Kevin chuckled tolerantly and said, “You're such a tool,” then turned and began to close the door. Halfway out he stopped and asked, “Hey, what's for supper, little man?"
"Ribs,” Kieran answered, turning his face to the wall. “They're in the fridge."
Kevin closed the door without turning off the light.
"Turn off the light,” Kieran shouted.
"Switch is on the wall,” his brother shouted happily back as he made his uncertain way to the kitchen.
* * * *
The following morning being a Monday, Kieran dressed himself in his usual jeans and T-shirt, ate a bowl of cereal heavily glazed with sugar and drowned in milk, and left for school in plenty of time to allow for wandering. His mother, having arrived home just after six a.m., was sleeping the first of what she called her “shifts,” having long ago discovered what most night workers learn—that it is almost impossible to sleep through the daylight hours, no matter how dark the room or silent the house. It's just unnatural to the human condition. Therefore, she would arise sometime in the early afternoon, putter about the house, then return to her bed once more as the day wore on. In any event, Kieran typically made his own way on such mornings.
As to Kevin, he remained behind the closed door of his bedroom, snoring, snorting, and occasionally shouting incoherently while in the grips of his alcohol and drug-induced unconsciousness. The hour of the day was of no matter to him, and that it was a school day of even less import. Kieran knew that his brother would deal with the consequences of his actions in his typical laconic, amused fashion, because he had, as he confided to Kieran, “an ace up his sleeve"—he did not care if he was thrown out of school. Surprisingly to Kieran, who never brought attention to himself and asked for nothing, the administration went out of their way to keep his brother in school, offering accommodations such as specialized schedules and classes that the average student could only dream of in stupefied envy.
Kieran made a point of kicking Kevin's door on the way out but was rewarded with only silence for his effort.
Kieran's ride to school would not normally have taken him through the woods, but this day he bumped along the narrow path, veined with exposed roots, until he popped out at his vantage point of the previous day and braked to a dusty halt. The two-story, yellow-and-green house appeared just as anonymous as its neighbors—only two of the cars from the previous day remained, and all the blinds were drawn. There was nothing whatsoever to distinguish it from its bland, modern counterparts and Kieran felt a pang of disappointment.
He allowed himself to roll down the slight incline and into the street, turning as he reached it to pedal slowly past the front of the house. He had almost completed this pass when he glimpsed something in the shadows between the front door and the wall of the garage. Almost hidden amongst the fronds of a voluminous green plant with long, slender leaves, pointed and sharp-edged, a carved figure peeked out at him, and even at a distance, Kieran's young eyes easily took in the unmistakable curves and voluptuous proportions of a tiny naked woman. He looked away and then back again in astonishment—did they have a naked dancing woman on their front porch? And did she have four arms?—his front tire scrubbed the curb and wobbled dangerously before he was able to regain control of his bike.
At the nearby bus stop, an overweight, pimply kid, two years his senior, laughed and shouted something obscene at him, but Kieran paid no mind, so enthralled was he at his extraordinary discovery. Turning for another pass, he saw a slat in one of the blinds near the statue lift to reveal a triangle of darkness, then fall once more into place, and sensing a trap, he reversed himself—further reconnaissance would have to wait, though he knew it could not wait long, for the desire to possess was hard upon him.
* * * *
Kieran's school day was interminable and his distraction so great that he was twice called to account for it. Worse still, his English teacher caught him in the midst of a feverish attempt to recreate with pencil and paper what he had only glimpsed that morning. Her sudden intake of breath at the generous proportions he had endowed his sketch with had been his only warning, and as this was a young teacher, whom he found especially attractive and nice, he was particularly mortified. Though clearly shocked at his depiction, she had nonetheless simply ripped the page from his notebook, wadded it up, and without word or comment consigned it to the trash basket. Even so, her gasp and his own blazing face told his classmates all they needed to know, and for the rest of the day he was treated to the nickname “Perv."
