"Darndest thing," Cloudy muttered, breaking the silence. "Works fine as long as you don't try to use it."
"Junk," Peeler said scornfully,
"I know it's junk," Cloudy responded. 'The problem is, it's junk on the fritz." He shook the mixer vigorously, as if expecting a coin to pop out, solving the problem and enriching him at the same time.
"Peeler." "Hmmmn."
"Do you think there could be any ghosts or evil spirits up there in the old spa?"
"Ned, I swear you're as stubborn as all get-out sometimes. You just don't know when to let go."
Peeler got up and went into the baithouse, where he opened another beer and busied himself checking the tanks. Curiosity was a wonderful thing, he thought, but not always easy to handle. How do you tell a boy that there is magic ... and there is magic? That you had to be open to it, but that you also had to keep your distance and fear it? If you were blind to it, you missed some of life's better moments. If you ignored it, you did so at your own risk. And if you sought it out, no good would come of it. It was a kind of power, and like all power, you couldn't really hold it; you could only be held by it. The boy was like a dog, snuffling around a tricky rock; if he succeeded in rolling it over he might be sorry.
Ned appeared in the doorway and then stepped hesitantly into the baithouse. Peeler noticed him but continued what he was doing.
"Are you mad at me?" Ned asked timidly.
"Nope."
"Well ... You act like you are."
"Well, I ain't."
"Well ... What are you?"
"I just don't like you pokin' around no place where you could get nipped by a cottonmouth or copperhead and not be able to get back for help in time, that's what."
"I was careful."
"You was, huh." Peeler showed how impressed he was by hawking up a mouthful of phlegm and spitting it to the ground.
"I didn't get hurt."
"This time you didn't."
''I'm not going back there, Peeler. Honest."
"I shouldn't never've told you about it in the first place." There it was: his feeling of complicity in the matter.
"I would have found out anyway," Ned said. "Everybody knows about the spa and you can see it from lots of places in town."
"Maybe."
"I've seen it and I won't go back again." No response. "I mean it, Peeler. I don't even want to go back, I didn't like the place."
"If you say so."
"Well, I do."
Peeler stopped worrying the crayfish and looked at Ned.
"I told you how I stay away from the swamp folks, and you can be sure I stay away from Sherwood's spa. There's times when you might have to take a risk, and there's other times when there ain't no sense in it at all. Understand'?"
"Yes."
"I hope you do," Peeler said. "I hope you got that well and truly fixed in your head."
Peeler went and fished another can of beer out of the tank. Ned stood where he was, still feeling a little awkward but glad the touchy subject was now apparently closed,
''I'm goin' over to Stony Point," Peeler announced. "Want to come along?"
"Stony Point? Well ... " Ned hesitated. Actually, he didn't want to go to Stony Point that evening, but in the circumstances he thought he probably should. Cloudy always managed to find something else to do, but Ned had been on several of these treks before, Peeler liked to walk to Stony Point a couple at times a week, getting there just before sunset. It was a high, bare piece of land just outside of town, and it provided a superb view in all directions. The sunsets were certainly spectacular from that vantage point, but they didn't seem to be what Peeler was looking for. Every time Ned had been there, as soon as the sun disappeared, Peeler would frown or mutter "Shit," or just turn away and stalk home. Clearly the old man expected something else and was unhappy not to find it, but no matter how many times Ned asked him, Peeler refused to talk about it. He would tell Ned to be quiet and watch, and then, when it was over and nothing unusual had taken place, Peeler would hardly say another word all the way back. It was the least enjoyable time to be with Peeler, but Ned realized it had fallen to him to be the witness to whatever it was that never happened.
"If my parents let me," Ned said. "I'm still kind of on probation with them, I think."
"Okay," Peeler said.
Ned did go to Stony Point with Peeler that evening. As usual the old man pointed to a dirty yellow cloud that dominated the sky to the northwest and said, "There's good old Washington, D.C."
The sun was deep red, easy to look at. By now Ned knew how to watch the sunset and Peeler at the same time. When the horizon had swallowed the last bead of crimson, Peeler got up to leave with a familiar expression on his face. He looked like a man who had hiked a great distance only to see a dog crap.
