by Sarah Graves
As for the pantyhose, he thought anyone who willingly wore such a garment deserved what they got. The waistband felt like a dull razor was being run around his middle, the crotch hung in a way that felt horribly insecure, and the stockings’ mesh plucked out the hairs from his legs one stinging strand at a time.
On the other hand, the disguise itself seemed to be working well. His mother had been a tall woman, about his own size, and, of course, he’d picked the right crowd to hide out in, too.
The guy with the trident had rolled away on the float with his class, but now here came another weirdo, this one dressed up like a Native American.…
Wait a minute, that guy really was a Native American, and so were the others with him, Steven realized suddenly. Their float, pulled by a pickup truck, was decorated to resemble a birch-bark canoe plying waves, cardboard porpoises sporting in its wake.
In the canoe, men in costumes and headdresses tapped skin drums and chanted in a language Steven didn’t understand. A big German shepherd lay at their feet, head up and ears pricked.
Not until the animal’s gaze met his, and one of the men’s did, too, did Steven recognize them from the Guess Your Weight and Age booth the night before. The dog, his eyes like dark stones, made as if to get up until without missing a beat on the drum the man stopped the animal with a small gesture.
The dog’s gaze seemed to bore right through Steven, and all at once he felt that everyone, not just the man and dog, could see through the ridiculous getup he wore, right through to his sweating scalp and rubbed-raw waist, and to his heart, black and stony as the big dog’s eyes.
Still chanting, the man took in Steven’s made-up face and his unlikely costume expressionlessly. Panic pierced Steven; was his disguise really so transparent? Was everyone here just being polite, trying not to look at him the way he’d avoided gawking at the old man with the trident, trying not to laugh?
He nearly bolted, but with his last shred of willpower he stayed seated on the curb. To his left where the old man had been, a little boy in a sailor suit bounced happily, waving a flag.
Younger than I was when …
Everything led back to that, didn’t it? But he silenced the thought. No time for reminiscing now; this was serious, with no room for sloppy, emotional mistakes.
And anyway, he’d worn this whole costume a dozen times, alone and in public. He’d ridden the subway in it, walked the sidewalks of Manhattan, gone to stores, concerts, and even church services, soldiering on despite agonies of chafing and toe-pinching.
He’d gotten his share of funny looks in it then, too, but that was all. No one had ever confronted him. So why would here be any different?
Because here’s where it counts, an inner voice whispered to him slyly. Here’s where you can fail.…
Shut up, shut UP, he told himself furiously. On his right, a plump, sunburned woman dressed in a red, white, and blue tracksuit sat licking an ice-cream cone. Steven, intent on showing that damned inner voice of his a thing or two, mustered his courage.
I can do this.… “Good ice cream?” he inquired pleasantly. Fortunately, his own speaking voice was high enough to belong to a deepish-voiced woman.
A smile spread across his neighbor’s broad face. She had one of those perfectly smooth complexions very fair-haired people sometimes got, poreless and pale except where the sun had turned it pink.
A pan of milk, his mother would have called it scornfully as she brushed back her own mane of wavy hair. She’d been beautiful once, too.…
Firmly he slammed a mental door on her image, which at the end was not so beautiful.
“Excellent ice cream,” affirmed the tracksuited woman, and he felt his confidence return somewhat. But then, “Are you from here?” she added. “I don’t recognize you at all.”
“Uh …” He searched his mind frantically. He’d had a story all worked up about where he’d come from, how he happened to be here. But there’d been so many things to do and think about in the past twenty-four hours.…
He’d forgotten it. Panic stabbed him; he felt his mouth work uselessly. But just as quickly as she’d terrified him nearly into incoherence, the plump lady now rescued him.
“From away, huh?” She popped the tip of the cone between her lips and crunched it.
She’s laughing at me, she knows, she’s …
But she wasn’t, and she didn’t. Instead, she reached over with her ice-cream-sticky hand and actually patted him on the shoulder.