But with the ringing of the final bell, all of these trials were forgotten and left behind, as he rocketed out of the schoolyard ahead of the rush. So great was his hurry that he stood on his pedals, pumping madly down the streets until he made the turn onto Palomino Drive, and even then he drove on, desire replacing reason and stealth with boldness and inspiration.
Still riding at breakneck speed, Kieran aimed at the curb he had collided with earlier in the day; then, at the last possible moment, jerked the bike into the air and leaped the barrier to resume his juggernaut across the soft green of the strangers’ new lawn. The facade of the house remained unchanged, its windows still blinded to the outside world. The figurine that had danced in his mind all day hove into view as he turned to parallel the veranda, and her naked exuberance instantly burned away his earlier imaginings. She was like nothing he had ever seen before!
She did, indeed, have four arms and was as black as the space between the stars of a winter's night. One of the arms wielded a scimitar, its blade curved and cruel as a shark's mouth, while another brandished the head of someone, or something; Kieran had not drawn close enough yet to determine which. The remaining arms appeared to have been captured in graceful motion, in keeping with the thick, shapely leg seemingly raised in the act of a merry pirouette. Kieran applied the brakes just short of the porch and twisted the handlebars to execute a sudden, sliding stop, intending to launch himself onto the veranda and test the weight of the prize he must surely possess, and if it were possible, make away with it at that very moment. That was when his front tire flew off.
His collision with the soft, new fill of the lawn drove the wind from his lungs, but saved him from breaking any bones, and he rolled once before coming to a stop, splayed out on his back with his head at the feet of the sword-wielding goddess. From this vantage he could see that her enormous, blood-red tongue protruded at him in derision and that she sported a necklace of grinning skulls; whilst round her waist was strung a belt of human hands. Perhaps more ominously, she did not dance, but stood atop the body of a prostrate male. As his vision grew dark with the lack of oxygen, her form appeared to loom ever larger over him in triumph and he could see now that her allurements included a third eye on her forehead.
Suddenly, his lungs inflated, and his sight cleared like the passing of a squall line. He leapt to his feet, all action and resolve once more, and clambered onto the porch to seize his prize. He did not recognize himself in this newfound boldness and hurried to complete his task before his current incarnation abandoned him.
Even as he took hold of the slick, cold stone of the statue, he could sense its solidity. Whatever it had been carved from was incredibly dense and heavy, and it only took one attempt at lifting it to convince him that he would require assistance for this task. The old woman appeared at his elbow as if for just that purpose.
Kieran cried out, he was so surprised at her appearance. How had he not seen her? The front door stood wide open; she had obviously made no attempt at stealth. He stood slack-jawed in her presence, both due to her extraordinary appearance and the fact that he had never, in all his thieving, been caught in the act before now. He simply did not know what to do. Would her sons rush out, seize him, and call the police?
She shuffled toward Kieran, her hands raised in what was now a familiar gesture, even as he began to back away towards the edge of the porch. She was once again garbed in vibrant colors, though this time of gold and green. Up close, Kieran could s
ee that her arms, face, and exposed midriff were networked in wrinkles; her dark countenance sunken and dried-looking; any resemblance to the abundant and curvaceous statue long since sloughed off with great age. She continued to advance on Kieran, gently shaking her pressed hands as if in supplication and speaking all the while in her lilting birdsong language. Kieran stumbled backwards off the veranda and only just managed to keep his footing. He glanced nervously at the open door. The old woman stopped at the edge of the porch and pointed to the statue of the goddess. “Kali,” she whispered happily; “Kali."
Kieran looked to the statue as well. “Kali,” he repeated.
The old woman smiled broadly, revealing surprisingly good and numerous teeth, then laughed. “Chop-chop,” she said, “chop-chop."
