He didn’t want to be able to answer those questions anymore.
Down the hall, heading in a direction he had no business going, toward the printers’ once again, Warren paused at the incinerator square. Without hesitation, he pulled the door open, felt the brief heat, and tossed his book and note inside.
For the first time since experiencing the Guilts, he felt a fragment of absolution.
But not enough. No no. And now he was balancing very high without a net.
He continued to the printing room, Mark’s and Clarence’s infinitesimal claim on the world.
He was shaking when he reached the door.
Why’d you come here, Warren?
I got another book.
Why’d you come here last time?
Taking a walk.
Why do you got another book?
Because I got two this time.
Why do you got two this time?
Because one is a lie. But in this case, two is not.
But there was nobody inside.
The Parenthood was asleep. But everybody?
Could take seven hours or more. That’s what Mark and Clarence had said. Told him. Taught him.
Warren entered.
He opened the briefcase and removed the manuscript, lining up the pages on the table.
He’d make twenty-four copies of the handwritten novel. One for each of the boys. He didn’t want one for himself. Needs, to him, was more a painting than a book.
Let someone else hang it in their home.
The pages in place, he set the gears in motion and watched as the first words of the most meaningful thing he’d ever done began to duplicate, like the phony viruses the boys so feared.
It took four and a half hours. And not a minute of it was nice.
Not scared to die. But scared of dying before delivering the books to the boys.
The boys would (MUST) wake to the mysterious paperbacks, like a note announcing a speech, in their bedrooms.
Some of them would begin to flip the pages. Some would begin to read.
About the real world.
About real life.
About women.
Could’ve killed him, Warren, he thought. Could’ve just tore Richard’s intestines right out of him.
Warren smiled sadly. That’s exactly what he was doing.
The room smelled of motors pushed past their breaking point. The room smelled of fact.
All done, he put the copies in a box. He carried the box out of the printing room. At the Corner he did not speed up and he did not slow down. He only walked. And walked. One turn. Then another. Eventually his eyes were firmly locked on a door marked STAIRS. The stairs led, of course, up. Up to the first floor. Up to the many floors above it, too.
He scaled the steps. As the Parenthood slept, Warren began the process of waking it up. And as the marked door closed behind him, his overwhelmed mind imagined, momentarily, that it was the door to the Corner.
But by the time Richard demanded his head, Warren Bratt would be so far from the tower he might not know the way back.
And the boys? Where will they be, Warren? Isn’t this a death sentence for them? Knowledge? Spoiling them…rotten?
The questions came muffled. He wouldn’t allow himself to hear them.
“The truth,” he said, climbing the steps. “They deserve the truth.”
He imagined each Alphabet Boy in a cage; twenty-four boys behind bars painted to blend in with the rest of the world.
He reached the first-floor door.
He pushed it open with his shoe.
And he stepped through.
Carrying keys for the locks, delivering reality in a box.
“A Monster in My Rooms”
J and D did not search the pines for the figure the next night. They’d planned to. They wanted to. They were excited to. But then they woke to find a strange book in their rooms, a thing so mysterious it washed their calendars clean.
With the book was a note from D.A.D. ordering them not to discuss it with anyone, even himself, until they were done.
Baffling, indeed.
“Inspection!”
J woke to the word after only two and a half hours of sleep. He’d been up all night, staring out the third-floor window, unable to come to grips with the new view. After all, the third floor was five stories closer than the eighth, and whatever J had seen lurking last night was that much closer, too.
He heard G, F, and X out in the hall. His new floor mates no doubt already standing in line, discussing their studies, the floor shift, breakfast, who knew. J longed for the voices of D, Q, and L. Yes, even L, who, as D rightly pointed out, was always a thorn in the others’ sides. It was astonishing to J how palpable the feeling of loss was. As if the other boys had been connected to him physically, as if D.A.D. had removed more than just proximity in the shift.
J sat up.
“I’m late,” he said, rubbing his eyes until the boxes with all his clothes and books, supplies and tools, came into focus. His bedroom was a mess. And while he knew his new floor mates had unpacked their belongings before going to bed (he’d heard them and seen their open doors), J hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. He just didn’t want to. It was more than just resisting change; J was struggling with the idea of seeing this change as permanent. There was nothing about the new rooms that felt like they were his own. They may have looked similar but they smelled different. Felt different, too.
And that new view.
Upon a stack of boxes just beyond the foot of his bed, J saw a pile of white papers, bound, in the form of a haphazard journal or poorly constructed textbook. He didn’t think it’d been there the night before, but the Parenthood was no stranger to slipping notes overnight, and J assumed this was something like that.
Pretty big note, though.
He got out of bed.
“INSPECTION!”
J had a little time. Very little. G, F, or X would go first, giving him precious minutes to brush his teeth, comb his hair, shake the uneasy and alien feeling from his shoulders. He crossed his new bedroom and read the cover page of the stack of white paper.
