dementia. Maybe it was. Either he was talking to a malevolent spirit
that had taken control of his son or he was insane. Which made more
sense?
“Give him to me I want him back!”
“Dad, you’re scaring me,” the Toby-thing said, trying to tear loose of
him.
“You’re not my son.”
“Dad, please!”
“Stop it! Don’t pretend with me–you’re not fooling me, for Christ’s
sake!”
It wrenched free, turned, stumbled to Tommys headstone, and leaned
against the granite.
Toppled onto all fours by the force with which the boy broke away from
him, Jack said fiercely, “Let him go!”
The boy squealed, jumped as if surprised, and spun to face Jack.
“Dad! What’re you doing here?”
He sounded like Toby again.
“Jeer, you scared me!
What’re you sneaking in a cemetery for? Boy, that’s not funny!” They
weren’t as close as they had been, but Jack thought the child’s eyes no
longer seemed strange, Toby peared to see him again.
“Holy Jeer, on your hands and knees, sneaking in a cemetery.” The boy
was Toby again, all right. The thing that had controlled him was not a
good enough actor to be this convincing. Or maybe he had always been
Toby. The unnerving possibility of madness and delusion confronted
Jack again.
“Are you all right?” he asked, rising onto his knees once more, wiping
his palms on his jeans.
“Almost pooped my pants,” Toby said, and giggled.
What a marvelous sound. That giggle. Sweet music. Jack clasped his
hands to his thighs, squeezing hard, trying to stop shaking.
“What’re you …” His voice was quavery. He cleared his throat.
“What are you doing up here?” The boy pointed to the Frisbee on the
dead grass. “Wind caught the flying saucer.” Remaining on his knees,
Jack said, “Come here.” Toby was clearly dubious. “Why?”
“Come here, Skipper, just come here.”
“You going to bite my neck?”
“What?”
“You going to pretend to bite my neck or do something and scare me
again, like sneaking up on me, something weird like that?” Obviously,
the boy didn’t remember their conversation while he’d been …
possessed. His awareness of Jack’s arrival in the graveyard began
when, startled, he’d spun away from the granite marker. Holding his
hands out, arms open, Jack said, “No, I’m not going to do anything like
that. Just come here.”
Skeptical and cautious, puzzled face framed by the red hood of the ski
suit, Toby came to him. Jack gripped the boy by the shoulders, looked
into his eyes.
Blue-gray. Clear. No smoky spiral under the color. “What’s wrong?”
Toby asked, frowning. “Nothing. It’s okay.” while first, you and
me?
A Frisbee’s more fun with . Frisbee tossing, hot chocolate.
Normality hadn’t erely returned to the day, it had crashed down like a
weight. Jack doubted he could have convinced anyone that he and Toby had
so recently been deep in the muddy river of the supernatural.
His own fear and his perception of uncanny forces were fading so
rapidly that already he could not quite recall the power of what he’d
felt.
Hard gray sky, every scrap of blue chased way beyond the eastern
horizon, trees shivering in the frigid breeze, brown grass, velvet
shadows, Frisbee games, hot chocolate: the whole world waited for the
first spiraling flake of winter, and no aspect of the November day
admitted the possibilities of ghosts, disembodied entities, possession,
or any other-worldly Compulsively, he pulled the boy close, hugged
him.
“Dad?” henomena whatsoever.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“Huh?”
“Good.”
“Your heart’s really wild,” Toby said. “That’s all right, I’m okay,
everything’s okay.”
“I’m the one scared poopless. Boy, I sure owe you one!” Jack let go
of his son and struggled to his feet. The sweat on his face felt like
a mask of ice. He combed his hair back with his fingers, wiped his
face with both hands, and blotted his palms on his jeans. “Let’s go
back to the house and get some hot chocolate.”
Picking up the Frisbee, Toby said, “Can’t we play
“Can we, Dad?” Toby
asked, brandishing the Frisbee. “all right, for a little while. But
not here. Not in this . . .” It would sound so stupid to say not in