by Dean Koontz
The hand was so big that it could have covered Howie’s entire face, heel under his chin and fingertips past his hairline, thumb hooked in one ear, the little finger in the other. Even the little finger was large and, like all the others, had a freakishly big pad at the end, bigger than a soup spoon, almost like the sucker pads on the toes of a toad.
That hand looked so strong, maybe it could tear off your face and wad it up like Kleenex. If Mr. Blackwood wanted to hurt Howie, however, he would have done it already. Another thing to think about was that if Mr. Blackwood changed his mind about drifting, if he decided to stay here because he made friends in town, he would be a great friend to have. Bigger kids, no matter how big they were, no matter how mean, wouldn’t lie in wait for Howie and knock him around anymore, wouldn’t pull down his pants and laugh at him, wouldn’t call him Scarface or the Eight-Fingered Freak or the Claw, if they knew that he was a friend of Mr. Blackwood’s.
“I don’t usually go in places like restaurants unless my mom makes me go with her, and I never go alone.”
Still offering the money, Mr. Blackwood said, “Then it’ll be good for you to do it. You’ll see how they’ll take your money as quick as anyone’s, they’ll give you what you want like they would any customer. And if someone stares at you—just smile back at them. You don’t have a Frankenstein smile like me, but a nice smile will work as well, maybe better. You’ll see.”
Howie approached Mr. Blackwood and took the thirty bucks.
Dark muddy-red stains marred the bills. “They’re spendable,” Mr. Blackwood assured him. “Let them think you’re buying sandwiches for your mom. If they know we’re up here, they’ll chase us off before we have our lunch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a lot of money—thirty bucks. But I trust you to do the right thing, Howie. There can’t be friendship without trust.”
Whether in the sunlight or in the occasional cloud shadow, Mr. Blackwood appeared so strange that he didn’t seem entirely real. But his eyes—so coal-black you couldn’t see any difference between the iris and the pupil—his eyes were as real as anything in the world, and they drilled right through you, seemed to look into your mind and read your thoughts.
Mr. Blackwood winked. “If they have any tasty-looking cookies, get a couple of those, too.”
2
HOWIE RETURNED WITH PAPER PLATES, PAPER cups, paper napkins, four cold cans of Coke, and a Ziploc bag full of ice in addition to thick sandwiches, big dill pickles, a bag of potato chips, and a package of chocolate-chip cookies. He also had twenty-three dollars in change from the thirty bucks. The sandwiches were roast beef and Swiss cheese on egg bread, with mayonnaise on one slice and mustard on the other, lettuce, and tomatoes.
As they sat on the tiled roof with their backs to the parapet, with the potato chips and cookies between them to be shared, Mr. Blackwood said, “These are really good sandwiches. That is some fine sandwich shop. What’s it called? Howie’s Sandwiches?”
“How’d you know?”
“The sandwiches didn’t give you away. They’re of the finest professional quality. It was the Ziploc bag of ice, too thoughtful a touch for any commercial sandwich shop. And twenty-three dollars change. You can’t buy all this for seven dollars or twice seven, for that matter.”
“Now that you know, I guess you’ll want your seven bucks back.”
“No, no, you’ve earned it. This is a bargain. You did so well, I’m of a mind to make you take at least another ten. What did your mother say, you packing up a picnic like this?”
“Mom’s at work all day. She works hard. She wants me to be with a sitter. But I don’t want a sitter, and she can’t afford one. And anyway, I know how useless a sitter can be.”
“Corrine? That was your sister’s name, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. She has a summer job over at the Dairy Queen. She’s gone all day, too. Nobody saw me making lunch.”
“The chips are good,” Mr. Blackwood said.
“Sour-cream-and-onion flavor.”
“It’s like having the dip built right into the chip.”
“I like Cheetos, too.”
“Who doesn’t like Cheetos?”
“But we didn’t have any,” Howie said.
“These are perfect with beef sandwiches.”
