It had been during one of these early climbs that he saw Cy Baum’s farmhouse. The lighted windows attracted him to it. He recalled his first night outside and his thought that there might be another nice creature within this house. From this height, he understood the distance and how to approach it.
There was a time when The Oaks had some of the most beautiful grounds in the area. The flats on the south side were cleared, plowed, and groomed neatly by Great Grandfather and Grandfather Oaks, both fastidious farmers who took almost as much pride in the appearance of their farm as the produce they could glean from it. A little more than a half a mile from the rear of the house, the forest was left relatively untouched, for it grew on a rocky hillside unsuitable for farming. When the house had been mainly heated by fireplace and wood stove, the forest was a source of fuel; but since then, the woods had thickened and deepened, the saplings creeping up on what was once cleared, gently rolling grounds.
Long unused, the south-side fields became overgrown with thin, hardwood trees, tall grass, and bushes. The once well-fertilized earth provided a rich environment for weeds, wild berry bushes, and crab grasses. In the spring and the summer, it thickened into a sea of yellow, white, and dull green. On hot summer days there seemed to be a continuous circle of mad insects hovering above. Gradually, it became a safe thoroughfare for rabbits, skunks, woodchucks, field snakes, and the like that enjoyed the cool pathways and the security of overgrown foliage.
At the end of the south-side field, there was an old corral fence to mark the boundary between the Oaks property and the Baum property. Much of the fence had degenerated and crumpled, but, since neither family cared much about farming anymore, there was little concern. Cy Baum could look out and try to remember the once rich cornfields, the odor of newly turned soil, the sounds of tractors and men; but, looking at what was there now, it was difficult for him to picture the land as it was.
The forest that grew behind Cy Baum’s house and the back of The Oaks formed a natural barrier on the north side between The Oaks and the O’Neil property. The same forest extended back to and around Brown’s Pond. It continued on for a few miles, until it reached one of the main highways on the other side of Centerville.
Despite its relative proximity to well-developed areas, the wild and now untouched territory supported a population of wildlife matched in few other areas of the Catskills. All of the families on Wildwood Drive had their land posted, but during big game season, much of it was trespassed upon, especially from the west end. Brown’s Pond attracted white-tailed deer, bear, fox, and bobcats. Because of its distance from the highways and because of the thickness of the forest, the large pond was as close to its natural state as it could be.
Before the “imp” climbed the trees, he had no concept of all this. Even so, the distance and the difficulty of traveling through the wild land made no impression on him. He was driven only by what pleased and attracted him. His acute sense of smell and hearing, his nocturnal eyesight, and his hardened, callused body made it possible for him to move like a wild creature anyway. He traveled in a half-crawl, half fast-walk; but even when he stood up completely, he rarely stood straight. For him it was instinctively safer to keep his shoulders slightly turned down, his head poised stiffly, so he could look quickly from side to side and listen to all the sounds around him.
There was some distortion in the shape of his short arms. They were thick at the wrists and then slim and wiry to the shoulders. Because of his poor posture, his shoulders were curved forward. Although his upper body bone structure was well outlined, his torso was wide for his height, this wideness exaggerated by the shortness of his legs.
All in all, though, his body was an asset to him in the wilderness. He fit under bushes and between small openings. He moved with a natural grace over rocks and stumps, and he had the strength to climb and swing whenever he had to. Now, in the wide open spaces, where he could exercise his muscularity, he quickly developed wind and endurance, taking an animal pleasure in his quickened heartbeat, the pounding of his blood, the straining of his sinews, and the challenge of the travel.
Used to the necessity of moving silently, he slipped in and out of shadows, as though he were kin to the night. Often he would come upon other wild creatures, surprising them with his sudden appearance. Once, he nearly fell over an unsuspecting woodchuck. The animals fled to safe distances and studied him. They neither welcomed nor attacked him. He was simply another part of the forest, something that had just emerged, but seemed to have been there as long as they.
He was interested in every animal he saw, but they were all much harder to capture than the mice in the basement; so when he first went to Cy Baum’s house and saw the rabbit in the cage, he became terribly excited. It took him only a few moments to understand that the rabbit was trapped. He thought about himself, trapped in the basement. There was something he sensed in the rabbit’s eyes, when it looked out at him, that made him feel sorry for it. He wanted to hold it and hum his soothing sounds.
He knew immediately why he couldn’t simply open the door to release it. Mechanical things had always been one of his few distractions in the basement. He loved taking them apart and fingering the little screws and hasps. So it was with little difficulty that he released the rabbit. As soon as he opened the cage, however, it hopped out. When he went to grab it, it skipped away from him quickly and disappeared within the bushes. He went into them to find it, but the rabbit was too quick and too frightened.
The next night, when he returned to the Baum farmhouse and found another rabbit in the cage, he was more careful when he opened the door. This time he grabbed it before it got to the opening and he held it tightly in his arms. It struggled to get free and he squeezed it tighter and tighter until, unknowingly, he snapped its neck. It turned still like the mouse in the cellar, so he threw it down and ran off in disappointment again.
