by Mark Parker
“Come,” she repeated.
He came to her, stood before her. Laddie spilled out of her lap and began scurrying in tight little circles on the floor. Yipping.
“You’re going to leave me alone tonight,” she said. It was not a question. She wore no makeup and her face looked like a mask made of latex, pulled taut over the angular bones of her skull. She smoothed a curl of hair behind his ear and said, “Do something nice for me before you go.”
So he went into the kitchen and fixed her another drink—vodka from the cupboard mixed with a fruit punch drink box that was supposed to be for his school lunch. He returned it to her and she accepted it with a dreamy smile, her eyes droopy lidded, enveloped in some unseen fog.
“Kiss kiss,” she said at him, her breath as eye-watering as turpentine.
He administered a swift peck to her right cheek. Her skin felt cold against his lips.
“Have fun with your friends,” she called to him as he went down the hall to the front door. A silly thing to say; they both knew he had no friends.
Outside, it had just begun to get dark. The faces of jack-o’-lanterns gaped at him from his neighbors’ porches, their eyes aglow with firelight. Young kids in dime store costumes were out with their parents, already going door to door. Warren knew his mother wouldn’t answer the door tonight. Probably a good thing.
He hurried along Calabasas Street, his sneakers scudding across the loose granules of sand that lay scattered like birdshot along the sidewalk. An autumn breeze whispered through the trees, and when Warren paused to listen and watch the boughs wave and sway and dance above the quaint little houses that lined his street, he caught high-pitched devil’s laughter trailing in the breeze’s wake.
When he crossed the intersection of Calabasas and Greenmont, the devil’s laughter grew louder. Warren glanced up and saw a group of older kids—sixth graders—crowded on the front steps of the house just ahead of him. They were dressed in raggedy clothes and were slapping each other with rubber monster masks. They all seemed to glance over and notice him the same moment he noticed them.
“Borin’ Warren,” chided one of the older boys, who either recognized him from school or the neighborhood.
“Fag,” quipped another, less playfully.
Warren kept his eyes on his sneakers as he picked up the pace.
“Hey,” one of the boys called to him. “Hey. Hey. We’re talking to you. Where do you think you’re going when we’re talking to you?”
Warren moved quickly. He refused to look at them—ignore everyone, had been Mr. Trueheart’s instruction—but he could see, from the periphery of his vision, that they were rising off the porch steps now. Some of them pulled their masks down over their faces. This troubled Warren deeply, as if some terrible act were about to take place, one the boys wished to execute anonymously.
“Hey!” the boy shouted, more urgently. “I’m talking to you, you piece of garbage!”
It was then that Warren felt something strike him, sharp as a kick, along his left shoulder blade. It was a rock, and it bounced down the sidewalk alongside him for a few steps, as if determined to trip him up. A second rock, much larger than the first, whizzed past his head.
Ignore them, Mr. Trueheart had instructed. Don’t let them goad you. Don’t let them suck you into their web. It’s what they want. It’s how they get you.
I know who you are, all of you, Warren thought. Briefly, he squeezed his eyes shut tight and willed the older kids away from him. I know what this is all about. I’m not stupid. I’m smart, very smart.
Warren’s pace quickened to a sprint. He worried briefly that the older boys might give chase, but they didn’t. Maybe it’s the white greasepaint. However, he didn’t slow down until he was several blocks away, standing in front of Mr. Trueheart’s house.
Some of the kids at Robert F. Kennedy Elementary School said Mr. Trueheart’s house was haunted. Indeed, it looked like something straight from a horror movie, with its siding overrun with leafy vines, its concave porch and slouching roof, its windows that were perpetually shuttered. There was a short wooden fence that surrounded the little postage-stamp lawn with its hip-high grass, PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING, and BEWARE OF DOG signs posted every few feet along the pickets.
Mr. Trueheart did not have a dog.
Warren opened the gate, went up the walk, climbed the bowing porch steps, and knocked on Mr. Trueheart’s front door. There were birds’ nests bristling in the carriage lights on either side of the door and spiders’ webs waterfalling like drapery from the eaves.
Mr. Trueheart’s leaden footfalls on the other side of the door: thunk, thunk, thunk. This was followed by a single knock against the interior side of the door. Warren rapped two successive knocks against the door, waited five seconds—he counted them aloud under his breath—then knocked a final time.
The door wrenched open several inches. It was gloomy inside, and Mr. Trueheart’s colorless, narrow face seemed to materialize out of the darkness and peer down at him. Something akin to a smile cracked the usually stoic veneer of Mr. Trueheart’s face.
“Very good,” Mr. Trueheart said, his voice a ruptured baritone that reminded Warren of the brass instruments in the music room of his elementary school. “You’ve done your face.”