* * *
13. Goodbye, Greta Garbo
Linda had bought the two books to prove something to herself, but now it seemed like a mistake. They sat on the coffee table like bricks, daring her to have another go. The newspapers and magazines were full of stories about the author, Conrad Linger, and interviews with him. He was an unqualified literary and popular success. His novel, Anchor the Land, and his book of short stories, Goodbye, Greta Garbo, were both on the bestseller list. It was either the first time an author had two books on the list simultaneously, or the first book of stories on the list in decades—Linda couldn't remember which. But the point was: Conrad Linger was the man to read.
Linda had picked up both volumes in the Reading Room, a combination book and card shop in a mall outside of Lynnhaven. Judging by the photo on the back cover, Conrad Linger looked a lot like Mr. Rogers of kiddie TV fame. Linda started with the novel, Anchor the Land, but put it aside after a few chapters. There was no story line, just a crowd of characters who conversed in ambiguities. Linda remembered reading in a review that one character spoke only in haikus, but to her it seemed that they all did. Hardly a page went by without the use of a "So be it," or a "Be that as it may." Perhaps I'll be more receptive to it another time, Linda thought, turning to Goodbye, Greta Garbo. The stories in this book were all set on a luxury liner that was on a supposedly romantic cruise to an unknown destination. The title story was about a distraught woman who eventually found relief by throwing her collection of old wine labels overboard. In another story, a man spent the entire cruise in his cabin, reciting haikus to his pet parrot. In spite of his efforts, the man failed to teach the bird a single haiku. The only thing the parrot would say was "Fuck off." The captain of the liner appeared briefly in every story. He had no name. His eyes "scoured the inner distance." He was always being given bad news about the weather ahead. "So be it," he said stoically. Linda gave up after five stories, leaving a dozen unread. She took another look at the picture of Conrad Linger. He had the kind of smile you seldom saw on the face of a serious writer.
What's wrong with me, Linda asked herself. I can't even finish a book anymore. She knew that all kinds of people read these books and found them to be witty and perceptive, enjoyable on many levels. But she had been unable to concentrate or to really get into either one. Did the "Dick Cavett Show" and the Sunday New York Times now mark the outermost limits of her intellectual life? A few years ago she'd had no trouble reading books or doing any number of things-whatever she wanted. How had she changed since then? Was it just another aspect of becoming ... ordinary? Dull? It wasn't simply the result of demands placed on her as a wife and mother; it was more recent than that. Or perhaps it wasn't, perhaps she was only now beginning to see what had been happening to her for some time. If that were true she could thank the move to Lynnhaven for helping to open her eyes. Thanks a lot. ...
Sitting in the living room and staring at those two slabs of culture, Linda remembered an unhappy incident that had taken place when she was nineteen and at college. Art history was her favorite subject, although not yet her major, and a well-known artist named Beverley Boulder had arrived on campus to give a series of three guest lectures. Lin
da attended them all, and was very impressed. Beverley Boulder was a thin, intense woman who had nearly lost her life in a freak accident a few years earlier. The pastel cigarette she was smoking had come too close to a bucket of solvent. The mini-explosion that followed had burned off her eyebrows and most of her hair, leaving scars. Beverley Boulder looked like an Auschwitz survivor who had literally been snatched from the incinerator.
There was a big party after the last lecture, given by the head of the department, Professor Bellini (known to some of his students as Art Dago). Linda managed to get in, and during the course of the evening she met Beverley Boulder. An intense conversation developed between them and they drifted away from the crowd for a few minutes. Linda was thrilled and enjoying herself immensely. Until the famous artist put a hand on Linda's hip and invited her back to Room 308 at the Ramada Inn.
