The Stalky Little Boy started in before I even had breakfast on the table-I always know when it’s him instead of Seth because his eyes aren’t dark brown but almost black. “Where my Dweem Fwoatah?” he asked.
“We haven’t found Dream Floater yet,” I said, “but I’m sure we will.”
1want my Dweem Fwoatah! he screamed, at the top of his lungs, and Herb kind of winced. I didn’t. At least when he’s screaming he’s not throwing things. “I want my fucking DWEEM FWOATAH!”
“Don’t you swear like that in front of your Aunt Audrey,” Herb said, and I was afraid at the look the SLB threw at him then, very afraid, but Herb’s look back never wavered. He is so brave. So simply, up-front no-bullshit brave. And it was the SLB who finally looked down.
“I want my Dweem Fwoatah,” he muttered in the sulky voice I hate most of all. “I want my Dweem Fwoatah, you find it.”
I made him French toast, usually his favorite, but he wouldn’t eat. Just walked off (sorry, stalked off) to the den. Pretty soon I heard the VCR, then one of his MotoKops tapes started. He’s got four or five, each with a dozen episodes on it. I have really gotten to hate those stupid cartoon voices, especially Cassie’s. Sometimes I wish No Face would kill her and dump her decapitated body in a ditch somewhere. God help me, I wish I was joking but I’m not.
When they were cackling away in there (he always turns up the volume, which is sometimes good) I asked Herb how he was going to explain his black eye when he got to work. He put his voice up to the falsetto range amp; batted his eyes and said, “I’ll just tell the boys I ran into a door, honey.” Trying to make a joke of it. It didn’t work.
The worst part of today hasn’t been Seth throwing things like he did when Herb suggested we could buy a replacement Dream Floater. He didn’t do that today. I almost wish he would. He simply goes from room to room, stalking, glaring, lower lip poached out, still looking for the missing P. W. Sometimes he goes into the den to watch TV, but not even Bonanza held him long today. I tried to get him to talk but he wouldn’t amp; the thing is… oh, I wish I could write better, express it so someone reading this (not that anyone ever will, I imagine) could understand. It’s like he-the SLB-generates a kind of poison electricity when he’s pissed. He seems to spin it right out of his body, like a spider spinning electric silk or thunderheads putting out lightning. It builds up and up until you feel like just running from room to room, screaming and beating your head against things. It’s real, not just a feeling but a physical thing. It makes you sweat ( amp; it’s stinky sweat, like when you have a high fever), amp; your muscles tremble, amp; your mouth gets dry. I’ll write something in here I’ve never told Herb. Sometimes, when it gets like that, I go in the bathroom, lock the door amp; masturbate like mad.
It’s the only thing that seems to take a little of the pressure off. The orgasms are so hard they’re frightening. Like bombs going off!
I’ve felt all this before when the Stalky Little Boy inside Seth is pissed about something, but it’s never gone on so long or revved up so high. By mid-afternoon it was like the whole house was full of natural gas, just waiting for a match to set it off. I was in the kitchen, walking aimlessly around, my head aching so badly that I could feel my eyeballs throbbing, amp; I kept wanting to grin. I don’t know why, there’s nothing funny about any of it, but the more my head ached and the more my eyes throbbed and the more I felt the atmosphere of the house pressing in on me, the more I wanted to grin. Christ!
I went to the sink amp; looked out the window into the back yard. Seth was sitting in the sandbox, playing with his other Power Wagons. Only if anyone but me had seen how he was playing, I’m sure he would have been in some sort of special installation by nightfall, some place where the government studies exceptional children.
The P.W.’s have pop-out wings, but they don’t really fly, of course. Except sometimes Seth’s do. He was sitting in the sand with his hands in his lap, and around and around his head they went, Tracker Arrow and Rooty-Toot and the Meatwagon and the rest, dipping and diving under each other, swooping and doing rolls, coming in for touch-and-go’s on a landing-strip Seth has made for them in the sandbox, sometimes doing formation flights down the yard to his swing, going under the seat like stunt pilots in a movie, then banking around and coming back. Kids” toys, all bright colors, flying missions in the back yard. I know I must sound like a raving madwoman, but I swear in the name of God that it’s true. Sometimes he dive-bombs Hannibal, the neighbors” dog, with them amp; H. runs away with his tail between his legs. Herb has seen this, too.
Any other kid seeing the MotoKops” Power Wagons doing tricks like that would be laughing amp; clapping amp; cheering, but not the Stalky Little Boy. He just sits there in the sand with his lip shoved out amp; glares.
Seth watching the wagons and me watching him, feeling whatever is inside him coming out in waves, filling the air with a hum that’s mostly in a person’s head. I felt ready to come out of my skin, ready to flip out right there in front of the sink, amp; then, all at once, the daydream came. It is the most wonderful thing, and although I call it a daydream, that isn’t how it feels; it feels real. In it I am reliving a weekend afternoon I spent at Mohonk Mountain House with my friend Jan. Back in 1982, this was, before either of us was married. We sat and talked for I don’t know how long-her mostly about this goofy, greasy guy she was so crazy about back then, me about how I’d love to take three months off after graduation and see some of the country.
It’s so beautiful there at Mohonk, so peaceful. We have a picnic lunch. The air is warm. Jan looks as gorgeous as I feel. I know it’s not real, amp; that I’ve got all this mess to come back to, but for the time I’m there, none of that matters. Jan amp; I talk, I feel the sun on my face, I smell the flowers. It’s wonderful. I don’t know what it is or why it happens, but as an antidote to the SLB’s rages, it beats rubbing off in the bathroom eight ways to Sunday. Does Seth have anything to do with it, I wonder?
I wish Herbie had a place to go, but I don’t think he does. His silly jokes are as close as he can come, poor man. I wish I could tell him about my place, maybe even take him there, but it wouldn’t be wise. I think the SLB can find things out from Herb that he can’t from me, amp; Herb looks so tired. It’s unfair to both of us that this should be happening, but it’s horribly unfair to Herbie.
June 13, 1995
“Dweem Fwoatah” is back. Just now. I don’t know whether to feel scared or relieved.
I mean of course I’m relieved, anyone would be, this place has been like a concentration camp since Saturday, but what happens next? How will the SLB react? Thank God he was napping when the doorbell rang, amp; thank God Herb’s at work, because the SLB eavesdrops on Herb’s mind sometimes, I know he does. I don’t think he can do it to me unless I let him in, or unless I’m unprepared.
Boy. I just read this over and it’s absolutely crazed. Let me take a deep breath and start from the beginning. I should have time. Seth hasn’t slept well since Friday night, and if I’m lucky he might nap until 4:30. That gives me at least an hour.
Around 3:00, while I was vacuuming, there was a knock on the kitchen door. I opened it amp; there stood Mr Hobart from down the street, and his son, who is a pudgy red-haired boy with thick glasses and pasty skin. Sort of repulsive-looking, if you want to know the truth. The kid had a Dream Floater van in his arms. There was no question it was Seth’s. I didn’t have to see the broken tail-light and the scratch up the driver’s side to know that, but as a matter of fact I could see both. You could have knocked me over with a broom-straw. I tried to say something amp; couldn’t, my throat was locked up. I don’t know what would have come out if I had been able to talk!