They were up between 3 and 4, and on the water before dawn. They’d spend easily six or, even on a good day, eight hours on the water. Daniel would then have time to go home, shower, change, and grab the train. If Judy wasn’t enraptured by her stupid soaps, she’d have the mind to fix the kid a bite to eat, even something to take and eat on the train for lunch. Most days she forgot, which Daniel said he didn’t mind. He told them he’d be able to grab something from the kitchens at work before his shift. Sometimes, Tim wasn’t sure though. Dan would take the train to Eltingville where he was able to take a bus down Richmond to Victory, where he’d then walk the rest of the way to the Developmental Center. Depending on how late they stayed on the water, Daniel didn’t even start out to his second shift until anywhere between 1 and 3 in the afternoon. Then he’d put in another six or seven hours there before turning around to head home. Again, Tim wasn’t sure if his nephew ate a solid meal in the evening either. Rarely, on the few days when she’d remember to make him lunch, Judy would also have a meal packed for the kid to take for his dinner break. Usually though, if she put together more than two slices of crappy yellow cheese on that horrible white bread she loved, Daniel would have to split the sandwich she made him for lunch—eat half on the train to work and save the rest for his dinner. Most nights though because the damned thing that Judy called a sandwich wasn’t enough for the boy to divide for his meals, when Daniel came home, he’d be left to find something in the kitchen to pick on. Judy had an aversion to keeping leftovers and there was more than one night that instead of think to make up a plate for her nephew to have when he got home, she dumped everything in the trash. On nights like that Tim felt like throwing one of his beer cans at her head. Some nights he did.
Added to all that was the pathetic fact that the public transit system on Staten Island was never known for being punctual. On one particularly bad night—Memorial Day, actually—Daniel was asked to work until midnight because some other guy had banged out and because he himself hadn’t gotten into work until after 3:30. Daniel didn’t say no; he never said no. But trying to get home took him almost three hours, and all during one of the first thunderstorms of the season. Daniel had only had time to change out of his wet clothes, into his work clothes, hop into the truck and head to the docks to start all over again. Tim was amazed the kid was still functioning at all.
Despite their work on the boat together and despite the physical exertion of the many altercations Daniel had had at the Center, Daniel was still as thin as one of the clam rakes. He wasn’t putting on much extra muscle at all. He was firming up, to be sure, but he wasn’t bulking up. Tim was sure he wasn’t eating enough and wasn’t getting enough sleep. Daniel was also still really pale. He didn’t tan, not really, and after getting one pretty nasty sunburn after their first day out, the kid slathered on the sunblock and kept putting that fucking zinc shit on his nose. Daniel wasn’t stark white any more and his remote Native ancestry was coming out a little—from his mother’s family Tim was certain. The result, after showering before work to remove the dirt, zinc, and general crud of the morning: the kid’s skin was a sickly yellow. It was all made far worse by his hair, which remained its stubborn shade of red. The kid looked like he had been dipped, head-first into a vat of iodine.
As they loaded up the boat, with that same half-smile Daniel said suddenly, “I’m really sorry if I am putting you and Aunt Judy out in any way.”
Tim put the cooler into the boat and put his arm around Daniel drawing him closer in a rare, loving familial gesture. “Don’t worry about it kid, with your Dad gone, and your bit of trouble, you need a chance to get ahead and make your mark in this world. If I didn’t think so, I would’a left you in Willowbrook with the likes of the doc. You’ll get on your feet, no problem.”
The mention of Daniel’s “trouble” made him slouch. He felt his Uncle was insulting him, but he dared not do more than mumble a barely audible, “Thank you, Uncle Tim.”
As the two men stepped away from each other, Daniel climbed into the boat, but his foot slipped on the slick deck. He threw his hands out suddenly to steady himself, but he fell forward, narrowly missing braining himself on the upturned bubble rake. He did manage to scrape the side of his face on one of the rake tines.
