The Caterpillar King

by Noah Pearlstone

  After I calmed down, I heard the dragon laughing at me.

  “Oh my god,” he said. “Your face…I wish you could’ve seen your face.”

  He couldn’t stop laughing. But I didn’t think it was so funny.

  “How does a bee get in here, anyway?” I said.

  The dragon nodded towards the skylight.

  “It’s cracked,” he said. “All kinds of things can get in.”

  “That’s just great,” I said.

  No sooner had I spoken, than the bee buzzed right by me a second time. Again, I shrieked and swung at the air all around me. It probably wasn’t the smartest move. But the dragon was loving it.

  “This is the best,” he said. “This is the greatest day of my life.”

  He roared with laughter. His laugh was so powerful that it pulled him back up on his hind legs, and then he crashed back down to the ground. The next time he reared back, I noticed an empty space underneath him, and what looked like a staircase leading underground. Maybe I couldn’t get around him, but I could get underneath him, if I timed it just right.

  The bee had already flown away, but I kept shouting and running. Only now, I ran right at the dragon. I waved my hands in front of my face.

  “Get off! Get off! It’s following me!” I screamed.

  The dragon laughed and kicked up again. He came back down a second later. I was only a few feet away.

  “I THINK IT WENT UP MY NOSE!” I said.

  That really did it. The dragon reared back and laughed so hard that fire shot out of his mouth. I dove headfirst down the stairway in front of me. My body skidded down a few steps, and the gold coins bounded down the stone. A moment later, the dragon crashed back down on top of the hidden staircase, and everything went dark.

  Once my eyes adjusted, I saw the gold coins just a few steps away. I picked them up and carried them with me, lighting my way. At the bottom of the staircase, there was a wooden door with a wooden handle. I turned the knob, and it opened, no trouble at all.

  Inside, I saw the exact same room from my one and only memory. This time, it was in color. All around the room, there were tables with cards and dice and old-looking coins on them. Off to the side, there were a couple roulette wheels. From the looks of it, somebody had quite the gambling problem.

  In the center, there was the huge, flowing blanket. The blanket happened to be white, though. Behind the blanket, a woman sat in a chair. She had the same wrinkled hands and the same necklace, and I could finally see her face, which was actually very beautiful…

  “Mom?” I said.

  “Come here,” she said. Her voice sounded nice and soft, and it pulled me right in. For a moment, I even thought about giving her a hug.

  “You’re tired,” she said. “Lie down.” She pointed to the huge blanket. After a few weeks of sleeping on stone floors and dirt, I wasn’t about to argue. I lay down right in the middle of the blanket. It was the softest feeling in the world. By the time my head touched the comforter, I was nearly asleep.

  “Good,” she said. “Now here you go.” She wrapped the blanket around me, so it covered my whole body, just like a cocoon. Then, with the last fold, she covered my face. It was dark, but it felt great. I was happy to be wrapped tight and warm. I lost track of all my worries, and I slept for a very long time.

  When I woke up, it was still dark. I moved my arms and legs, and I figured out pretty quickly that I wasn’t in the blanket anymore. Instead, I was on a cold dirt ground. I felt my way around, and found a wall. I tried to find for an exit, but the curved wall was solid on every side. Then I looked up, and saw a circular light. The light grew brighter, and I could make out my surroundings.

  Once again, I was at the bottom of a very deep ditch. But this time, I was completely alone.

  July 19, 2084

  Preparing to Leave

  17.

  The boy swells like a tumor. Most apparent victim is Galla. She plays the role of host rather well- for every ounce Tate gains, she loses one. Would call it a parasitic relationship, if not for the fact that it’s mutually beneficial. Galla looks better than she has in years. Same can’t be said for me, sadly. Don’t remember the last time I felt rested. A handful of weeks have blurred by in a disturbing haze. If time were a structure, it has now collapsed. The architecture was shoddy to begin with.

  Only decent news: I’ve got a meeting with a client today. Just happens to be the very lovely Ms. Sabonne. Phoned her the minute Tate came up with a decent product on frosted glass. She told me she was “intrigued.” What a word. Full of mystery, sensuality. Asked me to meet her at some horrid-sounding café. Not hard to read between the lines. Businessmen meet for lunch, lovers meet for coffee. Don’t mind if I do.

