Theo

by Ed Taylor

  I am starving, Colin says. He walks past Theo with a pat on the back and goes straight toward the refrigerator that still works and yanks it open hard, the silver doors big as room doors, and he bends to dig around. His towel falls, exposing his buttocks. Theo turns back to the pantry, and the cans: will the dogs eat canned peaches. Tinned is what Gus and Colin call them. Colin begins to sing something without words.

  Theo scans the pantry shelves: there is food, and there are other things. A very old teddy bear with spots of furless fabric showing, but with both button eyes; a long piece of brown bamboo with a hunting knife roped to one end; caramels, bags and bags of caramels; some clothes, stacked T-shirts with things printed on the front from concerts; a small television, and silver-gray round flat metal containers in which are coils of film, a stack of them; a rake with teeth missing; a stuffed woodchuck and several antlers, like branches locked in a pile; oatmeal, a lot of it, because Gus likes oatmeal; a crate of canned smoked baby oysters; a stack of masks, all the same, of a bear face; an ottoman on its side; a box full of jars of honey, a box half-full of jars of jelly, and several five-pound bags of sugar, one that still hissed and shifted when picked up, and the others, hard blocks wrapped in paper; a tower of cans of Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie; a mummified gray mouse on a round piece of polished wood under a glass bell with a knob on top, which once held an Italian cheese Colin liked; a burlap sack filled with macadamia nuts, one corner of which has been gnawed open but Theo doesn’t know by what, because he’s seen people in here tearing at packages with their teeth; a row of boxes of Sugar Pops, like a shelf of books; scattered packages with Japanese writing, and different things inside, that look like candy but are the wrong colors, small round things and noodles and one he knows is rice crackers; cans without labels; an old green and red cradle made out of tin with writing on the side that Theo can’t read; Colin’s ray gun collection, a pile of plastic and tin toy ray guns and a pile of other things like branches and things Colin has found that he thinks are shaped like ray guns – he keeps saying he needs to move it to a more suitable location; a sled; rows and stacks of coffee cans, some of which hold coffee and some of which hold nails, foreign coins, rubber bands, washers, salt, marbles – and one holds glass eyes.

  Theo marveled over the eyes, because no one knows how the can got there, and when he is in the gloomy pantry he likes to hold the can and look down at them looking back at him, but in a kindly way. The eyes seem patient and wise, and all clear and white with the irises blue or gray mostly, like Theo’s eyes. Sometimes he carries one around in a pocket, and he likes it there. He hasn’t carried one in a while; he considers it a solemnity, like a ritual, although he isn’t sure what a ritual really is besides something heavier than it looks.

  Colin stops singing. Theo picks one of the few brown eyes up and carefully slips it into a front pocket of his pajamas, then on tiptoes pulls down one of the Fray Bentos cans, although Colin and Gus fuss at him when he ‘wastes’ them on the dogs. Seems it is time to shop. He is sick of smoked baby oysters.

  Colin lies on his back on the kitchen floor, his towel crumpled under him, the soles of his cowboy boots have round holes: like eyes, but not wise ones. Colin is hairless and brown all over, his chest peaking in the middle like a bird’s; ribby but with a little pad of fat on his stomach, where there is a long pucker like a mouth curving alongside his navel. He is sweating, even though it’s cool now. He’s patched with tattoos, lots of places, which Theo used to enjoy seeing revealed as Colin rolled up a sleeve or pant leg or took off something. His penis is tattooed with a series of dots and lines, which Colin said happened in New Zealand. Theo knows New Zealand; he likes knowing where things are. Colin also has a long set of wavy curves like lips tattooed in red and blue around his penis, starting on his abdomen. Theo felt funny saying the word, and funny thinking it. Colin said the lip things were the gates of paradise. Gus exploded when Theo first asked him about it.

  Where did you see Colin’s penis.

  He was walking around with no pants.

  He didn’t do anything funny did he.

  Besides walk around with no pants.

  Yes, he didn’t –

  He was getting the brandy out of the green bathroom and I saw him. I asked him what that was. He said, that’s the man monster, son. No, I said, what’s around it. He said that’s the gates of paradise.

