The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009
Page 39
The fight stopped so suddenly Sal found herself leaning for balance against her adversary. He shrugged her off, and they stood, staring, the four of them, while the Weirdo’s gate creaked partway open on rusted hinges.
The smallest boy dropped the shirt-wrapped cat and bolted.
The cat bolted, too, between the Weirdo’s feet and the fence post, back into his yard.
Then the other boys were running, too, whooping insults to cover their retreat, and Sal was left standing in the alley with the Weirdo peering at her through the cracked-open gate. He had pale defenseless eyes blinking in the shadow of his thatch of hair. One huge hand shook with palsy on the side of the fence. As it registered with Sal that he was as frightened as she was, she heard the mewing of fearful kittens.
She gulped a “Sorry” at him and scurried back into her yard, slamming the gate behind her.
Macey was furious. Furious, though only someone who knew her as well as Sal did would be able to tell. Her hands lay as if abandoned on the covers, and her voice was a thin warble, as if she lacked the strength to control its ups and downs. But she had indeed been awake and watching and she thought Sal had done everything wrong.
“Those boys could have been allies. Why’d you fight?”
“I don’t think they were going to take the cat home and feed her cream,” Sal said.
“It wasn’t even a good fight. You fought like a girl.”
Sal shrugged. Her legs were black with bruises, and she was rather proud of the swelling of her lower lip.
“And now the cat’s back where it started.”
“She went back on her own,” Sal pointed out.
“You said it had kittens. It probably thought it had to protect them.”
“She was more scared of those boys. Way more scared.”
“That’s just because it doesn’t know, yet.”
“Know what?”
“What’s in store.”
Sal prodded her swollen lip. “We don’t know what’s in store, either.”
“Yes we do.”
All Macey’s strength seemed to go into those three words. When she closed her glittering eyes, her hands, her whole body, seemed more abandoned than ever. Sal sat on the end of her bed and watched her closely until she was sure her breathing was regular, then dropped her chin into her palm and gazed outside. The morning sun had been swallowed by clouds. It might even rain. She looked down at her math books, still open on the grass by the tipped-over chair, and thought about going down to bring them in. There was no sign of the Weirdo.
“You know,” she said quietly, in case Macey was asleep, “he might just take them out the front door. He might just take them out and let them go.”
Silence for so long she though Macey must be sleeping. But then her sister said, “Doesn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Brings them in the back. Would take them out the same way.”
Sal had to concede there was a certain logic to this. Silence gathered again, while the clouds closed in tighter, darker. Sal thought of the kids at the fair, wondered how many parents had thought to bring rain gear along.
“I have to go get my books before it rains,” she said.
Macey didn’t say anything. Sal got up and went to the door. She was almost in the hall when she heard her sister’s voice, thin as a thread.
“You’re just scared,” Macey said. “You just don’t want to find out.”
Sal bit her swollen lip and winced. Having seen those fearful, blinking eyes, those shaking hands, she found she had nothing to say. She slipped out and went downstairs to put on her shoes.
That night she cracked her bedroom window open and listened to the rustle of the rain. It followed her in and out of sleep, the same way her parents’ footsteps did as they took turns to check on Macey. Every hour. Then, starting at 1:33 by Sal’s digital alarm clock, every half hour. Then, when the red numbers shone 3:41, they were both up and about. She dimly knew that she did sleep, but it seemed as if she didn’t. It seemed as if she were already wide awake when she heard the ambulance grumble to a stop on the street outside, and the tinny whicker of the radio as the paramedics reported their arrival. She lay still and comfortable while the gurney came rattling up the stairs, while the hallway became full of movement, while the calm professional voices moved into Macey’s room. Then she got up and opened her bedroom door. The bright light made her squint.
She couldn’t see past her parents, but from the crunch-and-rustle sound the paramedics were tucking Macey in with cold packs. They were almost ready to go. She went back in her room and traded her pajamas for sweats and running shoes. The paramedics rolled Macey out and down the hall. Sal and Macey’s parents, already dressed, followed. Sal trailed after. Her dad only noticed her when he turned to close the front door.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said sadly. “You don’t have to come.”
