At last he slept, and dreamed, and in his dream remembered his father, who had died when he was ten. Howard did not remember any of his standard reminiscences. No long walks with his father, no basketball in the driveway, no fishing trips. Those things had happened, but tonight, because of the struggle with the monster, Howard remembered darker things that he had long been able to keep hidden from himself.
“We can’t afford to get you a ten-speed bike, Howie. Not until the strike is over.”
“I know, Dad. You can’t help it.” Swallow bravely. “And I don’t mind. When all the guys go riding around after school, I’ll just stay home and get ahead on my homework.”
“Lots of boys don’t have ten-speed bikes, Howie.”
Howie shrugged, and turned away to hide the tears in his eyes. “Sure, lot of them. Hey, Dad, don’t you worry about me. Howie can take care of himself.”
Such courage. Such strength. He had got a ten-speed within a week. In his dream, Howard finally made a connection he had never been able to admit to himself before. His father had a rather elaborate ham radio setup in the garage. But about that time he had become tired of it, he said, and he sold it off and did a lot more work in the yard and looked bored as hell until the strike was over and he went back to work and got killed in an accident in the rolling mill.
Howard’s dream ended madly, with him riding piggyback on his father’s shoulders as the monster had ridden on him, tonight—and in his hand was a knife, and he was stabbing his father again and again in the throat.
He awoke in early morning light, before his alarm rang, sobbing weakly and whimpering, “I killed him, I killed him, I killed him.”
And then he drifted upward out of sleep and saw the time. Six-thirty. “A dream,” he said. And the dream had woken him early, too early, with a headache and sore eyes from crying. The pillow was soaked. “A hell of a lousy way to start the day,” he mumbled. And, as was his habit, he got up and went to the window and opened the curtain.
On the glass, suction cups clinging tightly, was the child.
It was pressed close, as if by sucking very tightly it would be able to slither through the glass without breaking it. Far below were the honks of early morning traffic, the roar of passing trucks: but the child seemed oblivious to its height far above the street, with no ledge to break its fall. Indeed, there seemed little chance it would fall. The eyes looked closely, piercingly at Howard.
Howard had been prepared to pretend that the night before had been another terribly realistic nightmare.
He stepped back from the glass, watched the child in fascination. It lifted a flipper, planted it higher, pulled itself up to a new position where it could stare at Howard eye to eye. And then, slowly and methodically, it began beating on the glass with its head.
The landlord was not generous with upkeep on the building. The glass with thin, and Howard knew that the child would not give up until it had broken through the glass so it could get to Howard.
He began to shake. His throat tightened. He was terribly afraid. Last night had been no dream. The fact that the child was here today was proof of that. Yet he had cut the child into small pieces. It could not possibly be alive. The glass shook and rattled with every blow the child’s head struck.
The glass slivered in a starburst from where the child had hit it. The creature was coming in. And Howard picked up the room’s one chair and threw it at the child, threw it at the window. Glass shattered and the sun dazzled on the fragments as they exploded outward like a glistening halo around the child and the chair.
Howard ran to the window, looked out, looked down and watched as the child landed brutally on the top of a large truck. The body seemed to smear as it hit, and fragments of the chair and shreds of glass danced around the child and bounced down into the street and the sidewalk.
The truck didn’t stop moving; it carried the broken body and the shards of glass and the pool of blood on up the street, and Howard ran to the bed, knelt beside it, buried his face in the blanket, and tried to regain control of himself. He had been seen. The people in the street had looked up and seen him in the window. Last night he had gone to great lengths to avoid discovery, but today discovery was impossible to avoid. He was ruined. And yet he could not, could never have let the child come into the room.
Footsteps on the stairs. Stamping up the corridor. Pounding on the door. “Open up! Hey in there!”
If I’m quiet long enough, they’ll go away, he said to himself, knowing it was a he. He must get up, must answer the door. But he could not bring himself to admit that he ever had to leave the safety of his bed.
“Hey, you son-of-a-bitch—” The imprecations went on but Howard could not move until, suddenly, it occurred to him that the child could be under the bed, and as he thought of it he could feel the tip of the flipper touching his thigh, stroking and ready to fasten itself—
Howard leaped to his feet and rushed for the door. He flung it wide, for even if it was the police come to arrest him, they could protect him from the monster that was haunting him.
It was not a policeman at the door. It was the man on the first floor who collected rent. “You son-of-a-bitch irresponsible pig-kisser!” the man shouted, his toupee only approximately in place. “That chair could have hit somebody! That window’s expensive! Out! Get out of here, right now, I want you out of this place, I don’t care how the hell drunk you are—”
“There was—there was this thing on the window, this creature—”
The man looked at him coldly, but his eyes danced with anger. No, not anger. Fear. Howard realized the man was afraid of him.
“This is a decent place,” the man said softly. “You can take your creatures and your booze and your pink stinking elephants and that’s a hundred bucks for the window, a hundred bucks right now, and you can get out of here in an hour, an hour, you hear? Or I’m calling the police, you hear?”
