The Shadow Year

by Jeffrey Ford

  When we finally caught up and were crouched next to him, he said, “Okay, no matter what happens from here on, you can’t say a word. Follow me. If you don’t know what to do, watch my hand signals. Walk on the sides of your feet when we’re near the windows. Watch out for kids’ toys lying around in the backyards.”

  Jim and I both nodded, but I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to keep up with them. It didn’t matter, though, because a few seconds later we were running through backyards, climbing over split-rail and picket fences. When Ray finally stopped, I almost ran past him. He waved over his shoulder for us to follow as he moved from the back of the yard toward the house. I saw where he was headed—a lit window at knee level on the first floor.

  Ray leaned over and rested his hands on his thighs as he peered into the bright rectangle. Jim and I came up on either side of him and assumed the same pose. Inside was a heavy man sitting in a chair with his back to us, watching TV. His head was bald, with big wrinkles of fat where his neck met his shoulders. On a small table next to him was a tall object that looked like the base of a lamp without the shade or bulb but with a hose attached. The man held the end of the hose and was doing something with it near his face. Finally all became clear when a great bluish stream of smoke formed a cloud like a dark thought above his head. It was the kind of pipe the giant caterpillar on the mushroom had in Alice in Wonderland.

  We were off. Because I couldn’t see too much, the sounds of the night became clearer—the bubble of a pool filter, television laughter, an owl in the woods, and between my deep breaths the whisper of cars passing, twenty blocks north, on Sunrise Highway. We broke out of the backyards and crossed Cuthbert, went through another yard, and climbed over a fence to reach the houses on Willow.

  Our next stop was the Steppersons’. There was a side window that you could look in if you stood on the fence whose last post butted up against the house. Ray quietly climbed up. He stood there perched in midair for a long time. The glow from the window lit his face, and I watched his expression slowly change from its usual alertness to something slower and more distant. When he was done, he dropped to the ground silently and helped Jim get up on the fence. Jim looked for only a couple of seconds. Then it was my turn. Ray grabbed my forearm as I stood balanced on the fence rail. I could feel the wiry strength in his arm as I looked into a bedroom. Todd Stepperson, who was in the grade below mine, lay in bed, asleep. His room was a mess—toys and clothes all over the place. I noticed that at the foot of the bed he had a collection of stuffed animals, and in among them was a kind of baby doll called Thumbelina that had a string you pulled in the back to make it squirm. Mary had one, and Jim and I used to pull the string and roll it down the stairs to see it writhe when it hit the bottom.

  Ray held on and helped me to land without making a sound. We didn’t run but walked quickly away from the Steppersons’ house and around the two rusted cars parked in the back corner of their yard. There was no fence to slow us as we crossed into the next yard, then the next. We ran through a string of yards, and even though we were traveling along Willow, the street I lived on, I lost track of where we were.

  I couldn’t fix our position until I caught up with Ray and Jim standing outside a lighted playroom window watching Marci Hayes pull off her jeans. She stood there in her white underwear and a yellow button-down shirt, her blond hair loose to the middle of her back. Next, a button at a time, the shirt came off. Jim’s mouth was wide open, and he had a look on his face like he was about to cry. Ray was smiling. Marci unhooked her bra and turned to the side to remove the strap from her shoulder, and there they were—not too big, with dark nipples. When she slipped out of her underwear and that pink ass was staring him in the face, Jim staggered forward slightly and stepped on a twig.

  Marci’s head turned sharply. Like a shot, we were gone. From the bushes at the back of the yard, we watched as she came, now dressed in a nightgown, to the window and peered out.

  At the Bishops’ a phonograph was playing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” booming loud through the windowpanes. Reggie was in feet pajamas decorated with little cars. The music stopped, and we watched as he lifted the needle to start the record again. “No more,” said Mr. Bishop, coming into the room. From where we stood, we could see the bald spot in his gray hair and a profile of his weariness. He kind of sagged like old laundry and waved his hands in front of him.

