“Like that, do you,” Stitch said.
“It’s delicious,” he answered truthfully. He adjusted his weight again, trying to find a way to sit that put the least amount of pressure on his bruised tailbone. Daddy observed his squirming with a good deal of interest.
“I don’t know if you realized,” he said. “This young man is our neighbor. Part of that whole Surrey brood.”
“Surrey.” Stitch looked at him inquisitively.
“You know,” Daddy said. “The gentleman from the auto shop in town.” Stitch shook his head. “I’m sure you don’t recall. It must be years since you’ve darkened the streets of our pleasant burgh.” Tad looked over toward the large man, who shrugged, a little self consciously.
“I don’t get into town much,” he explained. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. Bit of a homebody, you see.”
“You can’t blame the beast,” Daddy said, leaning toward Tad and speaking again in his exaggerated whisper. “Looking the way he does, if he went out in the daylight, they’d call out the National Guard. They’d stone him to death in the streets. Probably the best thing for him, I’d say. Put him out of his misery. My misery. Wipe the stain from the face of the earth, can you dig it?”
Tad didn’t reply, choosing instead to sip his tea. Despite the cruelty and insensitivity of Daddy’s remarks, he thought the man had a point. Really, what would happen if either of these two freaks were to up and decide one day to march out of the woods, down the Willow Road, and into town? How would people react, if they knew these two were living here, just a few short miles from where they live, where their children go to school? And once again this brought to mind the questions that he’d thought of before, lying in bed, unable to sleep. The fact that Daddy didn’t live alone only made things more puzzling to him. What do they do to survive, the two of them? Where do they get supplies? They stay away from town, that much is obvious. They have to be self-sufficient somehow, don’t they? And what do they do up here all day, in their mansion full of empty beer cans, with no front door, sit around and recite poetry and drink tea? Are they a couple of queers, or what? They pick at each other like an old married couple, that’s for sure. But he couldn’t ask them any of this. It was against the rules, and not only that, but he’d begun to develop a liking for Stitch. There was something about the large man that was very nearly charming, and Tad didn’t want to offend him. There was a kindness to him that his appearance belied. It bothered him the way Daddy spoke to him, although Stitch didn’t seem to mind.
“So tell us about your family, Tad,” Stitch said. He had set his cup and saucer aside and resumed his knitting.
Tad took a bite from one of the cakes with pink sugar, brushing the crumbs from his hand. “My family.”
“You have siblings?”
“An older brother and a younger sister. I’m the middle child.”
“So how’s that working out for you, man?” Daddy said. He took a sip from his cup and grimaced.
Tad shrugged. “I don’t know. I think sometimes that our family dynamic is kind of strange. But everyone thinks that from time to time, don’t they?” His listeners both nodded. “I relate best to my sister. We don’t always agree on everything, but we’re devoted to each other. We look out for one another.”
“And your brother?” Stitch offered.
Tad shook his head, chewing a mouthful of cake. “We couldn’t be more different. Our personalities and our priorities couldn’t be further apart. Sports. That’s what he’s all about. He lives and breathes competition. He’s not happy unless he’s proving his superiority over others. I can’t get into that mentality. That’s not me, and he sees that, and he’s scornful.” He took another sip of his tea, thoughtful. “He’s very much Pa’s son. He can do no wrong in my father’s eyes. He’s the good son. Pa doesn’t know what to make of me and Daisy. We’re the black sheep.” He paused. Birds could be heard singing outside. Stitch’s needles went click-clack, click-clack. “But Daisy’s the only daughter, and she’s also the youngest. She’s Daddy’s little girl.” This elicited a smile from Daddy. Tad, his eyes pointed downward, neglected to notice. “Things have been kind of strained lately.”
“How so?” Daddy said. His voice crooning.
Tad glanced over to him and immediately regretted it. The eyes were like a solar eclipse. You didn’t want to look at them directly. “Everyone’s on edge. Something in the air, maybe. A change in the weather.”
“Things are changing.” A statement, not a question.
“That could be it.”
“Maybe it’s you that’s changing.”