“I hear.” He heard. The man left when Howard counted out five twenties. The man seemed careful to avoid touching Howard’s hands, as if Howard had become, somehow, repulsive. Well, he had. To himself, if to no one else. He closed the door as soon as the man was gone. He packed the few belongings he had brought to the apartment in two suitcases and went downstairs and called a cab and rode to work. The cabby looked at him sourly, and wouldn’t talk. It was fine with Howard, if only the driver hadn’t kept looking at him through the mirror—nervously, as if he was afraid of what Howard might do or try. I won’t try anything, Howard said to himself, I’m a decent man. Howard tipped the cabby well and then gave him twenty to take his bags to his house in Queens, where Alice could damn well keep them for a while. Howard was through with the tenement—that one or any other.
Obviously it had been a nightmare, last night and this morning. The monster was only visible to him, Howard decided. Only the chair and the glass had fallen from the fourth floor, or the manager would have noticed.
Except that the baby had landed on the truck, and might have been real, and might be discovered in New Jersey or Pennsylvania later today.
Couldn’t be real. He had killed it last night and it was whole again this morning. A nightmare. I didn’t really kill anybody, he insisted. (Except the dog. Except Father, said a new, ugly voice in the back of his mind.)
Work. Draw lines on paper, answer phone calls, dictate letters, keep your mind off your nightmares, off your family, off the mess your life is turning into. “Hell of a good party last night.” Yeah, it was, wasn’t it? “How are you today, Howard?” Feel fine, Dolores, fine—thanks to you. “Got the roughs on the IBM thing?” Nearly, nearly. Give me another twenty minutes. “Howard, you don’t look well.” Had a rough night. The party, you know.
He kept drawing on the blotter on his desk instead of going to the drawing table and producing real work. He doodled out faces. Alice’s face, looking stern and terrible. The face of Stu’s ugly wife. Dolores’s face, looking sweet and yielding and stupid. And Rhiannon’s face.
But
with his daughter Rhiannon, he couldn’t stop with the face.
His hand started to tremble when he saw what he had drawn. He ripped the sheet off the blotter, crumpled it, and reached under the desk to drop it in the wastebasket. The basket lurched, and flippers snaked out to seize his hand in an iron grip.
Howard screamed, tried to pull his hand away. The child came with it, the leg flippers grabbing Howard’s right leg. The suction pad stung, bringing back the memory of all the pain last night. He scraped the child off against a filing cabinet, then ran for the door, which was already opening as several of his co-workers tumbled into his office demanding, “What is it! What’s wrong! Why did you scream like that!”
Howard led them gingerly over to where the child should be. Nothing. Just an overturned wastebasket, Howard’s chair capsized on the floor. But Howard’s window was open, and he could not remember opening it. “Howard, what is it? Are you tired, Howard? What’s wrong?”
I don’t feel well. I don’t feel well at all.
Dolores put her arm around him, led him out of the room. “Howard, I’m worried about you.”
I’m worried, too.
“Can I take you home? I have my car in the garage downstairs. Can I take you home?”
Where’s home? Don’t have a home, Dolores.
“My home, then. I have an apartment, you need to lie down and rest. Let me take you home.”
Dolores’s apartment was decorated in early Holly Hobby, and when she put records on the stereo it was old Carpenters and recent Captain and Tennille. Dolores led him to the bed, gently undressed him, and then, because he reached out to her, undressed herself and made love to him before she went back to work. She was naively eager. She whispered in his ear that he was only the second man she had ever loved, the first in five years. Her inept lovemaking was so sincere it made him want to cry.
When she was gone he did cry, because she thought she meant something to him and she did not.
Why am I crying? he asked himself. Why should I care? It’s not my fault she let me get a handle on her …
Sitting on the dresser in a curiously adult posture was the child, carelessly playing with itself as it watched Howard intently. “No,” Howard said, pulling himself up to the head of the bed. “You don’t exist,” he said. “No one’s ever seen you but me.” The child gave no sign of understanding. It just rolled over and began to slither down the front of the dresser.
Howard reached for his clothes, took them out of the bedroom. He put them on in the living room as he watched the door. Sure enough, the child crept along the carpet to the living room; but Howard was dressed by then, and he left.
He walked the streets for three hours. He was coldly rational at first. Logical. The creature does not exist. There is no reason to believe in it.
But bit by bit his rationality was worn away by constant flickers of the creature at the edges of his vision. On a bench, peering over the back at him; in a shop window; staring from the cab of a milk truck. Howard walked faster and faster, not caring where he went, trying to keep some intelligent process going on in his mind, and failing utterly as he saw the child, saw it clearly, dangling from a traffic signal.
What made it even worse was that occasionally a passerby, violating the unwritten law that New Yorkers are forbidden to look at each other, would gaze at him, shudder, and look away. A short European-looking woman crossed herself. A group of teenagers looking for trouble weren’t looking for him—they grew silent, let him pass in silence, and in silence watched him out of sight.
They may not be able to see the child, Howard realized, but they see something.
And as he grew less and less coherent in the ramblings of his mind, memories began flashing on and off, his life passing before his eyes like a drowning man is supposed to see, only, he realized, if a drowning man saw this he would gulp at the water, breathe it deeply just to end the visions. They were memories he had been unable to find for years; memories he would never have wanted to find.