Tonight, though, after he had climbed his tree and looked out at a more lit-up world, something else attracted him to the Baum farm. He turned his head sideways to catch the full meaning of the sound. His dark brown eyes widened with curiosity, and he sniffed the air instinctively to tie a scent in with the noise that seemed musical to him. He looked to it with greater and greater interest, recognizing something warm and similar in its origin. He was like an extra terrestrial who had discovered the possible existence of his own kind. He strained to hear more. When it came, he scurried down the tree excitedly, determined to go back to the place of the rabbits.
With radar accuracy, he honed in on the sound and its origin. He scampered through the fields in a direct line to it. Nothing that appeared in his path could hold his interest. He was drawn magnetically, vaguely remembering that he, too, had made a similar sound, although not as softly or as sweetly.
He stopped at the broken fence and went to his hands and knees. Crawling carefully, he moved through the heavy bushes, until he was almost to the cleared portion of the field by the Baum farmhouse. There he stopped and parted the tall grass so he could look out clearly. What he saw fascinated him and filled him with such longing and pleasure, he had difficulty containing himself. But he understood that he must be still and he must go unseen; for the creature that stood next to the little one was as big as the one back at his home, and, even though he looked different, he could be as dangerous.
The little one was laughing. She held the rabbit close to her with a leash tied to its collar. When the rabbit hopped off, she followed behind, laughing and shrieking with delight. It was that sound that had drawn him here. He saw that the big creature laughed, too. That confused him and for a few moments, he sat there, his head tilted, studying them. Then he focused in only on the little one.
Her golden hair looked delicious. He tried to imagine the taste of it. He wondered about its feel and its scent. The little one’s face looked so warm and alive. He thought about her rosy cheeks, the softness of her little legs, and the pleasure of her tiny voice. He could even imagine a warmth to her. He wanted so muc
h to touch her and squeeze her and nibble gently on her that he began to whimper ever so slightly. He caught himself doing it and stopped, but the big creature had already turned to look in his direction.
He backed deeper into the bush. The big creature took a few steps toward him and paused, still looking his way. The imp was silent, one with the earth. He didn’t blink; he barely breathed. The little one’s laughter continued, so the big creature turned back to her. But he put his hand on her head and knelt down to her size to speak very softly to her. She nodded her head and pulled the rabbit to herself, until she could take it into her arms. It seemed easy for her to do so, and the rabbit didn’t get still.
The big creature looked back once more and then the two of them went into the house. He waited, but they didn’t come out. It grew darker and darker. He ventured closer to the house and listened for her sounds, but he couldn’t hear them. He heard older, harder voices and some music, too. He wished he could call out, make some noise that would bring the little one back, but he didn’t know anything to call and he was afraid of the big creature.
After a while longer, he retreated. He moved back through the fields slowly, carrying deep disappointment and sadness. He could think of nothing but the little one. Every once in a while on his return journey, he would stop and listen hopefully to the sounds of the night; but her sounds weren’t there. For him the night had suddenly turned empty and too dark.
When he reached the house, he paused and looked back over the fields. He whimpered once and crawled through his hole. Inside, the rocks felt heavier as he put them back. When that was done, he went to his box. He was tired and his sadness made him more sleepy. For a while he thought of the little one and hummed his sounds. He knew he would go back until he could get close enough to the little one so he could touch her. He thought that if he grabbed her quickly like he grabbed the rabbit, he could keep her from leaving him. He would hold her even tighter than he held the rabbit, and if that made her cold and still, he wouldn’t throw her down. He would bring her back here with him so he could always touch her.
These thoughts pleased him. He curled up in his box, put his fingers close to his lips, inhaled the odors of the outside world that were on his hands, and fell asleep dreaming of the long, gold hair, the soft, sweet face, and the sound of laughter.
The first time Faith sensed an emptiness in the basement, she felt panic. He could have died down there, she thought, and we wouldn’t know until Mary actually sought him for a bath or one of her “lessons.” Tonight, just like any other night, Mary had gone down to leave him his supper. She then came up, locking the door behind her, as usual; but, unlike some other nights, when Faith went to the floor and called to him, there was no response. She wanted to ask Mary about it, but she didn’t know how. What would she say, I’ve been communicating with him through the kitchen floor and tonight he doesn’t respond? Mary would go wild if she knew that, and tonight she was already hyper enough as it was.
Mary had returned invigorated from her church mission. She talked about the “voices” and how good she felt helping the poor. It reinforced her belief about her purpose in life.
“They looked up to me with such loving eyes,” she said. “I was like a returning angel. One old lady kissed my hand. When I stroked her hair, I felt a power traveling through me and into her. Something must have happened because she grew stronger, happier, lovelier.”
