Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  Below, Tad made his preparations for bed. He turned off the light and stood for a time by the window, looking out across the cleared ground toward the trees. Another night so hot as to be almost tropical. He wondered idly if it would ever rain again, and thinking about it he couldn’t even remember the last time that it had. The radio had been on in the kitchen at dinner and he’d heard some sound bite about it having been the hottest day in county history, but the record was expected to be broken again the very next day. He lay down and kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and turned onto his side where he remained, his eyes open. Then he closed them and tried to think pleasant thoughts to lull himself to sleep. But he couldn’t think of anything other than the events of the day. He rolled over and looked toward the desk where he could see the crumpled shape of Stitch’s shroud, sitting in the same spot where he had left it. It was going to be a long night.

  For more than an hour he tried to sleep in much the same way he always had before. The same way that most everyone sleeps, lying there and shifting position to find the most comfortable spot, and then allowing drowsiness to come and claim them. But as this was ineffective, at last he began to practice again the breathing exercises that Stitch had shown him, letting himself drift in and out of that meditative state where phantom images of himself and all the objects in the room were perfectly superimposed over the objects themselves, and he could slide his mind across them taking note of the smallest particles of matter that composed each. It was more difficult without Stitch guiding him to know whether he was doing it properly. Regulating his breathing, he went from the heightened state of awareness back to normalcy, then back and forth once more. Then again, and again. Eventually doing it so many times that he no longer knew which was which, and the edges of everything were blurred and fuzzy. He could no longer lift his limbs from the bed or move them, and he felt a bubbly giddiness like the effects of Essence, but murkier and dimmer, with none of the effervescence. In that glimmer of a moment before it was too late he felt the approach of another state that he was slipping into, and he had the slightest tremor of panic, but then he realized that it was only the normal, healthy sleep that he’d known his entire life, and there was no reason for him to be afraid.

  In the dream that he remembered he was outside again. Wandering in a part of the family’s property where he’d never been before, and it was not summer but winter. Or it was cold, at least, and he was wearing his jacket, not the parka for the truly frigid temperatures but the lighter windbreaker with the hood. He had the hood drawn up and his peripheral vision was obscured on either side. The ground here was solid underfoot, hard packed, and the grass was colorless and grew in irregular patches. He looked up at the sky and it too was without color, sepia toned like a black and white photograph, with clouds that did not move, but instead hung in the air like insects trapped in amber. Some at greater heights than others. The trees hereabouts were young, with thin trunks and thinner branches. They bore no leaves. He looked down and saw footprints, slightly larger than his own, where someone had passed this way before him.

  He had a feeling of purpose, as one sometimes has in dreams, but indefinite. Only that he was in the right place at the appointed time. A sense of inevitability to what was to follow. He climbed up a slight promontory that opened into a pastoral area bordered by scraggly brush. He advanced from the trees and as he did so from the other side a host stepped out to meet him, matching his unhurried pace. They had Daddy’s face, all of them, and they were all in costume. He recognized the outfits, the foppish white formal wear from their first meeting, the doctor character with the stethoscope, the demented mariachi from Decadence. And with them came many others that he hadn’t seen before, decked out in the decaying fabrics from the upper floors of the house in the woods, costumes that had been used as props for the theatrics of the band of misfits that had traveled the globe demonstrating their “vulgar arts.” Many of them frayed and desiccated, covered in gray dust. The only constant was Daddy’s face and the identical expression worn by each of these doppelgangers, the too-wide smile speaking of the joy that only those who have taken leave of the last of their senses can ever find or know. And Tad was filled by the same sense of pity and disgust that he’d felt during Stitch’s story. He no longer felt the same wonder and awe that he once had at being in the presence of this man, or the same excitement. He was no longer eager to try and match words with him. He could see through the swagger, the panache.

