“White as a ghost,” his mother said. Mrs. Weller kept pulling at the hem of her sleeve, and Mr. Weller was quite nearly smiling, skeptical and bemused.
“A couple times I yelled out, but whatever it was would run away—you could hear it scamper over the rocks—but then it came around again the way a dog will circle back on you. Or maybe there was more than one of them. Maybe you’re right, Fred, maybe there’s coyotes or a pack of wild dogs out there. Maybe that’s what got my throat.”
Mr. Weller’s smile broadened, and then he blushed.
“Were you just frightened to death?” Mrs. Weller asked. She had inched closer.
“Let me tell you, I was scared, and didn’t know where I was half the time. Only by keeping the sea on my left could I figure out the way home.”
He pictured his father out in the dark, using his mind to turn the landscape so that the sea would be on his left-hand side, rotating the darkened sky like tilting a picture. Maybe the monsters would just slide off the page. He wanted his father to open the doors and shake out the Wellers. Erase Nick from the page. He was tired of them. Without hesitation, he yawned wide and roared a protracted sigh.
“Seems we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Mr. Weller said, nodding to the sleepy boy. “We really ought to be getting home. Thanks for having Nick.”
Mrs. Weller stared at her husband as though he had said a bad word. “Not until Tim finishes his story.”
“Of course not, dear,” Mr. Weller said, folding his arms across his chest. “Tim, we’re pins and needles.”
“There’s not much more to it. I picked up a rock and threw it, and whatever it is stopped following me. The boys must have forgotten to turn on the outside lights, which would have been a beacon, so I stumbled around in the dark, looking for the house, till I spotted Jip’s bedroom window. Go to the light at the end of the tunnel. Isn’t that what they say you do when you die. Look, I’m all right. A bit frosty around the edges, and the blood—”
“I think you should see a doctor,” Holly said. “If not tonight, at least in the morning.”
“But you must have been out cold for hours,” Mrs. Weller said. “You could have a concussion.”
“Did you hit your head?” Jack Peter asked.
From the corner of the room, Nick coughed, reminding them of his presence.
“I don’t remember.” He touched his forehead. “Maybe that’s one symptom of amnesia. You can’t remember if you have it.”
Mr. Weller fetched their coats and hats. “No more monsters for tonight.”
“No more monsters,” his father said.
“Peckerless or otherwise, no more monsters. Doctor’s orders.” Mrs. Weller stood to join her husband. “You get him to bed, Holly, and we’ll give you a call in the morning, eh?”
“You’ve been too kind,” his mother said. “I’ll take care of Tim, now.”
Jack Peter studied the Wellers as they readied themselves to go, wrapping themselves until they nearly lost all shape. At the door, Mrs. Weller leaned over and kissed his father on the cheek. Mr. Weller grabbed him in a bear hug and squeezed so hard it made his father gasp, and then they stepped into the night. Through the window Jack Peter watched them pass through the beam from the porch light. Nick looked left and right and all around as if worried about what lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce. They made it safely to the car, which trailed away, two red taillights that narrowed to pinpoints and vanished.
Beside the easy chair, his mother crouched next to his father so that their faces were on the same plane. She had led him back to comfort and warmth, wrapped a blanket around his legs, and now they conspired in secret looks and low voices. They often spoke this way, in a language of gestures foreign and inscrutable. She laid her hand upon his forearm. He bowed his head toward hers.
“How about I run you a nice hot bath? And while you’re soaking, I’ll make us something to eat—you must be starving.”
Careworn, she slowly stood and made her way upstairs. Rushing water overhead broke the silence. His father reclined in the easy chair, head back, resting his eyes. Jack Peter read the angles of his face, normal color returning to his skin, and listened to the soft purring of his steady breathing. From afar, he traced the three long lines swiped across his throat and a nick beneath his left ear. Just when he seemed to have fallen fully asleep, his father arched an eyebrow and popped open one eye. They considered each other from a short distance before Jack Peter had to turn away.
His father closed his eyes again and spoke in a calm and measured tone. “Who do you think was out there, Jip?”