“That’s okay, honey. We’re happy you’re here anyway.”
Then she spotted another parade float—this one decorated to resemble a spaceship, and occupied by the local high school band—and recognized someone on it.
“Hoo, Wesley!” She jumped up and waved the napkin that had been wrapped around the ice-cream cone. “Hoo! Good on ya! Woo-boy!”
With an embarrassed grin, the gangly high-schooler on the float waved back, then returned to playing … a flute, was it? Or maybe a piccolo.
The woman sat. “My nephew,” she confided. “My brother’s oldest boy. His dad’s in Afghanistan now.”
Steven nodded. Mine’s in a grave somewhere. A shallow one, maybe a landfill. Or a barrel in the East River.
“My other brother got killed in Iraq,” she said. “Roadside bomb.”
Steven made what he hoped were sympathetic noises as the band float went by; up next marched a contingent of old men in military uniforms. Vietnam veterans, according to their posters and banners; he squinted between them at the old house he’d been squatting in, just across the street, and wished he were inside it.
But he’d had no choice; he’d had to leave it long enough for Jacobia Tiptree—or one of her friends—to search it. Which of course he’d known would happen; Tiptree was evil, not stupid.
Blending in here in Eastport meant having somewhere to go at night, not wandering the streets, where the cops would take notice of you and remember you later.
And anyway, the things he had to do needed to be done in secret, behind walls and under a roof. Just which walls and roof would be an easy assumption, too: the ones no one else was using, of course.
So while they looked for him in the town’s vacant houses, he was out here, dressed and made up so that neither Tiptree nor any of her pals would recognize him. Still …
Another trickle of sweat tickled his scalp under the wig; if he couldn’t shed it soon, he might scream. The dress clung to his back damply as the July sun beat down on him. The shoes tortured his feet.
And he might have to go on like this for hours, maybe even all day. Not until he saw her or one of her friends enter the old house across the street, then emerge, having found nothing, would he be able to reenter it safely himself. Until then, he’d just have to tough it out.…
The ice cream woman got up. “Tomorrow night, though?” she said, brightening. “There’s going to be a Navy flyover. A pair of F-18s coming home from Greenland, on their way to their base.”
He nodded politely as she went on. “To honor our boys here,” she told him. “When you hear them, you remember my brother, okay?”
“Uh, you bet,” he replied, realizing too late as she moved away that it was not the kind of thing a woman would say. Then before he could make anything of this worry, a new one arose: the quartet of rowdy young men who’d harassed him the night before were here, striding belligerently toward him.
Still in all black, they shoved rudely among the parade watchers, and because he hadn’t looked away quickly enough, one of them spotted him.
And—he felt something like an electrical shock go through him—recognized him. Or recognized something, anyway—his fear, his vulnerability.
It drew them like a beacon; in the same black Iron Maiden T-shirt he’d been wearing last night, the short, blocky one nudged the others and said something.
Steven held his breath, but it was no use; they all looked over at him, grinning and sniggering. The ginger-haired boy in his black pegged jeans and leather j
acket narrowed his eyes, as if calculating the distance between them.
He had on a thick spiked leather wristlet, and wore a bike chain wrapped around his waist like a belt. With his mean little eyes fixed on Steven, he took a step.
A purposeful step … But just then another parade float went by, quickly followed by a contingent of marching baton twirlers. Through the confusion Steven tried keeping his eyes on the black-shirted hoodlums.
One moment, they were still there. But in the next, they weren’t. Where …?
He looked around wildly—no sign of them. Clumsy in heels, he got to his feet, still scanning the crowd.
Gone. They hadn’t had enough time to get far, though, and he knew he hadn’t mistaken their interest.
He turned too fast, nearly twisting his ankle. Maybe they’d split up and were even now circling around behind him.…
“Hey.” With a sinking feeling, he recognized the voice at his elbow. Somehow the ginger-haired guy had gotten across the street and right up alongside.
