Before You Go

by Tommy Butler

  Bannor says the dead are always confused by this query. “What do you mean?” they respond. “I’m right here.”

  “No,” we say. “You’ve moved on, but to where? What comes after this?”

  Yet the dead, whether in ignorance or subterfuge, do not change their tune. “I’m here with you,” they say. “We’re all here together. Always.”

  Elliot

  (1982)

  I spend days and days in Neverene. Not that it takes that long to actually finish the book. Hardly twenty-four hours after bringing it home from Esther’s, I regretfully turn the last page. There in my bed, late at night with my back against the window, my heart takes a moment to settle. I look around the room. Despite the thick orange carpet, the posters covering the walls, the books and toys and other trinkets on the shelves, it all feels bare now, and plain, and those walls seem much closer and the ceiling much lower than they did just yesterday morning. Behind me is the window, but its panes are dark and it seems an exit to nowhere.

  I turn back to the first page—that is, to my first page, given the book’s missing leaves—and begin again. This time I linger. Days. Weeks. Wherever I go, the book is by my side, the key to a door I unlock over and over. Every spare moment finds me digging the book from my backpack and opening it with a mix of excitement and desire and joy. I read late into the nights—compromising my precious sleep—but also at the breakfast table, and at dinner, and through the long, hot afternoons after Dean has gone to camp for the day and I have the shelter of the back porch to myself.

  My mother doesn’t seem to notice my sojourns to Neverene, until I make the mistake of opening the book in the car while accompanying her on her errands. Though my mind is transported, my stomach refuses to follow. The act of reading in a moving vehicle doesn’t agree with it, and I vomit all over the stick shift. In a panic, my mother slams on both the gas and the clutch simultaneously, and we stall just in time to avoid crashing into a phone booth outside the post office. Scared and angry, my mother forbids me from ever reading in the car again, but otherwise lets it go. Unfortunately, a few days later, I make my second and last mistake. Walking with my mom through town, my head down in the book, I step directly into the brisk traffic of the street. My mother’s scream eclipses even the blare of the car horns. A station wagon swerves violently into the opposite lane to avoid me, its faux wood paneling passing inches from my face. I don’t have time to feel relieved before my mother yanks me back onto the sidewalk and rips the book from my hands. The fear on her face reminds me of the beach in Florida, after she nearly drowned.

  “That’s enough, Elliot,” she says coldly. “Your fantasyland is going to get you killed, and I’m not going to stand by and watch.”

  Whether my mother throws the book away or just hides it, I am strictly forbidden from seeking it out, and I know I won’t see it again. The key is lost, the door shut. A deep anxiety overcomes me, banishing hunger and sleep. My eyes and ears stop registering colors and scents, until the emptiness is complete. After two days in this vacuum, thoughts of Neverene pull me back into the deep woods behind Mr. Harding’s—Esther’s—house. It is approaching evening on another slow, warm summer day as I make my way to the ring of stones. When I reach the tree stump at its center, I freeze.

  On the stump is a rock that wasn’t there before. It’s about half the size of my fist, its surface ridged and faceted like that of a crudely cut gem. Where the afternoon sun hits one of these facets, the rock’s dark surface shines bright white. Where it misses, the rock is as black as the void. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and I know immediately that it’s from Neverene. I was wrong—the book was not the entrance to Neverene. The book was just the map. This ring of stones is the doorway, and this rock is the key. I pick it up. It’s surprisingly light. I cradle it in my hands, then sit down on the tree stump with my legs crossed and eyes closed. In Neverene, the rocks and trees are alive, and the giant with the giant heart is able to call forth that life, that power. I resolve to do the same, bending my will to the dark stone, silently beseeching it to open the door to Neverene so I can cross over.

