The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, 2010

by Elizabeth Bear

  Sometimes, when it was stormy, the branches groaned and the twigs scraped the glass, and their jabbering profiles told darker stories where heroes failed and monsters triumphed. Then he would pull the covers up to the bottom of his crooked nose, turn the TV on low, curl his back to the window, and watch the screen sideways.

  He could never bear to draw the blinds.

  The stitches itched.

  Vic sat cross-legged on his bed in the shifting afternoon light, and busied his hands with the Big Book of Butterflies Father checked out of the library for him.

  Twap: the sound of a basketball bouncing off paving echoed through the inch of open window. Vic laid the book down on the pillow carefully, and gripped the headboard so he could climb up on the mattress. Unfurling sycamore buds waved in a spring breeze, and Vic had to crick his neck to get a good view of his neighbor’s neat garden, which had a pond in which red fish swam. The movement triggered a resentful throb, but he ignored it.

  A boy, a little taller than Vic, bounced a basketball in between the fragile Cherry tree and squat statues. His lips moved as if he narrated his circuits around the tidy obstacles. On a couple of previous occasions Vic had seen him slip aside a board in the garden’s slatted back fence, squeeze through the gap, and bounce his ball down the street to an unknown destination. The boy always returned, but his absences never raised an alarm. Vic knew because on each occasion he waited by the window until the boy returned home safely.

  A scattershot of rain pelted the glass in an offbeat tempo. Vic placed his lopsided fingers over his chest and tapped along to his heart’s erratic rhythm, the one Mom called Take Five. “You’re a little out of step,” she said whenever she pressed her ear to his chest. After she lifted her face, and revealed the scars that rucked her cheek, she’d add, “Keep beating kiddo.”

  Vic trampled over the bedcovers to gaze at the bus stop across the street. In the mornings the kids stood there and jostled each other as they waited for their ride to school, supervised by vigilant parents. Now, it was deserted.

  Vic hesitated, sidestepped to the bottom of the bed, and stretched for a peek at Rain’s bedroom window. Vic didn’t know her real name, but she reminded him of the changeable nature of rain: how it freshened up a summer’s day, hammered leaves into the ground, or softened the world behind a veil of mystery. Today she worked on her homework at a desk by the window. She chewed on a florescent yellow pen, and frowned. Vic was sure she was smart, so it had to be a tough question.

  The front door slammed. Vic dropped down on his mattress, and pulled the book over his lap. The slow, heavy tread on the carpeted stairs confirmed Father’s return. Vic watched the tongue of light under the door. A shadow hesitated outside. Anxiety and excitement soured his stomach. The footfalls continued, and keys jangled. Father entered his workroom, and Vic turned back to the book on his lap.

  “Egg, larva, chrysalis, imago,” he read as he traced the circular chart that mapped the butterfly’s life cycle. He flipped the yellowed pages so the musty library-smell drifted upwards.

  A memory rose in Vic’s mind like an air bubble drawn to the surface of water: a cheerful elderly librarian with steel eyeglasses and blue hair handed him a plastic-coated book. Vic squeezed his eyes shut and tried to capture the details, but they melted under scrutiny. Sometimes strangers’ faces haunted him with uneasy familiarity.

  Vic opened the front page. Old dates were pressed on the paper higgledy-piggledy. He tried to figure out how often the book had been borrowed and for how long. A rash of loans clustered around the same period every year, probably for a school project.

  He imagined Rain’s hands on the pages as she researched her paper, bit her pen, and wrote about the Nymphalidae species and their spectacular colors. His fingers slid across the glossy image of Blue Morpho, with its iridescent turquoise and aquamarine wings.

  Drip.

  A black splotch covered the image.

  A machine hummed into life next door.

  The stitches were barbed wire strangling his throat, but Vic focused on the book. He couldn’t let the page stain. Not on Rain’s favourite butterfly. His hands shook as he daubed at the paper with a corner of his cotton bed sheet; it turned navy, as if dipped in ink. Morpho menelaus recovered intact.

  “What are you doing, Victor?”—Mom’s voice from the doorway. He spun in surprise. Alarm remapped the scars on her face into livid lines of fear.

