by Laura Ruby
Finn went first to the fridge to get a couple of apples, then to the barn to check on the mare. If she’d been scared of him yesterday, she wasn’t today. She nosed his forehead and snorted into his hair and stomped her hoof for her treat. He fed her the apple and stroked her mane and said he was making it official, her name was Night. She nodded her royal head and then shook it, as if to say, I told you my name a long time ago, and you’re just figuring it out? I like your apples, but you’re not very bright.
“As for you,” Finn said to the goat, who had eaten his apple in one gulp, “you are what you do. You are Chew.”
“Meh!” said Chew, which Finn took as agreement.
After he’d fed and watered the animals, he hobbled to the garden. And a sad, sad garden it was. Leaves droopy and yellowing, rabbit holes everywhere. He had worked as hard as he could on that garden, and yet everything was dying. Just one more way he’d disappointed his brother. But he plucked the weeds and filled in the rabbit holes and watered the garden, too, just in case there was something to salvage, something under the surface that couldn’t be seen.
At least the horse wasn’t mad at him.
He went into the house to check on Calamity and the kittens, kittens he found sleeping in a messy, boneless heap at the bottom of his closet. They would need names too, but right now they were simply the Kittens. He grabbed the saucer of water Petey must have left on the floor, refilled it. He scraped out a can of cat food onto a plate and set the plate by the closet door. Then he stripped off his dirty clothes and wrapped his bandages in plastic. He showered as best he could with one leg sticking out of the bathtub, dried off, dressed, and tried to occupy himself with dinner and with books and with Kittens until the darkness came and he could see Petey again. Petey was mad at him, but maybe she wouldn’t stay that way for long. He should bring something to her, a gift, but what? Some of the Kittens would need homes, but they were too little to give away. And he had nothing else.
But wait. He did have something. He went to the bathroom and took the jeweled box from the shelf. He took out all the bandages and swabs and put them in an old mug from the kitchen. Sean kept the bathroom so clean that the box didn’t have a speck of dust on it, but Finn wiped it down anyway. He opened the lid. He couldn’t give her an empty box, even a nice empty box.
He brought the box to the kitchen table, sat with pen and paper, all those stupid prep books. He wrote, then crossed out, balled up the paper, threw it in the trash. Wrote some more. Wrote again until he had something that could work, something that said a little of what he felt, even though he was just scratching the surface.
When the clock read ten thirty-five, and Finn couldn’t wait anymore, he folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into the box. He went back to the barn and led Night into the yard. Despite his wounds, and the ache in his bones, he hauled himself up on the mare’s back and rode to Petey’s house, happy to see the glow of the fire in the beeyard, calmed by the hum of the bees. Petey was sitting cross-legged on a blanket, poking at the fire with a stick.
“Hey,” he said as he sat down next to her.
“Hey,” she said. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t come.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged and jabbed the fire. “Because of your leg.”
“My leg’s fine.” He brushed the hair from her face. He’d been here a total of nine seconds, and already he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
But her eyes glittered in the firelight, her expression unreadable. He said, “Are you still mad?”
“Mad at what?”
“You were mad yesterday.”
She shook her head. Jabbed the fire.
“Is it something else?”
Again, she shook her head. Jab. Jab.
“Are you sure?”
Jab. Jab. Jab.
“I have something for you.” He held out the box.
She dropped the stick and took it, stared at the jeweled box winking blue and red and purple in the light of the fire.
“It was my mother’s. She called it her beauty box. She kept makeup and stuff in it.”
“I can’t take your mother’s box.”
“Sure you can. We weren’t using it anyway. I mean, we were, for bandages and whatever, but I thought it would look better in your room. I thought it would be better with you. Look inside.”
She did. She took out the piece of paper, opened it. Read. She touched her mouth with her fingertips. Her voice was softer when she said, “Thank you.”
He put the paper back in the box and set it aside. He turned one of her hands palm up and, with his thumb, drew little circles where the lines formed a star. “Thank you for taking care of Night for me.”
“Night?”
“The mare. I finally named her.”
“Night,” she said, testing the name. Petey looked over at the horse, standing some yards away next to a tree. “I bet that’s what she wanted all along.”
“Probably,” he said. “I’m sorry about her. About chasing her. I mean, I scared her, I think. And maybe I scared you. I didn’t mean to.”
Petey didn’t say anything, but she didn’t pull her arm away either.
“And I hope I didn’t wreck your moped.”
“You didn’t. That thing’s a tank.”
He pressed his lips against her wrist, then her forearm and the inside of her elbow. “I missed you. I know it was only twenty-four hours, but . . .”
A pause. Then, “I missed you, too. Are you . . . are you sure your leg’s okay?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She blinked, and for a second he thought she was blinking back tears, but then she leaned forward, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him, so he must have been wrong, must have been seeing things.
“You brought a blanket this time,” he said.