  So engrossed am I in my entreaty that I fail to notice the twins from down the street. Their names are Kurt and Dave, but in my mind I’ve always thought of them as Dirt and Cave. I don’t know why. They’ve never done anything to me, though they’ve never been particularly friendly either. They’re sort of just there. But they’re my brother’s age and bigger than him, which means they’re older and bigger than me, and therefore a bit menacing by default. They also play baseball in the same little league as my brother and, until recently, me. So they’ve heard all about the—

  “—monsters,” one of them is saying. “Are you listening to me, Chance? Come in, Chance. Earth to Chance.”

  I open my eyes. Above me loom the twins—identical in almost every way, right down to their buzz cuts and cargo shorts, their only differentiating features being Cave’s extra freckles and the teams on their otherwise matching football jerseys (Dirt likes the Jets, Cave the Cowboys). Each stands astride a brand-new dirt bike, which surprises me because I didn’t hear them approach. I feel like I’m in a trance, as if the world has been muffled. The sound of my own voice is unusually measured and calm.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I said, are you out here dancing with your monsters?” says Cave.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s dancing,” says Dirt. “Looks like he’s beating off with a rock.”

  I look down at the black stone in my hands. “The rock is the key.”

  “To beating off?” laughs Dirt.

  “No,” I say. “To making monsters.”

  The twins’ laughter dies. In the surrounding trees, the buzzing of the cicadas cycles from reticence to crescendo and back again. “You can’t make monsters,” says Cave.

  “Of course I can. Why do you think I see them when Dean doesn’t?”

  The twins stare at me. Years from this moment I’m sure Dirt and Cave grow up into rational, sensible adults with concrete minds like my mom, but for the moment they’re still kids, and can’t fully escape the nagging suspicion that things like monsters might, in fact, exist.

  “Prove it,” says Dirt.

  “Five bucks,” I say. “Each.”

  “Why would we pay you?” asks Dirt.

  “Because I’m going to show you how to do it,” I say. And why shouldn’t they pay me? After all, I’m a Chance, which means I’m an entrepreneur, at least according to Esther.

  As if with one mind, the twins think about it, though not for long. “Fine,” says Cave. But when I hold out my hand, he scoffs. “We don’t have it with us.”

  “Well, go get it,” I say. “And bring two paper cups, and a pack of matches.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The tires of their bikes kick up dirt as they leave. My hope that they might reconsider is dimmed by the urgency of their departure, then dashed entirely when they return just a few minutes later, dropping their bikes in the undergrowth and holding out two crisp five-dollar bills. They’re hooked. I take their money and stuff it in the pocket of my jeans.

  “Now listen carefully,” I say, lowering my voice. “You must each fill your cup. First with rainwater, since monsters, like us, are made up mostly of liquid. Then with earth or stone, to give it form and structure. Third, with strands of your own hair, so that it will be bound to you. And finally with something living, so that it too will have life.”

  To their credit, the twins don’t ask any questions, but immediately scatter to gather their ingredients. They scoop up leftover rainwater from the hollow of a large stone, pinch some dirt, pluck their own hair, and abduct a pair of bewildered black ants from a nearby colony, mixing all of it in their Dixie cups.

  “Now what?” they say.

  I rise from the stump and look up at the large branch of a beech tree that extends out over the ring of stones.

  “We climb that tree,” I say.
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  I lead the twins up the beech tree, and the three of us shimmy our way toward the end of the branch, the twins careful not to spill their cups. The branch is thick and strong, easily bearing the weight of three boys. Still, we’re a good ten feet off the ground, and far enough from any other branches for me to be a bit nervous. When the ring of stones is below us and we’re nearly over the stump at its center, I stop.

  “Now you have to pour out your cups over the stump.”

  With a collective deep breath, Dirt and Cave do just that. The evening shadows have grown long in the woods, and it’s hard to know whether the jettisoned concoctions actually hit the stump, but I assure the twins that they were on target. We cling to the branch a moment longer, not exactly eager to inch our way back along its precarious length.

  “There’s no monster,” says Dirt. “It didn’t work. What a load of crap.”

