The Walls Have Eyes

by Clare B. Dunkle

  “Mom,” he called. “Mom!”

  Mom stood on a chair in the living room, scrubbing the windows with a tattered rag. Martin paused, surprised. The room looked pretty good. Not clean, but at least he could see through a couple of the windows now, and the rotted couch and armchairs were gone.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Mom, what do you think the Owner thinks about us in his house?”

  “The Owner?” Mom asked. “Wait. Do you mean the dead body?”

  Martin nodded. “Because it’s his house. And he’s still here.”

  Mom climbed down from her chair and dunked her rag in a pot of nasty water. Then she wrung it out. “No, he just left his body behind. Like”—she stopped to think—”like old clothes.”

  “Where did he go, then?” Martin asked.

  “Nowhere. He just stopped.” She climbed onto her chair and went back to work.

  Martin tried to wrap his mind around the concept of stopping. It felt wrong. It felt cosmically unfair. The Owner had loved his cat, taken care of his watch, and selected for his enjoyment a riotously colored dish of glass candy, all actions that Martin thoroughly approved of. The man, once dead, should not have to vanish into chartless oblivion. Martin refused to allow it.

  “How do you know that?” he challenged. “How do you know he just stopped? It isn’t right. I don’t think he did.”

  Mom paused in the act of swabbing her window. “I guess I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “So he went somewhere,” Martin decided. “Somewhere else. Somewhere nice. A place where he doesn’t need his body anymore.”

  “Maybe,” Mom said. “I don’t see how, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does,” Martin said, realizing in dismay that he had argued himself around to his original problem. “Because if he’s somewhere else, maybe he comes here every now and then; you know, to visit his favorite things. And then maybe he’s gonna be mad at us—you know, if we move them around or take them and stuff.”

  Mom turned to look at his serious face. Then she climbed off her chair and sat down on it to think. “Oh, I wish I had a green tea soda right now,” she sighed. “Okay. I don’t know much about being dead, but I do know this. Dead people don’t come back to visit their favorite things.”

  “How do you know?” Martin asked.

  “Because Granny didn’t come back to visit you, and you were her favorite thing in the world.”

  Martin’s spirits lifted. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “I used to hope she’d come back, but she didn’t.”

  “So did I,” Mom said. “For a while.”

  “Then the Owner won’t be back here, either?”

  Mom looked at the room, with its end tables but no couch or armchairs and its two clean windows and three horrendous ones. Assiduous sweeping with bundles of weeds had revealed a floor of sunny caramel-colored tiles.

  “No, he won’t. This house is ours now. I just wish I could figure out how to get a new sofa.”

  So Martin ran down the slope and across the tree-lined street to wash off his treasure in the pond. The glass candy was larger than life, and bolder, too. One piece was ringed with stripes of cobalt blue and lemon yellow. It had bright blue twists at the ends. One had orange ends and a cherry-colored center that turned the landscape crimson when he looked through it. Another was green glass swirled with what Martin swore were flecks of pure gold.

  But best of all was the bowl itself. Dozens of small, round, frilly glass blossoms of every conceivable color crowded together beneath a layer of thick, clear glass. They looked like nothing he had seen before. They looked like flowers in an underwater garden.

  Martin could only stare at the bowl. He knew no words ornate enough to describe its beauty. Beside him, Chip’s rapt expression mirrored his own.

  “Martin!”

  Dad was stomping down the pond bank toward them, his face puffy with anger. “Stop ignoring me! What are you doing here? You’re scaring the fish!”

  “Nothing. Just . . . nothing.” Martin instinctively curled his hands around his precious find.

  “Then get back to the house and get to work. You’ve got cleaning to do.” And Dad stalked off down the muddy shoreline.

  Martin ran back to the house.

  “Don’t slam the door,” Mom called reproachfully. “You’re scattering the dust.”

  Martin stashed his beautiful bowl in a kitchen cabinet and then burst into the room where she was cleaning.

