The Caterpillar King

by Noah Pearlstone

  I laugh without looking at her. “You make it sound as if there’s a decision to be made.” Turn back with my two cups of tea. “Is there?”

  She stares, doesn’t speak. Could interpret it a thousand different ways, but what’s the point? Galla interrupts the stalemate, brings the child back in. The boy looks refreshed from the bath, but she’s the worse for wear.

  “What do you think?” says Galla. Holds the child out like a butcher would hold a carcass. Sabonne rises.

  “If you need anything, call,” she says. She heads for the door.

  “But…” I say. Tongue-tied, I let Sabonne slip away. Hear the front door open and shut. Look down in dismay at two cups of hot water.

  Galla snorts. “Thought you were on a date, did you?”

  “I have her number,” I say.

  “You need anything,” mimics Galla. “Personally, I’d say that’s a bit forward. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Hmph,” I say.

  Pour the tea down the drain. Chai’s repulsive, anyway.

  ***

  Galla stays home from work. Perhaps trying to send us into economic ruin, who can say. At noon, she gets a call. Claims it’s important.

  “Can you look after Tate for 10 minutes?” she asks. She’s got the boy wrapped tight in her arms.

  “You’ve got to let go of him first,” I say. “You’re on the verge of crushing his lungs.”

  She loosens her arms, nearly drops him. Sends me into a fit of laughter.

  “Yes,” I say. “It might be better if you left him with me.”

  I’m rewarded with an angry scowl and a happy child. Take him in my hands and toss him up and down a bit.

  “Mum’s playing the slippery baby game. Oops, almost lost you!” He squeals with glee. Quite adorable, really.

  “I don’t trust you with him,” she says.

  “Why use six words when four will do?” I say.

  Galla frowns, mutters something incomprehensible. She’s already heading for the bathroom. “Quicker the call, the better!” I shout out.

  She doesn’t even bother to slam the door. That’s how I know she’s angry.

  Got a perfect activity planned for the boy. Going in for another round of steam art, but this time I’ll give him the full show. Already have some boiling water from the wasted tea. Throw another couple pots on the stove, should be perfect. In the meantime, go to the shower to get it warmed up. Everything’s coming together beautifully.

  Back in the kitchen, water’s started to boil. The little tyke’s balanced against the oven, his hand reaching up, aimed for the pot. Oh no you don’t. Whisk him away before he can cause any trouble. Toss him in the bathtub, let the water run over him. Next to the tub, one of the kettles is already full, flip it on. Can hear yelps of joy as I hurry away. Think it’s joy, anyway.

  Run the shuttle back and forth, carrying steaming pots. Have to use flowery holders to prevent burns, but art comes at a price. That price is self-respect. One pot here, one pot there, even spacing around the bathroom is key. Kettle’s already billowing smoke, all is joyous. Close the bathroom door, seal it in. Barely able to see through the fog. A mystical experience, really. Only interrupted by the sound of Tate’s bowel movements.

  Glance at the shower to see if it was all bark and no bite. Sadly, looks like a bit of each. Well, he is in the right place to freshen up. I let him wallow in it for a while to teach him a lesson. Even take the time to draw a couple lines. Not long before the smell of steaming faeces overpowers my inspiration. Grab the boy, spin him around, hold him in front of the shower head until visible traces are removed. It’s all rather runny and it slides down the drain easily. Find myself thinking, how fortunate. Also find myself thinking, six more hours.

  The boy looks a bit too comfortable, so I pull him from the tub. Wouldn’t want him to cause any permanent damage. Need a different activity for him. Figure something more hands-on might work.

  “You want to be like Daddy? Of course you do.” I place him in front of the mirror, and he finds his balance.

  “See, this is how you make…”

  Before I can show him, the boy’s smacked his hand against the mirror. Smears it downward, then pulls back. Image looks a bit like a castle turret. Color me impressed.

  “Nice start,” I say. “Now try a bit of subtlety. Soft touches, more empty space, etc.”

  Not sure why I insist on treating the boy like an actual person. Maybe I believe he understands something. Maybe I pity him.

