by Robert Reed
“He won’t be home tonight,” said Diamond.
Again, she didn’t seem to hear him.
But when he started to repeat himself, Mother interrupted. “Your father is working all night. Yes.”
There was a long pause. Diamond wasn’t certain why, but the evening silence felt wrong. The person on his floor wasn’t her usual self, and that bothered him and fascinated him and he watched her as carefully as he could.
Mother noticed. Her mouth tightened again and the black-brown eyes looked through him. Then with a careful slow and almost angry voice, she said, “I want these little men picked up.”
“The soldiers?”
“Get them off the floor.”
He didn’t complain, but working slowly, he snatched up the figures one by one, studying each face before finding the perfect place for his friends to stand on the various shelves. Every soldier had a name and rank, and they were lumped into smaller units composed of good close friends. Hundreds of battles had been fought and won by this army. These good brave men always stood united against the common foe. No soldier had ever died forever, and they had defeated a host of monsters, including an agreeable Mister Mister. They were his army and the worn faces meant quite a lot to him, and more than once his father had mentioned that nobody had ever played as hard with them as Diamond had.
“When will he come home?” he asked.
Mother was struggling to fit the blocks into their box. “Tomorrow, and maybe in the morning.”
“Oh, good,” he said.
The best soldiers deserved the highest shelf, but Diamond couldn’t reach all the way up. He pulled the stool out from under the bed and got up on his toes, setting twelve warriors in a row, near the edge, each holding a sword or a gun, ready for the next war. Swords were long knives, and he knew about knives. But his parents never talked about guns, which made them mysterious and intriguing.
Old books were propped on that shelf. Diamond pulled one book down and dragged a thumb across the dusty binding, enjoying the rough cool leather and its considerable age. Then he opened the cover, glue cracking with the abuse. Unlike the books for children, the binding was on the side, not on top, and the words ran in straight flat lines across the gray pages. Not one letter was familiar. He knew the full alphabet for people, but he couldn’t even guess how to piece together what was being said here.
“Why can’t I read this?”
Mother was staring at the box overflowing with blocks. What could have been pain started to show in her face, and then pain turned into a sigh. She picked up a triangle and put it down where it had been, reminding him, “I told you. Those books aren’t ours.”
“Then we should give them back.”
“No, they belong to us. But others wrote them.”
“What others?”
She tilted her head and looked at him. Then her face turned away and she said, “No.”
Diamond put the book back and climbed down.
Talking to the blocks, she said, “These won’t fit.”
“They do,” he said.
“I don’t believe you.” A smile came from somewhere. “Show me.”
Diamond pulled off the top few rows, sorting the blocks as he worked. Then he put them back inside their box. This was a puzzle with many answers, but there were many more ways to go wrong. He liked the task. He liked how his mother frowned when he worked his fastest. When he was done, there were little gaps in the top row. “I’m missing a triangle and two cubes,” he said.
“Lost by my father,” she admitted.
These used to be his grandfather’s toys. Mother didn’t play with them when she was little, and that’s why the dead man was blamed.
Diamond shut the lid and went back to rescuing soldiers.
But then she said, “Stop. I don’t care about that, honey.”
He finished with the soldier in his hand before sitting on his bed. What was very peculiar was how quickly it had grown dark, in the world and inside his room. He could see Mother’s face and what she was doing, but the gray-green light was blackening by the moment. Maybe she read his thoughts, or maybe it was chance. Either way, she warned him, “It’s going to be a long, long night.”
Days and nights were the never same twice. He nodded and said, “All right,” and waited to be put under the sheets.
But she didn’t want to leave. She stood and brushed the hair on his head and then ran those same fingers through her stiff gray hair, smiling in an odd way before saying, “Does your pot need to be emptied?”
“No.”
“I should do that anyway.” She looked at the mostly closed door. “You have water and something to eat?”
“Cold crescents and oil,” he said. “And you filled the pitcher.”
She said, “Good.”
He waited.
“What was I going to do?”
“My pot.”
“Yes. How did I forget?”
He wondered that too. But he said nothing, watching her carry the chamber pot out the door. He was nervous but unsure why. A very bad feeling made his breath quicken, and then she returned with the clean pot and everything was better again. His mother drifted through the gloom. Suddenly it was full night, only the faintest glow coming through the five tubes that led into this chamber. Diamond recognized his mother from her shape and the walk and how she still favored the ribs that were lazy about mending.
“Good night, Diamond.”
“Good night.”
She kissed him. Then she touched the top of his head, saying, “Such a marvelous brain.”
He waited.
“Is it inside your head?”
“Is what inside my head?”
“Your brain. That mind of yours.” She bent low, and a tear fell from her face onto his cheek. “Can you tell where your thinking comes from?”
He touched his temple.
“Maybe so,” she said, sounding skeptical.
Now he was crying, and he had no idea why.
“Nine hundred and eighty-three,” she said, laughing too loudly. “That’s a fine wonderful perfect age.”
“Mother?”
“Yes.”
“I want to sleep,” he lied. “I’m tired now.”
