Theo

by Ed Taylor

  Theo slams the door and moves to cabinets and shelves. The dogs aren’t scrabbling on the tile so they must not be hungry. He hears noise now, from inside the pantry, and whimpering, then banging of some kind, thumping, rhythmic. Sex noise.

  The door is closed and he keeps moving, his loose pants poking out. He feels his face flush, knowing someone else could see anything he’s doing anytime, strangers, unless he’s in his room. He hopes it goes down but hoping makes it worse. He hears whispers and mewing noises from the pantry.

  Theo hums and sings, makes his eyes look at the wall of cabinets. On a shelf is gold foil, a tube of biscuits, which Theo grabs and runs with, a relay baton; but run which way. Is his mother okay. What is wrong with her. Do they want her, too.

  Theo thinks of his butterflies, of the birds outside, the dogs, the eyes of the birds and dogs. Theo sees the house full of people, people in every room, closets, pantry, storage areas, people everywhere, open drawers and there are people in them. Run. He sees his mother opening drawers, looking for something, not finding it. This big ship, and all these people, the crew. Where are we sailing. Are we moving.

  Theo growls. He’s wild. He runs into someone’s stomach, soft. It’s a lady, coming from a door. She’s saying something but he’s running the other way. Not a familiar voice.

  Theo runs through squares of sun: for an instant he can’t remember where, and how to get out, and feels a flutter of panic. There a beach towel on the floor, and a football, not a soccer ball. He is in the back hall that connects in a curve, a row of first-floor doors. If he keeps going this way he’ll come to a heavy side door that opens onto the side lawn and the screen of wild scrub trees on the house’s left side, on the other side of which but not visible is another hulking house. Theo’s not sure if anyone lives there, but the same guy from the village mows these lawns and theirs. The man comes in a pickup towing a trailer with mowers on it and wears earmuffs, like the men who load planes at the airport. He always flashes the peace sign at Theo but never smiles, just cuts and leaves. He has a black dog with a gray muzzle who finds shade and lies in it, on a chain with a bowl of water. The man has to help her, she falls out of the truck when they come, and then he has to push her into the truck when they leave. He talks really loudly to her, sort of impatient, but he’s nice when he helps her. When they first came, she didn’t need any help.

  When people die, do they look like the dead rabbit Theo found in the trees, flat leather with fur patches and teeth on one end. He wonders about mummies. He went to a shop in Paris full of skeletons and taxidermied animals with his dad and his dad’s minders, and the owner led them to a locked room that was dark, even when they entered. He had mummies and you could buy them. A couple were children. Theo couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls. He wanted to touch but the man said non monsieur, s’il vous plaît. He dreamed about them still, every now and then. They were curled on their sides, nose to knees like dogs and cats. There were dog and cat mummies too, but only the people were locked up.

  A bit morbid for my taste, his dad said afterward. A little too memento mori. One of the minders was holding the car door for Theo to climb in after his dad: the door shutting made a heavy sound, a thunk, and then, quiet, the high-pitched horns and cars engines and people talking all gone. Maybe that’s like being in a tomb.

  Dad, what do you think happens when we die.

  His father turned slowly at Theo, behind sunglasses, and the rest of his face the same as it was: Those mummies get to you.

  No. I’m just. You know. What happens.

  Well, very fair question, and baby, I ain’t gonna sugar-coat it. I think you just saw one part of what happens. We’re gone. Those things might as well have been shoes.

  But not everybody’s a mummy.

  Well my friend, I think we take all the beauty and love and joy we made in our life, and when our time’s up, we ride that joy up in the air like a balloon, and our molecules all mix up with all the other molecules and all the other people and memories, and that’s what the world’s really made of, other people and memories.

  What if you didn’t have joy or love.

  Adrian rubbed his eyes behind the sunglasses. That’s the saddest thing, isn’t it. I think everybody else, every thing, lifts those people up.

  Is that like heaven. What about little kids who had bad parents. All they have is bad memories. Or babies. They can’t even talk. What happens then.

