Illumination Night

by Alice Hoffman

  “That’s okay,” the Giant says. “I’ve already had lunch.”

  Jody knows he’s trying to make her feel better, but she can’t stand how awful her family is. She can’t stand herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she tells him.

  “Really,” the Giant says, “it’s okay.”

  “I remember my graduation day,” Elizabeth Renny says. “It rained buckets.”

  “Come on, Mom,” Laura says, as though she were talking to an idiot.

  Jody’s father insists she go in his car. Jody’s eyes refuse to focus as they walk toward the road. She has no appetite. She has no courage.

  Once they’re inside the car, Glenn leans over and pushes down the buttons so all the doors are locked. Jody sits in the back, between her brothers.

  “This is how you get back at me, isn’t it?” Glenn says.

  He turns the key in the ignition too hard and the engine screeches, then turns over. Robin puts a hand on his leg.

  “Don’t be so hard on her,” Robin tells him.

  “You don’t know anything about me!” Jody says to her.

  “I’m trying to help,” Robin says.

  “Don’t,” Jody tells her. “You can’t.”

  Jody turns and strains her neck to see out the rear window. She can see the Giant. He is farther and farther away, walking back the way he has come.

  “Believe me,” Glenn says, “you’re not staying here another day.”

  “Are you asking me to move in with you?” Jody says coldly, knowing that will shut him up.

  “Don’t talk back to me,” Jody’s father says. “Don’t say anything at all.”

  In the backseat, Keith is crying.

  “Stop yelling,” Jody tells her father.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Glenn says. “I’m the one who tells you what to do.”

  No one goes out for lunch. They drive back to Elizabeth Renny’s house in silence. As Laura is packing Jody’s belongings she breaks two fingernails. She leaves the trunk upstairs to be picked up later and carries two suitcases down to Glenn’s car. Jody’s two brothers play an edgy game of catch on the lawn, but Jody is instructed to wait in the car while her father goes into Elizabeth Renny’s house to phone ahead and reserve a room at the inn for her. Her parents have already decided—in the morning they will take her back to Connecticut until they can decide what to do with her next. Jody sits in the backseat of her father’s car, still wearing her cap and gown. She opens the box the Giant has given her and finds a gold pin that once belonged to his grandmother. She pins it on her dress, underneath her black gown. When it grows dark tonight it will be the easiest thing in the world for her to walk out of her room, toss her hotel key on the grass, and just keep walking.

  SAMANTHA Freed’s parents are worried. Every day Samantha bolts her breakfast and disappears. Though she only goes down the road to Simon’s house, they think about that missing girl, Jody. They have never liked Simon’s father and now they don’t trust him either. His hair is too long, for one thing, and he’s involved with motorcycles.

  And there is something more that troubles them. Not that they believe the awful gossip about a giant, but they have a sudden fear of aberrations. Though Simon has grown almost four inches since they’ve last seen him, they are convinced that he is still not right. He is not right for Samantha. Hal Freed insists that is exactly why Samantha is so interested in him: she can boss Simon around. She has found someone to look up to her.

  Though it will not be easy for her to say what needs to be said, Eleanor Freed decides to take a walk down to Simon’s house. When she gets there the children are out in the yard, surrounded by stuffed animals, one of which, a much-loved poodle named Alfred, Samantha has insisted on giving to Simon on the pretense that she is too grown-up for such things. Simon’s father is examining a red motorcycle out by the shed. The children don’t notice her, so Eleanor Freed rounds the shed, surprising Andre. He throws a wrench into a grease-covered box of tools and stares at her.

  “Eleanor Freed,” she says. And when he continues to look at her blankly she adds, “Samantha’s mom.”

  She can tell the children get no supervision over here.

  “Oh, sure,” Andre says. “That’s who you are.”

  There’s no point in attempting to have a conversation with him, so Eleanor says she’s come for a visit with his wife.

  “My wife?” Andre says, puzzled. Vonny never has visitors.

