What with the drapes and the lights out, it’s kept out the heat. We walk into the living room. The floorboards creak. There’re some sports magazines on the floor in front of the big old television. It looks as old as the brown couch and recliner that line the edge of the room. We go back into the corridor where there’s an old rotary phone on a table against the wall.

  “Do you smell something?” I ask him.

  “Yeah.”

  “What is it?”

  “Smells like my daddy’s feet.” Dusty starts heading toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, where you going?”

  I follow him into the kitchen. Beside the refrigerator there’s a stack
of old black garbage bags, but that’s not the smell. “Why don’t they take this trash out?” says Dusty, and then stomps on an empty soda can. The crunching sound of the can is real loud. He could ruin everything.

  “Hey, if you wait outside for me like I asked earlier, I’ll give you a dollar.”

  “Let me see it,” he says suspiciously.

  I take out my wallet and show him a wrinkled old dollar bill. “Tell you what. Make that two,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “If someone comes, you holler at me,” I say.

  “All right.” He goes back out the front. I start looking through the pantries and cupboards. There’s lots of canned foods, macaroni, and cereal. Nothing weird here. I slowly make my way up the stairs, and the bad smell becomes stronger. It smells like sawdust and vinegar mixed with a dirty toilet. “This isn’t any feet,” I say to myself. I put my hand to my mouth and nose and keep the other on the banister. First, I check the bedrooms. All the beds are unmade. The dresser drawers are open. There’re dirty clothes everywhere. The entire house feels abandoned, not at all like the way it was the first time I went in there with David. Mrs. Greenan doesn’t seem like the type to keep such an unkempt home. I end up following my nose. The smell seems to be coming from a closet in one of the bedrooms. I peak in through the slats of the closet door, but it’s too dark to see anything. The loud crack of thunder’s getting closer, and I hear a few raindrops beginning to splatter on the house. It feels as though my heart’s going to bust out of me. I take a deep breath and open the door slowly. The smell almost overwhelms me, but I stay put. My eyes are drawn to the floor, where a burlap bag lays. Something’s moving in there. I don’t like the looks of it, like there might be rattlesnakes in there. But I’ve got to look. I’ve got to know what the hell’s going on. My body moves from without. It’s like I’m watching myself kneel down and carefully untie the strap. I hold my breath as my unsteady hands open up the bag. It’s them, those godforsaken babies. They’re piled on top of each other. One of them turns and looks at me sideways, showing the whites of its bulging eyeballs, and yells “Eeeeek!” out of its perfectly formed mouth. I can hear the screen door slam shut from down below and then footsteps, but they aren’t the steps of that kid. They’re the sound of heavy thudding boots stomping around down there. I turn over on my belly and crawl under the bed, swiveling myself toward the door like a cockroach would. The man seems to be walking around and then stopping and then walking around again down below. My hopes of him leaving the house are quickly dashed when those steps begin coming up the stairs. I’m lying on my stomach with my ear to the floor, and he sounds like some giant in his castle with me the little intruder whose liable to get crushed. A loud wave of thunder rolls and shakes the house, and one of the little babies slowly comes crawling out of the closet on its belly. With its one good arm and leg, it reminds me of a wounded soldier who’s been blown up and is trying to get away. Then it stops halfway to the bed, looking up at me, drooling, wide-eyed. It looks like it’s whispering something to me the way its mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water. I want it to stop. Then, the loud booming steps come into the room. I can see dirty black work boots and the bottom of some worn blue brogans frayed at the seams.

  “Whaddya think you’re doin’?” says a man’s voice. When I hear its strong piercing tone, I feel something cold come over me. The boot pushes the baby back toward the closet. “C’mon.” Then a hand comes down. The baby looks me in the eyes as it’s lifted up and out of sight. “You tryin’ to get away? You little demon. Get back in there. If it weren’t for yer momma, you’d be dead like you should be. Miracle, my ass. Satanic piece of shit. I have every right to get rid of you. One day I will.” A thud comes from the closet, and he walks back out and down the stairs. A television turns on. I wait a minute before sliding myself slowly out from under the bed and toward the window. By the looks of it I’d probably break a leg if I jump from up there. I’ll have to try another room. Thunder’s coming in regular intervals now, but there’s hardly any rain. Just a light trickle but the drops are heavy. I gingerly tiptoe to another bedroom, one where a window overlooks the roof of the front porch, which declines enough to where I think I can jump from it without hurting myself. I try opening it, but it’s jammed. If I put force into it, I just know it’ll be loud. So I wait for a thunderclap to cover the sound. A white bolt of lightning flashes. A few seconds pass. Then when the rumbling comes, I push as hard as I can. There’s a loud crack from the window, which opens slightly but not enough for me to slip through. I hold my breath. Footsteps are stomping up the stairs, so I frantically tiptoe behind the door. He walks past and goes into the other room.

