It's Alive!

by Richard Woodley

He checked the back door. The bolt was in place. And the front door. The locks were closed and the safety chain in its slot.

  “Come on, Lenore, where are you?”

  The guest bathroom, off the den. He went through the living room into the den and saw that the bathroom door was closed. “Lenore? You in there?” He tried it. It wasn’t locked. She wasn’t in there.

  “For chrissake!”

  Back in the living room, he flicked on the TV. Cartoons. “Sesame Street” or some goddam thing. He changed channels. News. Lakers lost to the Knicks, 111-103. Clear, sunny, cool tomorrow. Stay tuned for the movie. He switched to the “Tonight Show.” Surely they would bust into that if they had a news flash.

  Damm it! Doesn’t anybody care what the hell is happening around here? What do they do, bury it in the middle of the news, give it thirty seconds and then move on to the damn basketball scores? He hissed through his teeth and plopped down in the chair in front of the TV.

  Something touched his shoulder, and he sprang up.

  “Lenore!”

  “You feeling better now?” She smiled calmly.

  “You scared the crap outta me!”

  “I’m sorry, dear.”

  “I called you, a hundred times!”

  “I didn’t hear you. What’re you watching?”

  “Where’ve you been? I called you.”

  “Straightening up. What’s the matter, are you cranky because you just woke up?” She smiled and patted his cheek.

  “Where? I called you all over. You weren’t downstairs.”

  “Darling, I’ve been all over the house. You don’t realize how much there is to do.”

  “I mean just now. When I was calling you. Where were you just now?”

  She stared at him, stonily. “Chris’s room.”

  “You couldn’t hear me in there?”

  “Evidently not.”

  “But I heard you downstairs, when I was in the bathroom.”

  She picked up the TV Guide. “Mind if I switch? There’s a very good movie tonight. Paul Newman.”

  “Go ahead. I can’t look at TV. My eyes hurt. My whole head’s coming apart.” He winced and rubbed his stomach. “I need something to calm me down.”

  “Shall I make you a drink?”

  “No, no thanks. Excuse me.”

  She went over to the TV. Frank went into the kitchen.

  He opened the refrigerator and reached in automatically, without looking, taking a bottle of milk. He took a glass from the cabinet and sat down at the table. The milk bottle was almost empty. He poured the ounce or two that was left and drank it. Then he got up to get another bottle.

  His feet clanked against bottles on the floor by the sink. He stooped to straighten up the ones he had knocked over. Five milk bottles, all empty.

  He opened the refrigerator. No more milk.

  Not much of anything.

  He stood gazing at the half-empty shelves. “Lenore? Has Chris been here today?”

  No answer.

  He walked into the living room, where Lenore was watching the movie. “Lenore, I said has Chris been here today?”

  “No, of course not,” she said without turning her head. “Why do you ask?”

  “You wouldn’t fib to me? I know you wanted him back. But I had a good reason. So now I’m asking—”

  “Dear, I haven’t been out of the house all day. If he had been here, I would have known it. And certainly I would have told you.”

  There was an edge to her voice that he didn’t like. But then, he had practically accused her of lying. He rubbed his growling belly. “I’m going to get dressed.”

  He went upstairs to the bedroom and quickly pulled on his shirt and pants and shoes. He guessed he had slept too much. He felt lousy. Nervous. High-strung. Now he wouldn’t be able to sleep all night. She had the TV on too loud. She was laughing.

  He hated checking up on her. He hated doing anything sneaky. But he wanted to know.

  He walked down the hall to Chris’s room and turned on the light. A mess. Sports equipment all over the floor. Books down from the shelves.

  He needed a drink, after all.

  He walked past Lenore in the living room. “I wish someone would respect my feelings around here,” he muttered.

  She ignored him. She was cackling at some kind of cartoon or puppets, what he had first turned on.

  He reached over her to turn the sound down. “Why are you looking at that junk? I thought you were going to watch the movie.”