  Well, like, say you’re a baby that’s been treated badly, all it takes is maybe one second, a millisecond of happiness, or peace, like a flash of light – boom, that’s enough if you’re small, that power is so strong that’s enough to lift you off, and once you’re off, the others can catch you and – this conversation ain’t helping my hangover, mate. Adrian finally smiles, his head back against the leather seats.

  These seats could be made of people. People skin’s just like other animals.

  You’re a regular bloody cheerleader today, aren’t you. Adrian slowly slid over and collapsed onto Theo, who laughed and pushed him away: Cut it out, you weigh a million pounds.

  Adrian’s hair was brush stiff and stuck up everywhere, like Theo’s when it was short, and Theo rubbed Adrian’s head.

  That’s better, give your old father a massage like a good and dutiful son.

  Theo rubbed both hands crazily all over Adrian’s head and face and made himself laugh, knocking off the sunglasses and this roused his father – alright alright you win, I am retreating, like Napoleon in the face of Russian winter. Adrian on one arm groaned and fished for his sunglasses at Theo’s feet and slipped them back on and pushed up to fall back into the big back seat’s other corner. Christ, what’s next. What else are you going to do to me.

  Can we go to the Tuileries again for that ice cream.

  Well, let’s check with god here. Adrian pushed the intercom button: Brandon, what’s the schedule.

  Back to the studio, you’ve got bed tracks to finish – it’s costing a thousand quid an hour. The sooner we finish the better for my blood pressure.

  It’s the room that makes a good record. This is one of the great rooms. It’s all about the art, you philistine.

  Oh the bloody art. Tell that to Sir Michael and the board.

  I feel a tantrum coming on.

  Hold on, just wait till I can get the tape rolling.

  Dad, the Tuileries.

  Oh, yeah. Sorry honey. I gotta go back to work. We’ll for sure do that tomorrow. When I’m back at the hotel we can do the electric cars on the bed, okay.

  Sure.

  I want to fly a kite. Maybe we can do that tomorrow. For sure we’ll play later, and then there’s tomorrow.

  Creeping at his petty pace. From the intercom.

  Forgot about you, you parasite. Shut up and leave me alone with my son.

  Adrian slumped and hugged himself. Don’t let this happen to you son, he said, grinning.

  What.

  Everything.

  Theo streaks through the house, biscuits in hand, crotch throbbing still. Where can he go. His head is a blur. He’s passing a door.

  Theo, baby. Don’t hurt yourself.

  Everyone moves in slow motion. Adults are so slow. And a lot here just lie around and sleep a lot. Are all grownups like that. He’s approaching escape velocity and sees ahead one of the outside doors, the one opening from the laundry room. The big metal sinks sit scaly and gray now, with plugs on chains and thick slabs of wooden tables for folding, according to Colin, who led him around when they first moved in. Frieda was in the house then but tired.

  He stops to wrestle with a latch and knob then bursts into white light and he feels his head. He runs. He’s eating ground and he’s around the front of the house before he realizes it, and the men are gone, their cars are gone. And he runs across the pearls of gravel, small peas, paws soft and hurting, doesn’t bother a real dog, and he keeps going, again behind the house, and there’s Mingus and the Seal, and Gus playing croquet, something Gus likes
, poor man’s polo he calls it. Mingus and Gus hold glasses of something, the Seal clamps a long mallet between his seal arms. He’s really good with them, he can draw and play croquet. Theo keeps running, his legs a little rubbery, dodging between things, and Gus yells mind the wickets, son, they can sting you, and Theo dodges furniture, and keeps running, everything fast and dodge it and Gina and Frieda now stand at the terrace doors he circles and others loom behind in the ballroom dark like things floating just below the surface.

  Theo darling.

  Let’s go to the beach, he yells, his voice quaky from running. Let’s go to the beach let’s go to the beach, then beach beach beach and he keeps running, if he does that no one can say but or later or maybe or let me finish this first or tomorrow or no. He’s past them and along the other wing, in the grass, grownups like to do things sitting down, like eating and talking and drinking stuff. Talking is what they do. Girls are like that sometimes too.

