“You did. But I think we can work on this. Together. How about you?”
“Sarah,” he says.
She looks into his eyes. They embrace, once, and part. She kneels to lift the rifle case.
“Here,” he says. “Let me get that for you.”
* * *
The next week, Friday, he plays catch with Paul in the park. They’re the only ones there save the ghosts: it’s cold, but Paul’s young, and while Vlad can feel the cold it doesn’t bother him. Dead trees overhead, skeletal fingers raking sky. Leaves spin in little whirlwinds. The sky’s blue and empty, sun already sunk behind the buildings.
Vlad unbuttons his coat, lets it fall. Strips off his sweater, balls it on top of the coat. Stands in his shirtsleeves, cradles the football with his long fingers. Tightens his grip. Does not burst the ball, only feels the air within resist his fingers’ pressure.
Paul steps back, holds up his hands.
Vlad shakes his head. “Go deeper.”
He runs, crumbling dry leaves and breaking hidden sticks.
“Deeper,” Vlad calls, and waves him on.
“Here?” Vlad’s never thrown the ball this far.
“More.”
Paul stands near the edge of the park. “That’s all there is!”
“Okay,” Vlad says. “Okay. Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
His throws are well-rehearsed. Wind up slowly, and toss soft. He beat them into his bones.
He forgets all that.
Black currents weave through the wind. A crow calls from treetops. He stands, a statue of ice.
He throws the ball as hard as he can.
A loud crack echoes through the park. Ghosts scatter, dive for cover. The ball breaks the air, and its passage leaves a vacuum trail. Windows rattle and car alarms whoop. Vlad wasn’t aiming for his son. He didn’t want to hurt him. He just wanted to throw.
Vlad’s eyes are faster even than his hands, and sharp. So he sees Paul blink, in surprise more than fear. He sees Paul understand. He sees Paul smile.
And he sees Paul blur sideways and catch the ball.
They stare at one another across the park. The ball hisses in Paul’s hands, deflates: it broke in the catching. Wind rolls leaves between them.
Later, neither can remember who laughed first.
* * *
They talk for hours after that. Chase one another around the park, so fast they seem only colors on the wind. High-pitched child’s screams of joy, and Vlad’s own voice, deep, guttural. Long after the sky turns black and the stars don’t come out, they return home, clothes grass-stained, hair tangled with sticks and leaves. Paul does his homework, fast, and they watch cricket until after bedtime.
Sarah waits in the living room when he leaves Paul sleeping. She grabs his arms and squeezes, hard enough to bruise, and pulls him into her kiss.
He kisses her back with his teeth.
Copyright © 2014 by Max Gladstone
Art copyright © 2014 by David Palumbo
A Kiss With Teeth Page 3
