The Changeling

by Victor Lavalle

  Brian Kagwa, ten months old, squinted at the sky, at the canopy of bare tree limbs. He didn’t look frightened or wounded, not even shocked. Instead, it seemed as if he was thawing in the daylight. Neither Apollo nor Emma spoke to him or to each other. Brian didn’t move his head much, but his eyes scrolled left to right from one tree to the next. When a bird on a tree chirped or cawed, Brian stared at it and pursed his lips as if to answer back.

  Finally they left the woods and reached the paved parts of the park. They passed the Carousel and the George Seuffert, Sr., Bandshell. Strange to see these places again. Apollo hadn’t expected he’d be back this way, he hadn’t truly believed he’d come out of this alive. Soon they reached the bathroom where he’d spent the night. The door to the ladies’ room hadn’t been fixed, only pulled shut; a few strips of emergency tape were easily pulled down.

  The sinks worked, and they washed Brian’s hair out, cleaned his face. They each did a little dabbing, at least to clear out their ears and eyebrows, swish their mouths. Apollo realized the red string had come off his finger. Who could say when? Maybe when his hands were inside the troll’s belly, pulling Brian free. Maybe it lay in the center of a stone in the Northern Forest. That seemed improbable enough to be true.

  “We have to get Brian to a hospital,” Apollo finally said as they left the bathroom. They still looked rough, a feral family, but at least they didn’t have bits of troll guts stuck between their teeth.

  Emma didn’t answer. She hadn’t looked away from Brian yet.

  “I wanted to call Kim in,” she said tentatively. “She’s still his doctor. And it’s going to be pretty remarkable if we just show up at a hospital. Kim would be discreet.”

  Apollo watched her as they made a few steps but finally laughed quietly. “Well, I know she can keep a secret.”

  Apollo couldn’t be aware of this yet, but Kim had never cashed that check he gave her. Instead she’d slipped it under his apartment door days ago, two words written on the face: I’M SORRY.

  “Maybe someone will pick us up,” she said, gesturing ahead to Woodhaven Boulevard.

  No surprise, but they were the only people on foot at this hour. The early morning traffic clocked at speeds of fifty miles an hour. The only thing that could stop these drivers was a red light, and even that might only slow them to about thirty-five. Nobody would be giving some random hitchhiking family a lift. Especially not with the way they looked.

  Apollo couldn’t call 911. He had no cellphone power left, and there were no working pay phones on the street. No yellow or even green taxis were out here, and even livery cabs were a rare occurrence. Some would suggest running out into the street to hail a passing car, but such suggestions would never be made by anyone familiar with the drivers in Queens. Imagine slaying trolls and then being killed by a hit-and-run driver.

  “We have to wait on the Q11,” Apollo said.

  The bus stop had a bench. Emma nodded and sat, cradling Brian against her belly. She raised her free hand and extended a finger, brought it close to Brian’s face. The move looked so tentative. Brian Kagwa was the only living thing that made Emma Valentine tremble. Finally she brought her finger to the boy’s chin. She touched him gently there and rubbed the skin. She put her finger to his lips.

  She pointed into the partly open mouth. “He has teeth,” she said softly.

  They both shivered with the pleasure of seeing them. Followed by a throbbing sadness in the rib cage. They’d come in while they weren’t around. Had he cried as he was teething? Had there been anyone to soothe him?

  Apollo slipped a hand inside the parka and held one of Brian’s feet. He squeezed, and the toes wriggled. Apollo closed his eyes and grinned.

  Apollo saw the days and months and years to come playing against the screen of his eyelids. He saw Apollo and Emma wrangling Brian into learning how to use the potty; waking often each night, for many nights, when it was time for him to graduate to sleeping without a diaper; sneaking vegetables into his diet and coaxing him to kindergarten; the tedium of doing homework with him; the intimidation when his homework became too complicated for them to understand; cleaning him up after his first real fight; the first time he stole money from them; the first time they noticed; the faults the boy would find with each of them; the age when he learned to think of his father as a failure; the age when he told his father so; all this—and worse—was going to happen in the years to come, and thank God, thank God, thank God.

  Apollo felt dizzy with appreciation. He leaned into Emma as he squeezed Brian’s other foot. They both sobbed at the bus stop.

  Brian caught sight of an airplane and watched it thread across the sky.

  “There’s something I always wanted to ask you,” Apollo eventually said. “What was your third wish?”

  For the first time since they’d left the cave, Emma looked at Apollo instead of Brian. “My first wish was to meet a good man. My second was to have a healthy child.”

  “Yes.”

  “And my third wish was for a life full of adventure.”

  —

  Some time passed, but neither of them counted how long. It was still early morning. Then Emma leaned forward slightly and gestured with her chin. Down the long stretch of Woodhaven Boulevard, they could see a bus, still a few minutes away.

  It occurred to Apollo that the driver could give them a hard time if they didn’t have the fare. It sounded impossible, but who could say? They were a family trying to get home, but who knew what the driver might see? Maybe he wouldn’t extend a bit of charity to a trio like them.

  Brian and Emma had been exposed to the elements for months—they needed to get on that bus and reach the care of a professional. That incoming Q11 took on the aspect of a lifeboat. Apollo found himself concocting all sorts of speeches to try to explain why they had no money to pay the fare but then remembered how he’d ended up at this bus stop the night before. The MetroCard was still in his pocket. He slipped it out and showed Emma.

  “A gift from the NYPD,” he said.

  The Q11 approached, its interior lights blazing. At this hour it was the brightest thing in the world. It might as well be a chariot pulling the sun across the sky. Nothing less would do for Emma, Brian, and Apollo. They stood as it slowed.

  “And they lived happily ever after,” Apollo whispered.

  Emma leaned into him. “Today,” she said. “And they lived happily today.”

  “Is that enough?” he asked, looking at Brian, looking at her.

  “That’s everything, my love.”

  For Emily, Geronimo, and Delilah.

  My Supreme Team.

  by victor lavalle

  FICTION

  The Ecstatic

  Big Machine

  The Devil in Silver

  The Changeling

  NOVELLAS

  The Ballad of Black Tom

  Lucretia and the Kroons

  SHORT STORY COLLECTION

  Slapboxing with Jesus

  about the author

  VICTOR LAVALLE is the author of six previous works of fiction: three novels, two novellas, and a collection of short stories. His novels have been included in best-of-the-year lists by the Los Angeles Times, The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, The Nation, and Publishers Weekly, among others. He has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, an American Book Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, and the Key to Southeast Queens. He lives in New York City with his wife and kids and teaches at Columbia University.

  Twitter: @victorlavalle

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  * * *

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.

 

 

  enter>