* * * *
Kieran sat in the blue glow of the computer screen in the silent house and read the words he had conjured up from the ether. “Kali, the Dark Mother, is the fierce and fearful form of the mother goddess and is adorned with awesome symbols,” it began. “She was born from the brow of the Goddess Durga during a great battle with evil forces and became so enraged that she began to kill not just the enemies of Durga, but all things. In order to stop her, Shiva threw himself under her feet. So shocked was she at this, that she stuck out her tongue in astonishment and ceased her homicidal rampage."
"Shiva,” Kieran said softly, trying the word on for size. He made a note to look him up as well, then read the article through. It explained that Kali's black complexion symbolized her transcendental nature, whatever that meant, and her nudity showed that she was beyond false consciousness, while the garland of human heads stood for the letters in the Sanskrit alphabet and symbolized infinite knowledge; the severed hands represented liberation from karma, her sword the destroyer of the eight bonds that bind man, her three eyes, the past, present, and future—the sum total of which meant very little to Kieran other than to endow the object that he desired with yet greater power and allure. Hadn't his bike been knocked to pieces by merely approaching?
He turned away from the screen and looked across the dim, empty living room. From somewhere in the walls, a pipe knocked several times as the water within it cooled; then all went silent once more. His mother was still on night shift and he could count on Kevin to be either absent or disinterested in his whereabouts. Slipping on a black vinyl jacket with a ripped seam at the cuff, he searched through Kevin's room until he located his woolen navy watch cap and pulled it down to his eyebrows. Then he took several towels from the bathroom closet and went out to the aluminum shed in the backyard.
The shed leaned drunkenly against the chain-link fencing and it took him several attempts to force the warped door and locate the beach wagon he had stolen the summer before from the Richardsons. Several minutes of frantic effort followed, as he struggled to free it from the towering accumulation of eclectic, rusting property he had appropriated over the past several years. When he was finished, he didn't bother to try and restore the items he had strewn onto the patchy lawn, but left them as they lay, exposed and newly worthless.
He lined the bottom of the wagon with the towels and as soon as he felt it was dark enough, began to tow it toward the street, passing his crippled bicycle as he did so. His “new” bike stood propped against the back wall of the house, out of sight of the neighbors. The chubby kid at the bus stop who had laughed at his near mishap the day before was the unwitting “donor,” as this had seemed just. Kieran entered the woods before moonrise and made his certain way to Palomino Drive.
Though it was not yet ten o'clock, the neighborhood appeared empty and lifeless; the workaday world had locked itself in for the night and the street belonged to the stealthy and feral. Kieran crossed the silent street pulling his fat-wheeled wagon behind him. He did not hesitate or think any more on what he was doing, as it was only through calm focus and deliberate action that he achieved the cloak of invisibility he required. This was a skill he had taught himself long before, and it had been his mistake to have abandoned this the day before in his excitement—this was how he had been caught by the old woman. He quietly pulled the wagon onto the lawn and made directly for the darkened corner of the porch where Kali dwelt.
As he neared the alcove, the moon began to peek over the treetops and its first pale light glistened on the statue's black skin, revealing her raging, three-eyed face and sword-wielding upraised arm. Kieran paused, his concentration momentarily derailed by the vision; then he brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head—he hoped that this might placate any resistance over her transference to his keeping. After several moments, he stepped up onto the porch, seized the statue, and began to walk it, by ever so carefully rocking it on its base, to the edge of the porch. Other than his breathing, it was accomplished in remarkable silence. Leaving her at the edge, he stepped down to the lawn and centered the wagon beneath her—this was the dicey part.
Kieran took hold of her two upraised arms and tipped her forward; gravity did the rest. With an audible thump, she landed amongst the towels and then the night was still. Yet, all had not gone well. The tiny hand clasping the grisly head remained clutched within his own, even as the dispossessed statue glared at Kieran in frozen rage from the bottom of the wagon, the scimitar still within her possession and poised to strike. He shivered and stuck the broken hand into his jacket pocket. “Superglue,” he whispered nervously.
