Edgar and Lucy

by Victor Lodato

  Only once had Edgar seen another person as pale as he was—a girl. But she was blind, so she hadn’t seen him back. It had made Edgar sad. “You’re very lucky to have such good vision,” a doctor once told him. “People born like you often have terrible eyes.”

  The Jersey Devil, for all its grotesquery, had beautiful eyes. In one of the drawings, the artist had given the creature an exotic feline squint, with dotted lines emanating from the pupils like mystical rays. “What are those?” Edgar had asked, and Conrad had said, “Bad intentions”—explaining how, over the last three hundred years, the Devil had killed not only animals, but humans as well. His last victim had been a child—just a little over a year ago.

  Edgar now had a jacket and a baseball hat. On each, stitched in red thread, was the official insignia of two horns—and, between the horns, stitched in black: Devil Hunters Club. Both the jacket and the hat were too big, but Edgar liked them; he’d never been in a club before. This one had been founded in 1735. The members, mostly men, largely hunted deer—but they were always on the lookout for the Devil. In fact, members had to take an oath. Traditionally, it was signed in blood, but Conrad had let Edgar use a pen.

  I have not entered into any secret pacts with the Devil. I swear him to be my enemy and to oppose him in both thought and action.

  As he wrote down the words and then signed his name, Edgar had the feeling he’d taken a similar oath before. Living with Florence, there’d been an unspoken accord Edgar had agreed to; it was almost as if there’d been a sign hung on the door of 21 Cressida Drive—“Keep Out!”—directed against all things evil. And though the old woman’s devil was vaguer than the creature of the pines, it was no less real. At times Edgar sensed that his grandmother had actually seen the beast, had possibly done battle with it. Apparently, though, she’d never been able to kill it. The threat remained.

  Florence’s weapons had been candles, crucifixes, holy water—padlocks and rosary beads. She hadn’t had a gun. But Edgar had no trouble imagining her using one. Often, when his grandmother came to him in the pines, she made a gesture like the one Jesus made when he pointed to his bleeding heart—forefinger and thumb in the shape of a pistol.

  In the kitchen, Edgar kept his head down. Conrad had just slammed his fist against the table. Eventually the boy picked up the grilled cheese sandwich and took a bite. The man was saying something about going outside to practice some more after lunch. “Time to prove yourself, little man.” His voice was unpleasant, almost mean. Edgar could hardly swallow. The cheese tasted sour in his mouth.

  He wished his grandmother were here to tell him what to do. When he took another bite of the sandwich, his stomach lurched. He stood, ran into the yard, and vomited.

  * * *

  Jack was outside now, too—barking into the trees.

  “She’s not there,” said Edgar.

  The dog licked his hand. When Conrad stepped outside, Edgar immediately picked up the gun.

  A few seconds passed before the man said anything. “You think you’re ready for that?”

  Edgar was holding the larger shotgun. It suddenly felt heavier, as if Conrad’s question had put a hex on it.

  “I thought you wanted me to,” the boy said in a barely audible whisper.

  “I do,” said Conrad, just as quietly.

  After this, everything moved in slow motion, but there were gaps in time, which gave the impression of quickness. Edgar was shaking. He looked into the trees to see if his grandmother had returned. Jack stood by him.

  “Do you want to try it?” Conrad had moved toward the stump and had picked up one of the rotting crabapples.

  “Try what?”

  “The apple game.”

  “No,” replied Edgar—confusing himself by raising the gun into position.

  “Listen,” said Conrad. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, if you do it properly.”

  Edgar had stopped listening, though—distracted momentarily by the sense of something moving above his head.

  “Do you want the ear plugs?” said Conrad. “Put the gun down for a second and—”

  “You gave it to me,” protested Edgar. He had a funny feeling that if he put down the Rossi, the man would rush at him.

  “I did give it to you,” said Conrad. “I just want you to wear the plugs—or you’ll be crying about your ears again.” Conrad imitated the sound of a whining baby.