  “But I’m not tired yet,” said Reggie. The music started again. He ran over to his father and, putting his feet on his dad’s shoes, slung his arms around the old man’s neck and clasped his hands. Mr. Bishop staggered forward as Reggie let his body go slack. His father moved around the room slowly, lurching back and forth, doing the box step. At one point he stared directly out into the night at us, but I had no fear those eyes would see me.

  We passed silently by Dan Curdmeyer, sitting in his grape arbor in the dark, asleep, a beer on the table in front of him. Ray motioned for us to go on ahead, and he walked carefully over to where Mr. Curdmeyer sat. In one swift movement, he lifted the glass, drained it, replaced the glass, and was suddenly back by our side. There was something impossible in his speed. We crossed the side street by Mr. Barzita’s house and wound up behind the Eriksons’. A light shone in their dining room, but it was empty. Ray took longer looking into the empty rooms.

  All three of us stood on the wooden deck around the pool in the Felinas’ backyard and watched Mr. and Mrs. Felina lying in bed together talking. They looked comfortable on their pillows as they smiled and laughed. We watched for a long time. Finally they stopped talking, and she rolled close to him. I thought they were going to sleep, so I got ready to go. Before I could take the first step down the deck ladder, though, Ray tapped my shoulder and pointed. I looked up and saw that the bedcovers had been thrown aside. The Felinas were completely naked, Mrs. was on her knees, and Mr. had a giant boner. Jim started laughing without making noise, and the suddenness of the whole thing made me laugh, too. I thought Ray would be mad at us, but he joined in. We watched until the show was over, then ran on to see Boris the janitor sleeping in front of the TV, Mrs. Edison in her dining room by candlelight with a bowl of water in front of her on the table, Peter Horton sitting at his too-small desk, sobbing.

  “That’s just one night,” said Ray. We walked leisurely down Willow Avenue, sticking to the edges of the lawns instead of the street. “There’s lots more to see.”

  “Thanks,” said Jim and I echoed him.

  “The next time you come out, I’ll have a plan to catch Mr. White,” Ray said.

  We left him outside the Farleys’. He ducked into the backyard, and we ran across the front lawn to our house. A few minutes later, we were each in our respective rooms, dressed in our pajamas. I’d just gotten into bed when I heard my father come in. I lay there wondering what Ray might be seeing and what he was looking for. It struck me that out of all we had seen, it was Peter Horton and his sorrow that kept returning to me.

  Something’s Coming

  Pop and I were out in the backyard inspecting his trees. I carried an old coffee can with some stinking black mixture in it. He had a big old stiff-bristled paintbrush. He dipped it into the can and leaned over, painting the bottom few feet of a tree trunk all the way down to the ground. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was actually hot. Pop wore only a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, and I had no coat. Before painting each tree, he’d look it over from a distance, and then he’d get in close, rubbing the bark and lightly touching the buds he could reach. He said there would be a lot of cherries come summer and that the bugs would be bad.

  When we finished with the last tree, we sat across from each other at the picnic table. He dumped the can of tree paint into the grass and put the brush on the bench next to him. He lit a Lucky Strike and said, “I want you to do me a favor.”

  I nodded.

  “Come around here behind me. I want you to look at something on my back.” He set his cigarette on the edge of the table and lifted his
T-shirt as I went to stand behind him. The tattoo dog was waiting for me, blue and swirling.

  “Look at the dog,” he said. “What color are its eyes?”

  “Red,” I told him.

  He pulled his shirt down and waved at me to sit. He lifted his cigarette and said, “I could feel it.”

  “What’s it feel like?” I asked.

  “It itches, sometimes to the point where it burns. I haven’t felt it in a long time. That’s not red ink. Those eyes usually show just the color of my skin.”

  “Is it Chimto warning you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Something’s coming. Some dark crapola’s on the way, and it’s getting close.”

  “What are you gonna do?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “What can you do? You just wait to see where it lands and then start shoveling. It’s good to know that it’s coming, though. Early warning, you know?”