For a while, neither spoke. The chips were salty, the Cokes were cold and sweet, and the sun pouring down on the roof was warm but not too hot. Howie was surprised by how comfortable silence was between them. He didn’t feel the need to think of things to say or the need to be careful of what not to say. Ron Bleeker, Howie’s nastiest and most persistent tormentor among the kids in town, taunted him with a lot of names, including Butt-Ugly Dugley, and said that he was the president for life of the Butt-Ugly Club. Mr. Blackwood had probably been called butt-ugly more times than he could count. So you could say that a meeting of the Butt-Ugly Club was now in session—and it was a cool event, up here on the roof, above everyone, with good eats and good company, and nobody better than anyone else just because of the way he looked.
Eventually Mr. Blackwood said, “When I was a kid, my father told me never to talk to anyone, and when I did, he always caned me.”
“What’s caned?”
“He beat me with a bamboo cane.”
“Just for talking to people?”
“It was really because I was so ugly and he was ashamed of me.”
“That’s not fair,” Howie said, and for the first time, he felt sorry for Mr. Blackwood, who until this moment had seemed to be still a little scary—though Howie couldn’t say why—but who was mostly someone to envy because he was so big and strong and sure of himself.
“When your father does something mean,” Mr. Blackwood said, “you think it must be partly your fault, you disappointed him somehow.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“The first few times he caned me, yeah. But then, no. I saw he was just a bad man. If I was the most obedient boy in the world—and the handsomest—he would have beaten me for some other reason.”
A large black bird circled over the roof twice, then landed on the northwest corner of the parapet, where it stood solemnly.
“That’s not just a crow,” said Mr. Blackwood. “That’s my raven.”
Howie was impressed. “You have a raven for a pet?”
“Not a pet. He’s my guardian. He always stays nearby. He gave me something once … showed me the night, its secrets. But that’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time. These pickles are good. They have snap.”
“They’re crisp,” Howie said.
“That’s right. That’s the exact word. Crisp.”
The bird didn’t appear to have been drawn by their food. It remained at the distant corner of the building, preening its feathers with its busy beak.
When they finished eating and were packing up the debris, Mr. Blackwood said, “Was it that your dad didn’t want your mother to have custody of you?”
Howie was rendered speechless by the insight that the question revealed.
Into the boy’s silence, Mr. Blackwood said, “If he couldn’t have his son, nobody could have you. That’s pure jealousy, and it’s a sin. There’s envy in it, too. And pride and murderous hatred. Nothing you did or could have done would have changed what happened. My father and your father, with the cane and the fire, they were the same—except yours worse than mine. I assume there was a court order, he couldn’t come near you. So how did he get hold of you?”
After a while, Howie decided he would be better off sharing than holding it inside. “He took me from a babysitter’s house while Mom was working.”
“Took you where?”
“He said an amusement park. But it was this motel. He waited till I fell asleep.”
“Was it gasoline?”
“I woke up.” Howie drew a deep breath, then another. “Couldn’t breathe.” The memory of the gasoline was suffocating. He found it almost as hard to breathe now as then. He said,
“Because of the fumes. Gasoline fumes.”
Mr. Blackwood was patient, as though somehow he knew that Howie had never talked about the burning with anyone, not even with his mother.
Watching the raven as it tucked its head under its wing and seemed to sleep in the sun, Howie finally said, “And then the match. Later he told people … he said he meant to burn himself, too. Him and me together. But then he couldn’t do it to himself.”
“He never meant to,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Don’t you ever believe for a minute that he meant to.”
“I don’t. He lies. He’s a liar.” Funny—how it could be true and still hurt to say his father was a liar.
“You saved your vision with your hand, pressed it tight against your left eye as the fire leaped up. You lost fingers, but otherwise, you’d be blind in one eye.”
“All the gas … it was on my left side.”
“You’re a smart boy and brave, to think so fast, keep your self-control in spite of the pain.”
“I’m not brave. I was scared bad. Sometimes I still am. When I think … he’ll get out one day.”