  The boy could feel the color flood into his face. He stared at the apple in the man’s hand—like Jesus’ heart, only rotten.

  Something was definitely flying overhead, passing back and forth. The breathless sound of flapping wings.

  “You know what I think, Edgar?”

  The boy’s nose twitched from the smell—a sharp tang of black bananas and gasoline. Hoppe’s No. 9. The oil used to clean the gun.

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, little man.”

  It was an awful smell. The boy’s nostrils were burning. The more he tried to understand what was happening, the more his vision closed to a single point of reference: the red crabapple shining against Conrad’s yellow shirt.

  “I think you’re a coward, Edgar.”

  “I’m just cold,” the boy said, trying to explain why he was shaking. He looked directly into the man’s eyes—so blue they seemed inhuman. Edgar could see the dotted lines coming toward him. His arms trembled violently now, and with each breath he drew in more of the rancid smell.

  None of it made sense. Conrad had been so kind, taking such good care of him when he was sick and frightened. Giving him a place to stay when no one else had wanted him.

  But maybe everyone lied to you, betrayed you. His mother had done it, too.

  “Shoot, for Christ’s sake,” said Conrad. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Do you know me?” shouted Edgar.

  The man said nothing. His burning eyes didn’t seem to understand the question. Edgar shouted it again. “Do you know me?”

  Conrad’s lips parted. “No,” he said, strangely smiling. “I don’t.”

  The sound that came from Edgar’s mouth was terrible. The world seemed to be turning. The sun slid from a cloud like a concealed blade.

  Everything happened at the same time now. The boy’s scream indistinguishable from the dog’s barking; the blade of the sun shattering into blinding pins; the gun suddenly light as a feather.

  No one’s going to die, his grandmother had once told him.

  But it wasn’t true.

  Everyone died.

  When Conrad yelled the other boy’s name, the wings descended, blocking out the sun—the talons, even in mid-air, reaching for the apple.

  Edgar closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  46

  Alpha Orionis

  A ringing in his ears. A silver thread of sound, almost a keening. It seems to be coming from inside his head—but Frank knows better. He knows that the sound is coming from far above him, from the stars. A time-traveling sound. High-pitched, painful.

  eeeeeeeeeeeeeee

  Like an alarm. Meaning death; meaning danger.

  He’s outside, in the dark. Outside is safer than houses. The sound falls from the sky, but is less terrible tonight because of the baby in his arms. His son—though Frank doesn’t like to use this word. It’s dangerous—like wife or love, like mother, father, family. Too general, too absorbent—and, at the same time, too reflective.

  Better not to think; just hold the baby. He’s so white—more so under the stars. “Edgar,” Frank says. “Look.” Pointing toward the sky.

  He feels almost calm tonight. No one’s yet discovered his nighttime thefts—snatching Edgar from his crib. Frank likes the yard at this hour; it’s even better than the closet. As dark—but with all these pricks of light. So many tonight. Even the red one is there, screaming the loudest.

  The baby smiles. So brave.

  Frank looks from the white face to the red star. Alpha Orionis. He tells Edgar its proper name, as well as its common one:
Betelgeuse. Some nights, he uses other names (this isn’t the first time he’s taken the baby outside for lessons). Lucy, he sometimes calls the red star, so that the baby will always be able to find her.

  Frank has loved these stars a long time. He’s studied them, observed them—recently more than ever. Lately he can’t seem to sleep. His mother’s dreams, his father’s—even Lucy’s—keep him awake. He can see the pictures falling through their minds, filling the house with quicksand. Even when they’re sleeping, they’re scheming. They’re keeping secrets.

  Well, he has secrets, too.

  He tells Edgar not only the names of each star, but also the constellations—though Frank’s arrangements defy tradition. He doesn’t see bears and bulls and Egyptian queens. He sees a motorcycle and a man with horns. In the western sky: a raven, a pistol (he’s bought one recently from his cousin Vincenzo). To the south: a neat parallelogram of stars he calls the Machine. Even Alpha Orionis—a.k.a. Betelgeuse, a.k.a. Lucy—is unstitched from its Greek tapestry. It no longer signifies the shoulder of Orion, the hunter, but is part of a more self-evident constellation known as the Bridge.