  “Is it all bad stuff?”

  “The old Javanese who gave me the tattoo told me that when the eyes turn red, it means serious trouble is approaching. I told him, ‘Sure, whatever,’ and he started in with the whalebone needles. About halfway through the job, he gave me this kind of gum to chew, like tree resin. It tasted like licorice, and it made me tired and kind of dizzy. After chewing it, I could hear, just outside his shack, a giant dog snarling and barking.”

  “Has the dog ever saved your life?”

  He pointed at me and said, “That’s what it’s all about.”

  I nodded, unsure what he meant. We sat there for a while without speaking. The leaves were coming back, and I noticed that the grass was getting greener. The sun felt great. Eventually I got up and started toward the house.

  “You and your brother sneaking out at night wouldn’t be a good idea right now,” he said.

  I turned around and looked at him. He put his finger to his lips.

  Shut Up

  I told Jim all about my conversation with Pop.

  “Shit” was his response.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna tell,” I said.

  “The dog’s eyes really were red?” he asked.

  “Bright red.”

  “The dog sees Mr. White,” he said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Well, if the dog sees him, how come Mary doesn’t see him? The white car’s been up on Hammond for a couple weeks now in Botch Town.”

  We went in search of Mary and found her in her room, lying on the wood floor, putting together a jigsaw puzzle of a forest path. I was surprised she wasn’t gabbing with Sally O’Malley and Sandy Graham. Jim must have felt the same way, because he said to her, “How come you’re not Mickey as much anymore?”

  “Shut up,” she said, fitting a piece into the puzzle.

  Jim told her about Pop’s dog tattoo, and then he asked her how come the white car hadn’t moved.

  “Make a Mr. White,” she said without looking up.

  “He’s not in the car?” I asked.

  “Thank you,” she said, and told us to leave.

  I tried to fit the dog’s warning, Mr. White on foot, Ray, and all the rest of it into some sort of pattern I could analyze. I went out into the backyard to get some air. Jim followed me.

  “He’s coming for Mary,” said Jim.

  “We should tell Dad,” I said.

  “No. Ray knows everything about it. We should find out what his plan is first,” said Jim.

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “Then I’ll go by myself,” he said.

  “What if Mr. White finds you before you find Ray?” I asked.

  He shrugged and said, “That’s a chance I’ll just have to take.”

  That night after dinner, Nan came in to tell us that the police had been across the street that afternoon.

  “Where?” my mother asked.

  “The Hayeses’ place,” said Nan. “The daughter heard someone outside her window the other night.”

  “Did she see who it was?” asked Jim.

  “It was too dark,” said Nan.

  Later, down in Botch Town, Jim brought the prowler back from the Hall of Fame and painted him completely white, even the steel-pin arms. The eyes still glowed through from underneath the paint. In the middle of his work, he looked up and said “Marci Hayes” to me, and we both laughed.

  Make the Moon

  “Make the moon,” said Krapp. “I don’t care how you do it.”

  He passed around a book with pictures of the moon.

  “Craters,” he said. “Round and gray with craters. Papier-mâché, clay, paper, plaster—it doesn’t matter, but it’s got to look like the moon. Hand it in next week. Thursday.”

  The Night Watch

  The men met in our backyard on Saturday as the sun was going down. My father said Jim and I could sit out with them for a while if we kept quiet. Mr. Mason, my father, Mr. Farley, Dan Curdmeyer, and Mr. Conrad sat in lawn chairs back by the forsythia bushes, which had begun to sprout yellow buds. There was a warm breeze, and it was more night than day. Mr. Conrad had brought a six-pack and a flashlight. Curdmeyer had brought two of each. Mr. Farley was the last to arrive, with a bottle of whiskey and a stack of Dixie cups.

  I sat next to my father’s chair on the ground and Jim sat in his own chair. Mr. Conrad offered my father a beer. “Thanks,” said my father, and he laughed. Mr. Farley started pouring cups of whiskey and passing them around. Almost everyone was smoking; Curdmeyer had a pipe. When all the men had a little paper cup, Mr. Mason held his up and said, “To the night watch.”

