by Glen Krisch
He parsed at the miniscule particles bobbing through his newly corporeal form, and like an archeologist, he discovered tiny nuggets that represented all he could hope for. Particles of Kevin, his dreamer and former captor. The dust of his skin; sloughed-off dead cells. Condensed droplets from his lungs, a wetness floating in his used, respired breath. A wetness that made Freakshow's mouth salivate; a wetness that was nearly as dear to him as the rich blood pulsing though the boy's heart.
He unfurled, limbs quaking, nerves frayed. The room was dark. His fiery eyes glowed, embers in a dying campfire. He could step three strides in any direction before finding a wall. He coiled his fists and let loose a raging barrage of kicks, punches and scraping claws against the confining walls.
There was no give to the walls and the surface wasn't the least bit marred by his efforts. He only felt something new to him. Fatigue. Squatting on his haunches, his back against one corner of the room, he began to ponder his escape. He would need to use all of his faculties in order to succeed. The humans had control over their environment and he was a stranger to this new land. But the boy was close. He could feel it aching in the marrow of his bones, aching like some human disease. Kevin was near, and he was asleep.
Let the boy sleep. He would need to rest in order to fight for his life. And a fight would be a dear thing. A fight would increase the boy's fear, and would build Mr. Freakshow's strength in the process.
Freakshow took in a gulp of air, and held it shortly before letting loose a shrill scream that seemed to shake the teeth embedded in his jawbone. It wasn't a scream of pain or frustration. Only pure, unfettered anticipation. When his scream was sated and his lungs were empty, his chest still burned with the unfamiliarity of breathing.
Nika's dreams stirred at the sound of the scream. When Gage opened his eyes, he wondered if it was only a dream. Rupert, his spindly arms shaking as he clung to Gage's arm, whimpered in Gage's lap. Soon enough, the dreams settled again, and Gage let sleep take him away from this place.
Chapter 10
It felt like waking from a dream. Kevin certainly remembered Mr. Freakshow and how the nightmare had tormented his sleep since his dad's murder. But now the Freak didn't rule his sleep, twisting Kevin in his ever-tightening grip.
His nightmare was gone.
Reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed for the day--the first day since visiting Maury Bennett that he'd woken before noon--Kevin stared out his bedroom window. He listened to the birds singing their morning songs. He couldn't enjoy it, this relaxation, this laziness. It felt like a part of him was missing. With his nightmare gone, his emotions were exposed to all the pain he'd gone through leading up to his father's murder. The tension between his parents. The way he abruptly learned of his parent's separation. The pain of knowing his family had failed. It was all there, twirling about his stomach, magnified now that Mr. Freakshow was gone.
Kevin didn't remember much about the museum or the ride home from seeing Maury Bennett. When they had reached the sidewalk after leaving the museum, he felt so drained he could barely keep his eyes open. His mom let him rest the whole trip home without asking him any questions about what had happened inside the glassed-in room.
He didn't know what he would have told her if she had asked. He remembered Maury's hand on the skin of his forehead, and his touch felt white-hot, like the inside of a heated oven. Then the heat disappeared, and with his eyes still closed, he heard a whispered voice, a foul breeze lapping at his ear. The voice became silent, and then he felt a pulling sensation, as if his skeleton was being pulled to the surface of his skin, through his skin, leaving him a tumbled-over pile of skin and blood.
He shook his head as if trying to throw off the image.
In the void he now felt, he found pain. Pain like a physical wound. The answer became as obvious as the sun rising. His loss, the focal point for all his pain.
Dad.
If Kevin could have waited to use the bus station restroom, even for just the two minutes it would have taken until he was safely on the bus with his mom, his dad would have stayed back in Warren Cove. He would still be alive.
He pushed away from the bed, feeling sluggish and on edge. Betrayed. A paste of spit caked his lips. He walked to the bathroom in a not-so-straight line, relieved his bladder, washed his face. The clock on the wall outside the bathroom showed it was shortly after nine a.m.
He went down the hall to the living room, plopped down on the couch next to his mom, the pain in his stomach boiling over to anger. The T.V. blared, unwatched, as she unenthusiastically worked a needlepoint, absently pulling the threaded needle through the round canvas, shaping the likeness of a kitten one needle prick at a time.
She noted his appearance with a glance and nod before going back to the slowly emerging kitten.
"When were you going to tell me?" Kevin asked.
"Tell you what?"
"About Dad."
His mom kept her eyes on the needlepoint, as if gathering her words carefully. "What about your Dad?" She stuck the needle through the canvas and placed it on the end table.
"He wasn't coming with."
For a split second, he saw the grief in her eyes, a brittle fatigue that reminded him of the day of the funeral.
An image popped into his head. A rare detail from one of his countless visits from Mr. Freakshow. Amber Winstrom. "And you let that woman come to the funeral." He rolled the words to her, a ball in her court.
"I… how…?" his mom stammered.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't need to justify anything to you Kevin. We were leaving. That's all there is to say."
Kevin thought tears would come to his eyes, but they didn't. He didn't cower; he felt strong, willing to fight.