“What the fuck, Dan! Are you okay, kiddo?” Tim groused, lurching forward to give his nephew a hand up. He was met with Daniel twisting out of his Uncle’s grip, eel-like. Daniel’s abrupt turnabout, like the almost imperceptible snarl earlier, was enough to make Tim stagger backward. Instead of tripping over the cooler he had just set down, Tim was able to stay on his feet as the boat listed awkwardly. Tim didn’t notice Daniel grasp the orange-sheathed clammer’s knife from the deck and slip it into the back pocket of his jeans, beneath his overalls.
“There’s a first aid kit here,” Tim shook off his anxiety and the weird creeping feeling he got looking at his nephew’s eyes, as he scuffled around the boat, producing a small, yellow plastic tub which sported a bright scarlet cross on the cover. “Clean yourself up and we’ll head out. You okay?” Daniel nodded and Tim started the motor.
After Daniel unmoored the boat, he sat clutching the yellow tub in shaking hands. Working by feel alone and using a small pen light, he wiped at his face with a piece of gauze doused in some peroxide he had found in the lunch-box sized yellow tub. Even if he had a mirror to work from, the bay was still dark and getting darker as they moved away from the lit docks. There was a bottle of mercurochrome he dabbed on another piece of gauze and began liberally daubing his scraped face before he realized he had just dyed his face the violent, slightly metallic orange of what his Uncle thought was the single most effective cure-all remedy. He knew he would hear his Uncle’s harsh barks when the sun rose high enough for the older man to see the mercurochrome tracks down Daniel’s face. Daniel swallowed and tried to remember the name of the Yellow King. He closed his eyes and pictured the boat. He inhaled deeply, taking in the salt tang and recalling the calming scent of the incense. He didn’t move. Soon the boat slowed, he heard his Uncle adjust the drift and put the motor on whatever setting it needed to be in so the boat could stay in a controlled drift along the clambeds. Daniel heard the splash of the anchor, and smelled the aroma of their routine morning cup.
Today Uncle Tim had the thermos. Daniel swallowed again. The scent of the incense on the back of his throat turned to ashes. He should have remembered to make the coffee himself. He shouldn’t have gotten so carried away. Sweat dripped down his back despite the morning being cool on the water.
“Why don’tcha put that kit away, kiddo. Come and hold the cups while I pour today. You a little dazed from that knock? You okay? Remember your old Scout motto: Live Long and Prosper.”
“That wasn’t the Boy Scout motto, Uncle Tim. That’s Spock’s motto.” Daniel knew his Uncle was making another attempt at bad humor. But Daniel knew without a shadow of a doubt that this time the older man was insulting him. To even mention the Boy Scouts after that summer? That was an insult. That was an offense that Daniel wasn’t sure he could bear. But, bear it he did as he held the battered aluminum mugs while his Uncle poured.
His Uncle continued chittering away, sipping at his coffee, ignoring how deeply Daniel’s shoulders had drooped, how the boy’s brow had furrowed, how he gripped his coffee cup in a white-knuckled hold that caused the contents to jutter and spill as the boat rocked, or how Daniel had begun muttering softly just low enough for the older man not to hear—a word that sounded like Karen.
“...and more mature, try to remember those Boy Scout ideals you once were so keen on. It’s those morals and them experiences that push you forward to being a better man. It may not be old pointy ears, but Live Long and Prosper is the same shit when you get down to it.” Tim chattered on and Daniel bit his tongue to cease it speaking the name of the Yellow King unbidden.
“I get it, Uncle Tim. Thanks for the advice. I just don’t remember much about my time in the Scouts—”
“You w
hat now?” Tim coughed out, choking a little on the hot coffee. “You don’t remember all that bullshit? Just before your old man vvvpt disappeared—” he snapped his fingers and made a vanishing sound that reminded Daniel vaguely of Mork from Ork.
“Not really, Uncle Tim. The only memory I really have of being a Scout isn’t much of a memory. That’s the whole issue with Dr. Peterson—getting me to remember. I just remember spending the last however many years now—seven?”
“Eight,” his Uncle corrected. “That bullshit with the camp fire and your cousin Jonathan happened in the summer of ’77. You were sent down, what 1980? So now,” the man seemed to pause and count on his fingers. Daniel bit his lip. “Nope, you’re right. Seven years. Sorry.” Tim stared into his cup, ignoring a screaming pinwheel of seagulls flapping overhead, wheeling down almost close enough to the men that they could’ve picked a bird from the sky with their bare hands as the sun poked her head above the horizon.