She nodded, hugging herself. “I know that we were inside last time, but since we met outside—”
“We met in nursery school.”
“I mean,” she said, “this is where we first—”
He interrupted her with another kiss. “Are we celebrating something?”
“Just . . .” She seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. “Just that you’re here.”
His wounded leg burned, but not as much as the rest of him, and he pressed her back onto the blanket. They kissed until his brain spun, until her limbs fell loose and soft and open, until the moon hid its face behind a veil of clouds. She pulled off his shirt and he pulled off hers, and the bra with it, lingering over her breasts, tasting the salt and sweet of her. She was so beautiful in the firelight, glowing like an ember, and he thought he said it out loud, beautiful, beautiful, but he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to hear her say his name, he wanted to make her feel so good she’d never leave him, he wanted so many things he lost the words for them all. He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them away, and the wisp of white cotton she wore underneath, his lips tracing a path across her belly, the half-moons of her hip bones, down one thigh, up the other, and back to the center, where he kissed, and kissed, and forgot where he was and who he was and who he had hurt and who he had not saved. She clenched the blanket in her fists, and sighed, and breathed his name, and if she hadn’t said it out loud, he wouldn’t have known what to call himself, because everything was her.
When it was over, he kissed his way up her body and reached for her face. Felt the tears on his fingertips.
“Petey?”
She pressed both palms over her eyes and started to cry, and kept crying, and he didn’t understand, he didn’t understand. He thought he had done it right, or at least done it okay, but maybe he had done it wrong, maybe it wasn’t what she wanted, maybe he should have asked her out loud, he’d never thought of asking her. He didn’t know how he would have asked that kind of question—how do you ask that kind of question when you’ve completely lost the power of speech?—but maybe she hadn’t wanted anything at all, maybe he’d . . . made her, and the thought of that
brought on a wave of nausea so strong he wished the horse had stomped him to death. “Petey, I’m sorry. I’ll never . . . If you didn’t want . . . I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Finally, wordlessly, she grabbed for her clothes, tugged them on. He didn’t know what else to do, so he did the same, wishing she would just say something. But Petey swiped at her cheeks, reached into the shadows beyond the blanket, and pulled a worn canvas bag onto her lap. She dug around inside the bag and found a stack of pictures, which she handed to Finn.
“What are these?” he said.
“Just take a look.”
“Okay,” he said, flipping through the pictures. He had no idea what he was looking at, or who he was looking at, or why he was looking at pictures when the taste of her was still on his lips, when she had just wept like someone had died.
She tapped a particular picture. “What do you think of this one?”
It was a dark-haired kid in a grade-school graduation cap and gown. It meant nothing to him. “It’s okay.”
“I think Sean looks cute.” She seemed to be watching him intently, her body—all softness just moments before—coiled and tense.
“Okay,” he said again. Where had she gotten an old picture of Sean? Since when was Sean cute?
“Don’t you think so?”
“Think what?”
“That Sean looks nice in that picture?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
She sprang forward and ripped the stack from his hands, her expression so triumphant that not even Finn could mistake it. “This isn’t Sean.”
He stared at her. “Well, who is it, then?”
“What?”
“If it’s not Sean, who is it?”
Her breath burst from her in a huff, as if someone had wrapped his arms around her and performed the Heimlich. “Who . . . ?” she began. “It’s James Pullman. From school.”
Finn held out his hand, and she placed the photograph back into it. “It’s hard to tell. It’s dark out here. It’s an old picture. And because of the cap and gown. You can’t see his ears. Sean’s ears stick out a little.”
“But I knew it was James,” she said.
“Petey, why did you bring these pictures out here? Why are you showing them to me?”
“Do you have problems with your eyes? Maybe you can see things better when they’re far away?”
“Huh?”
“Can you see me right now?”
“What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t I be able to see you?”
“Right,” she said, mostly to herself. “Right. You could pick out the queen bee. So you can see just fine. But . . .” She shook her head and flipped through the stack of photos. “Who’s this?”
“Enough with the pictures already,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She thrust the photo at him. “Who is it?”
He sighed and glanced at the photo. “Miguel.”
“How do you know this is Miguel?”
“What?”
“Just humor me for a second. How do you know it’s Miguel?”
“Well, he’s brown. And the biceps.”
“And that’s it?”
“Huh?”
“You just look for the arms, and you know it’s Miguel?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, the hair helps, too. It’s really dark. But mostly, I look for the arms. Don’t you do that?”
“What if you met someone else with the same brown skin who also had big arms? Would you be able to tell that it wasn’t Miguel?”
“I . . .” Finn’s mind raced. Then he said, “Would you?”
“Yes. I’d be able to tell.”
“You’re better at faces, then. Lots of people are.” He thought of Roza, of her kidnapper, and bitterness sanded his tongue. “Believe me, I know I’m not so good at faces.”