  Vic rushed to reassure her. “It’s all right, I got to it in time.”

  Her voice spiked. “Your neck!”

  His fingers touched the bandages, and felt the damp.

  She almost screamed, “Father!”

  A thump from next door, like a hammer dropped on the floor.

  Mom lurched towards Vic, and knocked into the corner of the television on her blind side.

  Just as her hand brushed his arm the pain became a saw ripping through his neck. He fell backwards into twilight, the book clasped to his chest.

  His mattress became a cloud of multi-hued butterflies, and Vic burst through them, falling into darkness, until they swooped and bore him up into a blinding white sky on wings that pounded a five/four beat.

  Vic woke to Mom’s touch on his forehead and a pressure on his throat. He blinked crust out of his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. “No talking for a while.” Pain was cottonballed and distant.

  His father slouched in the doorway, a silhouette of unease against the light in the hall. Despite the distance he reeked of Marlboros and sweat. Mom’s good eye was red, puffy, but she smiled. “You need to rest.” She levered herself from the bed with her cane, but held onto his hand. “Tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, we’ll watch a movie downstairs on the big television. All of us together.” Vic clutched her hand to indicate his delight at the treat.

  Father shifted and stuck his hands into the pockets of his trousers, “It’s not wise, Mary. The boy needs rest.”

  Mom dropped Vic’s hand, and swiveled sharply using her cane. “He needs a diversion!” The pitch of her voice skidded upward abruptly, and its intensity startled Vic. “Being pent up like this isn’t healthy!”

  “It’s for his own good,” Father said in his coaxing voice.

  Mom’s hand tightened around the handle of her walking stick. “It’s suffocating. Unnatural.” The anger slipped from her voice as quickly as it appeared, but a sloped resignation remained in her shoulders. Father opened up his arm to help her shuffle through the narrow space to the doorway.

  “I’ll check on you soon,” she said, and closed the door quietly.

  Vic sat up in bed, and touched the bandages that swaddled the length of his neck. New wrappings bound his wrists. He pulled back his sheets. Virgin strips encased his ankles. Under his crumpled teddy-bear pyjama top a new dressing twisted upwards from his bellybutton. He drew the material back, and followed the trail that criss-crossed older wounds. It terminated above his heart, from where all the other marks radiated.

  Shadows moved under the door.

  He eased out of bed. Dizziness threatened to topple him, but he leaned against a wall until the crashing in his head abated. He walked to the door, and laid his ear against the smooth grain.

  Father’s voice, low and stubborn: “It’s not working.” Mom’s angry response was muffled. Father’s response contained frigid resolve. “No. There’s no point. I won’t do it again.”

  “You promised!” so loud it shocked Vic back from the door, but he could still hear the sobbed entreaties of his mother, and the shhing noises of his father.

  Barely audible: “We could begin over.”

  Vic stumbled back and sat on the bed hard. Pain shot up his spine and shook his heart. He shouldn’t listen to private conversations, he’d been told so before. Just as it was wrong to explore the house. Bad things happened when he disobeyed.

  Memories, tightly barred, threatened to tear open. Behind it images strained: a small limp foot jutted over the edge of a metal table; a s
carlet toenail dripped red; and a clear plastic mask descended towards Vic’s face.

  Vic’s clenched fists lay on his lap: one dark, one pale. His chest constricted, but not from the wound.

  Tap tap tap. The tree clattered for Vic’s attention. He scooted around, and gazed out the window. The late evening light slanted into the neighbour’s pond so the fish glowed. The boy wore a hoodie emblazoned with the word Mavericks, and dribbled his basketball around imaginary players. He spun, halted, stared at his house, and back at the fence. Vic’s breath caught as the boy weighed his options.

  A short sprint; the board pushed aside; and an empty garden. The fish circled the pool.

  Vic dragged himself upright using the windowsill, and shuffled to the end of the bed. Rain and her younger sister, dressed in party clothes, danced in front of a tall mirror and mouthed words to a song he couldn’t hear, their bodies graceful with freedom. His world was a coffin-sized room while theirs was limitless.