  Eleanor Freed looks up and sees Vonny at the screen door. She’s greatly relieved to be able to leave Andre and walk across the yard. On her way, she calls hello to Samantha. Both children look up. They wave, then quickly return to their game.

  “Those kids are oblivious,” Vonny says, opening the screen door. They have been neighbors every summer for five years, and this is the first time either has been inside the other’s house.

  “To tell you the truth I’m concerned about them,” Eleanor says. “I think they may be too close.”

  “Oh?” Vonny says.

  “Simon’s a terrific kid,” Eleanor says.

  Vonny feels herself retreat from Eleanor, as though she’s been insulted.

  “Just a little too short,” Vonny says.

  Andre comes in and lets the screen door slam behind him. He washes his hands at the kitchen sink with strong green soap.

  “I’m taking the bike down to the shop to do a little work,” he tells Vonny. Vonny knows the truth—he just can’t resist the urge to drive the bike one last time before it’s crated and sent on to a buyer in Delaware. Andre takes the keys to the truck out of his pocket.

  “In case you need them,” he says.

  “Are you kidding?” Vonny says. Although she’s gotten as far as the end of their road, with Andre waiting for her in the driveway, she isn’t ready to drive by herself. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Vonny sounds anxious and Eleanor Freed’s not surprised that there are problems in this marriage.

  “All right,” Andre says. He knows he sometimes pressures Vonny, alternating between wanting her to be instantly cured and enjoying her dependence. When he passes Vonny he puts a hand on her shoulder and leaves it there for a moment. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Vonny asks Eleanor Freed after Andre’s left. “I’m quitting next month.”

  “Go ahead,” Eleanor says. She sits down near the window so she can keep an eye on Samantha.

  “Look,” Vonny says now, “if you don’t want your daughter to play with Simon, why don’t you just say so.”

  “You’re offended,” Eleanor Freed says.

  “Of course I am,” Vonny says. “What do you want me to do? Show you his charts to prove to you he’s growing? Promise you your daughter won’t be friends with a freak?”

  “You think I’m saying he’s not good enough for her,” Eleanor says. “That isn’t the way I meant for it to sound. Maybe it’s that girl disappearing. Next door.”

  “Jody,” Vonny says.

  The police have been here twice, the first time late at night, when Vonny and Andre were already in bed. Since then, Vonny has been next door several times, but Mrs. Renny refuses to discuss her granddaughter. When she asked Andre if he was upset he said, “Of course I’m upset. Shouldn’t I be upset when someone I know vanishes?” That was when Vonny understood that something more than a note left under his pillow went on between them. If he had said “we” rather than “I” she might never have known. She has always believed that if she ever discovered that her husband had been unfaithful she would leave him, if not within the hour, within the day. She is beginning to believe in second, and even third, chances.

  Behind the hedges the children can hear their mothers saying good-bye at the door. As Eleanor crosses the lawn, they decide to scare her and charge her from behind.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Eleanor says. “What monsters are these?”

  “It’s us!” Samantha shouts.

  “It’s only us!” Simon
echoes.

  Vonny looks out and sees the children following Eleanor down the driveway. She’s still angry and considers calling Simon back. Then she thinks better of it. Why should she ruin Simon and Samantha’s friendship to please Eleanor Freed?

  At the edge of the driveway, the children stop.

  “Well, come on,” Eleanor Freed says to her daughter. “Time to go.”

  “Not yet,” Samantha says. She has a whine in her voice that Eleanor knows means trouble.

  “She can stay for dinner,” Simon says.

  “Please!” Samantha begs.

  They stand close together. Eleanor can tell that separating them will be a long process. She doesn’t have the energy to put her foot down, so she agrees. As long as it’s all right with Vonny.

  “It is!” Simon insists.

  “No later than seven,” Eleanor Freed warns Samantha. “You’ll wear out your welcome.”

  Simon and Samantha sit in the driveway after Eleanor leaves.

  “Does your mom ever make pizza?” Samantha asks.

  “Not too often,” Simon says. He’s drawing a tic-tac-toe board in the dirt with a stick. He knows that Vonny is defrosting chicken for dinner and he doesn’t want to reveal the menu to Samantha. He’s afraid she’ll change her mind about staying.

