by Holly Black
But: “Who was it?” you ask.
“The—the artist kid’s dad,” your mom says.
They found him trapped in a complicated trap at the edge of the woods. It was a hole with broken paddles on the bottom, splinter-side-up. He had blood all over them, and his mouth was painted red just like his son had been drawing. Because the dad was a clown for parties.
“He got caught in one of his own things,” your mom said, looking to you like you’re supposed to nod.
You don’t, though.
What you’re trying to think is how could your dad know about the Sheriff getting cut like that across the throat if he was already in the Chestnuts bunkhouse?
But your mom must have seen it, told him.
Right?
But now your mom’s all over the road, and there are no lights at all out here.
“Was that Dad back there?” you ask.
“It’s too late!” she screams about your question, and spills her purse onto the seat beside her, isn’t even driving anymore, is just scratching for something.
She pushes it back to you.
You uncrumple it—it’s old paper—and you kind of have to smile.
It’s one of the artist kid’s drawing. She must have saved it all this time.
“We’re going to see Philip, yes,” she says, and hunches over the wheel like somebody just hit her in the stomach. “You’ll like it there, it’ll be … right.”
You see her eyes in the mirror for a moment but she pulls them away. Like she’s scared.
Clowns.
It’s what the kid was drawing.
Only—only it’s not a dad at all.
When you were dressed like this, your dad was wearing a pirate patch on his eye.
Not you.
You always liked the big wig, the funny nose, the red mouth. That scratchy collar that was like paper folded over and over. The floppy shoes that made that sound when you ran.
Maybe that’s how your mom figured it out.
Maybe she heard you running in the hall. And remembered.
But it’s not your fault, even. Some days your dad, he forgets to put the mirror frame up, doesn’t he? Just leaves it leaning there. And, without him to tell you not to, instead of reaching around like he taught, you can reach right through for that perfect magic summer camp. You’re even small enough to step through. To be there with them in the album. To watch them from the edges of the woods. From the dock, at night.
And you were right about future muscles.
“It’s you,” your mom says, her body all-the-way pressed to the door, like she wants to be as far away as possible.
You lean over so you can see her in the mirror again.
She’s trying to hide.
You smile, feel the paint crackle around your mouth.
It’s how she found you earlier, in your room. Already dressed up.
Paint on your hands too, but that’s not paint.
“I was just playing,” you tell her. “Are we really going to see Philip?”
She nods yes, yes yes yes, that’s right where you’re going, and you nod, look out the side window at the shadows of fence posts blurring together.
But there’s something in the floorboard, too.
It’s peeking out from under the seat, where you hid it.
The thick black blade from your dad’s lawnmower. The one he threw away.
You nod, look out the side window again.
Your heart’s thumping like a rabbit now.
Go ahead, lift the blade with your toe so it meets your hand, know that your dad won’t catch up this far for ten or thirty minutes.
It’ll be just like camp. The best one ever.
You smile, lean forward, breaking the seatbelt rule but the seatbelt rule doesn’t matter anymore.
Your mom, though. She’s been through all this before, hasn’t she? She doesn’t just remember the bad parts, she remembers how to live, too. She opens her door, rolls out into the darkness, and, one hand on the back of the front seat, you see the road about to turn in front of you, but there’s nobody to turn the wheel anymore. To keep up with the road.
“Philip,” you say, right at the end.
It was the artist kid’s name. The one who wouldn’t ever go to sleep. The one who would never come out into the woods to play.
When the car hits whatever it hits, you launch over the front seat, and it’s just like letting go of a tire swing at the exact perfect right time. Especially when you see that the window’s already breaking. The glass is going away, getting ready for you.
Leaving only the frame it was in.
You’re just small enough to slip through it without touching it, even with the back of your clown shoe. Just small enough to crash into the water of the past, like always.
You stand from it, the water dripping off the lawnmower blade you still have.
Right now the camp’s empty, deserted, lonely.
But it won’t always be.
Blue Rose
Peter Straub
(for Rosemary Clooney)
1.
On a stifling summer day the youngest of the five Beevers children, Harry and Little Eddie, were sitting on cane-backed chairs in the attic of their house on South Sixth Street in Palmyra, New York. Their father called it “the upstairs junk room,” as this large irregular space was reserved for the boxes of tablecloths, stacks of diminishingly sized girl’s winter coats, and musty old dresses Maryrose Beevers had mummified as testimony to the superiority of her past to her present.
A tall mirror that could be tilted in its frame, an artifact of their mother’s onetime glory, now revealed to Harry the rear of Little Eddie’s head. This object, looking more malleable than a head should be, an elongated wad of Play-Doh covered with straggling feathers, was just peeking above the back of the chair. Even the back of Little Eddie’s head looked tense to Harry.
“Listen to me,” Harry said. Little Eddie squirmed in his chair, and the wobbly chair squirmed with him. “You think I’m kidding you? I had her last year.”
“Well, she didn’t kill you,” Little Eddie said.
“Course not, she liked me, you little dummy. She only hit me a couple of times. She hit some of those kids every single day.”