Sal shrugged. Of course she didn’t have to.
Her mom came over and gave her a one-armed hug. “Macey’s going to be all right. They just need to get the fever down. We’ll call first thing and let you know when she’ll be home.”
Sal didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. The paramedics were lifting Macey into the ambulance. One climbed in with her. The other was hurrying around to the cab when Sal’s dad shut the front door, cutting off her view. The living room window filled with red and blue light, like the lights of a carnival fairway. The ambulance pulled away, followed by her parents’ car, leaving darkness behind.
It was still raining in the morning. Sal waited until her parents had called before she headed out the kitchen door.
Doctor Helleran wants to keep Macey in for a few days, just to make sure . . . Mom will be home to pick up some things this afternoon . . . Dad will be home to make dinner . . . Be sure you finish your homework . . . Everything’s going to be all right . . .
The Weirdo’s fence was taller than she was, but she could hook her fingers over the top, just. The rubber toes of her sneakers skidded on the damp wood, so it was by the strength of her arms that she lifted herself over. Her hands ached and stung with splinters, and she dropped quickly, more clumsily than she might have. Cement paving stones were a shock to her feet. At her right hand a cat growled, low and angry, and she started.
The huts were in two rows that faced each other across the small yard, six in each row. They had tin roofs pattering under the last of the rain, and wire fronts, and were otherwise made of plywood and boards, sturdy but not elegant. Sal was surprised at how big they were, four feet to a side and on short legs. She was also surprised at the smell of clean straw that came from the bales tucked under the Weirdo’s eaves. Macey must have seen him cleaning the huts, laying new straw and bundling up the old, but she’d never mentioned it. Sal bent over to peer into the nearest hut and could just make out the mother cat’s black mask glaring from her corner nest. The cat gave another warning snarl.
“It’s okay,” Sal whispered. “Your kittens are safe.”
From me, she added silently, creeping up the row.
Most of the huts seemed empty, though with the heaps of straw it was hard to tell. But the fourth one on the left had an occupant that was more than willing to be seen. Beady eyes in a lone ranger mask, damp twitching nose, and delicate finger-paws hooked through the chicken wire of the door: the raccoon, small enough that Sal could have tucked him under her arm like a nerf football, chittered happily at the sight of company. She hunkered down before the hut, then registered the shaved patch on the creature’s haunch, the coarse stitching, the missing foot. She bit her lip and winced when her tooth hit the sore reminder of yesterday’s tussle.
“Poor little guy.”
The raccoon snuffled at her through three different holes. In his excitement he planted one forepaw in the plastic water dish wired to the front of the hut. With a look of disgust he shook his paw, then settled down to lick it dry, keeping a bright eye on Sal between pink tongue laps.
Sal rocked b
ack on her heels and turned her head to stare over the fence and up at the back of her own house. At the wide dark rectangle of the window to Macey’s room.
“Excuse me,” said a rusty voice, “but you shouldn’t be here.”
Sal rocketed to her feet. For one fleeting instant she’d actually forgotten.
“This is private, you see, private property.”
The Weirdo stood on his back step, the door to his house open behind him. He wore the same navy blue polyester jacket zipped up to his chin, the same gray pants baggy at the knees, the same blinking look of fright. Except this time the fear was mixed with a tenuous look of dignity. Sal felt herself blush.
“I’m sorry,” she said stupidly. “I was just, uh, just” what could she possibly say? “checking to see how the cat was.” She twitched her head and shoulder toward the mother cat’s hut. “From yesterday? I thought those boys, uh, might have . . . ” She ran out of steam though the blood in her ears was hot enough to boil water.
The Weirdo’s blinking slowed to a less frantic tempo. “But you aren’t the defender. Are you?”
“Well, yeah.” Sal shrugged, her hands creeping into the pockets of her jeans. “I mean, I guess.”
“You could have knocked. You see, on the door.”
Sal wasn’t sure if this was reproach or simply information. “Sorry,” she mumbled again.