His mom looked like she was about to say something, but was interrupted by the doorbell.
"I'll get that," she said, rising from the couch.
Kevin muted the game show on the T.V. and perked his ears.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Dvorak?"
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"I was hoping you could answer some questions."
"What is this about?"
"Mrs. Dvorak, it is my understanding that your husband was the last victim of the so called Steak Knife Killer, Jeremiah--"
"I'm sorry, I don't want to talk about this." She leaned outside and closed the door against her body to block out the conversation.
"If this is a bad time…"
"Yes, it is. Any time would be a bad time for you to come knocking on my door."
"But Mrs. Dvorak, I'm writing a book about--"
His mom struck like a prodded snake, "I won't have you bothering my family about this. You goddamn vulture… swarming around like you belong here, like in some sick way you're necessary. Go, just get out of here. Get out of here!" She stepped outside, closing the door behind her.
Kevin jumped up from the couch and pulled aside the front drapes and watched his mom chase after the reporter, chase him all the way to his rusted-out Chevy parked on the street.
Her voice carried, even as she trailed after the defeated reporter down the sidewalk. "I don't want to tell my story. Nobody needs to hear my story. Telling it won't bring back my husband. All you want to do is glorify some dead psycho…"
The squealing of tires broke through his mom's tirade. The reporter's car spat a plume of black smoke and seemed to disappear into it, like some magic trick.
His mom slowly walked back to the house. He could see her chest heave as she took in deep breaths of air, trying to compose herself. When her hand turned the doorknob, he quickly un-muted the T.V. Someone on The Price is Right just won a dining room set. Kevin acted like he was entirely consumed by the game show and didn't acknowledge her return.
She took her seat on the couch and picked up her needlepoint, but it remained untouched in her lap.
"Damn reporters. They're almost as bad as lawyers," she said.
Only a few days went by once the
y moved to his grandma's house before the reporters found them. They tried phone calls and letters by mail, and occasionally, someone would be aggressive enough to knock on the front door and try to get his mom to spill her guts. They obviously didn't know his mom.
"Sorry, Mom," Kevin said, offering a blanket apology for both the reporter's appearance, and their argument. He felt deflated. Defeated.
"When you're older, you'll understand."
"I hope so." He would do anything to bring meaning to such senseless loss. He wanted to just move on, forgetting everything before his arrival at his grandma's house. He would be willing to not have a past, to forget all of his memories, both good and bad, if he could just move on.
She patted his knee and seemed even less interested in her needlepoint than when he entered the living room.
Kevin didn't take his eyes from the T.V. until after the end credits. He tossed the remote to the couch cushion near his mom.
"I'm going to see what Grandma's up to."
"I think she's out back, in the garden."
Kevin didn't make eye contact with his mom, but he noticed the tremor in her hand as she tried to make the next needle prick in the pale blue canvas. He headed out the front door. A pair of black streaks marred the road where the reporter's rust bucket sped away. Kevin hooked a right and followed the narrow sidewalk around the side of the house.
The feeling was deep inside, like the slow lurch of a stomach flu. Things were changing. Maybe it was school starting next week--the end of summer, chasing fireflies in the dusk, playing ball in the morning dew (ignoring the cold damp working into his feet), and a thousand other mindless summer activities--things done during summertime and no other time, those would soon be gone. But was it a summer to pine over and cling to, tasting every last hour of it until it was gone, and missing it when it was over? Kevin's stomach did another slow lurch, and he knew he wasn't going to miss this summer.
He went through the gate leading to the back yard and stopped short of closing the latch. His grandma sat on an old wooden crate, leaning over to pry weeds from the flowerbed lining the fence encircling the backyard. Her hands fluttered in the air, inches above the shriveled blooms of her flowers, as if sensing out the invading weeds. She worked her gloved hands down the stem of a thorny thistle, found its base, and gently pulled until the roots tore free. She shook it free of soil before tossing it over her shoulder, near a pile of other vanquished weeds.
"Come back to help your grandma?" She teased another weed from the ground.
"Sure." Kevin closed the gate latch and walked over to where she was working. The garden soil had a grayish, dry tint where she wasn't working. A moist, black circle fanned out in a semicircle from her improvised stool. The dried blooms clinging to the flowers had remnant traces of color, red turned to rust, yellow turned to mustard, all passed their shining days of early summer.
"Throw those weeds in the paper bag. I need to get this done before they stop picking up lawn waste for the year."
Kevin tossed the weeds into the tall brown bag. Her hands passed over the flowers, hesitated upon reaching a weed, and then carefully yanked it from the ground.
"Another reporter, huh?"
"Yeah. Mom chased him off."
"Good. I don't know how those people can stand being in their own skin. Some are good, reporting on things fairly and without causing additional damage with their questions. But they sure make it difficult for people to get over things."
"Yeah," Kevin said simply.
"Excited about school starting?"
"Sure," Kevin lied. He was glad for the change in subject.
"Starting in a new school is hard, but in a week or two it won't be so much. Soon you won't realize it's a new school." She stood and arched her back, groaning at her sore muscles."Grandma?" Kevin said, then hesitated.