Needs
Just below this word, the note from D.A.D.
“Needs, indeeds,” J said, hurrying to the bathroom. He grabbed his toothbrush, put toothpaste on it, then sat down to pee and brush his teeth at once. As he did, he eyed the messily bound papers on the pile of boxes through the open door.
A knock on his outer door caused him to leap from the toilet, flush it, then spit out the toothpaste into the sink.
“Coming! I’m sorry!”
J splashed some water on his face, tore into his bedroom, and realized he was still wearing his clothes from the day before. Hadn’t changed into his pajamas to go to sleep.
J quickly took off his clothes and put the pajamas on. Feigned sleep.
Just as he’d finished, the door opened. X peered in.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I know.” J felt a pang of resentment. This new floor mate telling him what to do. That job ought to be Q’s.
“Well,” X said, his blue eyes and blond hair so different from Q’s, “come on, then.”
J nodded and made for the door, passing the papers again.
Needs
Did it say novel?
Still walking, he looked back over his shoulder. Couldn’t read the title page from the door. Didn’t matter. He’d read it when he got back from the Inspection and, besides, he was sure D.A.D. would mention whatever it was in the Check-Up room.
Outside in the hall, X and G waited by the metal Check-Up door.
“Sorry,” J said. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Neither did I,” G said. “Thought there was a monster in my rooms.
”
“A what?” X asked.
“I heard someone in my room last night. Moving around. And I think I may have even seen him.”
“What did he look like?” J asked.
X and G eyed him as if J had exposed something. Had he?
“Stubby. Wide. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” X echoed, as though to flatten the conversation before it rose any higher.
“Who had your room before you?” J asked.
“I,” G said.
“It was probably him, then,” J said, thinking of the lurker in the pines. Thinking of the fact that he still hadn’t told D.A.D. about it.
“Don’t worry,” X said.
“I’m not worried,” G said. “But I didn’t like it, either. It’s bad enough we had to change rooms, but I can’t even sleep in peace in this one.”
“Had to be the delivery of that new book,” X said.
J looked to his front door, then back to the boys. “New book,” he echoed. “Luxley.”
“Not Luxley,” X said.
“Warren Bratt,” G said.
They both looked to the Check-Up door. J sensed they were hiding something. The name Warren Bratt sounded as exotic as the mental illnesses discussed in psychology.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“The note,” G said. He was very close to whispering.
“I saw it,” J said.
“Yeah, well, let’s not talk about it, then.”
They didn’t. They didn’t talk about anything at all for a minute or more.
J thought of the name they’d said.
Who in the world was Warren Bratt?
“New floors, new floor mates,” G said. “How do they expect me to get any sleep around here?”
X laughed. “They know you’ll be fine is how. And if you really can’t handle it, which of course you can, just write about it in your notebook.”
J felt a drop in his belly. This conversation again. Only new floor mates now. He didn’t want to write anything down in the blue notebook. Not one word.
He thought of the poorly bound book in his bedroom. Looked like a notebook, too.
Warren Bratt.
J knew the book hadn’t been delivered overnight. He’d been awake all night, peering out the window, tossing and turning, feeling entirely confused and out of place.
The Parenthood must have dropped it off early this morning, perhaps minutes before the call for Inspection.
“But you can’t write about the new book in your notebook,” X reminded them. “Not until you’ve read it all.”
“Enough about it,” G said. “Not another word.”
The Check-Up door opened and F walked out, big teeth and messy hair. He yawned and winked at J.
“You always late?” he asked.
“No,” J said. “Only on the mornings when our lives are turned upside down.”
Effigy Meet
J had no time to read the new book following the morning’s Inspection and breakfast. In the cafeteria, the Parenthood announced the coming of an enormous storm. The Alphabet Boys knew what this meant.
Today would be the Effigy Meet.
As J put on his gloves and hat, a blizzard began. It was a profound way to spend the first proper day in his new rooms, and as the pines looked larger from the third floor, so did the snow.
Across the hall, X, G, and F discussed what they were going to build. The Effigy Meet was the annual contest to determine which Alphabet Boy could carve the most original sculpture out of ice. D.A.D. awarded first place to the boy who showed the least derivation in his work. And while each year the twenty-three runners-up momentarily despaired, all respected the winner.
Another look at the snowfall and J opted to wear his long underwear beneath his black slacks that were also beneath his snow pants. Mobility was important in the Yard, but not as much as stamina, and any boy who thought of going back inside the Turret was not going to make it to the finish line, the judgment, at sundown.
J hadn’t considered what he was going to build. Hadn’t been thinking of it at all. His mind was on the pines, notebooks, and lies. This, he knew, put him at a disadvantage: If you wanted to win the Effigy Meet, you had to be prepared. Q, for example, mapped out his ideas in a series of drawings taped to his living room walls. L made blueprints. In past years even D discussed what he’d like to create and why.
