The Changeling

by Victor Lavalle

  The water splashed over the bucket, into the tub, running to the drain. Apollo hardly heard it. He stood now, facing Lillian, the two like rival gunslingers.

  “In the living room, I set out a sippy cup of milk and two sippy cups with water. I set out toast with peanut butter, a bag of popcorn, and a bowl full of grapes, I think. You were potty-trained by then, but I put you in an overnight diaper, and you didn’t like that. You kept tearing it off, so finally I brought in two plastic buckets and left them on the far side of the couch. That’s the thing that made you scared. Not when I told you I was leaving for a while, but the fact that you’d be doing number one and number two in the living room. Then I turned the television on. You paid no attention to me after that. Your fears disappeared once I found your shows. The Smurfs. I said you could watch TV until I came back. You kissed me. I remember. You kissed me. I probably kissed your head fifty times. I shut the front door and locked it. I went to work. You were four.”

  Lillian took two more steps into the bathroom, her eyes on the bathtub faucet. She watched the water overflow rather than turn it off. Apollo had turned only the hot water handle, and steam rose from the bucket. Lillian stared into the steam.

  “When I got home, you were asleep. The popcorn and the milk and one of the waters was finished. The grapes were finished. The peanut butter toast was facedown on the carpet. One of the buckets had pee in it, and the TV was on. American Bandstand. You’d passed out on the couch. You were all right. I never felt more relieved in all my life.

  “But then when next Saturday came around, and MJ and Petey were visiting family in New Jersey, I set things up the same way, with you in the living room, and I went in to work for a half day. When I got back, things were exactly like the first time. You were so good! It worked well, so it became the routine. I worked half days on Saturdays, and that seemed like enough to satisfy Charles Blackwood. I even felt proud of you for being so self-sufficient. At least that’s how I justified it to myself.”

  Lillian sat on the edge of the tub, looking at the steaming water flowing into the bucket. She reached out and turned off the water, watched as the last droplets fell from the spout. Apollo, still standing, leaned against the wall, beside the towel rack.

  “But then things changed. You started waking up with nightmares. You screamed that your daddy was at the front door. You said he had come here to get you but then left you behind. Why did he have to leave you behind? That about killed me.”

  Apollo sat on the toilet so he’d be level with his mother. “Are you telling me my father really was at the apartment?”

  “Yes.” She said this so quietly that he practically had to read her lips.

  “It was a memory, not a dream.”

  “Yes,” Lillian said, even more softly.

  They both remained quiet. Excess water gurgled as it drained from the tub.

  “So what happened?” Apollo asked, his volume matching hers.

  “One afternoon I came home and found him there,” Lillian said. “I couldn’t believe it. I sent him away.”

  “Why?”

  Lillian opened her left hand and pressed her ring finger. “I filed for divorce. I was leaving him.”

  Apollo lunged for the bucket of water, spilling almost half as he pulled it from the tub. He grabbed the sponge mop, too, and left the bathroom. He returned to Brian’s room and set the bucket down. He felt outside himself, watching himself. He held the sponge mop with two hands, the head a full foot off the floor.

  Lillian crept into the room carrying the wood cleaner. She brought the bottle to Apollo and offered it up.

  “Why did you want a divorce?” Apollo asked.

  She lowered her hand, bumping the bottle of wood cleaner against her thigh. “Your father was a good man. You saw how he saved everything, movie tickets, a headshot, that book. He could be a real romantic, and that was fun for a while. But I had to put you in daycare at two months old so I could go back to work. After a long day I pick you up, and your father is sitting on the couch watching television and asking me when dinner will be ready. The same at breakfast. Every damn day. Then he lost his job and it got even worse. He was around the house all day, but still was no help. It’s like I was married to two children. That’s what I came to America for? To be a servant?”

  “So it was me,” Apollo said. “I made it too tough for you to stay together.” He held the mop handle with two hands and swayed faintly on his legs.