“Of course.” She kissed his wet cheeks and his silly little nose and then ran her hand through the curly brown hair that wasn’t like anyone else’s. “Sleep as long as you can, honey. Your father comes home in the morning.”
The night was exceptionally long.
Diamond woke twice to relieve himself in the chamber pot, memory guiding him through the seamless dark. But he got careless once, stumbling and then catching a bare foot on the pot itself. Nothing spilled, but the near-disaster felt like a warning. After finishing, he cleaned himself and went slowly through the blackness with both hands leading. The pitcher was a heavy cool piece of varnished wood, the water warm and delicious. He drank until full and remembered his way back to his bed, crawling under the sheets with Mister Mister, touching the cloth eyes and teeth and those simple two-fingered hands.
There never was a longer night, not in his life. Diamond was scared but not in a bad way. Not so that he wanted to call out for Mother. He was worried but excited and there wasn’t any sleepiness left in him, and for a long while he lay there thinking. His mind jumped from subject to subject. In his head, he played with his toys, but that wasn’t much fun. He replayed everything his mother said before bed, word after word, and he imagined Father arriving in the morning, the sound of his voice and running water in the shower and hearing him walk down the hallway to his son’s room. Then Diamond didn’t feel scared. But sadness ran in his blood, and he tried to decipher where that feeling came from, and that’s what he was doing when he heard the noise.
He heard the noise, and he felt it.
The sound was distant but drawing closer. He started to sit up as the floor shook and the bed swayed, as a great rumbling engulfed him. Dark strong wood was being pushed. Enormous forces were te
sting Marduk’s trunk. This was something new, something Diamond hadn’t imagined. He remained upright, grinning with nervous amazement, and then the tree gradually quit moving while each of the room’s five lights began to glow.
A deep brownish red light was the first sign of the day. Like every morning, it came slowly. No moment seemed brighter than the moment before, but the transformation was steady and smooth. Vague lines became simple shapes that turned into walls and furniture and the shelves. It was as if a hand and paintbrush were adding details everywhere at once. When he could see his floor, Diamond jumped down and set his stool under the lowest light, and standing on his little toes, he put his eyes up next to the pane of thick round glass. He had done this before, this careful watching of the dawn. Red was always the first color. The dawn rain would last for a little while or a long while. Long nights usually brought long rains. Pushing an ear to the glass, he heard a smooth steady sound louder than the usual rain sounds, and he closed his eyes, working to imagine what was happening outside.
What always came to mind was the image of water spilling from a giant wooden pitcher.
He had mentioned that guess to his parents, more than once.
Father usually responded with a sober nod, saying, “It’s something like that. And it’s something else entirely.”
Mother preferred to look away, telling the walls, “I don’t like rain. Let’s change the subject.”
Diamond stood tall until his calves ached. By then the light was bright, the blood color thinning toward pink once the heaviest rain was done. Jumping down from the stool, he returned to bed and pulled the sheets over his body and lay down, ready to pretend sleep. That was one of his best tricks, eyes closed, body limp and dreamy. He lay there a long while, sharp ears listening to the pumping of his heart and his blood. The wood overhead offered a slow majestic creaking. Marduk was adjusting to the weight of water and the vanished winds, and one shift triggered others, a much louder groan coming from behind his head. Then he heard his mother’s footsteps. He was certain. Familiar bare feet were slipping along in the hallway, and he smiled into his pillow, waiting for the locks to be turned. Father always flipped the knob’s lock before releasing the two long bolts. Mother used the keys first, probably because the knob was hardest for her. He listened for the rattle of big keys, but there wasn’t any. He couldn’t hear the feet on the floor anymore, and nobody called through the massive door. Nobody was saying, “Good morning, my darling. How did you sleep, my love?”
Eventually Diamond sat up, staring at the door.
Abandoning his bed broke an important ritual. He slowly approached the door, setting his right hand on the cool knob. Nobody was standing on the other side. He was as certain of that as he had been about his mother’s arrival. The red and pink of dawn had vanished, replaced with the searing green-white glare of full morning. Maybe he had fallen back asleep. The footsteps could have been a dream. But just to be sure, he said, “Good morning,” to the door. “I’m awake, Mother. Are you there?”
There was no answer.
To the silence, he said, “You’re late, Mama.”
She was very late. He couldn’t remember the day being this far along and not have at least two visits from her or Father.
“Where are you?” he asked.
The great tree gave a sorry long groan—one of those early-in-the-day tremors signaling the flow of sap in response to the sun. Marduk was with him but that meant so little, and Diamond settled to the floor with his legs crossed and put his hands on his face and cried.
The crying didn’t last.
No bravery or special courage dried his eyes. Tears didn’t help, and he gave up on them. Father would be home soon. He stood and wiped his eyes and went to the table with the water pitcher and the little plate with two cold crescents and the blackwood bowl full of golden oil. That Mother left such a large treat was unusual and suddenly ominous. But she always had reasons for doing what she did, and he assumed there were good wise perfect reasons behind the gifts. Father was coming home. He might arrive in the next breath. Mother had to step out early this morning, and she would be back in another moment, full of apologies. Those were the stories that allowed Diamond to feel hungry.