He cleared his throat and whispered. “A monster.”
“But there are no such things as monsters, son.”
“Then I don’t know.”
The roar of water upstairs ended abruptly, and he knew his mother was now testing the temperature with her elbow. He had seen her do so a hundred times before, rolling back her sleeve and hunching over the tub to make sure the bath was not too hot or too cold. She specialized in making things just right. In a moment, she would call his father when it was all set, but Daddy was already moving, untangling the blanket from his legs and lifting his sore and tired body from the chair.
His mother stayed with him and did not return immediately to make their dinner, leaving Jack Peter alone downstairs. He gazed at the strings of colored lights on the Christmas tree, touching the different ones to feel if blue was hotter than red or if green was as cool as grass, but the bulbs were all the same, the heat as tiny as the heart of a bird. When he tired of that experiment, he wandered to the kitchen and found the bloodied dishcloths soaking in the sink next to the dirty dishes from his feast with Nick. Battle wounds from the wars of the toy soldiers. On the refrigerator door, the boy in the picture seemed to be following him with his eyes, so Jack Peter turned his back on him and saw at once in the opposite window a white flash of movement. A face watching him had turned away. The man was in the yard. Jack Peter ran to the glass, but all he could see was the pitch of night and his own reflection smattered with light from the kitchen. His warm hands on the cold surface left ghost impressions when he withdrew, a sign on the windowpane, hello, good-bye. He decided that he would not tell them about the visitor, that he would not let on that he was losing control. Better to keep some secrets to yourself.
An hour after she had said she would be right back, his mother came down to the kitchen in a bathrobe, her wet hair turbaned in a high towel, her face flushed against her white smile. His father followed shortly thereafter, he too in a robe and slippers, moving with rejuvenated assurance, as if nothing had happened. Only the bandage at his neck hinted otherwise. Each parent nodded upon first seeing their son but was otherwise indifferent to his presence. They worked together at the stove and counter, throwing together a boiling pot of pasta and a jar of tomato sauce, a casual salad, and frozen rolls heated and brushed with olive oil and garlic. Believing himself invisible, Jack Peter was surprised when they remembered to invite him to the table. He saw how they had changed. They were a team again, and he would have to see what he should do about that. The blush of red wine filled the room when his father uncorked the bottle. Piping hot, the spaghetti was no sooner set on the table than they were at it like a pair of wild beasts. They chomped at the bread, slurped at the sauce, and drained their glasses to the lees. They ate as though they had been starving, abandoning themselves to desire, as if the raw act of eating was somehow wicked when true wickedness was just outside the door.
Three
The man next to Holly took the light from his son, a boy of Jack’s age, and passed it to her, tipping the small candle to her wick, a drop of wax falling to the circle of cardboard protecting her hand against just such accidents, and then she turned to the stranger on the other side to send the dot of flame on down the pew. Soon the darkened church was illuminated by hundreds of such candles, and at the altar the priest, resplendent in his white and gold vestments, was saying something about the child who brought lig
ht into the world, but Holly could not understand his prayer, for she was caught in the yellow and blue flickering before her eyes, remembering similar ceremonies with her parents and sisters at the midnight Masses of her youth. She had nearly forgotten how it felt to be so carefree and filled with expectation. The congregation listened to the first measure from the organ and then all voices rose in song, and the music carried the altar boys and the deacon and Father Bolden on their recessional along the center aisle. She had just found her place in the hymnal when it all ended, the carol complete, the parishioners blew out their candles and wished friends and fellows alike a Merry Christmas.
In mere moments, the flock had flown, leaving behind a few kneeling penitents, heads bowed, whispering their prayers. In front of her an elderly woman in a lace mantilla reminded Holly of her grandmother. Across the aisle, a family with six children as well dressed and well behaved as the von Trapps were putting on their overcoats atop their suits and dresses, the youngest crying softly as he was roused to be bundled up. A toddler in a tiny vest and red bow tie could not keep from staring at Holly, and when she smiled back and waved, he buried his head on his father’s shoulder. The crowd at the rear of the church thinned to a manageable few, so she slipped into her coat and headed toward the vestibule. She hovered at the edge so she could be among the last people there, greeting the priest.