  “I hate this!” he yelled. “I never wanted him to come here. We’d be doing great without him; you’d be painting pictures and stuff, and I’d be learning great things about new bugs. But look, he’s got us all scared just like he is, and stuck in another house, wiping counters and looking at everything through a bunch of dirty windows.” Anger swelled inside him, all his rage over Dad sending Martin’s little sister away to die. “I hate him! I do. I wish he hadn’t come.”

  Mom stood still, looking away from him. She said, “I don’t know why you’d say such a thing about your father.”

  I know why, Martin thought. I know a whole packet car full of reasons why. I could tell you why, and then you’d hate him too.

  “All I can say,” Mom went on, “is that if your father weren’t here, I don’t think I could stand it. Maybe you’d be having the time of your life, but I would be very unhappy.”

  Martin ran out of the house and slammed the door again. He noticed that Chip caught it with a back foot to keep it from making a noise, and for a second, his quarrel even extended to his dog. Dad was taking it easy on the bank, slowly reeling in an empty line. Martin charged up to him, and the surprise on Dad’s face must have equaled the fury on his.

  “She doesn’t know!” Martin shouted. “She thinks you’re so great, taking care of us and all, but that’s only because she doesn’t know. I could tell her, and then she’d hate you too. And it would serve you right!”

  “Know what?”

  Dad’s face looked pinched and cautious and silly, like the old man he would be one day, like the ridiculous spectacle he was without his clothes on. Martin felt slimy all over. He threw himself down on the bank next to Dad’s tackle box and wanted to cry.

  “She doesn’t know you thought you were helping the recall when you sent Cassie away.”

  A full minute went by, while Martin stared at the wide, dark pond and listened to the whiz-whiz sound of Dad’s reel. The pond was a flat sheet on top, neat and tidy, but who knew what ugliness lay underneath.

  “Yes, she does,” Dad said at last.

  “No, she doesn’t!” Martin snapped. “You wouldn’t tell her. Even I haven’t told her, though I don’t know why, except that I just don’t want her to know.”

  “Your mom’s not stupid, son.”

  Dad reeled in his lure, which looked to Martin’s untrained eye like a tiny fish with enough hooks dangling from its midsection and tail to catch about six fish at once. If a creature were dumb enough to bite that thing, it deserved to end up in a pan. Dad paid out line, brought his pole back, and sent the dangerous little fish skimming out across the water.

  “What you have to understand,” Dad said, “is that I couldn’t do a thing about your sister. The recall notice came out, and there it was. The inspection was about to start. There was nowhere I could put Cassie to keep her safe, and Central always gets what they want.”

  “You could have tried,” Martin muttered. He buried his hands in Chip’s thick, harsh fur and laid his hot face against his dog’s velvet forehead.

  Dad glanced over his shoulder, a habit based on a lifetime of cowardice. Martin wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the pit of his stomach hurt.

  “If I had moved Cassie out of her routine, your mother would have wanted to know why,” Dad said. “If she knew why, she would have fought to keep Cassie by every means she could think of. That wouldn’t have worked, and I would have lost them both.”

  Martin flicked a pebble into the water and watch
ed it sink. “So you chose Mom over Cassie.”

  “No!” Dad’s voice was loud enough to scare any nearby fish. “I couldn’t do a thing about Cassie. I didn’t choose between them. I just chose not to lose your mother, that’s all.” He choked, then cleared his throat. “Do you think I wanted that to happen to Cassie? She was my little girl.”

  Martin remembered Dad coming home and looking at them all, dragging his feet like a very old man. That was the night the recall notice must have come out, the night he had found out Cassie was doomed.

  “I don’t believe you,” Martin said, and his voice was tight. “I don’t believe there was nothing you could do. You could have tried. You never know till you try. There’s always something to do.”

  “That’s good, son. I don’t want you to believe me. I don’t want you to know what it’s like to feel that you’ve run out of options.”

  Martin watched him reel and cast, and then reel and cast again. “So Mom knows?” he said.