  Now, pass Galla and Tate in the den. They’re in the midst of some idiotic hand-slapping game. Galla hasn’t been to work since the birth. Claimed she was severely ill, and got on leave. They believed her, because who wouldn’t believe their own daughter?

  “How’s the illness?” I ask her.

  She pauses. “He’s doing quite well,” she says. “Best of luck today. She’ll love it, I’m sure.”

  Stand there for a moment, stunned. Was that actual kindness on Galla’s part? Seemed oddly like it. World gets more confusing every day. I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes. No time for distractions.

  Been keeping the glass in the freezer to finish it off. Take it out, then set it inside a cardboard box. Into the car it goes, with utmost care. Head out for the café. First time leaving the house in days. Feel like an animal escaping his cage. Windows down, sun shining, the afternoon destined for perfection. Till I run into a jammed road, that is. Row of cars roughly a hundred deep. Overpowering smell of petrol, windows back up. Minutes flick by a bit faster than usual, realize I might run late. Dare I call Sabonne? Consider it, but then the cars come unglued. There’s hope yet.

  Road clears up after a messy intersection, floor it. Arrive at the café a solid two minutes early. Leave the art in the car- don’t want to show my hand too soon. Scan the crowd, but no sign of a lovely blonde. Sit down at an outdoor table, order a pair of Chai teas. All that’s left is to wait for the angel.

  Fifteen minutes pass. Tea comes but she doesn’t. A gaggle of hideous women stroll by; I briefly consider homosexuality. Fifteen minutes turn to thirty. The tea goes cold. Give Sabonne a ring, she doesn’t answer. The message is fairly clear. Should never have gotten my hopes up. Leave the money and the two teas. Starting to wonder if this’ll become a pattern.

  Take the long way home. Feeling slightly downcast, to be honest. I’d pinned my future on Sabonne, it all seemed so possible…and then, inevitably, disappointment. Truth was, she’d been showing me professional courtesy, nothing more. Have to wonder if the artwork’s even any good. Pull over to the side of the road, just to check. Open the trunk, unbox the tableau. Another self-portrait. In this one, Tate’s depicted the earplug scene with stunning accuracy. The simplicity of it astounds me. Only seven lines or so, but each is suggestive of much more. Yes, yes it is good. Can’t believe I ever doubted the boy. But now, no idea where to find a wealthy matron. No idea where to start.

  Come back home defeated. Walk inside and am greeted by what can only be a dream. Galla and Tate sit at the dining room table. In the center, a dazzling array of foods. Galla’s wearing makeup and a fine chiffon blouse. Tate’s few hairs are combed, and he’s even got on some kind of robe. What madness is this? A trick? A trap? A last meal before my execution?

  “Welcome home,” says Galla. “Join us.”

  Follow her instructions mechanically. Feel like I’ve entered some alternate universe where life is…decent. Complete nonsense.

  “Are you hungry, dear?” she asks.

  “It’s half three,” I say. “No one eats at half three.”

  “Don’t worry about everyone else,” she says. “Are you hungry?”

  “Suppose so,” I say.

  “Good.” She passes me a plate with a mountain of glazed
ham. “Now eat.”

  She wants something from me. She absolutely, without a doubt, wants something from me. That or she’s fattening me up for slaughter. Decide to push these questions to the back of my mind. The ham’s just too good.

  “Delicious. Where’d you order in from?” I say.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I cooked.”

  Stare her down, wait for her to break character. She just gives me a playful grin and piles haricots verts onto her plate.

  “You’re a fan of vegetables now, are you?”

  “More for Tate than for me,” she says. “Important to keep him healthy.”

  Entire meal continues in this bizarre fashion. Keep waiting for her to end the charade, lift the tablecloth, and dump a week’s worth of food in my lap. But she never does. No sarcasm, no bitterness, just pleasantries and smiles. Even Tate’s in on the act. Boy hasn’t expelled any fluids since we’ve sat down. It all feels so very wrong.