  Everything is personal when it comes to the stars. That’s what the astronomers don’t understand. There’s no single story, no universal law. How one connects the dots—whether in the heavens or on Earth—is a choice. You write your own story. This is what he wants to tell the child. Whatever you think, whatever you choose to think—that’s what’s real.

  Frank’s getting excited. The stars move, illustrating his enthusiasms.

  “Even the gun,” he says—“I might not use it, I might go there instead”—pointing to the constellation that involves him and his wife.

  I’ll leave it for you, he thinks; I’ll bury it in the yard—conversing with the baby telepathically now so that no one can overhear them.

  Maybe you’ll never find it. Maybe you’ll want to live.

  * * *

  “What are you doing out here?”

  The voice comes from behind him. He tries to hide the baby in the folds of his coat.

  “What’s that? What do you have there?”

  “Nothing,”

  “Francesco.”

  He turns. His mother—ridiculous, almost beautiful tonight, in her purple flannel.

  “Oh!” she cries, seeing the baby. “Give him to me.” She rushes across the lawn.

  Frank gently steps away. “Ma—please. I’ve got him.”

  Florence relents. She doesn’t want to make a scene in the backyard; give the neighbors more to yap about. She adjusts the baby’s coverlet. “Just don’t drop him.”

  It’s comments like this that kill Frank.

  “Let’s go inside.” She pats his arm. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

  He shakes his head.

  “At least let me fix you a cup of tea.”

  Frank can feel her anxiety—wriggling into his gut like worms.

  “Il mio amore—please. Come inside.”

  You’re sick, you’re dangerous, is what she’s really saying.

  Frank checks the sky to ensure that everything’s still in order.

  Florence follows his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

  Frank whispers into Edgar’s ear.

  “What are you telling him? I don’t want you telling him stories.”

  Frank grimaces.

  Florence knows that face—and she’s afraid of it. “Come on,” she says. “It’s warmer in the kitchen.”

  “We’re going to stay out here a little longer,” he says.

  “I’ll stay with you,” his mother chirps.

  Frank can see the effort she’s making. And though it’s not an easy thing for him, he leans down and kisses her.

  It stuns Florence. She starts to cry.

  “You know I love you, Frankie? And your father loves you—and your wife.”

  “Yes,” Frank says dutifully. He touches his ear and looks up at the Machine. “Ma.”

  “Yes, caro—dimmi.”

  But how can he tell her?

  He begins by pointing at the stars. “A lot of them,” he says, “are dead.”

  “Nothing’s dead,” she assures him.

  “The stars,” he mumbles.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I can see them.”

  Frank grunts. “Just because you can see them doesn’t mean they’re up there.” He jabs again at the sky. “Some of them died like a thousand years ago.”

  “Quiet,” Florence says. “You’re upsetting the baby.”

  Frank hands over Edgar, knowing that’s all his mother cares about.

  But then, once she has the child firmly against her chest, she reaches out to caress Frank’s cheek. It confuses him. Usually it hurts when she touches him like this, but tonight there’s no pain whatsoever. It’s a good sign, he thinks. It means he’s already gone.

  Stella stellina, la notte si avvicina

  It’s his mother—singing.

  “You understand?” Frank says—and Florence, understanding nothing, says, “Yes, Francesco, of course.”

  La fiamma traballa, la mucca é nella stalla

  Frank knows this song.

  Edgar does, too. He raises his white fist and shakes it at the stars.

  47

  Tomb

  Edgar was thrown backwards—a hot pain in the crook of his shoulder. The explosion, a horrific bang, lingered in his ear like an enraged mosquito.

  eeeeeeeeeeeeeee

  He staggered sideways and was about to put down the gun when he saw Conrad kneeling beside the stump. The crabapple in his hand was gone, but a second one had appeared: a distinct bloom of red on Conrad’s yellow shirt.