Warren nodded.
“Did you speak with anyone after leaving your house?”
Warren shook his head.
“What did you mother say?”
“She was drinking again,” Warren said. This, he felt, was explanation enough.
Mr. Trueheart nodded, then stepped back so that Warren could pass through the narrow crack in the doorway. Once inside, Mr. Trueheart closed the door, bolted it, chained it, and kept the palm of one hand against it for several seconds as though he were testing the temperature of the wood. Warren stood beside him and waited in silence. He was used to the routine.
Mr. Trueheart was seventy-one years old. Warren first met him over a year ago, when the members of his Cub Scout troop were tasked with assisting the elderly. Some boys went shopping for the elderly neighbors, others would read to them on the weekends. Warren had spent the first few visits helping Mr. Trueheart nail boards up over his windows and fill empty milk cartons with powdered dish detergent. Warren hadn’t wanted to join the Cubs—it had been his mother’s idea, a chance, she’d said, for him to make some friends—but Warren quickly took a liking to Mr. Trueheart.
Mr. Trueheart had a lot of wisdom to impart.
He saw things as they really were.
***
My name is not really Trueheart, says Mr. Trueheart during one of Warren’s visits. You can call me that, but it’s not my real name.
Warren asks him why he uses a fake name.
It’s so I stay out of sight, responds Mr. Trueheart. I keep hidden. They’re always out there watching. Searching. It’s necessary to be careful, Warren. And it’ll serve you well to learn that quickly. I don’t suppose anyone has ever let you in on the big secret, have they?
Warren shakes his head.
We must speak cautiously about these things, said Mr. Trueheart, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I will tell you, but this is the secret, the biggest one you’ll ever keep. Is that something you can do?
Warren nods.
Good, says Mr. Trueheart.
So Mr. Trueheart teaches and Warren learns.
In the end, Warren has made a friend after all.
***
Mr. Trueheart’s house was unkempt and smelled funny, like the Campbell’s tomato soup his mother sometimes made Warren eat. Tonight was no different, with the exception of something else borne on the air—a strangely pungent, medicinal smell. It made the air difficult to breathe.
Mr. Trueheart led him down the hall, past stacks of books on the floor, on chairs, piled on the stairs that went to the second floor. There were mounds of dirty laundry scattered about like strange alien pods that had grown up from the carpeting. Warren followed Mr. Trueheart d
own the hall and into the sunken den at the far end of the house—what Mr. Trueheart often called “the foxhole.” There were windows that looked out onto a wooded backyard, a loveseat facing an ancient TV that still had rabbit ears, and a large wooden rocking chair outfitted in a beaded cushion. On this night, the furniture had been shoved against the walls to make room for the object that sat in the center of the floor.
“Is that it?” Warren asked.
“Yes. Would you like a closer look?”
“Is it safe?”
“For now,” said Mr. Trueheart. “I haven’t activated it yet.”
Warren stepped down into the foxhole and walked cautiously over to the item in the center of the floor. It wasn’t big—that was the point, really—and it hardly looked dangerous. It was mostly a tin coffee can, the words MAXWELL HOUSE clearly legible (although upside down) on the side, fixed to a thin square of wood. Colored wires spooled out on either side of it; some were soldered to the outside of the can while others disappeared beneath it, wedged between the can and the wooden board. A hole had been drilled through the top of the can—which was the bottom of the can—and what looked like a frosted Christmas tree light poked up.
Warren stared down at the thing for several seconds.
After a while, Mr. Trueheart said, “Would you like a Hawaiian Punch?”
***
They drank two glasses of Hawaiian Punch each, in the cramped kitchen where the sink overflowed with unwashed dishes and reams of unread newspapers blanketed the counter tops.
“Your face is very good,” Mr. Trueheart said after sucking down the last of his juice. They were seated together at the kitchen table, which was actually a card table with wobbly legs. “That white paint has kept you safe.”
Warren nodded.
“When you become your own negative, it makes you harder for them to see.”
“Some boys from school saw me on the way over here tonight.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at them.”
A smile stretched across the lower half of Mr. Trueheart’s face. “Very good, Warren. You’ve really been paying attention.”
“Of course. I don’t want to get caught.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Trueheart. “I hope that’s something we can avoid altogether.”
Warren looked at his own empty glass. The sugary drink had upset his stomach. Or maybe he was just nervous.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Trueheart. “What’s on your mind, Warren?”
Warren looked up at him. “I want to see them,” he said. “See them the way you see them.”
Mr. Trueheart’s smile widened. “And tonight, dear boy, is that night. But first, we must be sure you understand what it is you need to do.”
Warren nodded.
