The Caterpillar King

by Noah Pearlstone

  In the memory, the woman was still knitting. But now, the fabric had grown, almost to the size of a wedding dress. I looked up towards the woman’s necklace. The small wooden circle hadn’t changed much. Just like the last time, part of the necklace was glowing. It was the left path again. I had the answer I needed.

  For the second time this day, I woke up. I had to let Tika know which path to take. But first, I looked around the room for the squirrel. He was gone. All that was left of him was another small wooden piece. I picked it up, and compared it to the last one. They were identical. In my hand, I arranged them so they were touching. I moved them around until they fit right together, and it looked like I had 2/3 of a circle. Something about these pieces looked very familiar. I couldn’t quite remember where I’d seen them before… and that’s when it occurred to me: I’d seen this design in my only memory. These weren’t just any regular chips of wood- they were part of the old woman’s necklace. And now, I almost had a complete pendant in my hands. What if it was my job to recreate the necklace? What if that was the way to find the woman from my memory? Maybe I was still a little drowsy, but to me, it made perfect sense. And as far as I could tell, I only had one more piece to go.

  June 22, 2084

  Looking for Anyone

  11.

  Back at the house, no signs of life.

  “Galla?” I call out.

  Only response comes from a running tap in the kitchen. I turn off the water, see a small lid next to the sink. The lid to a pill bottle. Oh, for God’s sake. Head to the hallway where Galla’d been keeping an eye on the child. Empty, naturally. Down the hallway, faint sounds coming from the bedroom. Enter the room and find Galla sprawled out in bed, Christ-like. The loon must’ve taken another handful of sedatives. There has to be a better way to cope with stress. Just has to be.

  Meanwhile, the child’s nowhere to be found. A quick sweep of the room turns up little. I try to prop Galla up to see if she’s crushed him. Doesn’t look like it. Think back to the last time I saw him. In the bathroom, obviously. On my way, listen for hints of his position. But can’t hear anything through the bathroom door- it’s a thick, bulky thing, barely lets out a sound. Open it up and an absolute flood of water pours out. Slam the door shut on pure instinct. My shoes are soaked; the flood spreads in every direction. Best to head back in, no time to waste. Kick off the shoes, open the door again, plunge inside.

  Inside, conditions are on par with a rainforest. Quite wonderful, really. The steam’s refreshing, invigorating. Immediately want to get lost in it, sink into the moment like a warm bed. But can’t quite yet.

  “Ahgutaguhhh!” A terrifying shriek from the shower. Spy the little bugger through the steam. He’s got the water on full blast, smashing away at his face. Can’t tell if he’s loving it or in pain. Leaning towards the latter. I wade through a pool that’s nearly up to my ankles. Where the hell is the drain? Supposed to be useful for just these instances. Look into the tub, and see the boy’s foot is right on top of it, pushing it closed. Of course it is. Move his leg, lift the metal piece, and the drain gurgles to life. Finally, turn off the shower. Order’s almost restored, but the child starts to cry loudly.

  “What?” I say. “Tell me.”

  Water sinks all around him. He splashes his hands into it with surprising violence.

  “Oh?” I say. “You want the water back on?”

  Flip the shower on but keep the tub draining. Smile spreads across his face instantly. A man after my own heart.

  Glance at the mirror; it’s completely fogged up. My canvas calls to me. Tate looks happy and alive enough. No reason to delay for even a moment more. Now’s the perfect time for steam art.

  “You want to see Daddy work?” I say. Room is full of my equipment. Generally have a few pots of boiling water, along with a pair of electric kettles. Really adds to the effect. Can’t turn on the kettles now or I’d get zapped. Shame, but there’s plenty of steam. Approach my canvas, a mirror the size of the wall. Galla thought I was quite vain to have it installed. Explained my true intention- to use it for my art- and still she repeated herself. I suppose art is a vanity, after all.

  Look at the mirror, blank and foggy. Wait a measure. Never make the initial strike too soon. A poor first sentence is the end of a book. Wait another beat. Listen to the steady hum of the water. Steam swirls around, envelopes me. Normally would do this naked, but with the child in the room, seems somehow boorish.

