“You spend the whole goddamn day absent without leave and then you stand there running
your fat, disrespectful mouth—”
“Stop it! Stop it, both of you!” Jake’s mother cried. She sounded near tears in spite of the tranquilizers perking through her system.
Jake’s father reached for Jake’s arm again, then changed his mind. The surprising force
with which his son had torn his hand away a moment ago might have had something to do
with it. Or perhaps it was only the look in Jake’s eyes. “I want to know where you’ve been.”
“Out. I told you that. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“Fuck that! Your headmaster called, your French teacher actually came here, and they
both had beaucoup questions for you! So do I, and I want some answers!”
“Your clothes are dirty,” his mother observed, and then added tim- idly: “Were you mugged, Johnny? Did you play hookey and get mugged?”
“Of course he wasn’t mugged,” Elmer Chambers snarled. “Still wearing his watch, isn’t he?”
“But there’s blood on his head.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I just bumped it.”
“But—”
“I’m going to go to bed. I’m very, very tired. If you want to talk about this in the morning, okay. Maybe we’ll all be able to make some sense then. But for now, I don’t have a thing to
say.”
His father took a step after him, reaching out.
“No, Elmer!” Jake’s mother almost screamed.
Chambers ignored her. He grabbed Jake by the back of the blazer. “Don’t you just walk
away from me—” he began, and then Jake whirled, tearing the blazer out of his hand. The
seam under the right arm, already strained, let go with a rough purring sound.
His father saw those blazing eyes and stepped away. The rage on his face was doused by
something that looked like terror. That blaze was not metaphorical; Jake’s eyes actually
seemed to be on fire. His mother gave voice to a strengthless little scream, clapped one
hand to her mouth, took two large, stumbling steps backward, and dropped into her rocking
chair with a small thud.
“Leave. . me . . . alone,” Jake said.
“What’s happened to you?” his father asked, and now his tone was almost plaintive. “What in the hell’s happened to you? You bug out of school without a word to anyone on the first
day of exams, you come back filthy from head to toe . . . and you act as if you’ve gone
crazy.”
Well, there it was—you act as if you’ve gone crazy. What he’d been afraid of ever since the
voices started three weeks ago. The Dread Accu- sation. Only now that it was out, Jake
found it didn’t frighten him much at all, perhaps because he had finally put the issue to rest
in his own mind. Yes, something had happened to him. Was still happening. But no—he
had not gone crazy. At least, not yet.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he repeated. He walked across the dining room, and this time his father didn’t try to stop him. He had almost reached the hall when his mother’s
voice, worried, stopped him: “Johnny . . . are you all right?”
And what should he answer? Yes? No? Both of the above? Neither of the above? But the
voices had stopped, and that was something. That was, in fact, quite a lot.
“Better,” he said at last. He went down to his room and closed the door firmly behind him.
The sound of the door snicking firmly shut between him and all the rest of the round world
filled him with tremen- dous relief.
20
HE STOOD BY THE door for a little while, listening. His mother’s voice was only a
murmur, his father’s voice a little louder.
His mother said something about blood, and a doctor.
His father said the kid was fine; the only thing wrong with the kid was the junk coming out
of his mouth, and he would fix that.
His mother said something about calming down.
His father said he was calm.
His mother said—
He said, she said, blah, blah, blah. Jake still loved them—he was pretty sure he did,
anyway—but other stuff had happened now, and these things had made it necessary that
still other things must occur.
Why? Because something was wrong with the rose. And maybe because he wanted to run
and play . . . and see his eyes again, as blue as the sky above the way station had been.
Jake walked slowly over to his desk, removing his blazer as he went. It was pretty
wasted—one sleeve torn almost completely off, the lining hanging like a limp sail. He
slung it over the back of his chair, then sat down and put the books on his desk. He had
been sleeping very badly over the last week and a half, hut he thought tonight he would
sleep well. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. When he woke up in the morning,
perhaps he would know what to do.
There was a light knock at the door, and Jake turned warily in that direction.
“It’s Mrs. Shaw, John. May I come in for a minute?”
He smiled. Mrs. Shaw—of course it was. His parents had drafted her as an intermediary.
Or perhaps translator might be a better word.
You go see him, his mother would have said. Hell tell you what’s wrong with him. I’m his
mother and this man with the bloodshot eyes and the runny nose is his father and you’re
only the housekeeper, but he’ll tell you what he wouldn’t tell us. Because you see more of
him than either of us, and maybe you speak his language.
She’ll have a tray, Jake thought, and when he opened the door he was smiling.
Mrs. Shaw did indeed have a tray. There were two sandwiches on it, a wedge of apple pie,
and a glass of chocolate milk. She was looking at Jake with mild anxiety, as if she thought
he might lunge forward and try to bite her. Jake looked over her shoulder, but there was no
sign of his parents. He imagined them sitting in the living room, listening anxiously.
“I thought you might like something to eat,” Mrs. Shaw said.
“Yes, thanks.” In fact, he was ravenously hungry; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He stood aside and Mrs. Shaw came in (giving him another apprehensive look as she passed) and put
the tray on the desk.
“Oh, look at this,” she said, picking up Charlie the Choo-Choo. “I had this one when I was a little girl. Did you buy this today, Johnny?”
“Yes. Did my parents ask you to find out what I’d been up to?”
She nodded. No acting, no put-on. It was just a chore, like taking out the trash. You can tell
me if you want to, her face said, or you can keep still. I like you, Johnny, but it’s really
nothing to me, one way or the other. I just work here, and it’s already an hour past my
regular quitting time.
He was not offended by what her face had to say; on the contrary, he was further calmed
by it. Mrs. Shaw was another acquaintance who was not quite a friend . . . but he thought
she might be a little closer to a friend than any of the kids at school were, and much closer
than either his mother or father. Mrs. Shaw was honest, at least. She didn’t dance. It all went
on the bill at the end of the month, and she always cut the crusts off the sandwiches.
Jake picked up a sandwich and took a large bite. Bologna and cheese, his favorite. That
was another thing in Mrs. Shaw’s favor—she knew all his favorites. His mother was still
under the impression that he liked corn on the cob and hated Brussels sprouts.
“Please tell them I’m fine,” he said, “and tell my father I’m sorry that I was rude to him.”
He wasn’t, but all his father really wanted was that apology. Once Mrs. Shaw conveyed it
to him, he would relax and begin to tell himself the old lie—he had done his fatherly duty
and all was well, all was well, and all manner of things were well.
“I’ve been studying very hard for my exams,” he said, chewing as he talked, “and it all came down on me this morning, I guess. I sort of froze. It seemed like I had to get out or I’d
suffocate.” He touched the dried crust of blood on his forehead. “As for this, please tell my mother it’s really nothing. I didn’t get mugged or anything; it was just a stupid accident.
There was a UPS guy pushing a hand-truck, and I walked right into it. The cut’s no big deal.
I’m not having double vision or anything, and even the headache’s gone now.”