Parker sat straight up in bed. He gasped for air. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead and flushed face. He flung himself out of bed. The blankets twisted around his legs and he fell to the floor, dragging the mass of bedclothes with him. He checked his hands, back and front. They shook, but they were otherwise normal. He threw back the tangled web of blankets and inspected his bare feet and legs. He checked his bed, the walls, the room around him.
Nothing out of the ordinary. He was home. He had been in bed. It was morning.
He drew a deep breath and held it, then collapsed backward onto the cold hard floor. He closed his eyes tight, pressed on them with the heels of his hands, and exhaled.
He dropped his hands to his sides and opened his eyes. “I need help.” On the ceiling, Tal looked down at him from her cockpit. “And more posters.”
On the bedside table, next to a glass jelly jar, a scale model of Colby Max’s robotic Battle-Suit looked back at him. Strapped inside stood a tiny mechanical boy his age. “What time is it, Colby?”
Glowing red digits appeared above the clock. “Seven-thirty . . . a.m. Time to kick some plasma!” declared the clock.
Parker sat up. “That’s for sure.”
“Take it to the max!” said the clock.
Tacked to the wall above the clock hung a calendar. The top of the calendar showed Colby Max in his flying robotic suit, rescuing a crippled airliner about to plunge into a blue ocean. Below this, each day for the month of July bore a large red X. The rows of red X’s led up to Friday the thirteenth. This day bore a handwritten word: Dad. And below this a little birthday cake with Lucky 13 written inside it.
Parker smiled. All week Bubba had been saying turning thirteen on Friday the thirteenth was malchance . . . bad luck. Each time, Parker shook his head or laughed; he wasn’t superstitious. And he had a reason to smile: today, at long last, his dad was coming home.
Parker stood and scooped up the blankets and tossed them on the bed. “That’s the last time I sleep here.”
He moved to the glass wall spanning the length of his bedroom. A gray mist swirled against the other side of the glass. The usual expanse of the city was obscured, even the ceramic arch of monorail track hugging the building one floor below. Just more gray. As if on cue the whoosh of a morning train swept past. For an instant its red position lights flashed. The window and floor vibrated. Then it grew quiet as the train sailed away toward the north tower, leaving mere fog in its wake. “Since when is there fog in the summer?”
“Take it to the max!” declared the clock.
“Kiss my plasma.”
“Take it to the max!”
Parker forced himself not to reply to the clock. Colby Max always had to have the last word. The clock was as bad as the talking cereal box. He again considered discarding the clock. But it had been a gift from Bubba two birthdays ago. To rid himself of the clock would be tantamount to slashing at the bonds of their friendship. And next to Sunny, whose gender put her in a separate, unique category, Bubba was his only friend. Although Bubba understood it was not Colby Max whom Parker worshiped but the Battle-Suit he flew, the verbose clock would remain.
Parker tried to look through the fog at the city he knew was there: maze-like grids of scaffolding and black netting clinging to the ever-rising upper floors of the buildings, rooftop cranes standing out against the morning sky, bobbing and swiveling, lifting tons of building materials. Above the cranes and beyond the fog, the morning sun would already be growing yellow as it climbed into the sky.
He leaned against the window. Three years ago he’d pushed his bed right up against it. At the time, he’d planned to watch the sky for his dad’s return flight. When his dad didn’t arrive, he’d begun looking for gull-gray military transport planes like the one he’d watched his dad board three years ago. He never saw one. Now, three years later, the whole notion seemed childish.
So he’d gone from watching the sky to watching the city, itself a living organism he’d come to think of as his friend. For three years he’d watched the city grow like a child, its growth slow and imperceptible, until one day the difference was unmistakable and somehow startling. He wondered if his own growth would be perceptible to his dad.
He smiled.
In less than five hours he would see his dad. Would his dad be wearing his uniform? Would he have gray and black cammo-striped paint on his face, his automatic rifle slung over his shoulder and a pistol strapped to his hip? Then Parker realized his dad was coming from the airport so most likely he would look like all the other fathers coming home to visit their sons.
Parker suddenly wanted to escape the dreary morning fog. Fog and birthdays didn’t mix. Birthdays deserved warm sunlight brighter than the candles on any birthday cake. The Cloud Deck would provide a better view.
Parker gasped.
The Cloud Deck!
Bubba! He and Bubba had a breakfast date.
How long had he been staring at the fog? He whirled around and checked his alarm clock: 7:52. Bubba would be there any minute and he didn’t like to be kept waiting, especially when it came to food.