  We could begin over.

  He didn’t know why his heart struggled to beat when it hurt so much.

  The unhindered light under the door offered a chance. He stood, and tested the knob. It turned.

  Vic put on jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. He didn’t own a jacket, so he pulled on two sweaters. It would be cold. Underneath the dull heartbreak exhilaration and fear warred.

  Out. He was going out.

  A sob of lonely hurt hitched his chest. He squashed it. Soon he’d be gone. No longer a bother, a source of tears and fights, or secrets behind locked doors. Without him, they could start over.

  He opened the door.

  It proved surprisingly simple to escape the house. Father clanked about in the workroom as Vic crept down the stairs. The television blared in the den. In the kitchen the key stuck out of the backdoor lock. A click, and he was outside, smelling the breeze, brisk and heavy with the scent of damp earth.

  He looked up at the darkening sky, stars and crescent moon ghost imprints on the purple-navy expanse, and for a moment the world tipped forwards and back. The noises of the neighbourhood flooded him: cars rolled past, feet slapped the sidewalk as a pair of children dashed past the house, and dogs barked sulky reminders about their evening walk.

  He was out.

  Vic propelled forward on clumsy legs, anxious to flee the shadow of the house in case the panic submerged by the wonder would surface and drown him. He lumbered through the long grass to the wooden fence. Vic had long ago spotted the broken board that the local cats used to stalk through the garden. He kicked it out of place, sucked in his stom and wiggled through on his side.

  He stood up quickly, trembling, and checked to see if anyone noticed his exit. There were few people about. The smell of cooking food wafted from the houses. Families gathered to eat at this time. Vic knew because he’d watched them.

  A man in an overcoat strode past. Across the street a young woman with a stroller glanced at him, smiled, and kept going.

  He was part of the world. Accepted by it.

  Across the street Rain’s house loomed. For a stomach-plunging instant Vic considered ringing the doorbell. He dismissed the idea. Vic didn’t know what to say, and . . . Rain might not like him. The plummet in his gut returned. His feet hurried away from the emotion and followed the same course the boy next door had taken.

  Orange streetlights flickered on as he passed, and soon he was at the top of the street, at an intersection. New territory. Across the street a playground guarded the entrance to a park. Colorful tubular towers sprouted from the ground, connected by passageways, and accessed by ladders, ropes, and ramps. Slides and swings dotted the spaces in between. In his rush to reach it he ignored the lights. Brakes screeched and a horn blared as a van skidded to avoid him.

  The area was deserted. The glow of the nearby lights slicked the smooth surfaces of the playground equipment. Vic climbed a metal ladder, crawled into the top of a round tower, and looked out of the arched window at the passing people. The wind thrummed through the empty spaces. He found a broken lumpy crayon, and wrote “Vic” on a wooden strut in the roof. He wondered if he could live there at night, and emerge to play with the children during the day.

  Twap: the sound of a basketball. He switched to the opposite window and saw his neighbour throw a ball at a hoop.

  Vic whooshed down the yellow slide, and approached the boy. He stopped on the edge of the dimly lit court, and waited. After a couple of moments the boy dribbled his ball towards Vic. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” Vic grinned.

  “You play?”

  Vic shook his head. The boy raised an eyebrow at that. “What, never?”

  Vic noticed the suspicious tone. “I’ve been sick.”

  The boy bounced the ball a couple of times and nodded, as if this information made perfect sense. “Wanna learn?”

  Vic bobbed his head, afraid to speak in case he messed up an unknown code of conduct.

  “I’m Don,” the boy added, and bounced the ball at Vic, who huffed when he caught it.

  “I’m Vic,” he responded, and threw it back at Don.

  The boy tucked the ball under his arm, and cocked his hip. “First, I’ll explain the basics.”

  Half an hour later Vic’s breath rasped from effort. His legs throbbed with the malicious promise of a later reckoning, but he couldn’t stop smiling. He’d scored his first point. As soon as his hand touched the ball it was as if the memory of the game was hard-wired in his body, despite its slowness. He had to stop for a breather several times, but Don hadn’t complained, and used the breaks to describe tactics, or demonstrate a couple of special moves.