  Tate keeps at it, a pinky sliding this way, a thumb soaring above. Two finger technique quite effective, I must say. Step back and watch him work, my chest swelling with pride. Look at the smile on his face- I’m sure mine’s twice as big. The image develops, lines branching out in every direction. At first, seems to merely be an abstraction, but sure enough, form soon reveals itself. The long handprint was no turret, it was a trunk! The tree is quite recognizable; it’s the very same one in my backyard. The boy saves the empty bag for last. Underneath it, there’s a blurred figure. Realize that he’s drawn the first scene of his life. From an outside perspective. Genius.

  He looks to me, his big round eyes begging for approval. I want to hug him; I want to cry. How do I feel? How’d La Joconde feel when she saw Leo’s masterpiece? It’s stunning. The boy’s already far eclipsed my ability, and he’s only had one go at it. Consider taking the whole mirror down and framing it. Of course, that’s an impossibility. But there are other avenues to explore. Always had a backup plan in case I ever created anything of real value. Very long ago, I bought a box of frosted glass panes, each square about the size of a small window. Smear some Vaseline on your hands, start painting, and the frosting comes right off. Effect isn’t perfect, but it’s close enough. Never wanted to bring my art to the masses unless I had something that could floor them. Now, I do.

  Assuming this isn’t beginner’s luck (it’s not), Tate could lead us to glory and riches. Already begin planning an extravagant future. I could have him paint a dozen…two dozen…the possibilities are endless. Naturally, I’d take a small amount of credit for the work- I did introduce him to the medium, after all. But he’d reap the benefits eventually. Too bad my golden ticket’s scheduled to be bagged this very evening.

  Look at the painting once more, and it’s settled. Absolutely cannot go through with the rehanging. There’s no guarantee he’ll be the same once he’s reborn. Can’t take the risk of losing such talent. The boy’s just too valuable. But then, how to break the news to Galla? Not a clue. Also, small problem with regard to next twelve years of childcare. Details always get in the way of one’s dreams. And now someone’s banging on the bathroom door.

  “Call’s over!” says Galla.

  “Minute, please,” I say.

  “You can’t lock the boy in there whenever you feel the need,” she says.

  I’m still going over the painting, need to block out her brassy voice. Get the baby out of the tub, open the door, complete the handoff. Galla nearly chokes on a burst of steam.

  “Strange idea of a good time,” she says.

  “It’s art,” I say, shutting the door. “It’s supposed to be miserable.”

  Back to the drawing board, as it were. Study it like I’d study one of the masters. What gives some work such life? How can the same lines- rearranged- evoke opposite feelings? Makes it seem like there must be a key, a one word answer. But of course there isn’t. The greatness of a work is in its totality, in the exact correctness of every single piece.

  Much to think about, but the steam’s overtaking the image. Turn off the shower, the kettles, etc, but it’s far too late. The scene is gone. Hope the boy has mother’s memory. Mine’s positively worthless.

  Finish up in the bathroom with thoughts of Ms. Sabonne. Put my own exaggerated touches on the vision. Sabonne enters the room, her clothes dissolve in steam. We lie on an oversized, fogged-up mirror, our bodies imprinting themselves in art. And…down the pot she goes. Takes all of three minutes.
>
  Go on the hunt for my little protégé. Need a strategy to convince Galla to keep him. Can I fake love? Why not? Women have been at it for centuries. Head to the bedroom and am greeted by one of the more bizarre scenes I’ve ever witnessed. Galla and Tate sit next to each other on the floor, a sea of bright green earplugs all around them. Galla’s silent and crying. Tate looks as if Brutus is behind him. Face shrieking in pain, eyes bulging out of his skull, lips blue. But completely silent.

  “May I interrupt?” I say.

  Galla looks up as if she doesn’t recognize me.

  “Care to explain what’s happening?” I say.

  She points to the earplugs beside her.

  “Now you’re not talking?” I say. “Always seem to get what I want, but at the absolute wrong time.”

  “He….” Galla’s voice trembles. “He swallowed…”

  Scene finally becomes clear to me. Blue lips, silent scream. The boy’s choking. Obvious, really.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” I say. “Save him!”