“But teachers can’t kill people,” Little Eddie said.
At nine, Little Eddie was only a year younger than he, but Harry knew that his undersized fretful brother saw him as much a part of the world of big people as their older brothers.
“Most teachers can’t,” Harry said. “But what if they live right in the same building as the principal? What if they won teaching awards, hey, and what if every other teacher in the place is scared stiff of them? Don’t you think they can get away with murder? Do you think anybody really misses a snot-faced little brat—a little brat like you? Mrs. Franken took this kid, this runty little Tommy Golz, into the cloakroom, and she killed him right there. I heard him scream. At the end, it sounded just like bubbles. He was trying to yell, but there was too much blood in his throat. He never came back, and nobody ever said boo about it. She killed him, and next year she’s going to be your teacher. I hope you’re afraid, Little Eddie, because you ought to be.” Harry leaned forward. “Tommy Golz even looked sort of like you, Little Eddie.”
Little Eddie’s entire face twitched as if a lightning bolt had crossed it.
In fact, the young Golz boy had suffered an epileptic fit and been removed from school, as Harry knew.
“Mrs. Franken especially hates selfish little brats that don’t share their toys.”
“I do share my toys,” Little Eddie wailed, tears beginning to run down through the delicate smears of dust on his cheeks. “Everybody takes my toys, that’s why.”
“So give me your Ultraglide Roadster,” Harry said. This had been Little Eddie’s birthday present, given three days previous by a beaming father and a scowling mother. “Or I’ll tell Mrs. Franken as soon as I get inside that school, this fall.”
> Under its layer of grime, Little Eddie’s face went nearly the same white-gray shade as his hair.
An ominous slamming sound came up the stairs.
“Children? Are you messing around up there in the attic? Get down here!”
“We’re just sitting the chairs, Mom,” Harry called out.
“Don’t you bust those chairs! Get down here this minute!”
Little Eddie slid out of his chair and prepared to bolt.
“I want that car,” Harry whispered. “And if you don’t give it to me, I’ll tell Mom you were foolin’ around with her old clothes.”
“I didn’t do nothin’!” Little Eddie wailed, and broke for the stairs.
“Hey, Mom, we didn’t break any stuff, honest!” Harry yelled. He bought a few minutes more by adding, “I’m coming right now,” and stood up and went toward a cardboard box filled with interesting books he had noticed the day before his brother’s birthday, and which had been his goal before he had remembered the Roadster and coaxed Little Eddie upstairs.
When, a short time later, Harry came through the door to the attic steps, he was carrying a tattered paperback book. Little Eddie stood quivering with misery and rage just outside the bedroom the two boys shared with their older brother Albert. He held out a small blue metal car, which Harry instantly took and eased into a front pocket of his jeans.
“When do I get it back?” Little Eddie asked.
“Never,” Harry said. “Only selfish people want to get presents back. Don’t you know anything at all?” When Eddie pursed his face up to wail, Harry tapped the book in his hands and said, “I got something here that’s going to help you with Mrs. Franken, so don’t complain.”
His mother intercepted him as he came down the stairs to the main floor of the little house—here were the kitchen and living room, both floored with faded linoleum, the actual “junk room” separated by a stiff brown woolen curtain from the little makeshift room where Edgar Beevers slept, and the larger bedroom reserved for Maryrose. Children were never permitted more than a few steps within this awful chamber, for they might disarrange Maryrose’s mysterious “papers” or interfere with the rows of antique dolls on the window seat, which was the sole, much-revered architectural distinction of the Beevers house.
Maryrose Beevers stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring suspiciously up at her fourth son. She did not ever look like a woman who played with dolls, and she did not look that way now. Her hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Smoke from her cigarette curled up past the big glasses like bird’s wings which magnified her eyes.
Harry thrust his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers protectively around the Ultraglide Roadster.
“Those things up there are the possessions of my family,” she said. “Show me what you took.”
Harry shrugged and held out the paperback as he came down within striking range.
His mother snatched it from him, and tilted her head to see its cover through the cigarette smoke. “Oh. This is from that little box of books up there? Your father used to pretend to read books.” She squinted at the print on the cover “Hypnosis Made Easy. Some drugstore trash. You want to read this?”
Harry nodded.
“I don’t suppose it can hurt you much.” She negligently passed the book back to him. “People in society read books, you know—I used to read a lot, back before I got stuck here with a bunch of dummies. My father had a lot of books.”
Maryrose nearly touched the top of Harry’s head, then snatched back her hand. “You’re my scholar, Harry. You’re the one who’s going places.”
“I’m gonna do good in school next year,” he said.
“Well. You’re going to do well. As long as you don’t ruin every chance you have by speaking like your father.”
Harry felt that particular pain composed of scorn, shame, and terror that filled him when Maryrose spoke of his father in this way. He mumbled something that sounded like acquiescence, and moved a few steps sideways and around her.
2.