The Weirdo, unbelievably, smiled. A funny, scrunching quirk of a smile that disappeared his eyes and didn’t reveal any teeth, but a smile nevertheless. “You want to see the kittens.” He stepped down from the back stair and shuffled towards her.
Sal, indoctrinated against the man who offers to show little girls his kitten or puppy or whatever-it-might-be tucked away in the back of his van (just around the corner, the teacher won’t even notice you’re gone), scuttled crab-wise until her shoulder bumped the gate. The Weirdo, with his lumpy shoulders and shaking hands, lowered himself with care to kneel before the mother cat’s hut, apparently blind to Sal’s skittishness. Looking down at his stiff hair, Sal wondered what she was doing here. Wondered, confusingly, if she wouldn’t have preferred to have been run off by some harrowing Freddy-like creature, chased back over the fence and home. But instead of razor blades, his hands had only trimmed yellow nails and a tremor that she was beginning to realize wasn’t fear, or at least not only fear, but some nervous disorder, or possibly even age. The big pale shaking hands reached through the hut’s open front and emerged a moment later with a palmful of squeaking black and white.
“Here. Here.” The Weirdo lifted the kitten towards Sal. “You mustn’t let her get cold, you see.”
Impossible to take the kitten without touching his hand. Impossible not to take the kitten even though the rain had dripped to an end. Almost shivering herself, Sal scooped the tiny beast from his palm (warm and dry) and cupped her under her chin.
Squeak, said the kitten, blindly nuzzling her thumb.
“Hello,” whispered Sal, ruffling the soft fur with her breath.
The Weirdo reached with a rustle of straw to reassure the mother.
What would Macey say to this? Sal wondered. Get out while you can?
No.
Find out where they go.
The kitten was nestled in with her siblings, the wire door shut on their nest, the Weirdo raising himself to his feet.
“My sister,” Sal blurted, then choked.
The Weirdo blinked at her.
“My sister’s in the hospital.” God, how dumb. “She’s sick.” Dumber. “She might die.” Dumbest. Sal could taste the salt reservoir swelling in her throat.
The Weirdo blinked some more. He seemed oddly patient and, despite the hands that still trembled at his sides, as if contact with the animals had soothed his fear. “Your sister. Is she the child who watches?” He glanced over her head at Macey’s window.
Child. Macey would hate that. Sal took a breath. “My sister sees you take the animals in your house, but she doesn’t see you bring them out again.” She took another breath, but there she stuck.
The old man waited.
The rain started to drip again.
Sal shivered. “My sister wonders. Where they go.”
The Weirdo’s blinks beat sad time with the rain. “Your sister is in the hospital?”
Sal nodded.
“So you came to see.”
Sal nodded again though that wasn’t it at all.
The Weirdo closed his eyes to commune with himself while the rain fell into a steady patter and the raccoon chirruped for attention. The Weirdo drew in a slow breath, let it out quietly, and nodded, before he opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes,” and then, “perhaps.” He looked at her doubtfully.
Sal swallowed. “It isn’t anything bad. Is it?”
He blinked, flit, flit, flit. “No. It isn’t anything bad.”
But she would be crazy if she believed him.
Crazy stupid dumb. So Sal told herself as she followed the old man inside.
But Macey would have dared her. Macey had dared her. So she stayed while the Weirdo opened the raccoon’s hut and tucked the little animal against his chest, and closed the door, and led the way into his kitchen.
The room was dim, dusty ’70s-orange curtains half-drawn against the rain or the prying eyes of the neighbor’s children. Every surface was cluttered with such a dense, organic jumble of stuff Sal could hardly make out individual elements. Bags of dog food, screwdrivers, oily rags, cookie jars, coffee cans full of nails. The only bare surface was the wooden table which bore a small first aid kit and a bottle of what looked to be peroxide. The Weirdo sat in the one clear chair and placed the raccoon before him, holding him still while he rummaged in the kit for a cotton ball. Sal stood against the kitchen door, trying not to breathe the Weirdo’s air. It was heavy with smells as jumbled and unrecognizable as the mess, not nasty, but his.