  Pointer finger is drawn to the glass almost magnetically. Skin touches steam, dissolves it with a medium-thick stroke. Pull downwards at a 60° angle, curl up slightly at the end. Absolutely no idea what I’m drawing, but that’s not a cause for concern. Create on instinct and intuition. Logic has nothing to do with it. Fingernail against glass, thin brush. Two slight curves that hug each other. The painting reveals itself as I push on. Thick straight line, horizontal. Use prints to fill in underneath it, playing the mirror like a muted symphony. Ah yes, art comes on the offbeat. Takes a minute before I realize what I’m painting. It’s the scene from the cave. The caterpillars in the back, the cloth protruding from the middle, the completed bags on the side. I’m absolutely haunted by it. Study my painting for another moment, then crushed by disappointment. It doesn’t look right at all.

  Want to make adjustments, but then the drips set in. Oh God, the drips. Can be minimized by a slight thinning and upturn at the end of lines, but that always rings false to me. Would rather just live with the result. Used to bother me more, the way they sink from line to line, connecting everything into some jumbled mess. Unfortunately, they’re a part of the process. Now, I don’t mind as much. Come to think of them as my very own craquelure. Step back, try to envision the next step. Realize it’s hopeless. Wipe the board clean with one large sweep.

  While I wait for the rebirth, I check on the child. He’s pulled himself up to the edge of tub and is staring at me. Seems quite enthralled with my work. Never had an audience before, but I think I like it. A minute passes, and the mirror fogs up again, good as new. I start in on the 2nd layer.

  Know what I want now, and it comes to me easily. Focus on one caterpillar in the back. In my memory, they’re all moving, save for this one. Not quite dead, but well on its way. Work carefully on detail this time. Able to create some decent fuzz effects with nails. The eyes are hollow and black. Pause, let the steam return, filling the empty body. Creates a kind of stencil-like appearance. Really coming along beautifully. Enter a meditative, trance-like state. No idea how much time passes. Rudely awakened by a banging at the door. Handle tries to turn, but I’d wisely locked it.

  “Arboss?” says Galla.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “What on earth are you doing? Where’s Tate?”

  “Tate’s exactly where you left him,” I say. “And I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

  “Did you get the bag?”

  “Yes, yes, charmed my way into it. We’ll rehang at sundown tomorrow. Can’t interrupt inspiration.”

  “We need to talk about this now,” she says.

  “The boy’s fine, he’s a regular fish. Take another handful of pills and relax.”

  Silence, but I can tell she’s fuming. She pounds at the door one final time, but it doesn’t budge. Hear her footsteps trailing away. Look back at the mirror to check my work and feel a familiar disappointment. Steam has overwhelmed the image. Once more, I’m staring at a blank slate. Not a trace left behind.

  Galla’s in the dining room, three shades paler than usual. Looks a bit like she’s been poisoned. Wonder if she took my advice seriously.

  “Where. Is. He,” she says.

  “No idea what’s gotten into you. A few hours ago, you’d have been happy to throw him out with the rubbish.”

  “Where. Is. He.”

  “Don’t see why you’ve got to go on repeating yourself. He’s in the tub. Galla? Hello?”

  Realize she hasn’t quite regained her faculties yet. Her brain’s snagged on a thought, and can’t le
t go.

  “You need some rest, so I’ll just see myself out,” I say. Decide to head anywhere but here.

  “Your art…” she says.

  “What?” I say.

  “Your art…it’s idiotic.” The woman does know how to get my attention, I’ll give her that. “Can’t sell it. Can’t even see it. Here one moment, gone the next. Left with nothing at the end.”

  “Wonderfully symbolic, don’t you think?” I say. Feel like I’ve lived this conversation before. Arguments have a way of repeating themselves long after they’ve stopped serving any purpose.

  Galla senses my disinterest and backs off. I think about helping myself to another brandy, decide against it. Alcohol’s boring in low quantities, and I don’t have the energy to get properly drunk. Galla stands unsteadily and hobbles away.

  “Ready for the rehanging?” I joke.