Parker scanned the floor of his bedroom. He grabbed yesterday’s blue jeans and his favorite blue Go-Boy t-shirt. He sniffed each one, decided they were acceptable, and hurriedly swapped t-shirts, then stepped into his jeans, jumping and hopping as he pulled them over his boxers. He remembered the pizza delivery boy in the park yesterday; his shirt had been blue, too. Where did the boy live and sleep? Was his dad was off fighting, too?
Parker ran to the bathroom and smoothed his t-shirt, checking the image of Colby Max on its front. Satisfied, he splashed water on his face and hair, dripping water all over his shirt; why hadn’t he waited to get dressed? He loaded his Colby Max toothbrush with blue Colby Max toothpaste and brushed his teeth so fast he rammed the toothbrush into his gums and then gagged when he choked on the frothy blue foam. He gargled with cold water, spit, and stood upright, examining himself in the mirror. He stared into his own eyes; he was supposed to say his affirmations every morning. He tried to say the words. He’d promised his therapist he would say them. More importantly, he’d promised Bubba, and Bubba would surely ask. Sunny would, too. But he hated saying the affirmations. He felt stupid. Besides, he was late!
He ran to his room and grabbed socks and shoes, pulling them on as he hopped out of his bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen. The box of Astr-O’s cereal sat on the counter where he’d left it. It detected his movement and the smiling hologram came to life. “Take it to the max!” Parker ignored it and hopped over to the videophone. He speed-dialed the Black residence and sat down on the cold tile floor to tie his shoes while he waited for someone to answer.
On the second ring the screen lit up and Mrs. Black appeared. “Hello? Hello? Is this some kind of a joke? Because I can’t see you.”
“Take it to the max!” said Colby.
Parker knocked over the box of cereal. “I’m down here, Mrs. Black.” He stuck his hand in the air and waved.
“Parker!” Mrs. Black smiled. “Happy birthday, honey. I’m baking you a nice cake so you and your dad can come over and have cake and ice cream with Bubba and me later, okay?”
Parker finished tying his shoes and stood so Mrs. Black could see him. “That would kick plasma!”
Mrs. Black wore her trademark purple apron embossed with the smiling face of Ornophelia Savannah. Savvy, as she was known by her beloved legion of fans, was the host of Mrs. Black’s favorite program, the wildly popular daytime talkshow Savvy. Savvy was also the wealthiest woman in the country. Regina Black owned not one but two of Savvy’s aprons. Last Christmas she let Parker wear her second apron the day she and Bubba and Parker made Christmas cookies. Mrs. Black slipped the bright yellow apron over Parker’s head and Bubba tied it for him in the back, quickly making a perfect bow. Parker had looked dubiously at the joyous image of the lovely, caramel-skinned Ornophelia smiling up at him, but an hour later his hands, arms, and most of his face were powdered whit
e with flower and he and Bubba and Mrs. Black were having the time of their lives. Regina showed Parker how to knead the dough and then sprinkle flour on it and roll it flat with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Bubba showed Parker how to press the silver cookie cutters into the flat, thin dough, and they made cookies in the shapes of trees and angels and ghosts and pumpkins, because those were the only shapes Mrs. Black had, and they laughed at the frosted green Christmas ghosts and the sweet orange Christmas pumpkins. For the better part of that afternoon, Parker forgot about his troubles, and was happy.
On the videophone, Mrs. Black’s body shimmied back and forth and the spoon scraped the sides of the metal bowl as she stirred. “Why is your shirt all wet?” She leaned in closer to her screen and her nose and face appeared large and oblong. “Have you been exercising?”
Parker suddenly remembered the red t-shirt Mrs. Black had washed and ironed and put on a hanger for him to hang in his closet. She’d said he should look nice for his big day. “Mrs. Black, has Bubba left yet?”
“Not yet, honey.”
As if on cue, Bubba bobbed into the picture over Mrs. Black’s shoulder, already a couple inches taller than his mom. Bubba’s two pet mice, Colby and Igby, rode on his shoulder like they always did when Bubba was at home.
“Here I am, Park,” said Bubba. His teeth crunched on a long piece of crispy bacon. Igby sniffed at it, his little white body standing up on his pink feet.
“Why are you eating bacon?” Parker asked. “Aren’t we going to The Cloud Deck?”
“Of course,” said Bubba, “but mom always cooks bacon on Friday mornings. You know that. Want me to bring you some?” Bubba held the bacon close to the camera and it loomed extra large on Parker’s display. Igby ran down Bubba’s arm to the back of Bubba’s hand. Igby’s mouse nose and whiskers sniffed the camera quickly. He turned and grabbed the bacon in his pink hands and began nibbling loudly with his four tiny teeth.