  Lillian set the bottle of wood cleaner on the floor. She stepped closer to her son. She put a hand to his back and patted him lightly.

  “You’re the reason we stayed together as long as we did,” she said. “And you’re the best thing to come out of that love. It was a choice I had to make. Leaving Brian was what I needed to do just to keep afloat.”

  “What about me, though?” Apollo asked. “I needed both of you.”

  “I know,” Lillian whispered.

  “My whole life I’m just trying to figure out how to be a good man, and now you tell me you left one behind. When it was time for me to be a father, I didn’t have any example. A model. One I could learn from, compare myself to. So I’m stuck making it all up as I go along, feeling like I’m inventing everything and doing it badly. And look how fucked up it got. Because of some choice you made more than thirty years ago.”

  Lillian left the bedroom. Apollo followed her, still gripping the sponge mop so tightly it seemed fused to his hands. “I tried my best,” she said. “That’s all I could do.” She walked through the kitchen, into the living room, and into Apollo and Emma’s bedroom. She slipped on her shoes. She walked back into the living room and found her purse by the couch. She took her coat from the front closet. She opened the front door, then looked back at him as if she might still be offered a reprieve.

  “Why couldn’t you let him be a part of my life at least?” Apollo asked. “He could’ve picked me up every other week and dropped me off again. You two didn’t even have to speak to each other. Lots of my friends had families like that, and I envied them every day!”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Lillian said.

  “I’m not talking about you! I thought I was a monster. Like something must be wrong with me.”

  “How could you ever think that?”

  “My father left me without looking back. That’s what I thought. Why else would he leave unless I was worthless? And now I found out it’s just because you made some choice that was good for you? Maybe he wasn’t much help around the house because he lost his job. You couldn’t give him a little while to get back on his feet? Jesus.”

  Lillian nodded softly, then stepped into the hallway. She unzipped her purse, found a card, and wrote quickly on the back. “This is the address for Nassau Knolls,” she said. “You don’t have to go there with me, but you should go to Brian’s grave.”

  Apollo didn’t move, so she set the card on the floor. He shut the door and locked it. He double-checked that he’d done this. Triple-checked. He looked through the peephole to see Lillian on her phone, ordering a car back to Springfield Gardens. She stayed in the hallway, on the other side of his door, and he watched her until the phone bleeped that her ride had arrived. Apollo went to the windows in his bedroom and watched her get inside. The time was two-thirty in the morning.

  HOLYROOD. AN EPISCOPAL church in the Gothic style. Opened in 1914, all steeples and sound planning. It sat in the shadow of the George Washington Bridge bus terminal. This was the church where Emma had wanted to baptize Brian.

  The front doors of the church were open, but despite the daylight the interior stayed dark. Apollo entered slowly. Three women sat in the last pew praying quietly. A tall, slim man stood at a table of flyers and stacked hymnals. He held a small flip phone, jabbing at it angrily.

  “Father Hagen?” Apollo asked.

  The man’s face had gone red. He looked to be in his sixties. His eyes were vital, his hair thinning. He looked up at Apollo, exasperated. He shut the phone with a snap.
r />   “Call me Jim,” he said. He waved the cellphone. “I was just trying to call you, but I couldn’t find your number. I’m no good with these things.”

  He shrugged as if used to playing the role of the slightly befuddled old man. His wily grin suggested he was only playacting.

  “Did you have any trouble finding us?” Father Hagen asked. The three women in the pew looked up from their silent prayers and Father Hagen raised a hand of apology. He waved for Apollo to follow, then led him through the nave and through a door leading down into the basement.

  “I live around the corner,” Apollo said. “It wasn’t hard to find you.”

  “Yes,” the priest said, as if this wasn’t a surprise. Apollo watched the old man cautiously. Father Hagen stopped him on the stairs and brought a hand to his shoulder.

  “This is where I confess,” he said. “I know who you are.”

  “Because of the news,” Apollo said.

  Father Hagen dropped his hand. “Because of your wife.”