Linda was shocked. It was the first time another woman had ever made a pass at her, and the fact that it was someone as prominent as Beverley Boulder only made matters worse. But as she thought about it over and over again in the days that followed, Linda was even more disturbed by her own naiveté. Before that awkward moment, Linda had put together in her mind an impossible image of Beverley Boulder: a woman damaged but toiling on, a heroic soul fiercely dedicated to Art, a priestess at the altar of Culture. Well, maybe there was some truth in that, but Beverley Boulder was also a red-wigged lesbian who propositioned coeds. Not that there was anything wrong in that—it wasn't Linda's thing, but neither did she go in for judging the way other people live their lives. No, Linda was annoyed at herself, embarrassed that it had taken such an incident, trivial in itself, for her to learn something so basic. Heroes and heroines exist in the minds of their worshippers. The great and the famous are only human (they, too, have genitals). Why had Linda needed to create such an exalted and one-sided picture of Beverley Boulder, a picture that reality could only diminish? What did that say about her?
The worst part was how long it had taken Linda to get over that evening. Whenever she saw this theme repeated in one of its million variations on television or in a story, she squirmed and felt upset all over again. It seemed that she had lived through one of life's greatest clichés and would never be allowed to forget it.
Now: Conrad Linger.
You bought those two books of his for the wrong reasons, Linda told herself. It's the same sort of mistake. You didn't really want to read them, you only thought you did. And now you've found out that you can't read them. They may be moronic or they may be the greatest thing since peanut butter, but you can't turn another page.
And so what? Did it matter at all? No. Did it make any difference to Ned whether his mother had read Conrad Linger? No. It was time for Linda to start being the person she was, to live in her own skin and feel comfortable about it. She owed that much to her husband and son—and, of course, to herself.
Now, she was pleased to find, the two books on the coffee table no longer looked important or intimidating. They were just two books.
Goodbye, Greta Garbo, indeed.
* * *
14. Resistance
Ned woke early, which was unusual. He was in his room every night at a proper hour for someone nine-going-on-ten, but that didn't mean he was asleep. He would sit at the window and look at nothing in particular, or he would lower the screen and try to sight Jupiter through his telescope, or read by flashlight beneath the sheets, or just lie on his bed and listen to the sounds of the night outside, letting his mind roam over a thousand strange worlds. However tired Ned might be, sleep never came fast—it hadn't, for as long as he could remember. And so he usually had to be roused in the morning. But today his eyes opened at first light.
He lay still for a while, letting thoughts form by themselves, unprompted. It was early, because the light was gray and the house perfectly quiet. It was cool, and he could feel the dew in the air, the sweet taste of it in his nose. Was it six in the morning? Maybe not even 'that. Ned luxuriated in the moment. This was wonderful, a delicious time of the day. The world felt rich but at peace. Your body might or might not exist; you were floating on a cloud. The mind stirring, but not yet locked into its daily patterns. Receptive, directionless, undriven.
When the feeling became too ripe to sustain, Ned flung the sheet back and sat up, He shivered, pleasantly surprised that it could be so nice and cool at any hour here in the blistering heat of July. Outside, all was brightening gray, and far out in the meadow he saw a patch of morning mist hanging low. Ned pulled on a pair of cut-off blue jeans and a T-shirt. He slipped out of his room and tiptoed along the hallway to the top of the stairs. The house felt big and empty, it was so quiet. He went down the stairs carefully, hugging the banister to avoid the spots that would creak. He didn't want to wake his parents.
The digital clock in the kitchen read 6:13. Ned drank a glass of cold orange juice and then, with nothing special in mind, went to the cellar and got one of his father's hatchets. It was a little heavy, but felt comfortable enough in his hand. Ned stood in the front foyer for a couple of moments, apparently unsure of what he was doing. The next thing he knew, he was at the back door, quietly unlocking it and stepping outside.
He wanted to drive the hatchet into something, chop, chop, chop .... And now he could see what it was. The scarecrow. No one grew anything out there anymore. The scarecrow was obsolete, an eyesore. Besides, it bothered Ned almost every night, seeming to dance in place, pointing up to his bedroom window. Ned had tried to ignore it by not looking—but how could he not look? It was impossible. Now he would solve the problem. Ned marched in a straight line across the back lawn toward the field where the offending object stood. The wet grass felt good to his bare feet.