It wasn’t just the floor shuffle, for J. It wasn’t just hiding something from the Parenthood.
He’d been questioning everything.
And the uneven stack of pages he’d left behind in his rooms, the new book by a new writer, sounded like a good place to start looking for answers, a response to the emotional bell that had begun tolling.
He’d reread the accompanying note before heading for the Yard:
Boys—Consider this book a new challenge. Be discreet. Experience the words on your own. Which boy can go the longest without discussing its contents with another? Which of you can resist speaking to me about it? Try. In fact, I forbid you to speak of it at all, with anyone, including me, until you have reached its end. I think you’ll discover it to be a refreshing and insightful way to read a book. Perhaps the way all books were meant to be read.
D.A.D.
The mystery of it was unbearable.
“J!”
Outside under the snowfall, J turned to see Q’s unmistakable glasses adorning an otherwise completely covered face.
“The Effigy Meet,” Q said. “And the perfect storm for it.”
“How are your new rooms?” J asked.
“Just like the old ones. Only without you to talk to. In other words…it sucks. Do you know what you’re going to build?”
J attempted to play the part of a boy engaged in the event. He stomped on the ice beneath the falling snow. Looked to the icicles hanging from the branches of the pines. But in the end he couldn’t lie. Not to Q. Never could. “I have no idea what I’m going to do.”
Q laughed. “Well, as you know, some of the greatest designs have been made on the spur of the moment. Don’t worry about it. But at the same time…think fast.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Little ol’ me? I’m thinking of…a ladder.”
“A ladder? Hey, that sounds neat.”
“Indeed. A ladder of ice. How much weight will it support? And much more interesting: How high will it go?”
“You’ll probably win.”
“Oh, you never know. You might win yourself. Idea or not. In fact, I’m a little jealous. A clean slate has always been my favorite way to start something.” He looked up to the falling flakes. “And now I’m off. Good luck, J. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Q nearly vanished into the wind-curtain of falling snow, joining other vague blurs in the Yard.
Like ghosts, J thought. As indeterminate as the shape he’d seen lurking by Mister Tree at night.
Ahead, a taller figure emerged from the wall of mist and snow. J, bundled, idealess, watched him come.
D.A.D.
Without a hat or scarf, his exposed face was pink above his red jacket and gloves.
“J,” he said. “You’re standing still as a statue. Nothing in mind?”
J stared up into the eyes of the man who, for so long, had been the rock by which J navigated. The rudder and the root.
“In mind?”
“For the Effigy Meet!” D.A.D. fanned a hand toward the other boys, his gloved fingers tipped with frost. Then he brought one of those red fingers to his lips. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Surprise me.”
J thought how similar it was—what D.A.D. just said and what he’d written on page one of the strange new book in his bedroom.
“I will,” J said.
> “Thatta boy, J. Set your imagination free, but make sure it’s backed up by all you’ve learned here.”
All you’ve learned here.
Was there anywhere else to go?
“Thank you, D.A.D.,” J said, already stepping into the white folds of the storm. “I will.”
* * *
—
RICHARD WATCHED HIM go.
He watched them all.
His boys.
The Effigy Meet was as indicative of where the Alphabet Boys were at as any exam or sport they partook in. Richard had long prided himself on the idea: Wait for the first brutal storm of the season and see what the boys can do with it.
Molding nature.
How sweet the sound.
In a way, the Effigy Meet resembled the science fairs of Richard’s youth. But those minor contests always took place in gymnasiums, hotel conference centers, the library. Here, at the Turret in winter, the Yard was majestic. The minds of the boys, with only snow and ice for palettes, created some of the most astonishing accomplishments of their young lives. In winters prior, Richard had walked through perfectly crafted tunnels of ice; ridden in mobile, wheeled sleighs of snow; and even eaten dinner upon a frozen table. The spirit of the event was palpable, and often the boys assisted one another. They worked in tandem, creating frozen pulleys to raise bricks of snow, white wheelbarrows to cart blocks of ice. C once attempted to re-create the Turret itself, a project that proved too ambitious but one D.A.D. very much admired. The Effigy Meet was a busy day for the Parenthood, indeed, as Richard documented every and all conversations, theories, plans, and achievements. Every winter’s first brutal storm had become Richard’s annual way of marking the practical/impractical progress of his boys. How high would they think? How wide? And what skills would they employ to make these dreams come true?
Richard had thought high. He’d thought wide, too.
The Parenthood itself was his eternal contribution to the Effigy Meet. A thing he’d built from frigid emotions, so close to freezing. A boundless ideal, a law of nature…from scratch. Did the Alphabet Boys have this degree of ambition within them? And did they have the gall to pursue it? Some of the ice contributions, year in year out, were simple. Some were quite serious. Some were silly and some were spectacular.
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