  “Emma?”

  “She came here,” he said. “She wanted to plan a baptism for your son. She made an appointment for her to come back with you. And with Brian.”

  Apollo leaned back against the railing of the stairs but felt as if he might flip backward and fall to the bottom. “I remember that,” he said.

  Father Hagen watched Apollo. The priest had the look of a basset hound, that drawn face and sense of sadness in the eyes. “She seemed to be having trouble,” he said. “But I never would’ve guessed that…I would’ve tried to help if I’d understood.”

  Now it was Apollo who touched Father Hagen’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  Father Hagen tapped his forehead lightly and grinned. “I wish I could’ve helped her. That’s all.”

  Each man stood with arms crossed, hovering between the church and its basement. Apollo found himself choking down a surge of anger. He wished he could’ve helped her? All the people to sympathize with in Apollo’s family and he chose Emma? But okay, fine fine fine, no point in arguing with the man. Just get on with life.

  Apollo took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “I’m going to need you to sign this,” he said. “For my parole.”

  Father Hagen took the sheet and scanned it. “I’ll be happy to, but why don’t we do it after the meeting?”

  Father Hagen moved to the bottom of the stairs. “We host the Survivors at least four or five times a year, so I’ve become friends with Alice. As we were planning when they’d come through again, she mentioned you’d been at the last meeting at the library. I begged her to come here this week, even though I think they had plans to meet downtown. I wanted to meet you face-to-face and say again how sorry I am that I couldn’t have been more help to your family.”

  Now Father Hagen opened a heavy door and waved Apollo through.

  They entered a large community room. Holyrood served coffee and snacks after mass down here. Birthday parties and communion parties were held, and voting machines were brought in for local and national elections. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings they ran a soup kitchen in the basement—the line ran out the door and partway down the block. But this afternoon it was reserved for the Survivors. More than a dozen chairs, more than a dozen Survivors this time. Fifteen. Sixteen now that Apollo had arrived.

  As Father Hagen entered the room, a small older woman approached him, whispering.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” he said softly. “I promise.”

  Alice caught Apollo’s eye and waved him toward an empty chair. The old guy with the graying beard was there. His name was Julian, and he lived in the Bronx. Apollo recognized a few others, but not all of them. It didn’t matter. He’d been new last week, and now it was their turn.

  “I want to welcome all the new arrivals,” Alice said when they finally began. “I’m happy you were able to find us today. I know I changed the location pretty last minute.”

  A middle-aged woman—new arrival—sitting two places away from Apollo raised her hand slightly. “I found out from the Facebook page,” she said. “My therapist told me about the group.”

  “Oh good,” Alice said. “Have you become a member? Or is it a fan? When I put together the page, I think I did it wrong. Who wants to be a fan of the Survivors?”

  Julian raised one hand. “I’m a fan.”

  Alice smiled. “Thanks, Julian. I’m a fan, too.” Then she looked around the room. “I’m Alice, by the way. I forgot to introduce myself. And…sir?”

  Another new arrival, paunchy guy in his fifties, had slipped his phone out of his pants, his eyes glazed as he tapped the screen. He looked up at Alice.

  “No phones during meeting,” she said coolly.

  He showed her the screen. “Sorry! I figured I’d become a fan right now.” He looked around at the group. “If I don’t do it right away I’ll forget.” He tapped the screen once more, then slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Sorry.”

  Alice leaned toward him. “Thanks for doing that. I appreciate it. Why don’t we go around the room now and introduce ourselves? You don’t have to speak, but we’d love to get to know you. If you’re here, then you’re a Survivor, too.”

  The middle-aged woman spoke again, more of a mumble that wasn’t heard. “Since my daughter went off I’ve been having a hard time.”

  —

  “My father used to read to me when I was a baby,” Apollo said.

  What was he talking about? What did this have to do with Emma’s crime? His recovery?