Even with this setback, no lights had come on in the house, and it only remained for him to make away with his prize. He began to tow the wagon to the street and the safety of the woods beyond and did not see the boy waiting at the head of the path that was to be his escape route.
The punch to his chest knocked Kieran to the ground, and for the second time in as many days, he suffered the sensation of having the air driven from his lungs. The half moon, which had now climbed well above the trees, threw his assailant's face into shadow as he leaned over his victim, yet Kieran recognized him—it was the boy from the bus stop.
"You little loser,” he chortled. “Did you honestly think I wouldn't know it was you who stole my bike? Everybody in town knows you're the biggest thief there is. You must be retarded to think I wouldn't—you sure look it."
Kieran gasped a lungful of air at last.
"And sound it,” the boy added. He reached down and placed all his weight on Kieran's narrow shoulders and breathed a stench of meat and gravy into his face. “Does your mom do retards, too? She does everybody else, my dad says."
Kieran struggled to rise, but it was useless. “Screw you, fatty,” he hissed.
The fat boy abruptly sat on his victim, then calmly and lightly punched Kieran in the right eye; just enough to cause sparks of pain to dance in his occluded vision. “You shut up. I'm gonna take this statue . . . thing,” he waved his hand carelessly at the wagon, “and you're gonna bring my bike back first thing in the morning—get it? And it better be in one piece, moron. Do . . . you . . . understand . . . me?” he asked brightly. “I sure hope so . . . for your sake.” He stood up and took the handle of the wagon in his pudgy hand and began to saunter down the moonlit street with Kieran's prize in tow. “If my bike's okay, I might . . just might, I said, give this statue of your mother back to you.” He never bothered to look back.
Kieran hauled himself painfully up from the dewy weeds and dirt, tears of shame, more than hurt, running over his sallow cheeks. “Chop-chop,” he sobbed at his assailant's broad back, “chop-chop."
* * * *
The sirens wailing through the neighborhood awoke Kieran even earlier than usual, and he hastened to the window—a dark, oily column of smoke rose in the near distance. It was not yet fully light outside, and so he knew his mother wouldn't be home yet. In fact, it was probably she who had dispatched the police and fire departments to the scene, he thought with some pride, even as he gingerly probed the swollen, abraded flesh around his right eye.
He didn't dare take the bike and so had to run the three blocks to the scene of
the fire. He arrived panting and out of breath, and felt his knees go wobbly and his vision swim as he recognized what was left of the fat boy's house.
Only the lower floor remained, its blue vinyl siding drooping as sadly as melted icing on a cake; the windows now gaping, scorched eyes sporting schizophrenic mascara. Charred and broken timbers commemorated the second-floor bedrooms, while the odor of liquefied plastic almost masked the greasy, sweet tang of what could only be—must be—burned pork.
Kieran glanced about in near panic at all the neighbors that had gathered at the awful spectacle, sick with an unreasonable feeling of complicity, and fearful that others might sense it as well.
A fireman whom Kieran thought his mother might have dated at some time, spotted him and called out, “Get back from there, kid . . . don't make me tell you again!"
Kieran did as he was told and scurried off to the far end of the property line and nearer the separate garage. There, he came upon two young men in blue jumpsuits, almost hidden behind a screen of ambulances, struggling with someone, or something, on the ground and cursing between gasps of held breath. As Kieran shifted closer, without leaving the sharply edged shadows of early morning, the scene revealed itself in unwelcome clarity—they were struggling to sheath the charred and uncooperatively contorted figures of what must once have been people into black, zippered bags. One of the corpses awaiting their ministrations was not much larger than Kieran and he felt the blood drain from his face and wondered if he were about to faint, then forced himself to look away. It was then that he spotted his wagon next to the back door of the garage, a tiny scimitar raised in triumph from its depths.
Without thinking, he walked directly to it, took it by the handle, turned, and began to haul it behind him down the street. In spite of his fears, no one took any notice of him, and he walked slowly home without challenge.
* * * *
EQMM, July 2010 Page 4