“I’ll bet all I own, he dies in prison, one way or another.”
Howie didn’t want to wish his father dead, but he took some heart from what Mr. Blackwood said, especially since he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.
“The motel guy … he hears me. He comes fast. I’m burning. He has this extinguisher. My dad tries to stop him. He knocks my dad down. The stuff from the extinguisher—it smells cold. He saved me. I passed out. I woke up blind. But it was just wet pads on my eyes. Mom holding my good hand. The hospital, see. No pain at first. So I thought, It’s over. But it was only just the beginning. It was the beginning of … of everything.”
All the lunch trash was stowed in one bag, and they had only their cups of Coke and ice. Leaning against the parapet with their cups of Coke and ice. With the three gnarled fingers of his left hand, Howie held the cold cup against his scarred face.
The raven’s head remained tucked under its wing.
The light traffic noise rising from Maple Street sounded like a lot of people whispering together.
After a while, Mr. Blackwood said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re one tough boy.”
“I wish. But I’m not.”
“I know tough when I see it.”
Embarrassed but also pleased, Howie said nothing at first. And then he was surprised to hear himself say, “See, there’s this little apartment over the garage. Mrs. Norris, she moved out three days ago. Mom hasn’t found a new renter yet. She’ll have to find one, we need the extra money. But you could stay there a couple days. You don’t have to bunk in this old building.”
“Once your mom gets a look at me, maybe she’ll turn out to have found a renter whether she has or not.”
“My mom’s not like that. She’s not prejudiced about anybody. Anyway, she’s always telling me I can have friends, I should make friends.” When Mr. Blackwood didn’t respond, Howie said, “We are friends, aren’t we?”
“I’m honored to call you a friend, Howard Dugley. Howie is for Howard, isn’t it?”
“It’s Howell.” Howie spelled it. “But nobody calls me anything but Howie. You’d like the apartment. It’s a living room, bedroom, and kitchen all in one, plus there’s a bathroom. You need a bathroom. Everybody does.”
Mr. Blackwood was quiet, evidently thinking about the offer. His head wasn’t just strangely shaped but also big. He was probably very smart because of his head being bigger than average.
At last, Mr. Blackwood said, “Maybe it would be nice to settle down someplace for just a while, rent a place for a spell.”
Howie could hardly believe what he was hearing. He was prepared for his new friend to move on, to drift on, in a couple days, but now there was a chance he might stay.
“But I don’t mean permanent or even a year,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I’m too much a dreamer for permanent roots. But maybe a couple of months, see how it goes.”
A couple of months! Howie knew that if he had a friend like Mr. Blackwood for a couple of months, after that he would be okay on his own. After a couple of months with Mr. Blackwood at Howie’s side, Ron Bleeker and his like would have lost all interest in taunting him and pulling his pants down. They would never dare do that kind of thing again. And even if they did dare to do it again, by the time that Mr. Blackwood drifted out of town, Howie would have learned how to handle it, how to deal with the bullies the way they deserved to be treated. Mr. Blackwood was extremely sure of himself, he was a real presence, there was some power in him, like true courage but even bigger than that, some tremendous power, and surely by being around him, Howie would learn how to take care of himself.
“Do you have a picture of this house of yours,” Mr. Blackwood asked, “so I could see just the kind of place I’d be committing myself to?”
“Come with me,” Howie said, scrambling onto his knees. “I’ll show the apartment to you.”
“Well, but I’ve got some things to do here, I can’t delay them. If you could bring a picture, that would be more convenient. And then I’ll think it over some.”
“Sure. Okay. I can come back in like half an hour with pictures of it all. The house, the apartment above the garage. It’s a nice clean place. You’ll see.”
“You have a picture of your mom and Corrine? I’d like to see the kind of people I’d be renting from, while I make up my mind should I do this.”
“That’s easy,” Howie said, springing to his feet. “I’ll be back in half an hour. This is great.”