Mr. Trueheart rose from the table, went over to a cluttered breakfront, and rifled around through unruly stacks of paper. There were photographs among the papers, photographs that Warren had looked at several times before. They were of Mr. Trueheart and some other men, all of them in their twenties or so, in khaki military garb holding guns. From the background, it appeared they were in the desert. Whenever Warren would ask Mr. Trueheart where those pictures had been taken, he would always receive a different answer. “France,” Mr. Trueheart sometimes said. “Africa,” he’d offer. “Budapest,” he said on a few occasions. And once, Mr. Trueheart (whose name was not actually Trueheart, not at all) said, “Mars, Warren. Those photos were taken on Mars.”
Mr. Trueheart returned to the table with a large sheet of paper rolled up into a cone. He unrolled it and splayed it out across the table, then set their empty drinking glasses on two corners. Glued to the paper were a multitude of photographs, each one taken by Warren over a period of three months. Some of the photos showed Windell Street from various locations. Others showed Kennedy Park—the baseball diamond, the swings and seesaws, the wooded treeline that brooked the park and Windell Street. Other photos were of the streets and houses that surrounded the park.
“Tell me,” Mr. Trueheart said. “What have you learned, Warren.”
Warren leaned over the table, scrutinized the photos, then pointed to the one depicting the baseball diamond at the center of Kennedy Park. “Right here,” Warren said. “That’s where they’ll meet up.”
“What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Mr. Trueheart glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. It was just five after seven. There was still plenty of time. Kennedy Park was only three blocks away.
“The baseball diamond is a good place, and it’s certainly in the center of everything,” said Mr. Trueheart, “but I’m concerned that it might be too conspicuous.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s too out in the open, Warren. Too many people will be able to see it.”
“Oh.”
“Now,” said Mr. Trueheart, leaning over the photographs, his shadow hovering like a bird of prey, “if you were to place it here,” and he pointed to a low hedgerow that ran alongside of the bleachers, “then we might be in business.”
Warren nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”
“Wonderful.” Mr. Trueheart straightened up. “Did you bring me what I asked for?”
“Yes.” Warren leaned over and scooped his backpack off the floor. He unzipped it, procured the bottle of liquor from it, and handed it over to Mr. Trueheart.
“Thank you, Warren,” said Mr. Trueheart as he studied the label then pulled the corked cap from the bottle. He poured a few inches into his drinking glass.
“Can I try some?” asked Warren.
“No, son. I’m afraid that would be inappropriate. Besides, you’ve got important work for you to do. And I’m not only entrusting you with one very invaluable item, but two.”
“Really? What’s the second one?”
“Only the thing you’ve been asking for since we started talking about this and making our plans.”
Mr. Trueheart lifted his glass to his lips—the large sheet of paper speedily rolled up on the table—and took a sip. He grimaced and his teeth looked gray.
“Come,” he said, and beckoned Warren to follow him back out into the hallway.
***
Do you ever notice, dear Warren, how you are so frequently singled out in school or on the playground? That the other children never seem to want anything to do with you? That sometimes they don’t know you even exist? And the awful things they sometimes do when they do approach you...it’s terrible, Warren. And do you know what else? It’s unnatural. Yes, that’s right. Because these children aren’t who you think they are. They’re imposters, Warren. They’ve been replaced. Come—listen to what I have to tell you. Would you like some chocolate milk?
***
From the hallway closet, Mr. Trueheart procured what at first looked like a hat or a rubber boot from the top shelf. It came loose in an avalanche of winter gloves and streamers of scarves, which Mr. Trueheart absently shoved aside with his slippered foot.
He handed the item to Warren.
It was a rubber monster mask, its fleshy face the color of pea soup, grotesque and alien in its countenance. The eye holes looked too narrow as did the narrow slit within the mouth. It was like no monster Warren had ever seen on TV or in video games.
“That’s Ru’ulgreg,” said Mr. Trueheart. “I just call him Greg. But you can give him your own name. He’s yours now.”
Somewhat confused, Warren turned the mask over in his hands. He hadn’t been expecting this.
“In truth, it doesn’t matter what you call him. He’s an it, Warren, just a thing. But a very special one. He who wears the mask sees the creatures in their true form. It’s what you’ve been asking for all along.”
Warren looked up at him. “Really? Just from wearing the mask?”
“Mind you, it’s not instantaneous. It will take some time to...well, to grow on you. But soon you’ll see them exactly as I do. They won’t b
e able to hide from you anymore. And the mask will keep you safe, too. You can’t run around painting your face white and pretending to be the negative of yourself forever, can you?”
Mr. Trueheart laughed—a brassy trumpeting sound that caused Warren to jump and then to join in with his own high-pitched laughter.