Father Bolden brightened when she came into view and grabbed her extended hand with both of his and pulled her to him, close enough so that she could smell the wine on his breath and the incense lingering in the folds of his vestments. She was aware of a few souls around her, but at the same time, his gesture created an intimate space, perfect for what she had come to say.
“A very Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Keenan. I’m so delighted to see you here.” He squeezed her hand in his. “After you left so suddenly, I was afraid I had scared you off and would never see you again.” Noticing someone over her shoulder, he let go with his right hand but held on to her arm with his left. “Just who I was looking for.”
Bundled in her winter coat, Miss Tiramaku shuffled to his side. She gave Father Bolden a kiss on his cheek and offered her hand to Holly. In the soft light of the church, Miss Tiramaku was no more substantial than a will-o’-the-wisp, but Holly felt a strange warmth in her touch.
“Mrs. Keenan,” she said. “Merry Christmas. I was hoping to see you tonight. I think I may have left you with a bad impression.”
“No,” Holly said. “I was just a little thrown by our talk. And that painting of the shipwreck. And your ghosts.”
Miss Tiramaku was massaging her hand. “I’d like to talk with you about your son. He and I share the same condition, that is to say, we’re on the same spectrum, though they never called it autism when I was a child.”
“Asperger’s,” Holly said. “But you are fine now? Functioning?”
Suppressing a laugh, she nodded. “If you call this functioning. I’d like to meet your son sometime, see if I can be of any help.”
For a moment, Holly felt a surge of hope, a fleeting possibility that Jack might not be forever trapped inside.
The priest turned around to the two women.“Cinnamon buns in the morning, Miss T.?”
“It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.” She smiled. “May we meet again soon, Mrs. Keenan.”
“Holly,” she said. “And a very merry Christmas to you.”
Miss Tiramaku went on her way, pushing open the doors and disappearing into the night, leaving the church nearly empty.
“When I was a little girl, we used to come to midnight Mass every Christmas eve,” Holly said.
“Welcome home. And how is that boy of yours?”
“I need to talk with you, Father. It’s not just Jack but my husband, too. He’s been acting strangely. Wandering around at night, seeing things.”
“Seeing things?”
She leaned forward and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “He left the boys alone and went out by the ocean because he saw something. All day long, came back with these wicked deep scratches in his throat. He was a bloody mess. Claims it was ghosts.”
The von Trapps marched up to them in single file, a song waiting to be born if she ever saw one. In order to give them a proper greeting, Father Bolden released her, and shook each hand one by one and gave the littlest among them a pat on his sleepy head. The moment was ideal for her escape, but Holly found herself bound to the priest by invisible wires. She had said too much, and having heard “ghosts” emerge from her mouth, she felt slightly embarrassed by the ridiculousness of the word. She did not believe in ghosts, and thought all those who believed in them to be slightly mad. Even the Japanese housekeeper with her yurei. Perhaps Tim had gone mad as well, out wandering the shoreline, pursued by monsters. She wanted to retract her confession, rewind the conversation to its beginnings and beyond, to the moment she had ever decided to come to this place. Her husband and child were asleep in their beds. She should be home, dreaming of sugarplums.
Just as she was about to leave, Holly felt a tug at her sleeve and saw that the old priest had latched on to her again and would not let go. The last of the von Trapps bid him auf Wiedersehen, adieu, and they trooped off. Father Bolden drew her closer. He reminded her of a Cub Scout at a campfire, ready for the thrill of the story. “What do you mean by ghosts?”
“That was wrong. I’m not sure if he really meant ghosts or something else. What I meant to say was that he’s been acting strangely lately. My husband. My son, too. I just needed an hour’s peace. Jack will be up at the crack of dawn, waiting by the Christmas tree, and it’s just been madness. Chaos, the holidays, you know?”