  * * *

  Breathing. I’m.

  Even as this thought passed through the man’s mind, he was afraid to open his eyes. A moment ago he’d felt the ferocious spray of buckshot whiz past him. Though the boy had missed, a stray pellet had pierced Conrad’s flesh; the pain was stunning.

  “Don’t pretend you’re dead! I can see you breathing!”

  Conrad’s eyes were still shut.

  “Get up,” the boy was shouting.

  When the second shot came, Conrad hoped that it had entered his heart. He sank closer to the ground.

  “Stop joking,” screamed Edgar. “I’m not even shooting you.”

  When Conrad looked, he saw the boy holding the gun, the barrel raised to the sky.

  * * *

  It was not anger alone that caused Edgar to shout; he was compensating, as well, for the fact that he couldn’t hear his own voice. The ringing in his ears was so profound that even the barking dog mimicked the drone of the enraged mosquito.

  Conrad, too, was speaking in the same way—eeeeeeeeee—gesturing now, as if he wanted something.

  The boy thought quickly, with a clarity that shocked him. “Get in the truck!” he shouted—managing, even as he trembled, to hold the gun in a convincingly aggressive position.

  Conrad stood and touched his chest, begging Edgar to shoot again.

  Please.

  It terrified the boy to see Conrad’s lips form the word.

  “No—go over there.” Edgar pointed the shotgun toward the green pickup parked inside its lair of latticed branches. The more he shouted, the dizzier he felt. “Stop crying,” he ordered Conrad.

  How many times had people said that to him? All his life, it had been the same: Don’t be a baby. Stop bawling. Take a pill. These had been his mother’s words. Conrad preferred, No whimpering. Be strong. Be a man. Moments ago, he’d called Edgar a coward.

  Now the boy moved behind Conrad with the gun. It felt to Edgar like something he’d seen on television. His trembling increased, but he steeled admirably when the man made a sudden move.

  “No—don’t turn around!” Edgar pushed forward the tip of the shotgun. He was careful to keep his finger off the trigger, knowing there was only one shell left. He’d seen Conrad load the gun—filling it with the legal number of shells permitted in
the state of New Jersey. Edgar was always watching, always listening. Nothing slipped past him.

  “I don’t have the keys,” Conrad said, standing before the truck.

  “Yes you do,” said Edgar. “They’re in your left pocket.”

  When Conrad was behind the wheel, the boy climbed into the bed of the pickup.

  “It’s too cold back there,” said Conrad. “You’ll freeze.”

  Edgar wondered if he’d been shivering like this all along. Why wasn’t he wearing a coat? His mind felt blank. He looked around at the jigsaw puzzle of snow—scattered patches under the trees.

  “Sit up front with me,” the man was saying. “You’ll be warmer.”

  “Don’t try to confuse me,” cried Edgar, his voice hoarse from shouting. “Just take me home.”

  “Okay, but listen to me for two seconds.” The man reached for the sliding window that separated the cab from the bed.

  “No,” said Edgar, banging the gun against the glass so hard that a crack appeared.

  Conrad flinched, and pulled the keys from his pocket.

  * * *

  Edgar was sick of other people—sick of their lies, their tricks. If you weren’t careful you could spend your whole life tossed from person to person, like a toy—barely human. Only human because you reminded them of someone else. Someone from before.

  “Quiet!” yelled Edgar. Someone was making a racket. When the boy turned and saw the dog, his heart lurched. He strapped the gun to his shoulder and climbed down. When Jack licked him, he pressed his face into hers.

  I’ll come back, he wanted to say—but that would have been a lie.

  “I have to go.” When he moved away, the dog followed.

  “No—stay.”

  Jack did as she was told, but her legs twitched from the effort. She barked.

  Edgar didn’t look back. A tunneling sadness roared through his chest. White flakes began to fall from the sky. Conrad was right: it was too cold to ride in the bed. Edgar took a deep breath and opened the passenger door.