  But she’s paralyzed. Looks like this’ll fall on me. What to do? Something, anything. All I know: movement is necessary.

  “Pick him up!” I scream. “Turn him upside down!” Never been one to keep cool under pressure, I’ll admit it. Galla follows my orders like a good soldier. Grabs him by the ankles and dangles him in the air.

  “Now shake him,” I say. “Shake him harder!”

  She bounces him around for all he’s worth. Likely to put him at risk for whiplash. Still, nothing comes out of his throat.

  “Better yet,” I say. “Hold him still.” Galla stops the wash cycle. “I’ll hit him,” I say. “That’ll do the trick.”

  Galla moans something unintelligible. Don’t care. I’m focused. Target is right at the belly button. I’ll run through, blast him with a punch, and the cursed little cork should fly right out of him. Might have a nasty stomachache afterwards. Generally preferable to death, though.

  Steel myself, bounce on my heels a time or two, then I charge. Galla holds the boy like a red flag; I’m the bull. Fist cocked back, ready for impact. “Aaaahhh!” I scream. A meter between us, then half that. Galla’s grip loosens. I swing through and hit air. The force sends me tumbling into the wall. Behind me, hear the second sickening thud in as many days.

  “You dropped him…” I manage. Untangle myself, turn around, and look at Tate. He’s flat on his back, a slimy green earplug resting on his chest. Could it be the one? Quick answer to my question: the most deafening scream I’ve ever heard. Half think about going for a pair of earplugs myself. Would be slightly insensitive, though.

  “Oh, I’m sorry love, I’m sorry.” Galla’s finally free from her stupor. She picks up the child and cradles him. Makes some cooing noises to boot. Haven’t seen her act this gentle since…simply haven’t seen it at all.

  “Well,” I say. “Well.”

  Galla looks me straight on. “Arboss,” she says. “We’re not rehanging him. I won’t allow it…I won’t have him taken from me.”

  Can’t believe her reaction. Expected her to rush out to the tree and bag the boy this instant. Instead…she wants to keep him? So they’ve bonded over trauma. Suppose it can happen. Start thinking practically, and I’m thrilled. Galla and I’ve come to the same conclusion- for disparate reasons, of course- but still. It means I get my way.

  Love it when that happens.

  April 10, 2007

  Underground

  13.

  Ned was in my basement so that’s where I went. It smelled like home. I crossed through the workshop and made my way to the cave door. Without Ned, I had no leads. I almost regretted putting him in there. Almost.

  I opened the wooden door. It was unlocked again. I didn’t know what was happening, but I wasn’t happy. Inside, I could see a faint glow. The cocoon pulsed with light. I flipped open my pocketknife and made my way into the cave.

  The cave didn’t look any different from the time I left it. Ned in the middle, the walls all around. The cocoon had developed. It seemed more solid on the outside. That wasn’t a good sign. He needed to be pulled out now.

  I reached back for my shovel. My hand hit the wall where I kept it. It wasn’t there. I turned around, confused. A pulse of light lit up the cave. To my right, I saw a huge, dark presence. I fumbled with the knife in my hands. Never had a chance. Something heavy and metallic crushed my skull. It felt a lot like a shovel.

  ***

  I couldn’t stand. My eyes got clear, and I realized I was still in my basement. But now I was tied up. My ropes, my chair. This was too much. This was perfect. There was no point in struggling. There never is. Out of the shadows, a tall, dark figure appeared. Slowly, the features made themselves known. Caramel skin, swaying hips, and the hair of Cleopatra. Amanti Jordan.

  “So Castor,” she said. “Looks like I can track people down, too.”

  I licked the dried blood from my mouth. “You did a little more than tracking,” I said.

  She ignored that and came closer. “You want to know how I figured it out? Here’s what I was thinking: I already got interviewed once. Now here comes this old dude into a girls’ locker room, no uniform, no ID, no notebook. That doesn’t sound like a cop to me. But he knows about the disappearances, and he’s real interested in them. The thing is, he knows too much. If you’re not a cop, odds are you’re the one making the disappearing happen.”