  “By the way,” says Galla, “How’d your meeting go?”

  Nearly choke on my pudding.

  “Meeting?” I parrot dumbly.

  “Oh, don’t be so humble,” she says. “Tell me about…how should I put it? Your business venture.”

  Galla conveying genuine interest. Strange. Next moment, she reaches over and places a hand on top of mine, a gesture that’s utterly foreign. Is this an attempt at affection?

  “Meeting had its moments,” I say. Crack a thin smile. “Managed to sell the piece. And got another two commissioned.”

  Galla squeezes my hand and gasps.

  “I knew she’d love it,” she says.

  Tate gets caught in the excitement, starts applauding the news, too. Wonder if he can see through the veneer. No Galla, it’s not my work, and no Galla, it didn’t sell. Lies stacked on lies, and for what? Galla’s hand is warm and her smile’s bright. From the looks of it, I’ve told her exactly what she wanted to hear. Perhaps that’s its own end.

  ***

  Next day, Galla pesters me about my art and my meetings till I finally divulge details. Next imaginary project should be done in two days. Next imaginary meeting’ll take place that night. Sabonne again? she asks. Of course Sabonne again, I say. In the art world, once you find a matron, you stick with ‘em. It’d be disrespectful to jump ship the moment one’s tasted a little success. Galla eats it up.

  Spend the next couple days sitting in the bathroom pretending to work. Even get the steam going for the full effect. Sometimes bring Tate in with me, sometimes not. Figure he can use the big mirror as a kind of sketchbook, before he completes his final work on the smaller panes. But even Tate seems to be running out of subject matter. A lot of useless squiggles and not much more. Consider dropping him on the floor again, just to give him something else to paint.

  Day of meeting comes, along with an endless torrent of questions from Galla. Meaning an endless torrent of lies from me. Will you be going to the same café? No, she’s on the other side of town, we’ll meet at her office. How long will it be? Don’t expect me back any time soon. And remind me, when’s all this planned for? First thing in the evening….oh look, just got a message. Sabonne wants to meet as soon as possible. Hate to leave darling, but duty calls. And with that, I’m out the door.

  Hours to kill and nowhere to go. Should be a thrilling prospect, but circumstances make it mildly depressing. Can’t help but think I should be selling my art right now, I should be charming a lovely minx…instead, I’ve made twelve left turns in a row. In desperate need of a destination. Realize I’m only a stone’s throw from Whiteline Park. Remember it as a place where women in revealing outfits take small dogs for walks. Head that way posthaste.

  Arrive, doesn’t take long to see subtle changes. Now, men in revealing outfits take small dogs for walks. Sit down on an ornate bench and wait to be propositioned. Dancer and Prancer and Comet all pass, all flamboyant, all without a word. Quite deflating for one’s confidence. Not that I would’ve agreed to it. But it’s still nice to be acknowledged.

  Get up and follow the white line. Walk till my feet hurt and walk some more. Park looks so much nicer than before. Tasteful landscaping, classically-inspired sculptures, a gazebo here, a cottage there. Chance upon the old cave. Nearly forgot about this place. Legend says it’s haunted, and that one can hear strange noises coming from inside. Think there’s a much simpler explanation than ghosts. Nevertheless, decide it’s best to avoid entry.

  Take an awkward step on the side of the path, and my foot goes through the ground without any resistance. Nearly break my ankle. Yelp in pain, have five concerned men tending to me in no time. So that’s what it takes. Shoo them all away, assure them I’m fine, etc. They leave, I manage to extricate myself. Peer down at the false floor and feel a surge of anger. Some days, the world’s against you.

  By the time I hobble to the car, the sun’s setting. Another day well wasted. Can hardly put pressure on my right foot, so I drive with my left. Almost crash a few dozen times, but make it home unscathed. Walking with such a limp, it wouldn’t surprise me if Galla thought I was pissed. Find her waiting on the couch.

  “Tate’s asleep,” she says.

  “Is he now?” I say. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Maybe he thought Mum and Dad should have some fun.”

  Glance again. Galla’s wearing a pink negligee that can only be described as obscene. Have to admit, I find it strangely attractive.