  They closed the distance toward each other, Tad searching each approaching face. For what he did not know. He could feel the fear rise up like a cold wave, and he battled against it. Self conscious, for he knew that Daddy’s many selves could sense that fear, and they throve off it. The hundreds of identical faces, powder white, or painted in stage makeup to conceal that lack of human color, the high cheekbones, the sharp features. Above all, those bulging, pale blue eyes that looked on him and his insecurities with such gleeful delight. The closer they came, the more Tad battled against that fear, feeling it with the acuteness that one only can in dreams, until the advancing army was fairly capering in anticipation of their meeting in the center, as he had seen Daddy himself do so many times before. Coming on now eagerly, like a hawk that has spotted its prey on the forest floor, away from cover or shelter.

  But Tad did not balk, despite his fear. He came on, forcing his legs to move, and Stitch’s words came back to him, chiming with the clarity of cathedral bells out of his memory- it all starts with the breathing. It comes, once again, through self awareness, and regulation of what, class? “The breathing,” he said. And with a sense of immediacy, but without hurrying, he began to concentrate on the oxygen flowing into his lungs, steaming out of his mouth in frosty gouts. He could feel the thud of his heart, the most powerful muscle in his body, beating in his chest. He willed it to slow. His steps slowed with it, and his mind quieted. He could look back into the many faces of his enemy, and he could return their smile. And as he did so those smiles faltered, as they sensed perhaps that something had changed. But they did turn aside either, and now they came together.

  But Tad was not alone. In the instant before he met the first line of Daddy’s clones, he reached up and pulled down the hood, and in doing so he could see to either side of him. And he saw that there was an army walking alongside him also. They were all of them dressed the same as he was, in his ratty jeans and windbreaker. But every one of them was faceless. They were alike to him in proportion, similar in every way. Except when Tad looked to their faces, they were completely smooth, like the surface of a flesh colored egg, having neither eyes, nor a nose or mouth. But before he could ponder this they had collided, and Tad was looking full on Daddy’s face, directly in front of him, and others beside it.

  He had thought the two sides would do battle, but they did not, at least not in the way he’d been expecting. They began to pass by each other, elbowing, shouldering their way through. He found himself confronted again and again by Daddy’s grinning visage, some of them in festive or decorative headgear, some of them with their faces marked according to whatever their clothes made them out to be. But they did not assail him, nor did they speak, but made as if to bar the way until he trundled roughly past them. And whenever one of them came into contact with his body, he found that they were very nearly transparent, and easy to turn aside, there being not much to them at all. He looked to what he’d begun to think of as his troops, to see how they were faring, and he perceived something strange. As one of his own muster collided with one of the many opposing host, then they both blinked and went out, fading right before his eyes, like smoke dispelled by a strong wind. And understanding dawned on him, and he thought that this was how the battle might be won, and he pressed on, muscling his way between the ghostly obstacles, while all around him his faceless soldiers did the same, and each one ceased to be. He was now in the thick of it, and he was finding it more difficult to breathe, let alone to find the mental state necessary to let mind and body relax
. The advancing line hemmed him in, and a thought came to him that at the end of it all there might simply be too many of Daddy and not enough of himself. The grinning face was everywhere, the too red lips and the swollen pale blue eyes. And as he felt his resolve falter, the shoulders that he was bumping into solidified. It was harder to shrug past them, and he was in danger of being borne to the ground. But through the press of limbs, for just a moment he caught a glimpse of the other side, and he could see open space, and trees, sad and sickly specimens that they were, and he wanted, needed, to stand among them by himself, alone. And he rose up with all his muscles energized and singing, tunelessly, and he crashed through and staggered out, as around him the force his will had rallied negated the last of Daddy’s army. And then he looked around, catching his breath, and he saw that he was indeed alone. For it seemed he’d had enough to meet all that Daddy had seen fit to throw at him on this occasion, and one more besides- he, himself, the last one left. And a faint breeze stirred against his cheek, and he turned toward it, cold though it was, and looked back the way he’d come.