  Vic wanted to play basketball with him forever.

  Don paused, his cheeks glowing, and his breath visible. “You sure you haven’t played before?” Vic shook his head. Don jerked his chin at Vic’s hands. “Were you burned?” Fear rendered Vic mute; the bandages and his mis-matched hands were clearly visible. “My uncle’s a firefighter,” a swell of pride, “so I know about skin grafts.”

  Vic yanked the sleeves of his sweater over his wrists, and dipped his head.

  “You home-schooled?” Another nod. Don laughed. “You escape for a night?” Vic’s eyes widened, and the boy bounced the ball harder. “Know the feeling.” He paused and checked a chunky watch on his wrist. “I gotta go soon. Even my mom’ll notice I’m missing.”

  “Vic?”

  Don’s stance stiffened, and his gaze flicked to behind Vic’s shoulder. Vic turned. His mother hobbled from the direction of the shadowed park, bundled up in a long coat, scarf, and hat. Behind her, the darker blot of Father’s presence. Her cane tapped like the rattle of twigs against a windowpane. “I was so worried,” she gasped.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and wrapped his happiness tight about him, desperate to keep it. He stepped back from her. “Just shooting hoops with Don.” He loved the normalcy of the new words on his tongue.

  She paused about ten feet from Vic. “Don?” she said, and her voice glitched in a funny way.

  Father took a step forward. “Don’t.” She half-swivelled, and Vic couldn’t see the expression on her face, but Father didn’t move or say anything else.

  Don fidgeted, and glanced over at the playground and the streetlights beyond. “Well, see ya, Vic.”

  “Wait, Don is it?” her voice smoothed out, and became the sound of a beautiful, caring, Mother. Someone you trusted with your life.

  Don stopped, and a hungering need rose in pupils wide from the lack of light. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you like drinking chocolate?” She glided closer to the boy without a trace of a limp.

  “I sure do.”

  “Why don’t I fix you some, as thanks for being such good friends with my boy?” Mom held out a hand, and Vic noticed for the first time that her fingernails were long and sharp.

  A memory erupted: Vic approached the sleeping boy on the table, hoping to wake him so they could play together.

  Don took a step towards Mom.r />
  A puddle of blood glued the sheet to the boy’s leg.

  Don’s hand rose dreamily upwards.

  The cloth slid a little as Vic touched the boy, and exposed the . . .

  Vic jumped between them and shoved Don so hard the boy almost fell backwards. “Like I want this loser coming to my house!” Vic yelled.

  The enchantment broke, and bitter rejection replaced it. “Screw you Vic,” Don bellowed, and he ran with fast angry steps towards the light, and safety.

  For a while there was only the sound of traffic and the crack of Mom’s knuckles as she clenched and unclenched her fingers. She sighed, a long release of irritation, and hobbled to Vic. “I do it to make you better, Vic.” She touched the curve of his neck. Dampness bloomed against his skin, and the discomfort hidden by activity sharpened. Her voice caught, broke. “I can’t lose you.”

  Vic stared down at his sneakers, scuffed for the first time. “Promise you’ll leave Don alone.”

  Her silence offered no assurances.

  Exhaustion settled on Vic with the weight of sorrow. He staggered, but Father caught and lifted Vic. “He taught me to layup,” Vic said, and closed his eyes as the pain returned with the fury of the repressed. Father kissed Vic’s forehead, and in surprise Vic opened his eyes and looked directly at his father for the first time he could remember. “Don’t begin over,” Vic whispered, too low for Mom to hear.

  His father froze, and guilt tightened the smudged circles under his eyes. He bent his head and gripped Vic tight. Vic buried his face in his father’s raincoat, inhaled the smell of cigarettes and formaldehyde, and cried.

  Father hugged Vic close to his chest as they walked home. Mom held onto the crook of Father’s arm. As they left the playground Rain and her sister bounced by, giggling and chattering, on either side of their mother. A blue enamel butterfly glittered among Rain’s curls. She smiled briefly at Vic, and he imagined how she saw them: a father carrying a son tuckered out from activity, his wife by his side; a family.