  Gus rubbed his face up and down with his thick hand: you tell me immediately if he does anything funny. Gus’s words were a little slurred, blurry.

  Besides the funny stuff he does, like, every day.

  Like. Messes with you. Or tells you to mess with his.

  His what.

  Just tell me, son, okay. There’s too many pervs in this circus.

  Oh.

  Theo remembered his mother’s friend at the Chelsea Hotel. The one who wanted to help Theo go to the bathroom while his mom slept on the couch in the room with aluminum foil over the windows. Day outside and night in there. The bearded man at the party who rubbed against him. And being stuck in a soft loft sofa next to a weird man who put his hand on the back of Theo’s neck and tried to hug Theo down onto his lap. But he was supposed to be famous and Theo’s mom said the guy didn’t mean anything, he was just affectionate. Was that true.

  They never went back to his house, and Theo’s mom sort of snarled every time someone else mentioned him, and she called him a name. The man was strong. He stopped because somebody needed a knife and Theo struggled up out of the big hand of the sofa and away.

  Some grownups looked at Theo in a funny way different than the funny ways other grownups looked at him. But there were always so many around; he couldn’t watch everybody. And they’d just be there, breathing, smiling. How do you tell which smiles are bad.

  Okay, Theo said to Gus. I’ll tell you.

  You do that. Then Gus smiled, and winked, slapped Theo’s leg.

  Was it a joke. Theo didn’t get it.

  That was the way things began, when they were all first together in the house. Now his birthday is just past, his tenth. And another school year begins in the fall, and he missed a lot of the last one: most of it. And he doesn’t want to think about it. He steps over Colin, whose arms jut out from his shoulders; Colin’s doing what he says are his exercises: what he calls it when he lies down somewhere and doesn’t move.

  A drawer hung already open, offering a spiky array of long silverware and kitchen things, and nails, stamps, brittle rubber bands, old bottle caps, and a blade of cracked mirror, like a hole in the drawer. Theo finds the heavy knife they open cans with and steps back over Colin to carry knife and can to the thick scarred table sitting in front of the skinny stained glass window that stretches from floor to ceiling. Colin said if money ever became an issue, that window was Tiffany and he’d have it on the auction block sooner than you could say reserve price. Through the window, outside is bright and tan and red and green and blue, and the bird in the ballroom can be heard as it still whirls, the calls from everywhere. Theo decides after feeding the dogs he’ll help the bird escape.

  Theo wraps both hands around the hunting knife’s handle, raises it to eye level, and stabs down hard. He’s gotten good, or stronger, and it takes fewer stabs to open cans now, especially as the Fray Bentos sit flat and low. Some of the skinny tall ones cause trouble.

  Upwind.

  Colin has spoken, eyes closed. Theo has learned not to ask questions, just to wait and Colin might make sense. The dogs snuffle over the mess Theo has placed in two ceramic bowls with painted daisies. The bowls seem old, like the attic things and other stuff they find in the house.

  Your dad’s coming soon.

  I know. When.

  When the tour finishes.

  I know. When is that.

  The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

  I dreamed my teeth fell out. And dad and I were in a hotel room and somebody in a uniform came for him.

  Eyes still closed, Colin starts talking. Last night I
dreamed I was an archaeopteryx riding a train into a tunnel, and my mother was at the other end shining a big light and instead of coal the train was burning babies, there was a big car full of them behind the engine that the engineer was shoveling into the furnace by the pitchfork-full. And then my mother was a giant eel and I turned into a blue-eyed woman with red hair and a beard and ran away but the sun was blotted out from the sky by a giant foot wearing a glove like a hand and it was trying to stomp me, or swat me. Then I woke up and had a smoke.

  Don’t make fun of me. Theo turns away.

  Come on, my friend, I’m not making fun of you. I’m Hakim, the endless chronicler of Arabian nights. It’s my job to entertain and amuse. Profound apologies offered if offense taken, man. None intended. In general other people’s dreams are boring, but women like to hear about them. Write that down in your book. You’ll need that one day. Along with a trainload of cash.