  She didn’t answer. She simply leaned forward and turned up the volume.

  Frank went into the den and poured several ounces of Chivas. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, Charley?”

  “Hi. That you, Frank?”

  “Yeah. Hey listen, Charley, is Chris okay? You been with him all day?”

  “Sure, Frank, he’s fine. He’s right here in the room watching TV, so I gotta keep my voice down. We had a great time at the lake. What’s up? You okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay.”

  “I had one hell of a time keeping him away from the newscasts and papers and all, today. But he doesn’t know anything. His teacher sent over his schoolwork. You’ve really got a good kid, Frank, you should be grateful.”

  “I am, Charley, believe me, I am. You’ve been with him all the time, then?”

  “We’re like two peas in a pod, Frank. Together every minute.”

  “He hasn’t been back here, to our house? I mean, he couldn’t have slipped out and come back here, for a little while?”

  “Hey, buddy, you don’t doubt me, do you? I know how important this is. I wouldn’t let you down—not ever, but especially now. We just got back this morning from the fishing trip. I made him lunch, we played Parcheesi, ordered in a pizza for supper. I sat here with him while he did his homework—until all the newscasts were over. Then I let him watch TV. That’s what he’s doing now. You want to hear more?”

  “Forgive me, Charley. I’m sorry I asked. My nerves lately. You’re a very special friend.”

  “You can relax as far as he’s concerned, Frank. He’s fine—anxious to come home, of course, but fine. Want to talk to him?”

  “No, not just now. I’ll see you—”

  Charley laid the receiver on the table before he heard Frank’s last words. He called, “Chris, your Dad wants to talk to you.”

  Chris jumped to the phone. “Dad? Hi, Dad! When can I come home?”

  “Chris, you haven’t been back here today, have you? You didn’t run out on Charley and slip back here today, just for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Dad. You told me to stay with Charley. Don’t you trust me? Don’t we always trust each other?”

  “Sure, Chris, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “Can I talk to Mom?”

  “Not just now, son. She’s asleep. It’d be better if I didn’t wake her.”

  “Is she okay? Is the baby home from the hospital yet? When do I get to see him? It’s a boy, isn’t it? . . . Dad? Dad?”

  Chris looked at the receiver, which now sent out a dial tone. He handed it to Charley, who put it to his ear for a moment, then hung it up.

  Chris looked at the floor. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “That’s okay, Chris, it’s okay.” He put his arm around the boy. “He’s just tired. You didn’t hear him say goodbye.”

  “What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Was he angry because I asked if it was a boy?”

  “No, no, of course not. That special over on TV? You hungry? Come on, let’s go warm up the rest of that pizza.”

  “No thanks. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Good idea, Chris. It’s late. Been a long day.”

  Chris reached the foot of the stairs and turned back. “I’m not mad at you or anything, Charley, I just feel like going to bed.”

  “I know. Go ahead. I’ll be up in a few minutes to tuck you in.”

 
Chris went into the guest bedroom and closed the door. He didn’t turn on the light. He crossed to the window and lifted it slowly open. He turned back toward the door and listened. He could hear Charley moving around in the kitchen.

  He leaned out the window. In the dark, he could just make out the large tree nearby, and the branch that brushed the house next to the window. He put one leg over the sill and reached for the branch. He got hold of it with both hands and looked down at the shadowy ground below.

  Pulling himself inch by inch out of the window, he finally let his feet dangle free. He hung from the branch, which dipped and swayed with his weight. Carefully, hand over hand, he worked his way to the crotch where the branch joined the trunk. He climbed onto the trunk and squatted down, looking back at the window.

  Still no light in there; Charley was still downstairs.

  He shimmied down the trunk, dropped to the lawn, scrambled to his feet, and took off running through the backyard in the direction of his home.

  Frank stared numbly at his drink on the bar. A line of sweat formed just under his hair along his forehead. He started to take a drink. Ice.