Here I come, Mr. Scarecrow.
See me coming?
I' m going to take care of you.
For good.
The rough grass and weeds of the field scratched and pricked Ned's feet but he took no notice of it, striding determinedly onward.
You thought you were safe.
You thought I'd never leave the window.
Or dare to come down here and deal with you.
But you were wrong.
Ned stopped a yard away from the scarecrow, and now everything swirled together in his mind. The phantoms, the strange light in his room, the garbled sounds he heard in the house, the grotesque gardens at the spa, the awful presence he had felt looming behind his back there—and this scarecrow, which appeared to mock and threaten him by moonlight. ...
Chop! The hatchet was sharp and the scarecrow quickly shattered and fell apart. Yes, it was a phantom, but one which had made the mistake of lingering through the daylight hours—the time when Ned could do something more than hide beneath the sheets. It was like finding Dracula's coffin and driving a stake through his heart before the sun went down. Ned smiled grimly as he went about his task, elated now that he was finally striking back. At least this phantom could be destroyed.
Chop! It was also a way of dealing himself a new hand by cutting down the skinny ghost he had been until now, the pale child who could only huddle in fear of things around him, pulling the bedclothes tighter, afraid to look over his shoulder, nothing more than a scarecrow of a boy ever since that night he had seen his mother lying like a sack of old laundry on the bathroom floor, unable to move, unable to help, unable to do anything. You began to silt up then, and it has continued in all the days and nights that have followed, the Sandman working on you from the inside. But at least now you finally understand, you can say No more, you can do something about it.
Chop!
When Ned finished he was pleased to notice that he was sweating. Good sweat, this time, for a chore well done. The scarecrow was nothing more than bits of kindling on the ground. Ned gathered up the pieces and, one at a time, hurled them as far away as he could—zing, zing, zing—scattering them widely across the field.
All the king's horses and all the king's men, won't put you back together again. Good-bye, Mr. Scarecrow.
Ned went back to the house, put the hatchet away and flopped down on his bed. Once he rolled off to take a look out the window. There was nothing to see, and that made him happy. Just an ordinary lawn, an ordinary field and the dew steaming up as the sun began to make itself known.
Ned fell back onto the bed and tried to get to sleep once more. But his eyes wouldn't stay shut. He watched the mist, swirling and burning, writhing in the force of heat and light. Phantoms formed, one after another, but they were atomized instantly. It was a gratifying spectacle. If only those words would stop—YOU WILL BE MINE AGAIN—but they were a kind of mental tape loop, repeating endlessly in the back of his brain.
Ned stared vacantly at the spot where the scarecrow had been, wondering if he had really accomplished anything at all.
* * *
15. Sounds
It was nothing more than an unpleasant buzz around the ear or the back of the head, and Ned would wave his hands as if to shoo away a bothersome insect. He never actually saw or felt anything, but only heard that buzz. It was enough, however, to worry him. Ned didn't know which to dread more, a bee crawling in to jab poison through his eardrum or a mosquito sucking blood from within his head. The worst thing would be an earwig, an insect that might burrow in and settle down to make a long, slow meal of his brain. Your abilities, mental and physical, disappearing one by one down the throat of a bug. Raving insanity followed by a horrible death. How could you be saved? Picture a doctor using wicked platinum pliers, fine as needles, to poke into your skull and drag out the vicious buzzing creature, tearing bits of vital jelly with it—no, that was not being saved. Even if you lived you'd be about as bright as a turnip.
A couple of times Ned's mother or father had come across him flapping his hands, his face screwed up with fear and anger, and he would suddenly feel foolish. But although they gave him funny, puzzled looks, they never a*ed him what on earth he was doing. The buzz went away, of course, whenever either of them appeared, gone so swiftly Ned wondered if he really had heard it in the first place. But it always returned, and hardly a day went by without Ned's being bothered at least once by the unnerving noise. It could come at any time—he might be reading a book or making a snack or watching a "Star Trek" rerun. It came when he was alone, and it usually came during the daylight hours. Ned knew it wasn't really an insect, but that was no consolation to him.
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