  “We’re not done,” I say quickly. “Climb down.”

  When we’re back on the ground I lead the twins inside the ring of stones and have them place their now-empty paper cups on the tree stump.

  “You have to burn them.”

  The twins nod in unison, acknowledging the logic of this instruction as only children could. They solemnly strike their matches and light the cups on fire, illuminating the dome of leaves above us with a magical glow. We watch the tiny pyres in silence, until the flames are almost out. Beside me, Dirt begins to fidget. I can feel the protest bubbling up from his throat, and am already plotting my next move, when a deep, haggard moan freezes my heart.

  “What the hell was that?” hisses Cave.

  “The monsters?” says Dirt, his voice quavering.

  The moan sounds again, seeping from the bushes on the far side of the ring of stones. It grows louder, until we can no longer pretend that it’s not coming from something very real and very much alive. I can’t move. My mind howls for escape, but my feet might as well be rooted in the earth. The twins, either more brave or more cowardly, don’t suffer from the same ambivalence.

  “Run!” screams Cave. “Holy shit goddamn, run!”

  And they do. Fast. In seconds, they are gone as if they never existed. Left alone, I stare at the bushes in terror. The moaning has stopped, but the branches begin to shake and rustle, until finally a form steps out.

  It’s Esther. In the shadow of evening, laughing like a little girl, she seems both older and younger than when I first met her by lantern light. “I’m sorry,” she says, though her giggling belies her words. “It couldn’t be helped. The looks on their faces!”

  My circulatory system slowly resumes normal function. “And on mine too, I’m guessing.”

  “Yes,” she admits. “I’m sorry, Elliot. Are you okay?”

  I shrug, but I’m not really mad. I find myself laughing instead. “You’re kind of strange, aren’t you?”

  “Only with people I like,” she says, still smiling. “You were helping your friends summon a monster?”

  “Make a monster. And they’re not my friends. I charged them five bucks each.”

  She laughs. “So you’re a budding entrepreneur after all.”

  “I guess.”

  She looks down at my hands. “That’s a beautiful rock.”

  I hold up the Neverene stone. Its black facets shine dimly in the last light. “I found it right here.”

  “It’s called anthracite,” she says. “Pretty rare for this area. Is that what you use to make monsters?”

  I give her a sharp look, on guard against any hint of ridicule. But there is none. Esther’s steady gaze is as open and genuine as ever. “You believe in monsters?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe I just don’t disbelieve in them. Or maybe I believe in you and what you think, and don’t consider the existence or nonexistence of monsters as relevant to the discussion.”

  I think I may love this woman, who somehow manages to embrace my childness while simultaneously inspiring me to grow up a little, who is the kind of person I don’t want to keep secrets from. “I don’t know how to make monsters,” I admit, which of course is the truth. In fact, after the whole baseball fiasco, the monsters seem to have disappeared. Or maybe I’m not looking as hard. At any rate, I haven’t seen them, and I certainly can’t conjure them up at will. I suppose when the twins figure this out, I’ll probably be in some sort of trouble.

  I’m in trouble. After three days of heavy rains and deepening dread, the twins’ mom finally calls. I listen to my mother apologize so many times that I wonder if she’s speaking to the entire family, one by one. When she hangs up, she gives me a stern glance, then proceeds to catalog my offenses. One, I lied. Two, I took money based on that lie, which is stealing. Three, I embarrassed her, which I suspect may be the worst of my crimes.

  “And you know I don’t like you going into Mr. Harding’s woods,” she adds.

  “Mr. Harding’s dead,” I say.

  My mother stops, temporarily suspending my indictment. “I know.” There is an awkward pause in which my mother softens, her maternal instincts threatening to throw the proceedings into mistrial, but her inner magistrate soon regains control. She moves to sentencing. I am to return the money. I am forbidden from ever again setting foot in Esther’s woods. And I am to earn enough money through chores to pay for the damage to the twins’ bicycles caused by the rain.