  Theo’s legs are getting wobbly and he’s stumbling, exaggerating now, windmilling his arms and enjoying no control; he’s seen astronauts floating in no gravity. Then back to the floor, back to earth. He plows into the ground smiling and huffing. Lying there itching. Empty for a minute, still holding the magic baton in his hand. He made it. He’s sweating.

  Theo scrambles back up toward the wild land between the house and the neighboring big house.

  Theo, baby. Come here for a minute.

  He doesn’t do anything or say anything or turn around, keeps moving. If he can make it to the trees, he’ll be safe. He jogs between trees toward one, circles around and plops into sandy ground with his back against the low wide trunk. All the trees are short and flat, kept low by the wind that blows almost all the time, mostly in from the ocean but sometimes the other way. Sometimes it’s so strong he can’t stand up and he likes to lean, be held up by nothing.

  He’s breathing hard, hot, head radiating, throbbing, he has two hearts, he’s an alien, sweating, picking at the biscuits now, tearing at the gold foil but putting the scraps in his pockets. He takes two biscuits and puts them in his mouth, but instead of chewing lets them just soften.

  Theo.

  At the edge of the trees. His mother following, not something she usually does.

  Theo.

  He closes his eyes.

  Theo baby.

  He finally chews, the biscuit wet cake now.

  Theo, darling. I need to talk to you.

  Her just behind the tree now and moving forward, and now she’s around the tree, barefoot and flushed. Frieda kneels and sits in front of him and he can see her underwear.

  Mom – he turns his head.

  Sorry, baby. She gets up on her knees. Ouch. Look, there may be school people coming about you. They tracked us down like criminals. And other people coming concerning other things that you don’t have to worry about. But I don’t want you to talk to anyone without me around, alright darling. They may try to get you alone, but if a stranger starts asking you questions about school, or about me, or about your dad or Colin or Gus, you don’t have to answer them. This is your house and you don’t have to answer any questions. They have to talk to us if they want to talk to someone.

  All I ever talk to is strangers.

  You know what I mean. Stranger strangers. Strange strangers.

  What if they’re normal.

  Baby, this is important. Will you do this for me, will you promise me. Don’t answer the doors anymore, let someone else do it.

  I don’t answer the door.

  You know what I mean. My god, it is hot. I am perishing and dry. Why don’t we go in and get a cool drink and then go to the beach.

  I thought we were going to have lunch.

  We’ll have something here then go down to the water. How about that. We’ll get a group and have fun. We’ll play volleyball, get some exercise in the sun. Let’s get the boat out, shall we.

  Theo puts more biscuits in his mouth so he can’t talk. There’s no boat.

  What. I can’t understand you.

  When is dad coming.

  Haven’t any idea darling, Frieda said, pushing herself onto feet then standing unsteadily. But we can certainly have fun without him. Let’s do some sports, my love, get some exercise. How would you like a –

  I don’t want anything, Frieda. Can we go to the beach.

  Of course, let’s get a party together and go. We’ll take a picnic.

  Theo’s mother stands, swaying, smiling, long legs and warm fur. She must be really hot, Theo thinks. And when it’s cold she wears less.

  She wants to be called Frieda but he knows she likes to be called mom too: she just doesn’t want to have to ask, and she doesn’t like it in front of other people sometimes.

  Can we just go, me and you. We don’t have to tell anyone.

  Sure, baby. You and me. Like when you were little.

  She holds out her hand and Theo looks up from the ground. He pushes himself up, he comes up to her chest, and takes her hand, and she’s holding on kind of hard. She’s steadying herself against him, so he tries to be strong, hold her up.