She paused to see how Faith was listening. Faith was attentive, but, as always, it was more because of fear than of interest.
“You should come along with me sometimes. You should see what it is to do this good work.”
“I can’t. School…”
“I know, I know. But when school ends, that’s when you should go.”
She went on talking about the people she had touched and the things she had said to them. She described a momentary vision she had had when it was all over. Clouds had parted and a bright light had appeared. Only she saw it, but that was because it was meant only for her eyes.
After dinner, Mary left Faith to wash the dishes and Faith tried to reach him, as always. There was no response, no matter how intently she tried. She even tapped the floor, risking Mary’s hearing her. That was when she envisioned him dying or sick. She wondered why Mary, who had such compassion for the sick and the poor, couldn’t have any compassion for him; for despite what he was spiritually, he was still an infant, wasn’t he?
She couldn’t discuss it. Mary would get very angry if she mentioned him tonight; but maybe she could come up with something that would make Mary think of him in a roundabout way. She began to think of ideas, when Mary did come charging back into the kitchen in a rage. She had gone into Faith’s notebook and found her failing papers.
She slammed the notebook down on the table and held the papers up before her. Her eyes were wild and her thin, narrow face was pulled so tight with anger, it sharpened her bone structure even more, making her look like a living skeleton. Under the kitchen’s bright ceiling fixture, the shadows below Mary’s eyes darkened. She appeared about as frightening as she could. Faith stepped back, embracing herself. She knew what Mary’s tantrums could bring.
“This is the result of your extra help! This is why you stayed after school? Liar. Liar.” She grasped the notebook and lunged forward. Faith held her arms up in front of her face and Mary brought the notebook down on them sharply. The whacks didn’t sting as much as they frightened. Faith went to sidestep her and Mary seized her hair. That hurt, so she cried out in pain and went to her knees, pleading for an end to it.
“I did stay after. I did.”
“How could you fail then? How could you fail?”
“He tested us on something different. Let go.” She struggled to get Mary to release her grip. Instead, Mary went to her knees beside her, bringing her violent face close.
“You’re lying to me. Your marks have been getting worse and worse. That means something. Don’t think I don’t know what it means. I know,” she said, widening her eyes even more. She paused. Her breath was hot and heavy against Faith’s face. Faith closed her eyes and prayed it would end, but Mary kept her position and kept her grip on her hair. The next thing she said came more in a whisper. “You’re touching yourself.” Faith opened her eyes. “You’re lusting.” Faith shook her head. How could she know? “The Devil’s in your hands, making you do it.”
“No,” she said, but her voice was so weak it was as good as a confession.
“You’re letting Him distract you; you’re letting Him defeat you.”
“No.” She spoke louder and stronger this time. Mary studied her face. Faith didn’t look away. She told herself she had to meet those eyes.
“Have you been with a man?”
“No, never.”
“You think about it.”
“No.”
“Why did you fail these tests?” There was some retreat in her voice. Faith was hopeful.
“I just didn’t understand it. He’s going to explain it again. Most of the class failed. You’ll see. I’ll do better.”
Mary’s grip lessened. Her eyes took on that far-off look that indicated to Faith that Mary was no longer concentrating on anything specific. She would merely begin to preach now. That was tolerable; she could turn her off and think of other things.
“Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God?” Mary said and released her hold on Faith’s hair. But she put her hands on her shoulders and made her stand with her. “Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners shall inherit the kingdom of God.”
Faith nodded, her tears ending. Mary seemed placated by Faith’s look of agreement and gratitude. She backed away and looked at the notebook again.
“I want a letter from this teacher telling me you were there working with him after school.”
“But that’s embar
rassing. Why must everyone know you don’t trust me?”
“Because I can’t trust you.”
“Why?” Faith demanded. She surprised herself with her aggressiveness.
“Never forget you are your father’s daughter,” Mary said. Her eyes got smaller, sadder.
“But I’m your daughter, too.”
“Know ye not that he who is joined to a harlot is one body?” she said and turned away from her. Her shoulders sagged as she left the kitchen. Faith watched her go and then sat at the table, her head in her hands. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Suddenly, she felt very tired and alone. After she completed the dishes, she decided to go up to bed. She paused in the living room doorway. Mary was sitting in her easy chair, staring at nothing.
“I’m tired and I don’t have any work tonight, so I’m going to sleep early.”
Mary looked at her and nodded. She looked stunned, on the border between the past and the present, and on the verge of drifting onto some mental avenue that would take her away for hours. It was almost a catatonic state. Faith was familiar with it, and tonight she was grateful for it. She hurried up to her room and closed the door as far as she could. Then she put on her light by her bed and sat thinking.
Never had she touched herself when Mary was anywhere nearby. She didn’t even think about it in Mary’s presence, for fear that Mary would read her thoughts or see the temptation in her face. How did she know to ask that? Could she see through the walls? All her life, Faith had believed that Mary had some special spiritual gifts. Didn’t this prove it?
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