  “A few less clothes than usual, I see.”

  “All I’ve got left. Tate chundered on everything else.”

  “How romantic.”

  Follow her into the bedroom. A bit stunned, to be honest. Thought we were done for good, and with reason- this would mark the first time in two years. Tate’s sleeping in his box next to the bed. Careful not to step on him. Galla tears off her negligee and then strips me down. Obviously in no mood to wait. And soon enough, we’re in the throes of passion once more. Just like riding a bicycle- decent exercise and a bit too repetitive for my liking. No, no, in all seriousness…it’s nice. Don’t mean to turn sappy, but it half-reminds me why we paired in the first place.

  Afterwards, she lies in my arms, fading towards ever-elusive sleep.

  “Good, wasn’t it?” she mumbles.

  “Don’t get a big head,” I say.

  “Wish I could,” she says. “But I’m stuck with yours.”

  “Aren’t you a doll?” I say. Stroke her hair.

  “Better than that filthy blonde,” she mutters. Then she sinks into her dreams.

  Sad to say, I’m not so fortunate. Lying here, listening to her snores, I’m completely unable to rest. Mind spins in circles, backtracks over our conversation. What was that last biting comment all about? Better than that filthy blonde. Clearly Sabonne is troubling her. Does she think I’ve started an affair with the woman? If so, why on earth is she suddenly treating me so much more generously? Would’ve expected threats, ultimatums, etc., but not this. Recently, Galla’s just been so….different. I come home from one Sabonne meeting to a lovely meal, the next Sabonne meeting’s followed by dessert. No doubt about it, Sabonne’s triggered something...some primal instinct. Dawns on me in a moment of thrilling clarity. Not only does Galla believe I’m having an affair, she’s jealous of it. My art is selling, other women want me, and now Galla does, too. Not surprising- she’s never had an original thought in her life. All my success is false. But even false success can be a catalyst for reality.

  Could use a few more decent meals. Looks like Sabonne’ll be a part of my life for the foreseeable future- whether she knows it or not.

  18.

  Tate’s gone missing yet again. Must be the fourth time this week.

  “Taaaate,” drones Galla. “TAAAAATE.”

  To him, it’s a twisted game. The moment Galla relaxes her watch, he wanders off to hide. Behind the counter, under the bed- the more obscure, the better. Can just see the evil smirk on his face. When Galla or I find him (usually me, to be frank) he laughs and cla
ps like a baboon. The boy thinks he’s clever, but he’s not. Just follow the trail of urine, and one can locate him in no time.

  “Care to help?” asks Galla. She’s towering above me. I’ve found the absolute perfect spot on the sofa, so no, I do not in fact care to help.

  “He’s crawled in the cabinet,” I say.

  Galla gives me a look.

  “Oh, all right.”

  Get up to search, but mind lingers on Galla. Past week has thrown us into a bit of an uncertain state. After initial burst of passion, we’ve only gone back to bed once more. Galla’s exhausted, can’t blame her. But are we friends or lovers? Or neither? Intimate relationships are too fragile to remain undefined. My view: we’re best off as lovers. Not that I’m lusting after her again. I’m merely…intrigued. Tate’s drained her of her energy, true. But she’s also taken on an inexplicable vibrancy since he’s been around. When he’s around, that is.

  “Taaaate,” she says. Surprise of all surprises, there’s no answer.

  “Why don’t you take this half of the house, and I’ll take the other?” I say. She agrees, we split up. Ten minutes later, return to the midpoint. House fully searched, but no Tate.

  “He’s really done it this time,” says Galla.

  “Not bad,” I say. Feel a smidge of pride for the little devil.

  Hear something from the front of the house. Sounds like a knock at the door. Exchange horrified looks with Galla. Open the door, half-expecting the cops to be there, ready to cuff us. But no, it’s Tate, a wide grin on his face. Both of us scan the surroundings to see if anyone’s watching. Doesn’t look like it.

  “Christ,” I say.

  “Kites,” says Tate. He claps his hands wildly.

  Galla nearly faints at the sounds of his voice. Scoop him up, get him inside quick. Lock all the doors.