  Dad blew his breath out in a long, quavering sigh. “Yes. As soon as the recall vote came up, she knew. I didn’t have to tell her. She really hated me there for a few days, but I didn’t mind. I pretty much hated myself. I was worried about what she might do to herself with you and Cassie both gone. Your mother lives for you kids, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said.

  “So Cassie’s really fine?” Dad asked. “You didn’t just make that up? I . . . well, maybe I don’t deserve it, but I need to know.”

  “Cassie’s doing great,” Martin muttered. “She’s having a great time at the school. Those kids finally have teachers smarter than them. I don’t have to make things up,” he added with a touch of scorn.

  “And . . . does she know about me? About what I did?”

  Martin glanced up. Dad’s face had that pinched, silly look on it again, the one that made Martin want to cry.

  “Nah, I didn’t tell her. She thinks you’re her hero, talking the parents into sending her off to school. I guess a little kid like her still needs heroes.”

  Dad nodded. “Even if they’re not real.”

  Martin didn’t know what else to say. He opened Dad’s tackle box and examined the lures while Dad went on casting and reeling. “How’s the fishing?” Martin asked after a while.

  “Not so good,” Dad admitted. “It’s the wrong time of day, maybe. I’ll try a few more tricks and call it quits.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll head on back,” Martin said, “and, you know, go help Mom.”

  Dad glanced at his watch. “I’ll be along in a few minutes. We’ll have an early lunch.”

  Martin headed up the hill to the house. He wasn’t sure how he felt. More than anything else, he felt sad and embarrassed, as if Dad’s weakness were part of him now. Dad’s crime had become his because he couldn’t condemn it anymore. He was an accomplice. Guilt by understanding.

  But our house isn’t so bad, he thought as he tromped through the weeds in the front yard. I like that it looks like a shoebox. And David and Matt would be so jealous if they knew we had a house with our very own skeleton.

  A sweeping session with bundled twigs had cleared the faery dust out of the entryway and revealed a floor of black-and-white marble tiles. “Look, Chip,” he said, pointing them out. “That’s almost as nice as the factory.”

  A second later, he came charging down the hill again, with Chip howling behind him.

  “Dad! Dad!” he yelled. “Something’s wrong with Mom!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mom lay on the caramel-colored tiles of the sunny living room. Dad knelt beside her while Martin ran to the kitchen to bring her a water bottle.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  “What happened?” Dad asked. “Martin, did you see what happened?”

  “She fell,” Martin said.

  “I feel fine. Just a little dizzy.” Mom waved Martin back. “Stop hovering! I’m not made of glass. Get out of the way so I can get up.”

  Mom clutched Dad’s arm as she got to her feet and cautiously released her grip. “There. See? I told you I was fine.”

  Dad’s face lit up in relief. “You don’t hurt anywhere? Why don’t you sit down? You’ve been working too hard. Not enough water, maybe that fish from last night . . .”

  Mom took two steps and fell headlong with a cry. Chip let out a howl.

  “See?” Martin said. “That’s just what happened before!”

  Dad shoved Chip aside as he threw himself onto his knees. “Martin, would you get that dumb dog out of here?”

  Mom lay with her eyes closed. After a few seconds, they opened. “What am I doing down here?”

  “You fell,” Martin told her.

  “Tris, can you remember if you hit your head?”

  “I’m fine,” Mom said with a trace of irritation this time. “Really, you two!” She climbed awkwardly to her feet.

  This time, Dad caught her when she fell.

  “Shut that dog up! Martin, grab your bedroll. Hurry! She’s heavy.”

  “I heard that,” Mom said.

  Dad lowered her onto the bedroll and helped Martin prop her head up on a folded sheet. “This time, Tris, you need to stay there.”

  Mom blinked at their anxious faces. “Maybe I am tired,” she conceded. “I haven’t been getting much sleep.”

  “Martin, let’s let your mother get some rest. Tris, you take a little nap.”

  Dad escorted Martin and Chip through the front door. Then he shut it and sank down on the front steps. Martin was astonished at the change that had come over his father. Dad seemed to have aged several years.