  He went to the freezer and pulled it open. He reached in for the ice cubes, felt them under his fingers, then stopped.

  The freezer shelves were almost empty. Most of the meat was gone.

  He let his hand slide off the ice cubes, stepped back, and let the door wheeze shut by itself. He stared at the closed freezer.

  He put his drink down by the sink and hurried out to Lenore. She was laughing quietly, swaying back and forth. On TV now was a commercial for Chevrolet.

  “Lenore,” he took her shoulders, “Lenore, Lenore, please . . .”

  She continued chuckling and swaying back and forth. Frank released her, staring at the back of her head as she swayed.

  No, please no.

  He glanced around the room, then at the stairs. He went to the stairs and started quickly up, then slowed, taking each step quietly, listening, looking up at the upstairs hallway.

  When he reached the last step, he stood silently, holding his breath, staring at the closed door of the nursery.

  “All set?” Charley looked up the stairs. “Ready to be tucked in?” He listened. Probably asleep already. He turned back toward the living room, then hesitated. No, I promised him I would be up.

  He went softly up the steps and into the guest bedroom. He tiptoed to the bed and put his hand gently on the covers. Then he put both hands on, finally slapped all around.

  “Chris, you in the bathroom?”

  He leaned into the hallway. The bathroom door was open. No light on.

  “Chris?”

  He saw the open window. “Oh no—!” He ran to it and looked out. “No, Chris—”

  He flew down the stairs and out to the garage; he yanked on the door of the old station wagon. Stuck as usual. Finally he wrestled it open. He jumped in and ground the starter until it caught at last, rammed the gears into reverse, churned out of the garage, squealed into forward on the street, and roared off toward the Davis house.

  Chris felt like an animal, excited, tense, watchful, scared. He crouched under a bush, trying to stem his breathing, his heart pumping wildly. So many policemen around. Why? Were they already looking for him?

  He knew the ones on the corner had almost seen him. That was the worst part, the most difficult part, crossing the streets. He had made it three times. Just one more street to go.

  A breeze rustled through the bushes and trees. Chris was glad. They wouldn’t notice his movements.

  They shouldn’t be looking for him—it wasn’t wrong to be going home. But they might think it was. They wouldn’t hurt him, but they would stop him. They would take him back to Charley’s. Charley would be sad. He wouldn’t understand.

  He liked Charley. Very much. He didn’t want to hurt him. He would explain it to him later. Or Dad would. Dad would understand, Dad always understood everything. Except now. Now Dad didn’t seem to want to talk to him, didn’t want to see him, didn’t want him to come home. Maybe Mom would. He hoped Mom would be happy to have him home.

  Anyway, it wasn’t wrong to be going to his own home. He wouldn’t be doing it, if it was wrong.

  Something was wrong, though. Something was so wrong that it forced him to climb out of the window at Charley’s and run to his own house. Forced him to. He didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t figure it out, what made him do this. Just something he felt. Something pulled him. Like love, maybe. He was drawn by how much he loved Mom and Dad, and how much something didn’t seem right about them right now, something that scared him. He loved them so much that he started to cry, soundlessly, his tears rolling down his face and his neck, making the inside of his shirt wet. That’s all he knew.

  The policeman walked by again on the sidewalk, jabbing the bushes with his nightstick, his partner a few steps behind. Chris cringed back, folding his arms tightly over his chest, holding his breath. The stick jabbed close to his head, and went away. The two policemen walked farther on.

  He could follow the bushes along, for a while. Why did everybody have bushes around their houses? It was as if they wanted to help him. They wanted to give him a place to hide.

  While he was trying to get home.

  The policemen were gone. Chris slid along the base of the bushes and across more backyards. One more street to cross.

  Frank stood just outside the nursery door, shaking, listening. Everything was quiet. Lenore had stopped laughing. The TV was off. He breathed deeply, silently, then shoved the door open.