  “Only if it’s you in the bag,” she says. She makes her way to the bathroom.

  “You’re taking him out of the tub? He won’t be happy,” I say.

  “I’m tired,” she says. “If he doesn’t like sleeping, he can find a new home.”

  “Where do you intend to…store him?

  “He’ll be in my bed,” she calls back. Bathroom door creaks open.

  “Unlucky fellow,” I say. “Suppose I’ll just be in the guest room?”

  “You always are,” she says.

  Hear the child cry out. Assume she’s just picked him up. Footsteps fade away, sounds get softer, a door closes. Not silence, but close enough. It’s dark outside. Decide to have the drink after all. I could stand to be a bit more bored.

  ***

  What on earth does the creature want? Wake up at some inhuman hour to the sounds of a dog being skinned alive. Takes a second before I realize it’s our precious Tate. Find a pair of earplugs lying on the desk, jam them in immediately. Fantastic little devices, earplugs. Mumble a silent prayer of thanks to Galla and roll back over. Then the light flicks on.

  “Hulmmm…” Galla’s voice comes from somewhere underwater. Eyes still attempting to adjust. Nothing more cruel than a light switched on before dawn. Reminds me of my apprenticeship. The filthy old hound would wake us and set us to work, only to lock himself in the cabin for the day. He’d go right back to sleep (or do god-knows-what.) May he suffer eternal torment.

  Torn from my hateful memories by my hateful present. Feel a hand shaking my leg. Can’t pretend any longer. Roll back over and face the light. Lovely scene before me. Galla’s holding the child out like a gift, apparently ready to drop it on my bed. Tate is red-faced from screaming; Galla’s exhausted from lack of sleep. I take out my earplugs, screeching intensifies.

  “Yes?” I say quite innocently.

  “He relieved himself in my bed,” says Galla.

  “Don’t see what I have to do with this,” I say.

  “Make it stop,” she says.

  “I’m really not much of a father…”

  “Help me,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say. “You should try looking this pathetic more often. I almost actually feel bad for you.”

  Back in the kitchen, wait for the sun to rise. Feels like this night will never end. Never shall I forget this night, the first night, which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust… Consider throwing him back in the tub, consider leaving him. On and on goes the screaming. Wonder if the fall caused some sort of brain damage.

  Eventually, decide he must be hungry. Find the nicest food in our kitchen (imitation roast) and heat it. Child starts bawling when he smells it. Nearly has an aneurysm when I put the plate in front of him. Try again, this time a piece of ham. Nothing. A slice of truffle cake. Repulsed. Run through the cabinets, increasingly despondent. Chance upon some instant mash. Worth a shot. Heat it up, take a bite. Just like grainy cardboard. Pass the brat a lukewarm bowl. He splashes around in it as if he’s back in the tub. Licks his fingers and gives us an adorable grin. Then he claps his hands together, spraying Galla with the remnants. Can’t help but laugh.

  Our little Tate devours the mash. Should’ve seen it coming. After he finishes the bowl, he passes out in Galla’s arms. Patches of yellowish potato serve as clothing for now. Apparently the boy goes swimming in anything he likes.

  “Should I…?” whispers Galla. Seems afraid to make a move, lest she wake the sleeping beast.

  “Might as well bring him back to bed,” I say. “Sheets are soiled, you said.”

  Notice Galla’s eyes are already closed. She’s fallen asleep with him, just sitting in the chair.

  Sun’s coming out, poking its way into the kitchen. Impossibly bright in the early morning. I retreat to the guestroom, half-delirious. Lay eyes on the white cloth from the clinic. Wonder if we’ll actually rehang this evening. There’s no evidence it’ll work, no evidence it’s safe. To be frank, it seems completely mad. On the desk, see the card the dandy gave me. Pick it up, glance at the boss’ name and number. Goes by Ms. Sabonne. Sounds French, find myself intrigued. In my delirious mind, half five seems like the appropriate time for a call. Dial the number, not really expecting an answer. She picks up after a single ring.

  “Oh…” I say. “Err…I’m a recent customer of yours in need of some assistance. Don’t suppose we could meet sometime? Soon, if possible?”