  “Ten minutes after,” Dad said. Then he couldn’t go on. Tears rolled down his cheeks and got caught in the stubble that had formed there.

  Martin was appalled. Mom cried, sure. But Dad?

  “After—after—” Martin stammered. “After what?”

  Dad wiped his eyes and pointed at his watch. “It’s five after eleven, ten minutes after the time when we left the suburb and cleared that last fence. Four days and ten minutes, and she’s been sick for about ten minutes. She’s not sick. They’ve disabled her somehow.”

  This sank in, and Martin collapsed onto the step beside Dad. Chip didn’t try to lick his face or beg for pets. The dog looked just as shocked as he was.

  “So it’s a suburb thing?” Martin ventured.

  “Suburb or agents or something like that. I don’t know how. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why didn’t it happen to me instead? Why didn’t it happen to all of us?” Dad blew out a breath and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Are they coming, then?” Martin asked.

  “If we’re lucky,” Dad said in a gruff voice. “If we’re lucky, they’re on their way. Otherwise, your mother probably just stays . . . just like that. We won’t be able to turn it off.”

  Martin was silent. Nothing this horrible had ever even entered his mind before. He rubbed his hands on the knees of his jeans faster and faster. Chip stuck his nose in the way to force him to stop.

  “We never should have come here,” Dad groaned. “I never should have allowed it. The game shows aren’t that bad. They’re humane. We’d be well fed and kept in nice accommodations, and given facials and haircuts and new clothes. Before you die, you’re a television star. You’re treated with respect.”

  Martin wished he could argue, but he couldn’t. It was his fault Mom was here. He had wanted to get her past the reach of the dreary suburb, but its reach was longer than he could have imagined.

  “Why did we risk it?” Dad went on. “We can never make a life of it here, not without a fridge and a cooker and running water, not eating smoky fish three times a day. We should have stayed where there were people. People stick together, my dad always told me. But what did we do? We went off on our own.”

  Martin thought about how nice it would be if there were people in this suburb. He would run next door for help, and the neighbors would
come with little snacks and sit by Mom’s bedside to cheer her up. And maybe he could play game cartridges with the kids who lived on his street.

  But life here wasn’t like that. Next door was nothing but a tangled mass of vines dragging down the ruined rafters, and instead of a cookie jar on the kitchen counter, there was a nest of little cranberry-colored birds. There weren’t any people in this whole great outdoors who could be their friends. Except— Well, of course, Martin thought. Yes, of course!

  He jumped up from the step and ran back into the house. “Where’s my pack? I’m gonna go get help.”

  Mom sat on the bedroll, and Dad stood beside her while Martin split up the supplies.

  “I don’t think you should go,” Mom said. “I’ll be fine after a little rest, and I don’t want you doing something dangerous.”

  Dad and Martin exchanged a look.

  “It’s just, you know, in case,” Martin said. “Anyway, it’s a short walk, probably just a day, and I’ll have Chip with me to handle the danger.”

  Mom chewed her lower lip. “I don’t like it. This is a lot of trouble over nothing.”

  “It’ll give me a chance to check on Cassie and tell her about our new house,” Martin said. “Remember, I’ve walked all over out here. It’ll be fun. And maybe the prototypes can give us advice about how to fix this place up.”

  Dad asked, “So you think these prototype people will know about this?”

  “They’re really smart. They’ll know what to do.” Martin hoped Theo would be home. It was over a week since he’d left. She was supposed to have reported back after five days.

  “But why would they want to help?”

  “They’re nice.” Most of them, at least, Martin thought. I’ll just make sure William never goes near my dog.

  Dad followed Martin into the kitchen to sort through the water bottles.

  “But how do you know they have the resources?” he asked in a low voice. “You said Central is looking for them. What if they’re in trouble of their own?”

  “Nothing bad happens to them, Dad,” Martin said. “They know just about everything.”

  Dad ran his hands through his thinning hair and rubbed them over his bald spot. He said, “I should be the one who goes.”