“I don’t think that’s all of it,” said Petey. She flipped through the pictures again. “What about this one?”
“He looks familiar,” Finn began.
Petey nodded.
He brushed a finger over the image as if that could provide more information. “He’s wearing a cap, too.”
Petey nodded again.
“But you think I should be able to tell who it is anyway?”
“Yes,” Petey said.
“Why? Why do you think that?” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. “Petey?”
She took a deep breath. “Finn,” she said. “It’s a picture of you.”
He watched her carefully. She seemed to think this was a very important thing to say, but he didn’t understand her, he didn’t understand any of this. “And you think I should have been able to see that right away. Even though he’s—I’ve—got that cap on, I should have been able to see?”
She rocked backward as if assaulted by a strange wind. “Yes.”
“Just by the face alone?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And that’s . . .” He paused, his mind churning, stumbling onto it, feeling for it, the thing that made him odd, the thing that made him different. “That’s how everyone else does it? They see someone’s face and they just know who it is? Without having to see their hair or their clothes or the way they move or anything?”
“Yes!” she said, almost shouting. Then she softened her voice. “Finn, I think you’re face blind.”
“I’m . . . what?”
“It’s a condition.” She dug around in the bag, pulled out papers, printouts from the computer, articles, a library book with the name Sacks on the cover. “You can see as well as anyone else, but you can’t recognize faces the way other people can.”
He sat very still on the blanket, his wounded leg suddenly stiff and itchy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can’t process the image of a face, you can’t store the image so that you can remember it later. Some face-blind people learn to recognize themselves and close family members, but some can’t even pick their own children from a crowd. And some will never recognize a face, even their own.”
Before, he’d wished she would just say something, and now he wished she would stop talking. But she didn’t.
“It’s why so many people look the same to you. It’s why you don’t look people in the eye. Why you couldn’t describe the man who took Roza.”
He felt as if he were unraveling like a ball of yarn. “I did describe the man who took Roza.”
“Not like someone else would. You couldn’t see his features. You couldn’t put them together. You talked about how he moved, which is the way some face-blind people recognize others. They use other cues like facial hair or body type. Here. I found lots of stuff about it.” She thrust the papers at him.
He didn’t want the papers. He didn’t want any of this. It had never occurred to him to ask anyone how he or she recognized another person. And why would he? It would be like asking people how they knew that the smell of coffee was the smell of coffee. A stupid question. Everyone knew what coffee smelled like. Everyone.
“But . . . ,” he said. “I can see you. I always know it’s you.”
One side of her mouth curved up into a smile, no kind of smile at all. “Yeah. Because I’m ugly.”
“Stop it,” he said.
“It’s true. Face-blind people can sometimes recognize really unusual-looking people, and they’re attracted to them.” She pawed through the damned papers. “This article is about a teenage girl with prosopagnosia—that’s the technical name for face blindness—who ran away with a middle-aged circus clown. But she was attracted to him because she could see him, recognize him in a crowd.”
Again, she thrust this article at him. He pushed it away. He didn’t want the stupid article. “You’re not a circus clown.”
“No, not a clown. But I’m hideous. Everyone thinks so.”
“I don’t think so,” Finn said, angry now. He had some sort of crazy disease and Petey was talking about being ugly after he’d been coming for her every night, becaus
e he couldn’t stand to be away from her, and she was throwing papers and books at him as if it proved something about her, and not about him.
“It’s true,” she said. “I look like a giant bee. And that’s why you can tell it’s me. And that’s why you’re here.” She shrugged, but the tears came again, wet tracks down her cheeks.
“That’s not why,” he said.
She said nothing.
He said, “I love you.”
She shook her head. “You can see me, that’s all.”
But wasn’t that love? Seeing what no one else could? And yet if it wasn’t enough for her that she was beautiful to him, if she couldn’t believe him . . .
And who would? If what she said was true, and he had this thing, who would believe anything he said about anyone, ever?
He clutched at the horseshoe branding his heart as if he could will away the terrible ache that threatened to crush him, the terrible knowledge that told him that the people of Bone Gap had been right all along. They had recognized him for what he was. Spaceman. Sidetrack. Moonface. Not like other people. Not like them.
“Petey,” he said, but she held the box up to him. “Petey.” Her head dropped, and the tears spilled onto her knees, droplets soaking into the fabric of her jeans, and she would not look at him, would not speak. He took the book and the papers and his mother’s box and got to his feet. He stumbled to the mare. He had no idea how he had the strength to haul himself onto her back, how he got home, how long he sifted through the articles, how he got into his bed, how Calamity sensed the calamity. Cat and Kittens surrounded him, buried him, and their thick and rumbling purrs reminded him of the hum of the bees, and the taste of honey. He wrapped himself in the sound and drowned in the warmth. He plummeted into sleep, the only place he could pretend he wasn’t blind, the only place he could pretend he still had everything he’d lost.