  “I wonder if the Giant has a kitchen,” Simon says.

  “Are you kidding?” Samantha says. “There aren’t any giants.”

  “There are,” Simon says. “Really.”

  “Really really?” Samantha says. She’s a little confused because her father has told her there are no giants, monsters, or ogres, yet she knows Simon doesn’t lie. They will soon be looking for trouble, but it does not seem that way to them. They don’t even plan to go look for the Giant, they are, quite suddenly, doing it.

  They wait at the end of the driveway, giving Samantha’s mother enough time to get home, then they peer over their shoulders. Once they’re sure Vonny’s not looking, they take off like lightning. As they run, the wind moves through their hair. They jump over ruts in the road, there since last winter. It is difficult to remember a time when it wasn’t summer. Difficult to remember, as they pass Samantha’s house, that their mothers have told them not to go any farther than their own dirt road. Not ever. They turn onto the paved road and run until their legs hurt. Simon knows from Jody that the Giant’s farmstand is off South Road. They run until Simon says, “My heart is beating too fast.” Samantha slows down and lets Simon take his time. Occasionally they forget that they have a destination and stop to look at rocks and centipedes. The day grows warmer, then grows hot. They do not know enough to bring a Thermos, they do not know that in real life people get hot, tongues begin to burn, feet drag after the first two miles.

  Long before they reach the Giant’s house, Samantha and Simon realize they are scared. They are doing something so bad that their voices crack when they speak. It is too late to turn back, so they hold hands and don’t mention the fact that they are thoroughly lost. Simon’s face is hot and flushed. He tries to believe Samantha when she tells him they’re almost there, forgetting that he’s the one who’s supposed to lead the way. He waits in the tall grass while Samantha asks a man changing his tire if they are on the road to Edgartown. They know they are not supposed to talk to strangers, but now that they have begun they can’t seem to stop being bad. When they finally do reach the farmstand they have blisters on their feet. They walk behind the farmstand and stop when they see the roof down in the hollow.

  “That must be his house,” Simon says.

  The wind is hot and up on the road the asphalt has begun to melt.

  They both wish they were back home.

  “There are no giants,” Samantha says firmly.

  “Yeah,” Simon agrees, even though he has seen the Giant with his own eyes.

  “We don’t believe in him,” Samantha says. “Right?”

  Simon moves closer to Samantha. His head reaches the height of her shoulders.

  “Right,” Simon says.

  NEAR dinnertime, Vonny begins to fix chicken and rice. Andre should be home soon and Vonny assumes that Eleanor has taken the children back to her house. They have left behind their stuffed animals and there is still an indentation in the grass in the spot where the children had knelt.

  Vonny turns down the fire under the rice and covers the pot. Then she phones Eleanor and asks that Simon be sent home.

  “Simon?” Eleanor says. “What do you mean? They’re at your place.”

  Vonny quickly hangs up and runs outside. She calls for the children and claps her hands as though calling for the dog. Her voice grows sharper, and she can feel the edges of the force field. When she runs back inside the house the phone is ringing. Eleanor Freed. Vonny tells her that the children are missing.

  “Hang up,” Eleanor says. “I’m calling the police.”

  Vonny hangs up, then grabs the keys to the truck. The metal bites into the palm of her hand. She is having trouble seeing, but she jumps into the truck and manages to get the key into the ignition. When she tears out of the driveway she can feel her head fill with blood. She has no idea where she’s going, but she’s going there fast. If she spoke to someone now her words would turn to glass and cut right through him. She thinks of Jody, missing for nearly a week. She thinks of maniacs and roadside graves. She winds open her window and screams out their names. At the end of the road she pauses, not to see if there’s oncoming traffic, but because she doesn’t know which way they would have gone. She makes a left turn, cutting off a car whose horn echoes behind her. She’s not looking at the road, but along the side, into bramble bushes and ditches. The truck weaves over the double yellow line, but she drives faster. She hears a siren but doesn’t slow down until the nose of the police car is touching the bumper of the truck. Then she stops. When the cop walks up to her window she’s crying.