  He woke to find that he’d slept the night through and the heat that had been predicted had invaded the room. He still felt the lingering effects of the cold in his dream, and he lay there basking in the warmth for a moment until the lethargy had passed and he rose, energized, and still feeling a sense of triumph and of accomplishment, dream though it had been. He showered and dressed, making his way downstairs to meet up with the other family members. Daisy failed to greet him, but her warning expression spoke volumes and he chose not to antagonize her. “Where’s Casey?” he asked.

  “He left earlier,” Marta answered, spooning scrambled eggs onto Walt’s plate. “He’s probably off with his friends somewhere.” The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Marta said, but Tad had already left his chair and was on his way into the living room. He had a suspicion that it might be for him.

  “Hello,” he said into the receiver.

  There was a familiar whirring and crackling noise on the other end, and then the voice that he knew so well. “Good morning,” it said. “Impetuous spirit of irrepressible youth. Having a spot of feed with the loved ones? How’s mummy? What’s she wearing?”

  “Hello James.”

  There was a swift intake of breath on the other end. When the voice spoke again every bit of bravado was gone, replaced by the cold sincerity Tad had last heard when he’d turned down Daddy’s offer. “What did you call me?”

  “James. James Crawly. That is who I’m speaking to, isn’t it? Not that I haven’t enjoyed the charade, but it’s gotten a bit tired. We have names, here in the real world.”

  There was a snort. “The real world is what we choose to make of it, my brave little urchin, if we have the tenacity to do so. It seems you’ve been talking about me behind my back…well, there are ways of dealing with that. Lying tongues are best pulled out by the roots, you know.”

  “Is that a threat to me, or Stitch? I’d leave him alone if I were you. He’s the only friend you’ve got, James, and he’s showed more character and guts than you’ll ever have.” He had turned away from the dining room and stepped into the interior of the living room, keeping the wall between him and the rest of the family.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be worried about the guts of our corpulent friend,” Daddy hissed. “I’ll soon be spilling them all over the ground. I should have done it a long time ago. That pretender, that walking pile of pig excrement! He’s a back seat driver who never had the sack to take the wheel! Ahem! Hup! I’ll see to him, yes, yes.”

  “I didn’t mean to get you sidetracked, James. Was there actually a reason that you called, or did you just want to shoot the bull for a while?”

  There was a high pitched squeal of feedback like static from a microphone and Tad jerked the phone away from his ear. “Stop calling me that! That is not my name! Hup! Ha! My name is Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Do you understand?”

  “Your father is dead, James.”

  There was labored breathing on the other end, and when the voice spoke again the same calculated coldness had returned. But it was a thin veneer, and Tad could hear the madness beneath. “My father is not dead. He has traveled up, up. Into the cosmos. He has ascended. When I am finished doing his work I will join him.”

  “Well. That sounds lovely.”

  A grinding noise. “I like to think that I’m a reasonable man. You turned down my proposition. Ahem! Now here is another one. Meet with me, today, face to face, and let’s have an end to this. We’ll settle our business and go our separate ways. What do you say?”

  “I say we don’t have any business to settle. We have nothing further to say to each other.”

  “Oh, but I disagree. Do come and see me. Or I will come to you. I’ve been just dying to meet the rest of the gang. And to see your darling sister again.”

  Tad closed his eyes. Again, he’d been expecting something like this. He is a master of influence and treachery. What could he do? He was faced with the same dilemma as before- whether or not to involve his parents. Was it a bluff? If he refused, would Daddy really come for him, here at home? Like you even have to ask, one of the voices sneered mockingly. Of course he will come. And it will all be exposed, the whole sordid mess, and Daze will be put in danger again. He thought of his sister’s anger the night before. Make decisions for yourself, she had said. Leave me out of it. But he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t allow her to be threatened because of his mistakes. No, he was in this alone. It was his concern, his responsibility. Come hell or high water. “Fine,” he said. He had his hand cupped over the receiver, and his voice was barely audible. “Have it your way. Where?”