The porch of the Beevers house extended six feet on either side of the front door, and was the repository for furniture either too large to be crammed into the junk room or too humble to be enshrined in the attic. A sagging porch swing sat beneath the living-room window, to the left of an ancient couch whose imitation green leather had been repaired with black duct tape; on the other side of the front door, through which Harry Beevers now emerged, stood a useless icebox dating from the earliest days of the Beeverses’ marriage and two unsteady camp chairs Edgar Beevers had won in a card game. These had never been allowed into the house. Unofficially, this side of the porch was Harry’s father’s, and thereby had an entirely different atmosphere, defeated, lawless, and shameful, from the side with the swing and couch.
Henry knelt down in neutral territory directly before the front door and fished the Ultraglide Roadster from his pocket. He placed the hypnotism book on the porch and rolled the little metal car across its top. Then he gave the car a hard shove and watched it clunk nose-down onto the wood. He repeated this several times before moving the book aside, flattening himself out on his stomach, and giving the little car a decisive push toward the swing and the couch.
The Roadster rolled a few feet before an irregular board tilted it over on its side and stopped it.
“You dumb car,” Harry said, and retrieved it. He gave it another push deeper into his mother’s realm. A stiff, brittle section of paint which had separated from its board cracked in half and rested atop the stalled Roadster like a miniature mattress.
Harry knocked off the chip of paint and sent the car backwards down the porch, where it flipped over again and skidded into the side of the icebox. The boy ran down the porch and this time simply hurled the little car back in the direction of the swing. It bounced off the swing’s padding and fell heavily to the wood. Harry knelt before the icebox, panting.
His whole head felt funny, as if wet hot towels had been stuffed inside it. Harry picked himself up and walked across to where the car lay before the swing. He hated the way it looked, small and helpless. He experimentally stepped on the car and felt it pressing into the undersole of his moccasin. Harry raised his other foot and stood on the car, but nothing happened. He jumped on the car, but the moccasin was not better than his bare foot. Harry bent down to pick up the Roadster.
“You dumb little car,” he said. “You’re no good anyhow, you low-class little jerky thing.” He turned it over in his hands. Then he inserted his thumbs between the frame and the little tires. When he pushed, the tire moved. His face heated. He mashed his thumbs against the tire, and the little black donut popped into the tall thick weeds before the porch. Breathing hard more from emotion than exertion, Harry popped the other front tire into the weeds. Harry whirled around, and ground the car into the wall beside his father’s bedroom window. Long deep scratches appeared in the paint. When Harry peered at the top of the car, it too was scratched. He found a nailhead which protruded a quarter of an inch out from the front of the house, and scraped a long paring of blue paint off the driver’s side of the Roadster. Gray metal shone through. Harry slammed the car several times against the edge of the nailhead, chipping off small quantities of paint. Panting, he popped off the two small rear tires and put them in his pocket because he liked the way they looked.
Without tires, well scratched and dented, the Ultraglide Roadster had lost most of its power. Harry looked it over with a bitter, deep satisfaction and walked across the porch and shoved it far into the nest of weeds. Gray metal and blue paint shone at him from within the stalks and leaves. Harry thrust his hands into their midst and swept his arms back and forth. The car tumbled away and fell into invisibility.
When Maryrose appeared scowling on the porch, Harry was seated serenely on the squeaking swing, looking at the first few pages of the paperback book.
“What are you doing? What was all that banging?”
“I’m just reading, I didn’t hear any
thing,” Harry said.
3.
“Well, if it isn’t the shitbird,” Albert said, jumping up on the porch steps thirty minutes later. His face and T-shirt bore broad black stripes of grease. Short, muscular, and thirteen, Albert spent every possible minute hanging around the gas station two blocks from their house. Harry knew that Albert despised him. Albert raised a fist and make a jerky, threatening motion toward Harry, who flinched. Albert had often beaten him bloody, as had their two older brothers, Sonny and George, now at army bases in Oklahoma and Germany. Like Albert, his two oldest brothers had seriously disappointed their mother.
Albert laughed, and this time swung his fist within a couple of inches of Harry’s face. On the backswing he knocked the book from Harry’s hands.
“Thanks,” Harry said.
Albert smirked and disappeared around the front door. Almost immediately Harry could hear his mother beginning to shout about the grease on Albert’s face and clothes. Albert thumped up the stairs.
Harry opened his clenched fingers and spread them wide, closed his hands into fists, then spread them wide again. When he heard the bedroom door slam shut upstairs, he was able to get off the swing and pick up the book. Being around Albert made him feel like a spring coiled up in a box. From the upper rear of the house, Little Eddie emitted a ghostly wail. Maryrose screamed that she was going to start smacking him if he didn’t shut up, and that was that. The three unhappy lives within the house fell back into silence. Harry sat down, found his page, and began reading again.
A man named Dr. Roland Mentaine had written Hypnosis Made Easy, and his vocabulary was much larger than Harry’s. Dr. Mentaine used words like “orchestrate” and “ineffable” and “enhance,” and some of his sentences wound their way through so many subordinate clauses that Harry lost his way. Yet Harry, who had begun the book only half expecting that he would comprehend anything in it at all, found it a wonderful book. He had made it most of the way through the chapter called “Mind Power.”