  “What the hell was that?” the man’s voice says. I can hear him searching the closet. “Was that one of you fuckers? Couldn’t be.”

  I’m really sweating. My heart feels like it’s going to pop. The boots come around to the room I’m in. I hear them stomping around. A dark shadow moves across the wall. The window slams shut. “Shit,” he says. I can hear him checking around the room. It gets real quiet. I can’t hear a thing. Then the door I’m hiding behind is flung closed and he’s standing there right in front of me, a tall man with a scruffy face, bearded and dirty, and longish dark blond hair over cold gray eyes. He’s kind of lanky, but he looks strong, like he’s made of steel and wires under that tight flannel shirt he’s wearing.

  “What the hell? Get out of there!” he screams at me.

  He’s pulls out a knife from the back of his jeans. It’s one of those big hunting knives with the teeth toward the handle.

  I immediately raise my hands. “No, please. I was just curious. I just wanted to see them. Please, I’ll go and never come back. I promise. I made a mistake.”

  He grabs my arm and jerks me into the other room. His grip is powerful. “What’d you see?” he asks.

  “Nothing. Nothing. I didn’t have a chance. I got here right when you got in.”

  His look of rage relaxes a bit, becomes thoughtful. “Yeah, I was only gone ten minutes to get some beer. I love beer.” He lowers the knife but keeps it close. A slight smirk emerges at the corner of his snarling mouth. He looks at me close. Close enough for me to see the blackheads on his nose, the moisture of what smells like beer on the lower part of his short unkempt beard. He smells like sour sweat and alcohol. I keep looking down at that knife. He reaches around and grabs my wallet. “Let’s see who we got here.” First he takes out the cash and counts it before putting it in his pocket. “Thirty-five-dollar finder’s fee!” Then he takes out my driver’s license. “Samuel Polk!” he says. “Aye, what have we got here?” He finds the picture of my mom behind my driver’s license. “Whoooo! Who is this?”

  “It’s my mom.”

  “Your momma?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I’d like to Samuel Polk her!” He puts it in his pocket. “I’ll be keeping this for future reference.”

  “No, please give back my mom. You can keep the money, everything, just give that back,” I start to cry.

  “Oh! Oh, boo-hoo! It’s just a goddamn picture.” He puts my driver’s license back in my wallet and tosses it to me. “You can keep that. A feller needs a driver’s license. Pick up some hot chicks, right! Then Samuel Polk ’em!”

  “Can I go, please?”

  “Shit. I’s just playin’. I know all about you. You’re the one who threw up as soon as you saw…them.” He nods his head to the other room.

  He sheathes his knife somewhere behind his back and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Why didn’t you say who you were? Come on. Look all you want.” He leads me into the other room and grabs the burlap bag out of the closet. “Here,” he says, and tosses it onto the bed, like it was a sack of potatoes. One of the babies partially pops out of the bag on impact. He grabs it brutally and it screams, “Eeeek!”

  “Damn! Look at this thing. It’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen, right? Disgusting, but you can’t take your eyes off of it. He
re, take it.”

  “No, I shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re sturdy little bastards.” He shakes it and it squawks, “Kyaaa!” When he stops shaking it, the baby becomes still. It keeps looking at me and at the man. Back and forth, with fear in its eyes.

  “The smell,” I say.

  “That ain’t them. It’s the bag. It’s my skunk bag.” He hands me the baby, which I hold out from my body. He takes the burlap bag and dumps the other two babies onto the bed. “Put it down,” he says, so I gently lay it beside its siblings. “Not like that,” he says, and picks it up and slams it down as it squeals. “Got it, Mr. Fucking Compassion?” He pulls out his knife again and makes a cut on his own forearms. “See how sharp this knife is? See?”

  I nod my head.

  “Look.” He puts the blade close to my face. I don’t answer. I’m so scared it’s like reality is starting to tear apart right before my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look down on me, boy.” He pulls back the knife and slaps me across the cheek. The tears start coming down my hot face.

  “What do you want?” I yell at him, anger beginning to well up in me.

  “That’s the spirit!” He picks up one of the babies with his free hand and comes close to me. “Hit it.” I stand there, and he says, “What are you waiting for, you little faggot!”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Isn’t that why you came here?”

  “No, I just wanted to see them.”

  “Liar, you came to kill them.”

  “No, I’d never.”

  He takes the knife and makes another cut on his own forearm. “Eeeeek. Kyuuuuu!” The baby screams. Then he makes a cut in the part of his chest that’s exposed at the top of his shirt. “It’s getting closer, closer. If it gets any closer, it’s gonna cut him.”

  “Please don’t do this!”

  “Do what? How do you know what I’m going to do?” He looks at me squarely. “Hit or I start cutting…both together. All three of us will bleed. One happy family. Blood is blood. Death is life. Three for one. Thrice cuts the knife!” He stabs at my arm, grazing it.