His hands, forever trembling, were surprisingly deft in the dull sepia light. He swabbed the bare patch on the raccoon’s haunch, then reached for tiny scissors. The raccoon curled around his restraining hand like a furry meal bug, sharp teeth nibbling his knuckles, unconcerned by the twitch of the stitches’ removal.
“It isn’t so much that they have to, you see, be healed,” the Weirdo said, “but they have to be unafraid.” He swabbed the points of blood, dropped the cotton ball, looked up at Sal. “It’s important they aren’t afraid.”
The hackles all down Sal’s back rose and prickled beneath her clothes.
The Weirdo stood and lifted the three-legged raccoon against his shoulder. There was a door in the corner by the rattling old fridge. A cupboard, Sal thought, but it opened on a black doorway and narrow stairs going down. The Weirdo started down without looking at Sal. Sal moved after. Macey had always found a way to make her wimp out before, always found the one thing Sal couldn’t bring herself to do, but this time, this dare, she had to see it through.
She had to see it through
The odors were stronger here, compounded by the smell of damp basement and mold dust. It was very dark before Sal’s eyes adjusted, but she refrained from reaching out for a banister or wall. She didn’t want to touch anything here. Groping for the way down—the flight seemed impossibly long—her damp runners squeaked on bare boards, while the old man’s feet padded on the stairs.
The young raccoon peered over his shoulder at her, black-button eyes inexpressibly cheerful and inquisitive.
It’s important they aren’t afraid.
Was Sal afraid? She wasn’t sure. Her skin tingled and the back of her eyes stung, and her heart was beating quick and light, and her hands wanted to crawl up inside her sleeves. But it wasn’t the same feeling as when she heard the ambulance arrive. It was more like when she stepped out on the high platform above the deep pool at the aquatic center and looked down to see the thin hiss of spray that was the only clue to where the surface lay and curled her toes over the edge of damp concrete (knowing that even Macey wouldn’t jump, she hated heights, the
one dare Sal would never put to her) and lifted her arms, in her head already flying and ready for the cold.
The basement was warm, filled by a pervasive furnace hum.
The old man groped above his head, a weird gesture that stopped Sal on the bottom step, until his hand found a string and a light came on, a forty-watt bulb that shone on his thatch of hair, the raccoon’s eyes, the claustrophobic clutter all around. The mess of the kitchen was writ large here, rusty bikes and wheelbarrows and garden tools, cardboard boxes stained and warped by damp, glass jars filled with cobwebs and bugs. The dim yellow light was brightest on the ceiling of rough, web-hung joists, dimmest in the narrow passage that disappeared between walls of junk. The Weirdo paused under the bulb, looked at Sal, blinking a little. Sal looked back. His hands cradled the little raccoon.
“It’s a secret, you know, a secret thing.”
Sal swallowed. “I won’t tell.”
“But your sister wants to know?”
Sal was shocked, then remembered she had told him as much. “She’s sick.” As if that explained or excused.
The old man hesitated, nodded. Moved down the passage without looking back.
Sal followed, robot-like, numb, as if she operated her body from a distance, mental thumbs on the remote control.
There was a room at the end of the passage. Or maybe it was just a clear space, defined not by walls but by piled junk. Rocking chair, step-ladder, storm window, bookshelf, doll-house, glass vase, all broken, all smeared with dust and mold and time, locked together like bricks in a wall. They sprang into being when the old man pulled another string, lighting another weak bulb. He shuffled forward and Sal saw, set into the junk wall like it was just another bit of trash, a door. A small door. The size of a door that might admit a cat or a puppy or a crow or a young three-legged raccoon, but nothing larger. Nothing like big enough for a person, even if the person was a kid no bigger than Sal, who was not tall for her age, or Macey, who had become so thin. It was made of bare boards held together by brass screws, and had no proper doorknob, just a pull like on a cupboard or a drawer.
The old man knelt on the rough, damp-stained cement floor with the same care he’d shown outside, gently containing the raccoon that wriggled with excitement. He looked up at Sal, who still stood just inside the room. “You can open it, if you want. Then you’ll see.”