  She breathes in.

  “Yes,” she says. “I believe I’m free for lunch today, Mr. Covington.”

  12.

  Sound of my own name startles me. How’d she know? Ms. Sabonne hangs up before I can ask. Spend the next few seconds completely mystified. Then I realize there’s Call ID. Feel like an idiot. Behind every magic trick is a dull explanation.

  Galla’s in the kitchen, doing a poor job of waking up. Wait an hour, but alas. She doesn’t move, neither does the bundle in her arms. Kick her chair to help her along. Once she’s come to, I inform her of my plan.

  “Wait, who? And she’s coming when? Better yet, why?”

  “Ever heard of a rehanging? Didn’t think so. Have to make sure it’s done properly. Besides, this whole affair’s got me quite curious…”

  “Oh thank God,” she says.

  “What?” I say.

  “For a moment, I thought you were being selfless. Scared me half to death.”

  Next few hours go by in a concert of screams. Tate to Galla, Galla to me, me to Tate. Lovely scene, really. Try feeding him mash, but he seems to have developed an immunity to it. Finally stick the boy back in the tub, and he’s as happy as can be. I mention something to Galla about not dozing off this time. She looks less than pleased.

  9 A.M., a knock at the door. I answer it. Could be none other than Ms. Sabonne. Blonde, petite, rosy-cheeked. Seems impossible. The woman materialized out of my fantasies. I press my luck, fantasize about a hundred other things in rapid succession. Open my eyes, nothing’s changed. Should be thankful for even a single gift, I suppose.

  “May I come in, Mr. Covington?”

  “Mais oui,” I say.

  “What?” she says.

  “Right this way.”

  Guide her into the kitchen, inspect her frame from the back. Smart black blouse, slim white trousers. A decent outfit paired with impeccable posture can elevate any woman. More admirable than sexual, really. And yet, quite alluring in its own way. Only imperfection to speak of is her hands. They’re thoroughly wrinkled. A bit frightening, really.

  “Fancy tea?” I say.

  “Chai,” she says. “If you’ve got it.”

  An auspicious start. Come to realize I attract harsh women. Of course I have chai.

  “Galla, can you put the kettle on?” I call.

  Bring Sabonne into the kitchen. Galla’s in the chair, slothlike.

  “No wonder he was in such a hurry to call,” says Sabonne.

  “Not a clue what you’re on about,” I say. “Please, sit.”

  Galla interrupts. “I remember quite clearly your “curiosity” was aroused. Always been fun, handling your curiosity.”

>   “Yes, you very nearly beat it to death,” I say. “Now please, we have a guest.”

  Galla grunts and puts the kettle on. Notice her shirt is tucked into her undergarments in back. Don’t know how she manages to look less appealing every day.

  “You called at an interesting hour,” says Sabonne.

  “Interesting problem,” I say. “See…”

  She cuts me off. “No need to explain. Is the child still alive?”

  Try to get past the astonishment. Her eyes don’t give her away.

  “May I see him?” she asks.

  “Why…yes. He’s just getting cleaned up. It’ll only be a moment.” I pause. “We were just wondering…if anyone…”

  “Has had an early birth? Of course.”

  “But this early?”

  She swats away my question like an annoying fly. “Yes. They’re much less common, though. And they all died.”

  Galla inadvertently gasps, covers it up with a pathetic attempt at a sneeze.

  “Pardon,” she says. “But what was the cause?”

  An amused grin from Sabonne. “Parents blamed it on the birth. But it had more to do with neglect. Leaving the kids by the street, leaving the kids by the stairs, leaving the kids in the bath…”

  Ten shades of red burn Galla’s face. Doesn’t even bother keeping calm; instead, she sprints to the tub.

  “You seem quite knowledgeable,” I say.

  “It’s my job,” she says.

  I’m not talking about your work, I want to say. You seem quite knowledgeable about us. But why bother verbalizing it? Sabonne’s probably already read my thoughts.

  “The rehanging is safe,” she says.

  “Oh?” I say.

  Notice the kettle boiling, get up to tend to drinks.

  “If that’s the path you choose,” she says.