“I only remember the woods, like outside my window and figuring out that after all this time, that camp was the reason for all my problems.” Daniel sighed, downing a large mouthful of coffee, wishing the hot liquid would warm the knot of ice he felt in his gut. “I think that was the real reason for my…ailments.” Daniel seemed to struggle to find the word to describe his pain and came up short. His tongue seemed to stick in his mouth. Suddenly a voice whispered in his mind, but he dared not speak the words: The time has come, the people should know the son of Hastur, and the whole world must bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa.
Daniel flushed, slapping both hands over his mouth, dropping his cup to his feet.
“What now?” Tim stared at his nephew with worried eyes squinting to a narrow strip. He tried to ignore the jumble of words that spilled from his nephew’s mouth and make one of his famous jokes. “Who’s this Carcosa? Some Spanish chick you meet in group?”
Daniel coughed and regained control of himself. Bending to pick up his mug, he went to pour himself another cup. “It’s just that I know what happened at Pouch that summer was the real cause for me being put in that place…in Willowbrook… and not mom. I don’t remember her leaving just like I don’t remember my breakdown at the camping trip. I just remember the trees.”
The older man looked at his nephew, as if studying him, he found it hard to believe Daniel did not remember his time as a Boy Scout. Tim decided not to push it too much. He already had a lot to tell Dr. Peterson when they next had their meeting to discuss Daniel’s progress —between the mural and now muttering about black stars and something that Tim knew was not the name of a Spanish chick. The grizzled man replied simply, “Ok, kiddo. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to press it. You know I do have to ask sometimes. Besides, I just want you to not go too far out back of the house. Don’t go too far, as I told you before, the grounds aren’t safe beyond my home.”
Daniel did not look up at his Uncle, he stared at the small puddle made by his spilled coffee, sipped his fresh cup and tapped his boot in the dark stain, splashing and rippling the liquid across the deck and replied, “Sure thing, Uncle Tim.” Daniel wasn’t sure why his Uncle was telling him again about the woods behind the house.
Tim changed gears as the sun steadily rose and as he started on his second cup. “You making any headway with Dr. Peterson’s therapy? That journal working out for you?”
“A bit...” Daniel replied trailing off and looking away toward New Jersey. Daniel knew his Uncle remembered the journal from yesterday. It was there in his shoulder bag on the deck. Did the old man think Daniel was going to rip it out and begin reading passages to him? It was an insult. Daniel felt his ears pump and heard a ringing over the sound of the gulls screaming overhead. And to bring up Pouch Camp and therapy in about a heartbeat? It was an offense that could not be borne any longer. Daniel shifted on his seat, feeling the orange-sheathed knife hard in his back pocket. “I just don’t understand why we have to meet at his office at Willowbrook. He acts as if I am a patient there, not an employee. I know he has an office in Great Kills; it just makes me feel like one of the patients.”
“Well, your sessions began before the clam season started so he probably figured it would be easier since you work there and didn’t want to make you travel that far. Hell, kid, you’re already traveling all over this fucking island. You’re working with me, and you’re running down to work at the Center. Why run around to some other office where you’d have to wait in a room full of screaming morons when you can just pop into the good ol’ doc’s offices at the Center practically unannounced? I know it may be a pain in the ass. I’m sure the doc doesn’t want to make you uneasy. But, if it is helping you, keep at it.”
“The journal work does, writing down my thoughts, feelings and any memories I recall. But Uncle Tim, Dr. Peterson has a copy of that play on his shelf. The one Dad read,” Daniel’s voice cracked. He didn’t tell his Uncle that Dr. Peterson had also allowed … well, insisted that during one or two sessions, Daniel copy down snatches of the play into the back of his journal. He also didn’t tell his Uncle that Dr. Peterson had promised Daniel his own copy of the cherished tome when Daniel reached the one-year anniversary of being on the outside.
“Wait, what? He make you read it?” Tim growled, his voice hoarse but strangely without emotion. It sounded outlandish for a moment and Daniel watched as his Uncle’s face rippled in a way that was uncannily like —and not like— the water around the boat.