His companions, too. Steven could feel them back there, all grinning and shifting while they waited for their leader to tell them what to do.
“You look sweet in that dress,” the ginger-haired hoodlum said, and the other three whinnied with amusement.
Glancing over his shoulder, Steven saw them elbowing one another. He’d have wondered how they knew, but he didn’t have to; all his life he’d attracted guys like this: dull, brutal.
When he was around, they were like predators smelling meat. “Yeah,” fluted the short, blocky one mockingly. “Real sweet. Hey, gimme a kiss.”
Steven glanced around for help. But none was forthcoming; in the crowd, no one seemed to notice a malignant foursome menacing a gray-haired lady in a purple dress.
Or maybe they were scared. Either way, the lover boys seemed to know how far they could go, getting right up in his space but not touching him. So even if a cop appeared, what could he say? That they were standing too near? Laughing where he could hear them?
And anyway, police notice was the last thing he wanted, yet another inconvenient fact they seemed to have picked up on. Guys like this, Steven thought, were like wolves culling the flock.
As a contingent of official cars including a sheriff’s squad rolled by, one of them shoved Steven. He staggered on the heeled shoes and nearly fell in front of the nearest cop vehicle.
Would have fallen, in fact, if not for the wiry grip on his forearm, pulling him back. “Steady, there, sweetie.” The voice, low in his ear, came on a gust of beer breath. The tight grip released, though not before giving his forearm a hard pinch. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”
Steven gasped, tears of pain prickling in his eyes, and pressed his lips together to keep from crying out. The cop in the last squad car smiled and waved at the parade onlookers. When the car had gone by, the other two roughnecks moved in.
One had a narrow face like a ferret’s; wispy hairs sprouted from his thin upper lip, which was pulled back into a snarl over brownish teeth.
The other, baby-faced and with a wandering left eye, wore a look of anticipation as he glanced back and forth at his buddies, eager to learn what new outrage they might decide to perpetrate.
“In fact, just to make sure nobody hurts you, seems like you oughta come with us,” said the ginger-haired one.
Then all four boys formed a sort of escort around Steven, forcing him away from the parade audience and onto the empty lawn behind. With the crowd still watching the passing entertainment, it was as if Steven were alone with the bullies.
Alone … And if he called for help, it would quickly come out that he wasn’t who he seemed to be, wouldn’t it? That he was a man in a dress and wig, and why was that?
It would be the first thing the police would want to know, but not the last. And he would have no good answers for them. His mission would be over, all because of …
Rage rose up in him, hot and poisonous. All he’d worked and planned for … all of it would be finished. And then—
No, he thought calmly, surprising himself. I won’t let them.
Casually he opened the purse he carried; in its flap was a small mirror, so a lady could check her makeup. Now the glass showed his cheeks streaked with tears.
But it showed his wig, too, and the small purple straw hat with the pink rose perched atop it, secured with a pearl-tipped hat pin.
I look like my mother, he thought, and the notion gave him a shudder. He reached up as if to straighten the hat.
“Come on,” snarled Ferret Boy. “Never mind that. You come with us. We’ll have ourselves a party.”
Stepping forward obediently—
Lamb to the slaughter, he thought. Just not this time.
—Steven reached up and slid the hat pin smoothly out of the hat. Out on the street now, a brass band slam-banged deafeningly along, horns shrieking.
“Okay,” he said. Then with the pin in his fist and his thumb on the pearl, he swung his arm around four times fast.
On each swing, the pin’s tip sent a thin, crunchy feeling up into his hand, and suddenly all four of the young thugs fell away from him, screeching.
Dropping, they rolled on the grass, howling wonderfully, each one clutching a different part of his anatomy. Hands at his sides, Steven stood watching them curiously. Fascinating …
A few parade watchers looked over, too, long enough to see who was adding this strange counterpoint to the passing din. But when they saw who it was, they looked away again; the welfare of the black-clad boys, it seemed, was low on their priority list.