"Yes, dear?"
"I was wondering… um, why do you spend so much time out here, if you know…" he said, unable to finish the question.
"Why do I bother with my garden when I can't see my garden?"
"Well, yeah," Kevin said, embarrassed. "Because your back hurts and your hands get stiff."
"When I'm complaining about my back or stiff muscles, that's just an old lady talking to make sure she's still alive." She took off her gardening gloves and left them near the flower bed. She placed her hand on his shoulder and together they walked over to the lawn chairs by the back door. "Truth is, Kevin, your grandpa was a country boy. He grew up on a farm. He didn't like the city one bit. Wasn't enough nature for him. But my doctor was in the city, in that old granite building on Westmont, and the doctors at Loyola were close by. I guess I knew he loved me when he said he would live in the city if I would marry him."
"So you couldn't see back then?"
"By that time, all I could see were little bits on the outside of my vision. You know when they say you see something from the corner of your eye?"
"Sure."
"It was kind of like that. By the time I met Howard, that is all I really saw, just glimpses. He didn't like the city, so we put up those high fences, and I planted as many green plants as possible. At least our property would seem like a little island he could escape to after work."
"Do you feel like you miss out on anything?"
"With my vision, you mean?"
"Well, yeah." He hoped he wasn't prying too much. No one in the family talked about his grandmother's condition. Everyone just accepted it as fact. He couldn't help a little curiosity.
"Seeing is subjective."
Kevin didn't say anything because he didn't know what she meant.
"How can I say this… well, I guess you could say I can still see, to a certain extent. Like you for instance." She turned to look at his face. "You, Kevin, are a royal blue in a black backdrop. Your mother's an emerald green, slightly darker than her father."
"You see us as colors?"
"The doctors always looked at me like I was crazy, so after awhile, I just stopped mentioning it. If I concentrate hard enough, I begin to see the shape of things. Not all things, just living things, people mostly. The shapes are small clouds of color. I call it the 'hidden color.'"
"What does royal blue mean?"
"Oh, I long ago gave up trying to put meaning to either the colors or why I even see it in the first place. It's just a blessing to see anything at all. The colors tend to stick to families, I know that much. Twins are the only ones with identical shades. Figures, since they're a part of one another, even down to the DNA."
"What color are you?"
"I'm a slightly lighter color of blue than you."
Kevin thought on this for a while. He imagined his grandma getting up in the morning, and seeing a blue-shaped cloud staring back at her in the mirror. He wondered why his mom never mentioned this before. "Can Mom do it?" Kevin instantly thought of a family of witches, passing on their talents from generation to generation.
"See the hidden color? I've never mentioned it to her. Around the time she was your age, the doctors were acting like they thought I was crazy for even mentioning it, so I gave up on mentioning it to anyone. Howard knew, of course, but now no one else knows but you."
"Is it a secret?"
"Just for you and me."
"Okay," Kevin said, happy to be a part of something secretive. His grandma's coolness factor just ratcheted up a few notches in his estimation.
They sat on the lawn chairs, and the only sound was the traffic that was starting to pick up a couple blocks over at the busy intersection. Kevin looked out at the backyard, with the horseshoe shaped garden, and the tall oak tree, and tried to see the "hidden color" of things. After a few minutes of fruitless effort, all he saw were the same old colors he saw every day.
"So what's wrong, Kev?"
"I can't see a thing. Nothing more than I usually see."
"That's not what I mean. You came back here for a reason. I could tell the moment you stepped foot back here."
"I don't know," Kevin
said, feeling like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.
"You know if you need to talk to someone, I'm always here. Even if you need to keep a secret."
"Thanks, Grandma." Kevin waited until he could leave without his grandma thinking it was because she asked how he was doing. Because he didn't know the answer to that ever-present question. "I'm going to go wash up."
Kevin was flipping channels, not keeping a steady channel for more than a couple seconds. His mom was back at her needlepoint, and for all the time she put into it, she didn't seem to be getting anywhere. Neither one of them mentioned their earlier argument. He figured they had both decided it was better to just forget it and move on. His grandma had come in after another half hour, and she patted Kevin's hand as she walked by, a gesture that his mom probably didn't understand. She then went into the kitchen to start dinner.
A knock at the door broke the silence. When he looked up, his mom gave him a questioning glance on her way to the door. He heard murmuring voices, but couldn't place them. He hoped it wasn't another nosey reporter.
"Kevin, it's for you," his mom said. She walked back to the kitchen to help his grandma, leaving the screen door closed. From the brown head of hair showing through the screen, he could tell it was Reid.
"Hey, Reid. What's up?"
"We thought you were coming back to play."
"Sorry. I've been sick."
"Well, we were wondering if you'd be out tomorrow. Lucy has his cousins over for the week and we need all the help we can get to beat them."
"They can't throw like him, but they sure can hit," the catcher, Stephen Rose, said from off to one side. Both boys had their gloves with them, and Reid had a nicked-up bat resting on his shoulder.
"Tomorrow?" Stephen asked, hopefully.
"Yeah, about ten in the morning. We can get in a full game before lunch," Reid said.