“Now, don’t you get excited and run to tell your mom you have a renter. If I get the feeling things are being decided for me, I’ll just drift on to the next place. That’s the way I am. I have to feel free.”
“I won’t say anything. I promise.”
“For the moment, we’re secret friends.” Mr. Blackwood held out his right fist. “Secret friends. Swear and seal it with a bump.”
Howie’s balled-up hand looked like that of a little girl next to Mr. Blackwood’s enormous bony fist, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were friends now, sworn and sealed.
As Howie turned away from his magical new friend and started toward the service shed that housed the stairhead, the raven swooped off the parapet, to the roof. With its sharp gray beak, the bird plucked a scuttling beetle from the tiles, cracked its hard shell, and while the insect’s legs still jittered, tilted its head back and choked the bug down into its craw.
3
THREE PHOTO ALBUMS AND SEVERAL BOXES OF loose photos were kept in the hall closet. Howie didn’t touch the albums because they dated back to the days before the divorce and the burning, when he loved his dad and thought his dad loved him. Looking at those old snapshots drained something from him, a quality he couldn’t name but without which he felt gray and cold inside for days after. They affected the way he saw the world, which seemed flat and dull and less colorful for a while after he spent time with those photographs. He suspected that if he looked at them often enough, the pictures would drain him entirely, and he would never get his world back the way it had once been.
Howie sat on the living-room floor with just two shoeboxes of photos, quickly sorting through them until he found one that showed the house from the street, another that showed the garage shaded by the probably hundred-year-old beech tree. There were pictures of his mother and pictures of his sister, but he chose a recent one in which they were together, their arms around each other’s shoulders, because in that one they were smiling so big that Mr. Blackwood would be able to see how nice they were, how special, and he would know that they wouldn’t be bad people to rent from. Mrs. Norris, who had moved out three days ago, to go back to Illinois to live with her sister, said Howie’s mom wasn’t just a landlord, she was also a friend. In this photo, Mr. Blackwood would be able to see that not just Howie could be his friend, that Mom and Corrine we
re also the kind of people who wouldn’t care about how he looked, who would be his friends, too.
He returned the shoeboxes full of snapshots to the closet. From the desk in the small study, he got an envelope and he put the three pictures in it. Happier than he had been in a long time, he locked the back door as he left and hurried through the graveyard, where a raven sat on a tombstone, watching him, working its beak but making no sound, probably not the same bird but one that just looked similar to Mr. Blackwood’s. He returned to the old Boswell building, where he had left the latch switch straight up on the alley door, so he could enter without having to go through the basement window. He locked the door behind him.
On the roof, Mr. Blackwood waited in the late-afternoon sun, once more peering through a crenellation in the parapet, watching the people on the street below. At first sight, just for an instant, the misshapen man reminded Howie of the large beetle that the raven had snatched up and crunched in its beak: his unusually smooth skin as glossy in places as a beetle’s shell, stretched over blunt jawbones that made his malformed mouth resemble the mandibles of a bug. But this comparison was so unkind that it shamed Howie, and he forced it out of his mind as he hurried across the roof and knelt beside his friend to give him the envelope.
Mr. Blackwood liked the picture of the house on Wyatt Street, and he said it appeared to be a cozy place, maybe the coziest place that he had ever seen. He liked that there were neighbors on only one side, the cemetery on the other, the quiet and the privacy. He liked the address number, too, which was visible on one of the front-porch posts: 344. He said that was a lucky number, which Howie didn’t understand until Mr. Blackwood pointed out that it added up to eleven. He noted that the big beech tree shading the garage would keep the apartment cooler in summer and would give him something nice to look at from his front window.
He stared for a longer time at the photo of Howie’s mother and sister, for so long in fact that a sick sinking feeling overcame Howie. He wondered if maybe his mother or Corrine resembled someone who had been mean to Mr. Blackwood. But at last his new friend said they looked like “nice ladies, good church-going ladies. Do they go to church, Howie?”