Ha, thought Steven, stunned at the success of his maneuver. But then he realized: he needed a follow-up. Needed one badly, in fact, because those guys weren’t going to lie there forever.
Well, three of them weren’t. The ginger-haired guy winced, spotted Steven, and bared his teeth reflexively. But a look of puzzled fear was in his eyes, too, increasing as Steven crouched by him.
“I know what you did last night.”
“What?” The guy grimaced, confused. But then his gray eyes widened in understanding.
“Bull,” he snarled. As the truth dawned on him, though, a look of thwarted animal rage distorted his features.
Steven had hurt him badly, and he still didn’t know how. But now he seemed to realize that his opponent could do worse, much worse. With a groan, he rolled over and began crawling away.
Young Ferret Face had begun climbing to his feet. But as soon as he was upright, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell again. This time he stayed there.
Steven looked down at the hat pin gripped still in his fist. Then he released it down a nearby storm drain. Slowly and with as much dignity as he could muster, he crossed the street between a parade float depicting Washington at the Delaware and one that carried a real, live brown-and-white cow.
Eastport’s on the Moo-oo-ve! read the float’s banner. His heart thudding with excitement, he spared a moment of sympathy for the bunting-draped farm animal, then eased between it and the final float of the parade, a giant sardine on wheels.
Excitement and relief, because while he had been getting recognized, and victimized, and nearly kidnapped with a view to being cannibalized—
—or so he’d feared; who knew what they’d had in mind—
—he’d missed what was going on at his hideout. Now, though, two people were exiting the house. Steven recognized Jacobia Tiptree’s son, Sam, and the older woman, bony and henna-haired, who he thought must be the maid or something.
From their faces he could tell they’d found nothing and no one. Just as he’d planned, he reflected, as behind him a flurry of activity began around the fallen young men; an accusing hand went up, pointing the way he’d gone.
But the sardine float blocked their view of him. Slowly he backed into the overgrown yard of the old house, toward the lattice screening the back lawn. Glancing quickly right and left, he assured himself that still, no one saw him.
Then, swiftly,
he stepped up onto the rotted wooden porch and leaned against the ancient, frame-sprung door, shoving until it opened just enough to let him slip into the darkness inside.
The welcoming darkness, a place where he could wash, eat, and rest.
And get ready for his next move.
CHAPTER
8
I’M TELLING YOU, JAKE,” SAID EASTPORT POLICE CHIEF BOB Arnold later that day. “It might not’ve been the dumbest stunt you’ve ever pulled. But …”
Bob stood on the front walk, scolding her while she bent to the porch steps. The second coat of porch primer went on a lot faster than the first, partly because it was easier to paint on than raw wood, whose grain caught the brush bristles.
But partly it was because listening to Bob made her hand move so much faster; her frustration had to go somewhere. And it couldn’t go to him; the police chief was just trying to do his job.
“You and Wade are both lucky the guy doesn’t want to press charges,” he continued. “Menacing, harassment … guy who pushed him, he could be looking at battery, maybe even assault.”
She kept the paintbrush moving. “So why isn’t he? Pressing them, I mean?”
Bob shook his head. “Come all the way down here from Canada, spend money on a lawyer, it’s not worth it to him.” He took a breath. “Besides, truth is that all they really did was scare him, and no guy wants to admit that.”
But then his face grew stern again. “Great big ears, the guy has. The one who got menaced, I mean. And he says the ones who did it told him Wade sent them. Now, why d’you suppose that might be?”
“I have no idea,” she managed through clenched teeth. “Why d’you think I’d know anything about it?”
But that was the wrong question, because Bob had an answer for it, and watching him give it was like watching a teakettle blow.
His pudgy fingers stroked his pink, plump chin in pretended thought. “Jake, first some stranger starts harassing you. Sensibly, you come to me for help, but you don’t get very much satisfaction out of that, because …”