“Better than most. A case of the Christmas spirits.”
She shrugged at his joke and offered him half a smile.
“The offer stands,” he said. “You come see me anytime you want or need to. There’s always a lull after Christmas.” He relinquished his grip and sent her on her way.
The clouds had fallen during the service, and a soft fog settled upon the landscape. In the mist, the lights in the parking lot sprouted halos. A minivan purred to life, its headlights picking the way through the gloom. The von Trapps, she imagined, heading home to bed, and in the morning there would be confetti of wrapping paper and ribbons and bows, and whiskers on kittens, and a few of her favorite things. Why isn’t my life more like a musical? As she reached her car, Holly stuck her hand inside her purse to search for her keys but was surprised instead by the candle and its cardboard circle concealed like a gun. She debated whether she should return it to the church, but decided a small white sin was preferable to further embarrassing conversation with the priest.
Gripping the steering wheel, she leaned close to the windshield to try to see where she was going. The thick mist parted as the car pushed forward, and she toyed with the wipers to little improvement. She drove cautiously, grateful that no one else was around, and to ease her anxiety, she replayed the Christmas hymns on the soundtrack in her mind. At the turn onto Shore Road, a shadow crossed the pavement in front of her, and she braked, uncertain of what she had seen. Ahead on the driver’s side, the object seemed to move again, the mist rippling in its wake, and she rolled down her window and stuck out her head into the dark night. “Hello,” she said, but only the purr of the engine returned her call. Bitter air rushed into the car, and the blast rejuvenated her in that sleepy hour. The clock radio read half-past one.
An answer rose up from the silence. Initially she thought there must be a problem with the car, the scrape of the wipers on a dry window or whining from the parking brake. She pulled onto the shoulder and shut off the engine. The ever-present ocean bashed against the rocky coast somewhere below, but on top of that familiar rhythm a human sound filtered through the dense cloud, like a party nearby, the last of the revelers blurting out a song, and then she took it for an argument heading to violence, a husband and wife hollering at each other. Or Fred Weller’s pack of coyotes howling at the moon, but those were no animal sound
s. The voices had a different tenor, a tone of desperation. She opened the door and stepped out into the night.
Where were they coming from? Holly crossed the road and looked down the embankment toward the water, but it was hopeless. The mist around her swallowed everything, made all invisible. She could be forty yards or four hundred yards from the edge, and even if she could manage to find the shore, what then? Far off and out at sea came the sounds. Voices, she imagined, in the cold and darkness, the passengers from the Porthleven, begging for rescue and an end to their terror. Couldn’t be, but still, something out in the water could not be seen, could not be saved. Her heart raced and panic tugged at her limbs. She felt the urge to plunge forward and launch herself into the rocks, but an equal force kept her locked to the spot, dread rising in her gut. The fog tasted of salt. She bent over at the waist and rested her hands on her knees to prevent hyperventilating, and when she looked up, there was no wooden ship sinking in the ocean. As abruptly as the screaming began, it suddenly stopped, like a recording cut off in midmeasure.
The calmness frightened her more than the sound. She listened in vain, waiting for the screams to resume, but the voices had been interrupted and abandoned. Fear crystallizes time, makes it slow and still. Only once before had she experienced this feeling, the day her son had vanished from the beach. To make the world spin again, she would have to will it to motion, so she inhaled a deep breath and let it spool from her lungs. The car across the road seemed miles away, the murkiness as thick as blood. Her husband and son were asleep in their beds, the Christmas house was waiting for her to return. For a few moments, she sat in the car, running the heater. It’s late, she told herself, I should just crawl into bed. The ocean was just an idea, a sound and nothing more. No Porthleven rock-riven and filling with cold water. No mysterious lupine figure wandering in the night air. No pair of boys playing in the surf and tumbling beneath the waves. No inside boy, no strange and penetrating stares from the babe at her breast. No strangers accusing her. No husband. How long ago had she known? How soon had her instinct told her the truth about Jack? The world of ifs, the land of so.
The Boy Who Drew Monsters Page 12