  “ ‘When Papa was away at sea,’ ” Apollo recited. He went on from there, reciting the words up until Ida had her back to the baby and the goblins—small, faceless creatures wearing purple cloaks—sneak in through an open window.

  He stopped here for a moment, because he’d lost his breath. In his pocket his phone vibrated twice. He didn’t bother checking it. He looked around the group. They’d been down here talking for fifty minutes.

  “It’s a Maurice Sendak book,” Apollo said.

  “Where the Wild Things Are?” Julian asked. “That guy?”

  “That’s him. But this one isn’t as sweet. It’s called Outside Over There.”

  “Why’d he read you that one?” Alice asked. “Even the little bit you recited sounds frightening. No one is watching the baby.”

  The whole room took on a certain stillness then. Maybe they were all considering the implications of what Alice had just said. Apollo certainly did.

  No one is watching the baby.

  Each person in the room had his or her own sadness to inhabit. The group fell into a meditative state, silence and prayers.

  Then Apollo’s phone rattled again in his pocket, and he shot up straight even though he had the sound off. He looked around, damn near stricken, but no one seemed to notice. The phone rumbled again. And again. Not a phone call but a series of texts. Apollo looked at Alice, whose eyes were shut, as she did some kind of breathing exercise in her chair.

  While he watched her, Apollo slipped his phone from his pocket. He held it in the palm of his hand, down by his thigh. Four texts appeared on the screen, one after the next:

  Already found buyer for book!

  Wanted to talk price in person.

  Told him you were at church.

  Make the sale.

  Apollo didn’t have time to wonder how the hell Patrice knew he’d be here. Now he scanned the room trying to figure out if one of these people was this buyer. He hoped not. Imagine talking so much personal history before trying to make a sale. He wished Patrice had just done the haggling himself. But if Dana called Lillian over to keep Apollo alive, then this must’ve been Patrice’s way of doing the same. The meeting had gone on for fifty-five minutes at this point. Five more and they’d be finished, and then he could call Patrice back.

  “I saw my daughter in the computer.”

  Talk about whiplash. The voice, and the sentence, caused everyone in the room to make a sharp turn. Apollo felt so surprised, he
dropped his phone right there. It landed on its face with a clop. He quickly looked at Alice, who saw it, then glared at him, then looked to see who’d spoken, all within about five seconds.

  “I turned on my laptop, and there she was. My baby girl. A picture of her, out in the park with her grandparents.”

  The middle-aged woman who’d spoken earlier, the one who’d mentioned the Survivors’ Facebook page, that’s who talked now. She sat two seats away from Apollo, but he hadn’t really looked at her until now. The woman was so narrow, she looked as if she hadn’t eaten in aeons. Her hair had been pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, and her face showed creases along the forehead and the sides her mouth, the edges of her eyes, yet she might’ve been younger than Apollo. Her face wasn’t aged but agonized. As she spoke, she turned to Apollo.

  “But who took the picture?” She seemed to be asking him directly.

  She reached into her pocket, and instinctively, any number of the people in the group curled in their chairs as if she was about to pull a gun. Instead she retrieved a sheet of paper, bunched into a ball.

  Father Hagen looked to Apollo quickly, then back to the woman. When he spoke, he sounded utterly, impossibly, casual. Like a man more than used to cracked characters.

  “I once opened my Gmail account,” Father Hagen said to her, “and saw an ad running along the side of the page. This ad addressed me by name. It said, ‘Jim, we think you deserve a vacation in Costa Rica.’ And I wondered how they knew I liked to be called Jim because my given name is Francis. James is my middle name.”

  The woman turned her head from Apollo to Father Hagen. A quick baffled look crossed her face, as if Father Hagen were the one who sounded nuts. She unrolled the paper, so wrinkled and creased that it looked more like a piece of cloth.

  “The photo is from across the street, some apartment window,” the woman said softly. She wasn’t showing the page to them—she looked at it herself. “Who would be taking pictures of my child from up there? We don’t even live across from that park. My mom and dad took her there to play.”