“Who can tell these things?” Click-clack, click-clack. Birds singing outside. Something moving up above, on the next floor. “I guess I fear change. It’s something about the uncertainty. Not knowing what’s coming. I have these daydreams sometimes. There’s one I’ve had since I was very small. Sometimes I’m at school, and a message comes from the office. It’s bad news. Someone in my family has had an accident. There’s been a death in the family. Mostly it’s one of my parents. Pa was working on a car, and it fell and crushed him. He just lay there on the floor of the garage with his life leaking out onto the floor. Or sometimes it’s Ma. I’m at home, and the phone rings, and it’s someone from the hospital. I’m so very sorry. Your Mom was walking to the grocery store, and a car careened off a curb. It all happened so quickly, there was nothing that could be done. And it goes deeper, usually. I find myself thinking about the funeral, and how I don’t know what to wear, or how to act. The rituals we go through at the end of a person’s life seem inappropriate and insufficient. I think about how much things are going to change, how every aspect of my life is going to be altered by this circumstance that was never in my control. The illusion of stability that was never really there. If it was Ma that went, I think about how she was the one that held the family together, and how quickly Pa would unravel without her. What he would do with us three kids by himself. Or if it was him it happened to, what that would be like. I think about the loss, and how it would affect and shape me always. And I begin to have this feeling of grief, so deep, like all of it was actually happening. Say I’ll be walking home from school thinking about it, or maybe I’ll be sitting there in class, or I’ll be lying in bed at night, not able to sleep, and the reality of it hits me so hard it’s like I can’t breathe. I’ll be at the point of crying, fighting back tears. Because the truth is I have problems with my parents sometimes. But of course I love them both dearly, regardless, and I don’t want them to die. And the next thing that happens, every time, is that I begin to feel terribly guilty for thinking these things. What kind of a person am I? Because I’ve had these thoughts so many times, it’s almost like I’m expecting it to really happen. It’s almost like, if I think about it for long enough, I’ll actually make it happen. And even though I’d never want that, there’s a part of me, somehow, that’s always just the slightest bit disappointed, when the phone rings, or another day has passed safely, that the disaster has been averted. I’m prepared for it at all times. At all times I’m mentally ready. I’ve practiced so many times how I’m going to react. I know every step of the grieving process in advance.” All the time that he’d been speaking he’d been looking down into his tea cup. He could see the dregs, rotating very slowly, in the bottom. The cup had stopped steaming. The remainder of the liquid was cooling. He was shocked at the way he had opened up like that, about something so personal. He hadn’t known in advance he was going to say any of it.
“I should have warned you, baby,” Daddy said. “It gets stronger toward the bottom.”
“I don’t even know why I told you guys about that,” Tad said. “I’ve never spoken of it before.” He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “You probably think I’m an awful person, right? Completely morbid.”
“Yes, definitely,” said Daddy, at the exact moment that Stitch said “No, not at all.” Tad looked from one to the other.
“Don’t listen to him,” Stitch said.
“Don’t pay any attention. I think you’re a very sensitive and imaginative young man. I also think that you shouldn’t take these daydreams too seriously, or too literally. I don’t think that they actually represent any conscious desire on your part for your parents to die. I think they’re about the fear of change, just as you said. They’re about coming to terms with things you can’t control, and maybe you’re at a point in your life where that’s especially important for you. You needn’t feel guilty about them. I would say the most important thing is not to get fixated on them. Daydreams are just that. Daydreams.”
“Is it my turn yet?” Daddy asked, very sweetly, and the corners of Stitch’s mouth tightened. “I think you’re a sick, sick little monkey. It doesn’t take Sigmund Fraud to figure this one out. I think your daydreams are the first step down the path toward an inevitable and gruesome conclusion.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re going to kill your parents, obviously. How will you do it? Will you make it look like an accident? Push mother down the cellar steps? Cut the brakes on father’s car? No, no, no. That’s not your style, is it?” He wagged his finger at Tad. “You’re the type that would do it up right, aren’t you? Axe to the back of the head while they’re asleep. Electric carving knife. Chainsaw…”
“Enough, Jimbo” Stitch said. “Enough. I apologize for him.” He set his knitting aside and stretched his long white arms up over his head. “Are you finished? Like anything else?”
Tad shook his head and handed him the empty cup and saucer. “Thank you. It was very good.” Stitch collected the rest of the dishes and replaced them on the tray, then stood up and backed his way through the door again. Daddy winked at Tad.
“Hey now, baby. You know I was just sporting with you. Having some fun.”
“Sure.” Tad nodded to him, smiling to show he didn’t care. Boiling on the inside. He wasn’t upset by Daddy’s comments; he didn’t care about those at all. I can’t believe I said all that! What the fuck is wrong with me?! He’d just completely tipped his hand, not to mention he’d spoken about personal insecurities that he’d never come close to talking about with anyone else, not even Daisy. Why had he done it? It was baffling. He stood up and walked over to the door, looking through the front room and out toward the woods. It’s like every moment I’m around him I’m in danger of doing or saying something stupid. I’m not in control. I don’t trust myself. He looked back toward Daddy, who sat grinning at him. So much he wanted to ask. Who are you? What do you want from me? All against the rules. “It was so nice of you to have me over,” he said. “We must do this again soon.”
“Any time, groovy cat. You’re welcome any time. Now that you know where the place is. We’re glad of the company. Even if no one’s home, you’re welcome to roam around. Hunt for treasure and such.”
“You’ll see me again. Tell Stitch goodbye for me, will you, and it was a pleasure meeting him.” And he walked through the front room toward the porch.