  You want something to eat. Theo looks down at Colin.

  Jesus no. Colin palms his forehead. Things aren’t that dire yet.

  Theo’s bare feet on the scarred linoleum feel sand, as he shuffles them standing there.

  Theo.

  Yes.

  Did you know your name means god.

  Yes Colin.

  Have we talked about this before.

  Yes Colin.

  Have we talked about talking about this before.

  Yes Colin.

  Good man.

  Theo carries the Fray Bentos can and the big spoon over to where Colin sprawls on the floor and scrapes out the last bits of black from the can, and bends down beside Colin. Theo spoons the dark tarry sludge onto Colin’s cheeks. Colin opens one eye.

  Spoon’s cold.

  Aren’t you supposed to be watching me and Gus.

  That’s what I get paid for.

  Are you taking care of me now.

  Every second. I’m on always on watch, patrolling with my thousand-yard stare. Colin winked.

  Theo drops the empty can on Colin’s stomach, which makes him howl and jerk, although his eyes are now open so he saw it coming. Colin smiles, the spoon slides onto the floor. Theo smiles.

  Alex pads over to lick the can and spoon. Colin tips the can onto his stomach until a little gravy drips out, for the dog to lick, which he does.

  Theo watches for a few seconds, then leaves the kitchen, remembering weird noises from last night, and decides the idea of being alone might not work right now. He wonders if Gus is up.

  Theo walks through the scullery, which he doesn’t like, as a pipe had burst during the winter and the wood walls and the floor warped and molded once the temperature rose and the room got blotchy and smelly. One day, however, he plans to open the cabinets and see what is there.

  Today he keeps moving toward the dark paneled back hall leading away from the kitchen to the front entry hall and to the rear stairs for the servants coming and going from their upper floor rooms, where they stayed to serve family and guests, bringing them drinks and food whenever they wanted. Theo often thought about servants and what it would be like to be waited on, or to be the person doing the waiting. What kind of work is waiting. He figured he’d be good at it. With grownups that’s all that happened. Wait here. Wait there. I’ll be down in a minute. I’ll be up in a minute. I’ll be out in a minute. In a minute. I’ll be ready in a minute. Just a minute. Okay, I’ll be right there. Hold on. Hold your horses. Keep your shirt on. What’s your hurry. Can we do it later. Not now, how about later. We’ll go later. We’ll do it later. Sure, just let me finish this first. Let me sleep a little longer. It’s too early for that. It’s too late. It’s not open. It’s closed. Let’s not do that now, let’s wait. Just because. Be patient. You have to learn to be patient. Patience. Slow down, hoss. Slow down. Not so fast. Wait for me. Wait for me.

  A spray-painted yellow arrow with a big fuzzy head that pointed toward the front doors ran the length of the hall. Someone sprayed a large bow perpendicular to the arrow, running across the floor and up the wall onto the ceiling, but it just looked like a red D. Theo heard behind him Colin yelling or singing but the words were blurry.

  Theo wonders why Gus hasn’t come down yet after Colin shot at the bird. Maybe Gus didn’t hear. Theo closes his eyes. He’s blind and walks back down the hall, with a hand on the paneling. Try to go back through the kitchen to the ballroom and then outside. The furthest he’s ever made it is from this hall to the middle of the ballroom. It’s hard because it seems like something’s always moved, or there’s something new to stumble over that wasn’t there before. Colin leaves things everywhere. It’s lucky furniture’s scarce, although Gus talks about buying more – more tables and chairs, things to sit on. Gus likes to sit, but that’s because he’s old, Theo thinks. Grandfathers are old.

  Theo is sliding along the wall, his palm flat against the paneling, feeling the indentations and carving, and comes to an open place: the kitchen. He takes a step into something warm and wet, yelps and opens his eyes lifting his foot, looking down: Alex threw up his Fray Bentos. He was old, too.