“No, that’s okay.”
“Did I tell you Igby likes bacon?”
“Just meet me in the elevator. And don’t accidentally forget to stop on my floor this time.”
“Is the birthday boy afraid I’m going to get to the buffet line first? That I’ll finally beat him at something?” Bubba smiled his toothy grin.
“Just don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” Bubba leaned in close to the screen. “Did you say your affirmations?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” Bubba always seemed to know when he was lying.
“Just meet me in the elevator.”
“God’s speed, Lieutenant.” Bubba stood upright and snapped off a quick salute before the screen flickered once and went back to displaying the local weather. A smiling sun wearing black sunglasses appeared. Parker looked outside at the fog and shook his head again at the irony of a sunless birthday.
He ran to his room, to his closet. His old wristwatch sat on the middle shelf, where it was plainly visible, and where it had been collecting dust for nearly three years. I think you’d better take off that watch until you’re ready to give more than you take. Next to the watch, also where he could see them every day, sat a key-ring looped with blackened keys, the only remains of his mother found at the smoldering elementary school. He tried not to look at them, either. He found the clean red t-shirt Mrs. Black had washed and ironed for him. He jerked the clean shirt from its hanger and exchanged it with the wet one he wore.
Parker hurried to the front door. He reached for his identification key on the table. Its monetary value had reached zero over a week ago. Nevertheless, it had become habit to keep the card always on the table near the front door, beside his most prized possession: a scaled-down yet perfect replica of the Go-Boy Battle-Suit flown by Colby Max, minus its pilot, unlike the verbose alarm clock. His dad had sent the Battle-Suit in the mail along with a note explaining how he had made a few calls and managed to snag it from a toy store in Tokyo, almost a whole month before it was available in U.S. stores for last year’s Christmas rush, and it arrived via special delivery the day after the cookie-baking marathon. Parker had chosen this spot to display the Battle-Suit, though he often carried it into his room at night. Bubba had been duly impressed by its authenticity and realistic attention to detail. Even Sunny had marveled at it. The three of them had admired the model and agreed that if they could ever get real Go-Boy suits of their own, the first thing they’d do would be to go up to the roof of The Cloud Deck, look down at the ground five thousand feet below, and jump off. Bubba had said he would do a swan dive. Parker and Sunny had agreed he would be too scared to go through with it.
Parker slid the key into his back pocket. He used the front of his t-shirt to gently wipe some accumulated dust from the Battle-Suit. Would the real thing would be as impressive, or just a cheap mock-up that only looked good onscreen? Would Colby Max be nice? Would he would say, ‘Take it to the max!’ like he did in his movies and his SuperVision advertisements? Would Go-Boy . . . Unleashed be as good as Go-Boy . . . Forever? Would the line to meet Colby be long? Would his dad have a good time eating pizza and meeting Colby Max and seeing his new film? And most of all, would having his dad home put an end to the nightmares?
Parker took a moment to look at the other object he often carried into his room at night: a big, full-color 3-D lasergraph of himself with his parents . . . both of them. His dad had his arm around his mother. They each rested a hand on Parker’s shoulders.
Parker touched the lasergraph. He could almost feel his mother’s long blond hair. He could almost smell the warm vanilla scent of her perfume. His mom and dad were both smiling, almost laughing. The photographer had told a dumb joke to coax them to smile: “How do you get Holy water?” He answered, “By boiling the hell out of it.” He said all good photographers should strive to capture genuine emotion, otherwise it was a waste of laser-film. Parker, however, had found the joke inappropriate and had not laughed, and in the photograph he was not smiling. His dad had said he looked intense, his mother said handsome, but Parker thought he looked sad. He sometimes thought, in that moment, when they sat for the laser-flash, that he somehow knew something bad was going to happen, that his mother would be taken from them, and it would be forever.
He tried to force the thought out of his mind, like he always did when he looked at the picture. And his mom’s blackened keys. And the old wristwatch.
He suddenly remembered Bubba. Bubba was probably waiting for him at the end of the hall, holding the elevator doors open and munching on bacon while all the people in the elevator whined at him to let them get a move on.
Parker unlocked the dead bolt and twisted the handle. He was already formulating something appropriately sarcastic to say to Bubba when he walked face-first into a tall man wearing a dark blue uniform.
The poster.
Tal.
On his ceiling.
The music store.
The security guard . . . .
They found me.
Chapter 7
Malchance
A Shadow Passed Over the Son Page 7