  They walk slowly from the trees, and there are people scattered around, the croquet players in back, Gina and Richard and another man with white hair but he’s not old, and a man with no shirt has a guitar on the terrace, he’s sitting crosslegged on the stones, and there’s a tape recorder next to him, and a lady and a man, Theo has not seen them yet today, the lady has on black stuff and black sneakers and the man is wearing a ‘staff’ T-shirt and his underwear, boxer shorts Theo knows they’re called: his are different, briefs like the bathing suit people sometimes wear here and Theo knows they’re like the things ladies wear underneath, except his are hot so most of the time he doesn’t wear them except when it’s cold. The man and lady hold umbrellas over themselves standing near the orange Miami Dolphins cooler someone has dragged out, and the Seal now wearing shorts lies on a towel. Someone in the house is playing Theo’s drum kit, which is under cloth in the ballroom. Someone else is playing the electric keyboard. It sounds like Colin, and they’re playing one of Adrian’s songs. There are stereos everywhere around the house and Adrian’s records, and Colin likes to play Adrian’s songs. Except no one sounds like Adrian.

  Theo feels Frieda’s weight, feels her stiffen as they get closer to people and – people start talking to Frieda.

  There’s nothing to eat.

  This is not a hotel, you simpering parasite.

  For some reason the adults all laugh but Theo doesn’t know why.

  My son and I are going to the beach.

  Theo knows she’s forgotten already, knows that’s gone. His head aches a little in the brightness. She doesn’t like being alone, and being with him sometimes is like being alone to her, he’s not enough.

  Mark, why don’t you bring the volleyball things.

  Volleyball. Why don’t I just shoot myself instead.

  Come on, it’ll be fun.

  Compared to what.

  Come on, if you want to eat, you must play for your supper.

  I’ll play but I’m not moving.

  Fine. You can hold the net up.

  Theo and his mom are at the French doors entering the sound so loud it’s a thing to press into, making the air even thicker.

  A lady plays Theo’s drums. She has on a shirt that says Bush Tetras.

  Those are mine, Theo yells.

  She stares at him, playing. Theo isn’t sure that she hears. Or that she actually sees him. When people play music they get lost sometimes. Theo likes playing music, but never gets lost.

  Colin stares too, but grins. He ends the song he was playing and starts playing an old English song on the keyboard, switches to organ. Not God Save the Queen but that other one. Theo heard it at some party for somebody’s graduation at the Arts Club in Manhattan.

  Frieda yells, it’s too crowded. We’re going to the beach. Did you shop yet.

  No, Colin says, lowering the mix and volume. The lady on the drums move
s one arm like a robot, beating a snare and kicking the base drum like a march. One two.

  Haven’t had a chance.

  The boy’s got nothing to eat – come on, man. You’re screwing up.

  Fair enough, Colin yells, as Theo and his mom walk toward the kitchen and pantries. Colin reaches for a tall glass of beer perched on the keyboard.

  Theo’s stomach hurts. Mom, I want to eat before we go to the beach. His head hurts and he feels angry.

  Of course, darling. I will fix you something.

  They enter the cool kitchen. Usually there is someone in here, staring into the refrigerator or shakily trying to light a burner and make something like tea, eating something out of a jar or can, smoking over coffee or a glass of something else.

  Theo remembers opening the refrigerator earlier and so goes straight for the now quiet, open-doored pantry and the cans, while Frieda, cut loose, drifts like an unmoored boat along the cabinets, opening and staring, slowly.

  Would you like some tuna, mom.

  Sure, baby. She’s sitting now.

  Theo’s out with two cans he found, and he goes to the drawer, yanks it open with a silvery sound, grabs out the heavy knife and begins stabbing at the cans. Stabbing feels good, but all he does is make a ragged hole in first one can lid, then the other. After widening, switching back and forth from can to can, he grabs two forks from the open drawer and walks to his mom and hands her a can and a fork and sits.

  Thanks, baby.

  Theo forks at the tuna, salty and pink. Water. Have to drink something or choke. Theo gets up and finds two glasses on the cluttered counter, now covered with plates and mugs and glasses and other things – a thesaurus and a crumpled T-shirt, empty cans – and fills the glasses and sets one down next to his mother’s can and then plops down again and goes at it.

  Eat. Frieda, eat, please.

  Yes, baby.

  She pats his cheek and gets some tuna shakily on the fork and puts it into her mouth and chews.

  Theo’s filling his mouth and chewing, and choking, and drinking water, and trying to swallow a wad of tuna, feeling like a boa, and shovels because he’s hungry.