  They took a sip, and then Dan Curdmeyer said, “Where’s Hayes? It was his daughter, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Mason, shaking his head. “My wife made me set this up.”

  They all chuckled, low, almost embarrassed.

  “I had my kids rig trip wires in all the backyards except this one. Two sticks with fishing line and a can with stones in it. If we hear them, we’re supposed to run and catch the Peeping Tom,” said Mason.

  I pictured Henry and the horrible dumplings, rattling soda cans.

  “Run? After a few more of these,” said Farley, “crawl will be more like it.”

  “Drinks outside,” said my father. “Not a bad plan.”

  “If we hear someone, will you guys go after them?” asked Mason.

  “Sure,” said Mr. Conrad, “I’ll kick their ass.” A second later he broke into a grin.

  “We’ll see how it goes,” said my father, and after that the talk turned to the weather and money. The drinks flowed. Cigarettes flared and were stamped out. A curse word was thrown in every now and then. The men’s laughter was distant, as if they were laughing at something they remembered more than what had just been said. Full night arrived, and it got a little cooler.

  Mr. Farley talked about a new machine-gun system that was being made at Grumman, where he worked. “A thousand rounds a second,” he said.

  “How big are the shells?” my father asked.

  Farley held out two trembling fingers about five inches apart. He smiled as if it were the most amazing news. When Farley was finished going on about the miraculous design, Mr. Conrad took a matchbox out of his pocket, set his drink down, and picked up the flashlight he’d brought.

  “What have you got there, Jake?” asked Curdmeyer, who was already slumped back in his chair.

  Conrad slid open the matchbox and shone the flashlight on it. He held the box out to my father, who put his drink on the ground. The small square dropped onto his palm. I stood up so I could see better. Lying on cotton inside the little box was the tiny brown figure of a naked woman.

  My father laughed. “Which ear did that come out of?” he asked.

  “One goes straight through to the other,” Conrad said.

  Farley laughed.

  My father passed it on to Curdmeyer, who looked and said, “How did you shape it?”

  “Paper clip, my thumbnail, a straight pin…”

  “This was a pretty big
ball of earwax,” said Farley when it was passed to him.

  “I’ve always had a lot of wax,” said Mr. Conrad, and shyly nodded his head.

  “You made this from your earwax?” asked Mason when it was his turn to view Conrad’s creation. He grimaced like it was a turd. “That’s bizarre.”

  “He’s got a whole chess set made from it,” said Curdmeyer.

  Mr. Mason shook his head and handed the matchbox back to its owner. After that they talked about the army, and I lay down on the ground where I’d been sitting.

  “At Aberdeen, in basic, there was this lieutenant,” said my father. “I was just thinking about him the other day. He was a little skinny Jewish guy with glasses. The sleeves of his uniform came down almost past his fingers. His pants were too big. Everybody laughed at him behind his back and wondered how he’d made rank. Then one day they had us standing in trenches, tossing live grenades. You pulled the pin, waited, and then you had to throw it up over the top of the trench. So one of the guys lobs it, and it hits the lip of the trench and falls back inside. Everybody froze and just stared at the grenade, except for that lieutenant. I’m talking like in less than a second he leaps into the trench, grabs the grenade, and tosses it over the top. Amazing. It exploded in midair, and some of the shrapnel fell into the trench, but no one was hit. From that day on, no one ever gave a shit about how his uniform looked.” He punctuated his story with a drag on his cigarette.

  Mr. Farley spoke like a sleepwalker. “Our unit was part of the invasion of Normandy. North coast of France. What they called ‘the hedgerow.’ The Nazis were dug in up high, and there was swamp to one side of us. They had a whole panzer division up there. We made this push that later came to be known as the Breakout at Saint-Lo.

  “I can’t even begin to describe the slaughter. Not a day goes by without me remembering it.” He went quiet, and I thought for a second he’d fallen asleep.