His poor, confused mother, who was so eager to be a good parent that she read everything, tried everything. Her precocious son Howard read it, too, and understood it better. Nothing she tried ever worked. And he accused her several times of being too demanding, of not demanding enough; of not giving him enough love, of drowning him in phony affection; of trying to take over with his friends, of not liking his friends enough. Until he had badgered and tortured the woman until she was timid every time she spoke to him, careful and long-winded and she phrased everything in such a way that it wouldn’t offend, and while now and then he made her feel wonderful by giving her a hug and saying, “Have I got a wonderful Mom,” there were far more times when he put a patient look on his face and said, “That again, Mom? I thought we went over that years ago.” A failure as a parent, that’s what you are, he reminded her again and again, though not in so many words, and she nodded and believed and died inside with every contact they had. He got everything he wanted from her.
And Vaughn Robles, who was just a little bit smarter than Howard and Howard wanted very badly to be valedictorian and so Vaughn and Howard became best friends and Vaughn would do anything for Howard and whenever Vaughn got a better grade than Howard he could not help but notice that Howard was hurt, that Howard wondered if he was really worth anything at all. “Am I really worth anything at all, Vaughn? No matter how well I do, there’s always someone ahead of me, and I guess it’s just that before my father died he told me and told me, Howie, be better than your Dad. Be the top. And I promised him I’d be the top but hell, Vaughn, I’m just not cut out for it—” and once he even cried. Vaughn was proud of himself as he sat there and listened to Howard give the valedictory address at high school graduation. What were a few grades, compared to a true friendship? Howard got a scholarship and went away to college and he and Vaughn almost never saw each other again.
And the teacher he provoked into hitting him and losing his job; and the football player who snubbed him and Howard quietly spread the rumor that the fellow was gay and he was ostracized from the team and finally quit; and the beautiful girls he stole from their boyfriends just to prove that he could do it and the friendships he destroyed just because he didn’t like being excluded and the marriages he wrecked and the co-workers he undercut and he walked. along the street with tears streaming down his face, wondering where all these memories had come from and why, after such a long time in hiding, they had come out now. Yet he knew the answer. The answer was slipping behind doorways, climbing lightpoles as he passed, waving obscene flippers at him from the sidewalk almost under his feet.
And slowly, inexorably, the memories wound their way from the distant past through a hundred tawdry exploitations because he could find people’s weak spots without even trying until finally memory came to the one place where he knew it could not, could not ever go.
He remembered Rhiannon.
Born fourteen years ago. Smiled early, walked early, almost never cried. A loving child from the start, and therefore easy prey for Howard. Oh, Alice was a bitch in her own right—Howard wasn’t the only bad parent in the family. But it was Howard who manipulated Rhiannon most. “Daddy’s feelings are hurt, Sweetheart,” and Rhiannon’s eyes would grow wide, and she’d be sorry, and whatever Daddy wanted, Rhiannon would do. But this was normal, this was part of the pattern, this would have fit easily into all his life before, except for last month.
And even now, after a day of grief at his own life, Howard could not face it. Could not but did. He unwillingly remembered walking by Rhiannon’s almost-closed door, seeing just a flash of cloth moving quickly. He opened the door on impulse, just on impulse, as Rhiannon took off her brassiere and looked at herself in the mirror. Howard had never thought of his daughter with desire, not until that moment, but once the desire formed Howard had no strategy, no pattern in his mind to stop him from trying to get what he wanted. He was uncomfortable, and so he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him and Rhiannon knew no way to
say no to her father. When Alice opened the door Rhiannon was crying softly, and Alice looked and after a moment Alice screamed and screamed and Howard got up from the bed and tried to smooth it all over but Rhiannon was still crying—and Alice was still screaming, kicking at his crotch, beating him, raking at his face, spitting at him, telling him he was a monster, a monster, until at last he was able to flee the room and the house and, until now, the memory.
He screamed now as he had not screamed then, and threw himself against a plate-glass window, weeping loudly as the blood gushed from a dozen glass cuts on his right arm, which had gone through the window. One large piece of glass stayed embedded in his forearm. He deliberately scraped his arm against the wall to drive the glass deeper. But the pain in his arm was no match for the pain in his mind, and he felt nothing.
They rushed him to the hospital, thinking to save his life, but the doctor was surprised to discover that for all the blood there were only superficial wounds, not dangerous at all. “I don’t know why you didn’t reach a vein or an artery,” the doctor said. “I think the glass went everywhere it could possibly go without causing any important damage.”
After the medical doctor, of course, there was the psychiatrist, but there were many suicidals at the hospital and Howard was not the dangerous kind. “I was insane for a moment, Doctor, that’s all. I don’t want to die, I didn’t want to die then, I’m all right now. You can send me home.” And the psychiatrist let him go home. They bandaged his arm. They did not know that his real relief was that nowhere in the hospital did he see the small, naked, child-shaped creature. He had purged himself. He was free.
The Changed Man Page 2