  Theo hops into the kitchen and toward the sink. He pulls half-open a drawer next to the sink and puts his knee on the edge, the drawer digging in and hurting but he needs leverage to get onto the marble counter, he’s done this before, so he pushes fast and wrestles himself up so he can get his foot cleaned off. It isn’t until he sits with his feet in the steel sink that he notices, no Colin. And no dogs. He turns the water on and holds his foot under the tall curving bird neck of the faucet. Squawk. He rubs at his sole, his tongue between his lips, something he does when he’s focusing. He never used to think about it and didn’t realize he does it but people tell him it’s cute, and now he notices and usually stops.

  His dad’s coming.

  Theo closes the drawer with a foot and then hops down, leaving wet footprints, slapping across the ballroom, then running, toward the glass doors, which he wrenches open and flies out over the terrace toward the grass, and sees Gus already out and in his chair down at the end of the lawn, under his tree.

  Imagine a game.

  Theo says it to Gus. His grandfather is the bottom of a pool, something you could touch when you needed to know where you were.

  Only one person can play, and they change it and rearrange everything and make everything different, the whole world of the game, and they play it till they die, and then they pass the game to another person, who does the same thing. But they don’t really die, they just stop playing the game.

  What kind of game.

  It would be like your life, you would live it. You would play it every day, and everything would be part of it.

  How do you win.

  You don’t win, you just play.

  Doesn’t sound like my kind of game. I like ones you can win. Or at least bet on.

  Gus laughs, wheezily, sitting on a chair in the sun, his fat legs in shorts shiny and tight looking, all the hair worn off. Theo leans against the left leg.

  And the game’s a secret. The only person who knows about it is the one who’s playing it, because it changes every time someone plays it. You can change it any way you want. You just have to keep playing till you die, but it’s not really dying, it’s just dying in the game.

  That sounds serious, not like a game. I like to stop after a few hands for a smoke. You wouldn’t let me do that anymore.

  You can do anything.

  How is that a game.

  Because it’s not real.

  It’s not just a story.

  No, because you change it, and only one person can play it at a time.

  That’s a story, ain’t it.

  Gus is from England, like Theo’s dad. Gus mines in a pocket for a minute, the one Theo leans against so it feels like a small animal burrowing. Gus’s hand holds his Cross, worn as a pebble. Gus fought in a war, and his lighter had been there too. Gus jams a wrinkled slightly bent cigarette between two fingers and flicks at the Cross, inhaling deeply and then coughing. He squints through th
e smoke and hands Theo the lighter, which Theo begins opening and closing, staring at it. It had writing on the side, barely there, hard to read, but Theo knew the letters were Gus’s initials and Dirty Little Imp, which was a nickname from the British army, Gus had told Theo. Gus had been an infantryman, he said. Theo looked it up.

  Gus exhales cloudily. So are we in a game now.

  You’re in the game.

  I am, am I.

  Yes. You’re a key.

  Like a door key, you mean.

  Sort of. You’re just a key.

  Key to what.

  I haven’t figured that out yet.

  So if other people are in the game, doesn’t that mean they’re playing too. So it’s not just one person at a time. If you’re telling me about it, it can’t be a secret, can it.

  Theo stops thinking about that, flicks the flame on and off, on and off, watching the orange. He wants to touch it. He likes the smell of the lighter: the warm brass and the liquid in it. Then he flips the top over and hands it to Gus.

  Butane.

  Has to be filled up just like a car, right in this little opening. Petrol where I come from. You come from there too, you know. You were born there. Gus laughs. Tell me more about the game.

  Theo is walking away, seeing his dad’s face. He turns: Does my dad know me.

  What kind of a question is that. He loves you like a madman.

  Where is he right now.

  Gus hesitates. The boy turns back toward the trees and ocean.

  I believe the tour’s finishing up in Sydney, the words coming at the boy’s back. But he’s coming here to make a record.

  Theo stops. Here.

  He just told me last night. They’ll let the engineers have a look and see which rooms are best. I was saving the news as a surprise. What do you think of that.

  Why didn’t he tell me.

  You were asleep.

  Does Colin know.

  Yes.

  Does my mother know.