“Only the first Act,” Daniel said, dropping his eyes from his Uncle’s face, shifting his gaze back to the decrepit New Jersey side of the bay, while occasionally looking sidelong to see if his Uncle’s face rippled again. “Dr. Peterson said that reading The King in Yellow again should help my recovery. He wanted to see how I was responding to treatment.”
“Should help? That’s an odd bunch of horseshit. You telling me that you don’t remember when you read that play last?” Tim stood up abruptly enough that a shudder ran through the boat. Finishing his coffee in one gulp, he snatched the cup from Daniel and flicked the remains over the side. His irritation was enough to tell Daniel that their morning ritual was over. Work now. Shoving the cups into the orange sac, Tim crammed his meaty hands into his gloves, grabbed up the poles, and assembled the clam rake on to the end, while Daniel tied the rope to it. Daniel helped his Uncle cast the heavy metal rake out into the water.
Another shudder went through the boat, but this time it wasn’t from either man’s movements. Tim chalked it up to a passing ship. He looked squarely at his nephew. “So, you don’t remember when you read it, do you? Since you don’t remember shit about Boy Scouts?”
“So, Uncle, I’m to assume it was during that summer, ’77 then? That camping trip at Pouch?” For the first time irritation crept into Daniel’s voice and Daniel couldn’t meet his Uncle’s gaze for more than a few seconds. It was more than just rage. Daniel had the sudden creeping horror that if he looked in his Uncle’s eyes for too long they would shift… that one eye would stand out starkly yellow against the older man’s leathery skin while the other winked from blue to green to grey. Daniel swallowed the ozone taste down, felt it curl into his gullet like a small furry animal. He didn’t dare tell his Uncle that as the men talked, Daniel had started to remember, some little things from that summer. They came in small snatches, surfacing in his mind as the two men went about their tasks, casting, pulling, dumping and sorting. The memories were jumbled like a damaged filmstrip from one of those old silent movies, eaten away by time and an overheating projector. He wished they weren’t working so he could write the snatches down, but when he closed his eyes, feeling the rope between his gloved hands, he saw the images in a choppy stream. He saw his cousin Jonathan with the mismatched eyes gripping the small clay shape. He saw a battered book very much like the one on Dr. Peterson’s shelf lying on the ground by the camp fire as all the boys —Cub Scouts, Weeblos, and Boy Scouts— hunkered around the fire to share experiences of the day. He saw snatches of their sharing of
who would be earning what badge from the day’s activities devolve into an offering of ghost stories and urban legends. He heard a man’s voice reading a strange rhyme about a red dawn and dying stars, a rhyme from that same battered book, and in this waking memory, Daniel realized the man’s voice was his own father’s. He saw the same book on the seat of his father’s blue Dodge, lying beneath the man’s wallet; on the cover—and lightly splattered across the frame and one of the lenses—were a few scant drops of blood.
“Jesus wept boy, keep on your feet and don’t drop the fucking rope!” Tim shouted as another wake rocked their boat. Daniel had still had his eyes closed and he felt like he was falling but steadied himself, shaking his head to clear away the vision in time enough to not drop the rope.
“Enough of this crap, kid. No more questions now, no more fucking memories. No more talk. Work.” Tim’s demeanor had flashed again into an almost invisible rippling, like a door opening and closing with such speed that to the watching eye, it was as though the door wasn’t even there to begin with. Daniel got a sudden burst of white and silver and smiling teeth and then it was gone and his Uncle was standing, looking grim and stern, towering there with his immense hands on the poles of the rake. Daniel felt a sharp sticking in his arm, needle quick, followed by a burning. He didn’t drop the rope, figuring it was a black fly since mosquitoes really didn’t bite this far out on the water. And then, as Daniel felt the burn, Tim changed, the man’s face melting into a smile as he stepped back, no longer holding the poles for a fraction of a moment. With one hand he reached up and patted Daniel on the head like a child. As he did so, Daniel saw another flash of the white and silver and what looked like bathroom tiles. With a stretch, Tim sighed and repeated himself in a voice that sounded hollow as though it echoed inside a large cavern: “Ok enough talk. Lets get to work.”
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