  “Oh, I fancy a trip into town. It’s been so long, you know. How about the practice field, by the school?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Do come quickly. And make sure to stay hydrated. Hem! Yes. It’s a real scorcher out there!” And the last thing Tad heard before the phone cut off was that long, whinnying peal of laughter like a crazed hyena, the sound of mirth that once had filled him with such delight and he now dreaded more than any other.

  He replaced the receiver and stepped back around the corner. “Who was it?” his mother asked.

  “It was for me. Nick Slesher. There’s a pickup game happening down by the school. Can I go?”

  “Of course. Would you like a ride? It’s so hot out…I’m sure Walt wouldn’t mind giving you a lift, would you, dear?”

  “Mmm.”

  “No thank you.” He was already moving toward the stairs. “I’m going to take my bike.” He didn’t stop to look back at Daisy. He already knew what her expression would be, and he could not face it. Back up in his room he sat on the bed pulling on his shoes. Then he hesitated for some time, not moving, leaning over with his hands clasped before him, his head lowered toward his chest. Contemplating whether there was any kind of further preparation he could take, or whether there was anything he could bring that might be beneficial to him. Some charm or incantation, or a talisman to ward off evil. He could think of nothing. It’s just best to get it over with, come what may. He went downstairs again. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, washing dishes. His father was gone, presumably to work, and Daisy had almost certainly returned to the attic. He stood in the front hall as the moments ticked away. Trying to hold on to each one as if they were precious stones, slipping through his fingers. Then he opened the screen door and stepped out onto the porch, the light blinding, dazzling, the heat roaring like a lion all around him.

  He walked over the driveway, past the spot with the wheel indentations where the truck was normally parked, and slipped into the barn. It was moderately cooler inside, and a lot more orderly since he had rearranged everything some weeks before. He remembered his bicycle as being in the loft above, and he climbed the ladder to discover it resting against the far wall, looking a bit dusty and ill used. He hadn’t ridden it more than once or twice in the past several months; it was a vintage Schwinn beach cruiser,
yellow in color, of the style set low to the ground with the handlebars wide apart, at least two decades old but in more or less good working order, if a bit rusty. It was a hand-me-down from Casey, and possibly another family member before him. Tad had gotten it when Casey had outgrown it, as was the case with various clothes and other sundries in Tad’s possession. That was the chain of command, and doubtless it was intended that Daisy would receive it when Tad was done with it, though knowing Daisy and her disdain for any sort of outdoor play, the probability of her using it was relatively nil.

  Tad took it and set the kickstand, then went about brushing the dust off. He checked the tire pressure and found that the front one was flat. With some difficulty he maneuvered himself down the ladder again with the bike under one arm, dropping it from a distance of three feet from the ground so that it landed safely on one of the surviving hay bales. He hopped down next to it and walked over to the left side of the barn where the tools were kept. After rummaging around for a bit he came up with an old bicycle pump and set about inflating the tire. There was an annoying squeak every time he pressed down on the handle, but the tire soon held a serviceable amount of air, and he replaced the pump and wheeled the Schwinn out the door into the driveway, where he stood squinting at the spot in the trees where the path curved to the left and out of sight. After a moment he set the kickstand again and reached down to pull out the plastic water jug from its holder on the underside of the frame. This he carried back into the house and stood in the kitchen filling it from the jug in the refrigerator. His mother was standing just a couple of feet away, humming to herself as she scrubbed at the dishes in the sink, and he had the sudden urge to just let it all out, reveal where he was going, what he was doing. Ma, I have this kind of a problematic situation, see... I’m not actually on my way to play with my friends; in a few minutes I may actually be in very real danger, because there’s this man that I met, and he’s a little insane, and he seems to be infatuated with me…but he said none of this, and even if he had, he thought his mother would probably laugh at him and say what a vivid imagination he had. And oh, how he wished that it was all just his imagination, and how he wished that he had just gone straight home after his last day in the eighth grade. But that wasn’t how it had happened, and wishing Daddy away wasn’t going to make it so, and he screwed the cap back on the water jug and walked away, while his mother went on humming to herself, oblivious to her middle child and his troubled state of mind.