“I sure will.” The disembodied voice floating out after him from the open doorway, and he shuddered, despite the sudden heat from the midday sun, dazzling, exploding around him. It was his own voice that he was hearing, like an echo. “You’ll see me again.” When Stitch reemerged, Daddy had stood up and was standing over by the doorway leading to the front room. He had his hands clasped together in front of him, covered by the wide sleeves of the kimono. He was taking another drink from one of the bottles mounted in the helmet. “Heep!” he said, swallowing and doing a little dance, hopping up and down in place. “Hoop! Ha!” Looking over his head, Stitch could see the back of Tad Surrey, who was most of the way across the field by now, approaching the trees, fighting his way through the tall grass.
Stitch sat down again and picked up his knitting. “Well,” he said. “Go on and tell me about him. I know you’re dying to.”
“Oh, I am, baby,” Daddy said, bouncing up and down, “I positively am. But I want you to tell me about him first. Go on. I want the first impression.”
Stitch’s hands were busy in his lap again. Click-clack, click-clack. “Well, he’s a very likeable boy. Very bright. Remarkably perceptive. Very knowledgeable for someone his age. On the other hand, he’s unhappy. Conflicted. Anyone can see that. And his defenses are very weak.” Daddy was smiling hugely, fairly dancing with joy. “And that excites you to no end, doesn’t it. You want him. Needless to say.”
“Do I ever, baby. The things I would do to that boy. What we could be, together. What we could accomplish. Oh, it gives me the tingles in the all naughty places.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“He exists most within his own mind. His internal world is vast, vast. A landscape the horizon of which he’s incapable of seeing. Even I can’t see it. That’s where he draws his essence from. Some depend most on external sources, as you know…he has no need. All he needs is here.” And he made a fist and thudded it against his chest.
“I like the boy,” Stitch said. “I suppose it would be utterly pointless of me to suggest that, maybe, just maybe, you might consider leaving him alone?”
When Daddy answered this time, it was in Tad’s voice. “Pointless, lovey, utterly pointless. That boy is the finest specimen I’ve ever encountered. A flawless, unspoiled lump of clay. He will be my greatest achievement. My Mona Lisa. My Sistine Chapel.”
Stitch shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this one. I might not be blessed with your rather dubious gifts, but I have my own intuitions. Not that anything I say will convince you, once you’ve made up your mind, but I’m urging you, just this once, to reconsider.”
Daddy stopped his dancing and frowned at him. When he spoke this time, it was in neither Tad’s voice, nor the laid-back mellow one he’d adopted for the afternoon. Had Tad still been there, he would have recognized it as the one from their first meeting, taut, razor-edged, with something riding just beneath the surface, as cruel as it was unstable. “Are you through?”
“Yes. I am. That’s the last you’re going to hear from me on the subject. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The Honeymoon
In essence, it was only then, in Tad’s mind, that the summer truly began. He had penetrated the Fortress of Solitude. With knowledge of Daddy’s base of operations, he felt that he had achieved some measure of psychological advantage. He knew where Daddy lived and breathed. He knew the location of the lair. He could satisfy his curiosity, could scratch the itch, any time he wanted. He had been given leave to visit anytime he so desired; a friendship, of sorts, had begun. Now, there are all kinds of friendships, and some appear more unlikely on the surface than others. It goes without saying that they serve all manner of purposes and can be molded to satisfy any number of wants or needs. In this case, then, the question that might well be asked is what each of the two took from the relationship, and what purpose their continued interaction served. For Tad, the continual seeking out of Daddy served two primary purposes, or two that he was immediately conscious of, anyway. What must be remembered first is that for all his life Tad had been primarily a solitary person, not having many friends his own age, either from school or in town. Now he had a friend, and the importance of the companionship that Daddy offered cannot be overlooked. Up until the initial meeting with the wild-eyed man in white, it would be safe to say that Daisy was his best friend. And as strong as the bond was between the two of them, Daisy was so fiercely and territorially withdrawn that Tad was always aware of the need to respect her space. And even when she allowed him up into her nest in the eaves to visit for a while, he was still there, inside the house. And more and more, being there instilled in him a sense of claustrophobia. He experienced with growing frequency and intensity the desire to be away from the rest of the family. Visiting Daddy allowed him to get away, and not just off for a jaunt in the woods, but for a brief vacation into an entirely other world.
That was the other notable aspect, and for Tad it may have been even more critical. The free t
ime afforded him by the Summer In Between, those lazy, sunny days that seem to last forever when we are young, had in summers past been spent off by himself, mainly in the stretch of woods between the Surrey house and the Willow Road, hopelessly trapped behind enemy lines, eyes scanning the undergrowth for sign of the enemy, bayonet at the ready. As Daddy had so astutely pointed out, he existed most within his own mind. Tad’s imagination was his escape outlet, his security blanket. It helped to keep him grounded. With a friend like Daddy, there was never any need for it. In the presence of this man, normal life was all the adventure that could ever be wished for. All the elements were there to be enjoyed. The feel of peril, urgency in activities that in any other context would have seemed mundane. The uncertainty about what was coming from moment to moment. Daddy’s was a magnetic personality, to which Tad found himself drawn.
Woods Page 12