  “You got the story half-right,” I said.

  “Man, stop lying,” she said. “Now I need you to tell me. Where are Ned and Madeline? Where’d you take them?”

  “I didn’t take them anywhere,” I said.

  “Yeah? That’s not the two of them in your dungeon? Trapped in a cement block or something?”

  I smiled. “Just one,” I said.

  “You one of those pedophiles? You like messing around with middle school girls?”

  “Less and less,” I said.

  “No surprise there,” she said. “Now that your life is in my hands, you’re trying to act like a decent guy. But I already saw the real you. There’s nowhere to hide.”

  Amanti still had the shovel in her hands. But she wasn’t going to hurt me any worse. Too much talking, too little action. Maybe she’d go to the police, but I suspected not. She’d gotten involved, and she’d gone too far. Assault, battery, and so on. That might not’ve mattered if she had any proof. But she didn’t. She had suspicions, but as far as she knew, the missing kids weren’t here. She didn’t want to bust me. She wanted my information. That was my only chip to play with. I had to make sure it cost her.

  “You’re a smart girl,” I said. “And that’s why you’re going to untie me.”

  She looked disgusted by my compliment.

  “What?” she said. “So we can trade places?”

  “Look, you don’t know the whole story,” I said. “Ned’s easy. We can get Ned in two minutes. But Madeline’s a problem. I don’t know where she went. Ned can help. But we need to move. Now.”

  “You’re desperate,” she said. “Desperate people lie.”

  “Then keep me tied up. I don’t care. Just get me into the cave and I’ll tell you what to do.”

  She gave me a glare that burned with resentment.

  “I’m supposed to lift you?”

  “You did it once, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “That was plenty.”

  But she needed my help just as much as I needed hers. The Little Duck meant something to her. Desperation went both ways. She dragged my chair back to the cave. The feet screeched against the floor. She opened the door and pulled me inside. The chair jumped the gap. It felt like a car flying over a speed bump. The landing wasn’t soft. I mentioned it.

  “Maybe I knock you a few more times with this,” she said. She held up the shovel. “Maybe that’ll shut you up.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  She put me down in the corner. It gave me a nice view of the cave. The cocoon glowed with e
very pulse, but the light had turned weak. I could barely see Amanti. But I could hear her just fine.

  “Talk,” she said.

  “Be more specific,” I said.

  “Talk or I break your face,” she said.

  I grinned. “There’s a lot to like about you,” I said.

  I didn’t get much response. But that was nothing new.

  “Alright,” I said. I explained the whole story from beginning to end- the way I watched the Little Duck, Ned’s appearance, how I trapped him. I told her we could find the Little Duck. I told her we needed Ned’s help, but he might be a little damaged. It was mostly true. You make a story all true and nobody will believe it.

  “You hurt him,” said Amanti, her voice flat and hard.

  “He’ll wake up fine,” I said. “But he won’t remember much. That’s what happens. People go in the cocoon, they forget.”

  “You’ve done this before,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “And you’re planning on doing it to me,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

  “You made your sick-ass rape chamber in here. You drugged Ned. There are probably chemicals soaking into his brain right now.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Once you’re finished being all perverted, you dump the kid off. They don’t remember anything. Cops can’t help them.” She paused. “If you get your way, the cops won’t be able to help me.”

  “Do I look like I’m getting my way?’ I said. I lifted my arms up as far as they could go. It wasn’t very far.

  “That’s how it should be. Now tell me how to get Ned out of here.”

  “You’ve got a shovel. You’ve got arms. Use them.”

  “You saying I’m supposed to smash this thing open?” she said.

  “Imagine it’s the back of my head,” I said.

  That got a smile out of her.

  She took up the shovel and tapped it against the side of the cocoon, one two. It echoed through the cave like a knock at the door. But it didn’t do any damage. While she worked, I fished my knife out of my pocket. She had forgotten to frisk me. Or maybe she just didn’t want to. I don’t blame her. I sawed at my ropes. They were thick ropes but they could be cut.