  “My son is missing,” she tells him.

  She has to tell him this three times before he can understand her.

  The officer insists on seeing her license, which of course she doesn’t have. He walks back to the car and radios into the station. While she’s waiting Vonny imagines that she will explode. She considers taking off, but knows he would only catch up to her and pull her over again. When the cop comes back he is apologetic. Eleanor Freed has reported the children missing. Still he tells Vonny not to speed. What good will it do if you have a head-on collision before we find your son? Vonny bites her tongue and nods. The force field has begun to flicker around the truck. She tries to count backward and can’t. She puts the truck in gear, waits for the cop to drive off, then begins to drive, more slowly at first. She calls out Simon’s name through the open window. Her voice is hoarse, like a frog’s.

  As soon as you find him you can collapse. You can let the force field take over.

  She presses her foot down harder on the gas.

  JODY has slept fitfully ever since she’s come to the Giant’s house. She stays awake all night, then falls asleep in the morning, lulled by the clucking of chickens in the yard. She has finally convinced the Giant that they have to leave, at least for a while. In three months Jody will be eighteen and her parents will have no legal right to run her life. Since she has been in hiding Jody has twice waited till after dark before walking down the road to a pay phone at the gas station. She called her grandmother and apologized for disappearing and, just last night, she made two reservations on a flight from Boston to San Francisco.

  She has taken her life into her own hands. No one can tell her who to love. Naturally she is upset. Anyone in her situation would shake each time a car passed by on the road. That is why the Giant has agreed to go away with her. He does not want to lose her, but each time he thinks of leaving his chickens his throat gets tight. Who can he ask to take care of them while he is gone? The postman? His closest neighbor, a half a mile away, a man he has never spoken to? The Giant cannot imagine anything worse than disappointing Jody. He has always tried to please, even
as a child, and it embarrasses him now to think that there were times when he slept with a brick on his head, when he cinched his belt tight, thinking he might cut off his blood supply and, if not shrink, at least not grow any taller.

  When Jody is kind to him, the Giant is completely undone. Kindness has always had a peculiar effect on him. When he was fifteen and unmistakenly a man, he had a fever of a hundred four. As his grandfather perched on the edge of his bed and poured alcohol on a rag to wipe his neck and chest, the Giant began to weep. His grandfather sat him up and pounded on his back, thinking he might be choking. Now, the Giant regrets all he never said to his grandfather. His grandfather cried each time he wrung the neck of one of his chickens, and before they had that particular chicken for supper, the old man offered up a small prayer. He gave each chicken a name more suited to a sailor than a hen: Mighty, Primo, Good Sam, Gunther.

  Late in the fall, when the afternoon light was thin and pale, the Giant liked to watch his grandfather search the vegetable beds for cabbage that had not yet frozen. His grandfather wore a navy-blue jacket, which, although it is too short for him, the Giant likes to wear sometimes. There are still some cough drops in the pockets, and the odor of tobacco and sweat is trapped in the lining.

  The Giant does not want to go to California. He doesn’t want to leave home. He did not exist before he came to this island, and he’s afraid he will cease to exist if he leaves. Jody sleeps, but the Giant sits in the shade of the yard committing this place to memory. He falls asleep in a lawn chair and when he wakes, near suppertime, he has a crick in his neck. He gets up, stretches, then gathers some strawberries to replace those in the farmstand buckets. He walks past his house, checks to make sure no cars are passing, then climbs up the hollow. Carrying buckets of strawberries, he starts up toward the farmstand. He sees the two children from the corner of his eye. He is much more aware of the speeding car, the flash of silver as the sun is reflected in the side-view mirror. Probably he is more frightened and surprised than they are, but it is in his nature to freeze when startled. He feels an immediate kinship with the little boy who, although he opens his mouth wide, doesn’t move an inch. The little girl is the one who screams when she sees him. What comes out of her mouth is like an electric current rather than a noise, and it fills the Giant with shame.