  “That’ll take years,” I say.

  “Oh, please,” my mother huffs. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “They didn’t have to leave their bikes out there for three days.”

  “Well, they were scared, Elliot.”

  Damn right they were, I think. No such thing as monsters, my ass. I would find satisfaction in this, even humor, but for the bleak future to which my mother has just condemned me. Being banned from Esther’s woods hurts the most. I have now lost both the map and the doorway to Neverene. I have only a key and no lock to put it in. Nevertheless I keep the dark stone with me until the inside of my pocket turns black. I even succumb to the temptation to show it to Dean. My brother took a certain amount of pride in the fact that I conned money from the twins, and my hope is that the Neverene stone will interest him. But he proves this a fool’s hope.

  “It’s just a dirty lump of coal,” he says.

  “It’s not coal. It’s anthracite.”

  Dean takes the rock and turns it over in his hands. We are standing on the front steps of the house, and he bends down to scrape the stone roughly across the slate, leaving a thin black line.

  “No, weirdo,” he says, handing the stone back to me. “It’s coal.”

  Whatever it’s called, the rock stays in my pocket, my only ballast in what comes to feel like a desolate sea of interminable summer days. I miss Neverene, and begin eating my meals on the back porch, peering into the woods, trying in vain to glimpse the ring of stones. I pace the edge of our backyard until I finally locate a spot from which I think I can see the tree stump at the center of the ring. When rain drives me indoors, I envision building a little fort at the spot, the better to keep a vigilant eye on the gate to Neverene. With pencil and graph paper, I attempt a crude blueprint of the fort, but quickly realize I have no idea what I’m doing. All I know is that it should have a door to get in, and a window—facing the woods—to see out of. Otherwise, I’m clueless. Keeping my true purpose to myself, I nervously ask my father for help. To my surprise and relief, he agrees.

  For two solid weeks, it is just the two of us—through the late afternoons after he gets home from work, from morning to dusk on the weekends. We make trips to the hardware store, teaming up to haul our building materials—cinder blocks, two-by-fours, plywood. We even buy shingles for the roof, which my father says we’ll need or else the rains will destroy the whole thing in no time. Side by side, we level the ground and set the cinder blocks in the earth. The scent of sawdust fills our nostrils as we measure and cut beams of wood and bind them together, raising up first one wall and then another until my vision begins to take shape. Our
vision, really, because I can sense my father’s passion for the project, and I no longer feel alone in my quest.

  Not that my father has changed his colors. Through all of our efforts, he says little to nothing—there is no sharing of heart-kept secrets or dispensing of fatherly wisdom. Yet it is time spent together, and the fellowship of a shared goal. In moments, I completely forget my original intent—the lookout on Neverene—and instead imagine my dad and me hanging out inside the fort together. I think even Dean might want to join us—especially because, by the time the last shingle is laid, the fort is even more impressive than I could have hoped.

  “All finished?” asks my mom. It is Monday morning, and we are back at the breakfast table.

  “Came out great,” says my dad from behind his newspaper. “Elliot may have an architectural career in his future.”

  “The only thing left is to put in the window,” I say.

  “A window?” says Dean. “Why would you need a window in a toolshed?”

  “It’s not a toolshed,” I tell him calmly. I take no offense. I am magnanimous, buoyed by my newfound solidarity with my dad and my confidence in our work. “It’s a fort.”

  “That’s not what Dad called it,” says Dean. “He said you guys were building a shed to store his yard tools.”

  My father looks up from the paper. “Dean—”

  “But that’s what you said!”

  My father shoots a glance in my direction. By the look on his face, I know that Dean is telling the truth. My father fumbles at his coffee. His mouth begins to move. He is speaking, but I’m having trouble hearing him. He is saying something about how he only meant that if I didn’t end up using it as a fort, then he could put some things in there.

  “Why wouldn’t I use it as a fort?” I finally ask. I mean, that’s what we were building, right? We were a team, right?