He wouldn’t let himself worry, eating both of the crescents, using their charred ends and his fingers to soak up the last drops and smears of the sweet oil. Once again, he used the chamber pot, and he brushed his teeth with his special brush and the bitter gray paste, and he considered dressing but decided to wait. A game seemed necessary, and so he brought down his soldiers and lined them up on the floor and opened the box of blocks and stared at the top layer for a long time. Then he invited Mister Mister to sit beside him, and together they studied the loyal warriors with their swords and fierce guns and uniforms unlike what his father wore for work, and to no one in particular, he said, “I don’t know what to do now. I don’t.”
He returned to the door, pressing an ear to the cool wood.
Nothing.
Early in his life the door’s edges had been covered with foam, sealing out germs and unnamed poisons. But the foam below had worn away, leaving a long gap. Through his left eye, the hallway was a plain of smooth wood, vast and empty. Nobody was standing quietly on the other side. He looked at every angle, making sure. Sitting back, his mind wandered where it wanted, and it was as if he was watching his thoughts from some safe high place, uncertain where they would lead next.
The image of his mother returned to him—bent over, ribs bruised, her face filled with tears. Old people were subject to injuries. His parents proved that, what with scars and creaking joints and the way they stood up slowly and carefully after too much sitting. Mother wasn’t gone; she was hurt. A sloppy misstep caused her to fall, and she was somewhere else in the house, too sore to move or help herself. That was the perfect and very awful explanation, and the boy leaned against the door and cried for both of them.
Again, tears didn’t last.
He got to his feet, and quicker than ever in his life he dressed. He put on yesterday’s trousers and a favorite long shirt that he tied with a one-knot on his left side, and he slipped on the sandals that Father had refitted for his feet. Then he hurried up into the round chamber with its chest full of locked drawers and the one drawer that still had a few tools that weren’t forbidden to him.
He pulled out the entire drawer and carried it to the door.
Once more he looked through the gap and with a loud worried voice called out, “Mother. Are you there? Can you hear me?”
Nobody answered.
That made everything worse. He couldn’t know how badly hurt and helpless she was, so he had no choice but work fast. Little steel prods and screwdrivers and a hammer meant to shape soft metals offered their services. Diamond didn’t know what to do with any of them. But he remembered another day—almost two hundred days ago—when the knob became too difficult for Mother to turn. Father kneeled beside the door, using various tools to remove the old brass plate and fix the workings, adding lubricant and a few hard curses before closing it up again. Then he winked at the little boy who was watching every motion, asking, “And how can this be interesting?”
Everything was fascinating, if you paid attention.
Diamond set out his tools and studied the door before picking up a screwdriver, attacking the two broad screws that held the plate in place. He turned the left screw until it tumbled to the floor. But the other screw was worn and partly stripped, and it refused to come free. And even if this worked, he wondered what he would do with the dismantled knob. Two enormous bolts were set deep into the adjacent wall, each ready to fight him to the end. Diamond touched the dead wood and the lowest cross bracings and each wooden pin that held the stubborn door together. Three hinges were on the left side, each filled with a long iron pin. The pin on the bottom hinge had worked partway free. That seemed important. With his little hammer, he struck the pin from below, trying to lift it free. Soon the pin’s head was shiny, and he mad
e so much noise that he heard it in his head after he quit. But nothing had changed. Nothing was different. So he stepped back and looked at everything but the door, searching for the hardest toughest strongest object in the room.
Then he saw himself in the mirror.
Tools always broke, but the boy was an enduring constant. He attacked the door’s wood with screwdrivers and steel prods and other small, nearly useless implements. Then he set the hand lens on the floor and broke it with the leg of a chair, and wrapping the biggest shard inside his heaviest shirt, he sliced long narrow gouges into the softest board. Pressing as hard as possible, the sharp edge peeled out slivers, and he cut up the shirt and himself and finally stopped to heal. Then he went back to work and cut himself again and forgot to stop. Time didn’t matter. But it was still early morning and still very bright and nothing useful had been accomplished. So he dropped to the floor and stared at the bloody mess of his right hand, watching the blood pull back inside him before the skin closed and turned pink again. He was deciding if he should sit here and cry or cry in bed. Both plans had their merits, and he hadn’t decided. And that’s when a voice said something about the knob.
He didn’t know the voice. And to say that he heard words would overstate what happened. But there was a presence, both distant and exceptionally close. It came from the world or surfaced from his brain. Whatever the source, he felt it for a moment and then there was nothing to feel, and as if for the first time, he stared at the knob.
Rising to his feet, Diamond took two deep breaths. Then he grabbed the round brass ball with his unbloodied hand, and the repaired, well-lubricated mechanism turned easily, and not only wasn’t the knob locked, but while he was sleeping, sometime during that very long night, someone had taken the trouble to unlock the long bolts as well.