  A shaft of light from the hall cut across the crib. Frank slid in along the door. His feet hit toys. They were scattered all over the room.

  He took a step toward the crib. It was still. Everything was quiet. He took another step. The light from the hall bathed only the crib, just like (the thought flitted blackly through his mind) the star of Bethlehem. Another step. He looked down at the crib.

  Empty.

  Naturally.

  Lenore. Lenore had been in here, just as she had been in Chris’s room. She had messed up the toys. She’s on the ragged edge, Lenore is. She needs help.

  God, if all this would only end, just be over, so he could get her out of here, get her some help, nurse her back. They would all be crazy soon.

  He looked down at the crib. He was not checking on her. Not this time. He took the edge of the comforter in his fingers and pulled it back. Slowly he lowered the palm of his other hand. He flattened it on the sheet.

  The sheet was warm.

  It was not Lenore who had been in that crib.

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  He stood in the darkness. Terror crept up his legs, up his back, along his neck. He didn’t know if he could move. Or should. His leg took a step backward. His breath came in spasms. Then it stopped altogether.

  He took another step back, then another. Against the wall. He slid his hand up the wall an inch at a time. The switch. He turned it on.

  The room was empty. He was alone.

  Lenore was alone too, downstairs.

  But he couldn’t move. For a minute or two. He stood, seeing nothing, feeling nothing.

  “LENORE!” he screamed. Then he could move.

  Chris crawled forward on his hands and knees. He hoped he wouldn’t be punished for his pants. It didn’t matter. He was almost home. These were bushes he knew, played under when he wanted to be alone, to pretend.

  The same police car, back and forth on the street. They couldn’t catch him now. They were too late. He was home. He could run to the house.

  He sat back on his haunches, gathering his breath for the final sprint.

  He scratched the ground with his hands. What was that? Something on the ground. He picked it up, brought it close to his face to see. Some kind of cloth. Torn. Like an old shirt.

  He felt around. A pile of the stuff. Rags. Placed neatly, round, hollowed out in the middle. Like a nest.

  He would have to find out who
’d been messing around in his bushes.

  He inched forward to the grass and looked out at the street. He could see the red taillights of the police car as it turned away around the corner.

  Now would be good.

  But Chris was smart. Already he had learned a lot. Across the street walked two policemen, jabbing their nightsticks into the bushes. They couldn’t fool Chris. He would wait until they all were gone.

  He wouldn’t go for the front door—too easy to be seen. He wouldn’t go to the front at all. He’d go around to the back. Not to the back door. It’d be bolted from the inside. But to the cellar door, which had a padlock on it.

  He would only have a few seconds, before the police came around again. But that’s all he needed.

  Frank stumbled down the stairs and lurched through the living room. “Lenore!” She wasn’t there, or in the den.

  He tore into the kitchen.

  Lenore was pressing the hook closed on the cellar door. She spun toward Frank and leaned back heavily against the door.

  “Lenore! Lenore!” He grabbed her in his arms. Then he held her away from him. “What were you doing down there?”

  She smiled. “In the basement? Oh, just getting . . . a bottle of wine.”

  “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “The wine. You don’t have any wine.”

  “Oh, well,” she again leaned against the door, casually, “I couldn’t find just what I wanted.”

  He stared at her, panting, his lips quivering. “No.”

  “No?”

  “What were you doing down there?” He grabbed her and shook her shoulders. “You were down there before too. What were you doing, Lenore?”

  She wrenched free, pushed him back, and threw her arms wide against the cellar door. Her eyes widened, she bared her teeth. “Go away! Leave us alone!”

  “Who? You and Chris? WHO!” He grabbed her arm, twisted it fiercely.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “WHO, GODDAM IT! WHO!”

  Her chest heaved, her breath grated through her throat in a howl. “You know who! YOU KNOW!”

  Chris watched the patrol car cruise by one more time, then lunged out of the bushes and raced across the yard, illuminated for a few feet by the streetlight.