I glance outside while Mum is dusting; the baby sparrows are getting too big for the nest. A strong gust could blow them right onto the patio, alone and vulnerable. I lick my lips.
“Back to your homework,” Mum says, and I snap out of it. Psychic, I tell you.
After “school” I pull weeds from the cocoa-scented mulch along the front walk and driveway—idle hands and baby birds are not a good mix. I let the beetles and ants pass over my gloved hands and bare feet without popping a single one into my mouth, nutritious though they may be. I am sometimes appalled at the restraint this new life requires; when I was small and still in the woods, one ate what one could, when one could. Fuzzy-mum was adamant about this.
They say she might have been a lynx, maybe a cougar, though neither has been seen in this area for years. I will never know for sure, since she disappeared when I was very young, barely able to climb a tree. From my perspective, near the ground, she was a pair of bright yellow eyes and warm tawny fur hugging my whole body on cold mornings. This is all I remember of her. Mum encourages therapeutic snuggles with Clarence, our big black Persian, who spends most of his time catatonic on the back porch. But it’s not the same.
Just after 3:00, when my chores are done and it’s time for a little quiet reading, the doorbell rings. Mum answers.
“Sweetie,” Mum says in her most precious voice. “You have a visitor.”
I look up from my birdwatchers’ guide: Katie is in the foyer in a periwinkle tank-top and white capris, hair loose and lustrous over her shoulders, round wire-rimmed glasses dangling over the edge of her nose. In her hands is a foil-covered plate.
I stand up.
“Hi,” she says, smiling. “I brought these to thank you for helping me yesterday.”
“Jeremy,” Mum says coyly, “Aren’t you going to invite her in?”
“Come in,” I say, my voice weak and strangely high.
She enters; I am determined to be civilized, so I pull out a chair for her. “Sit down. Please.”
“Thanks,” she says.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Mum says. I hear her creaky footfalls on the stairs.
Katie pulls the foil away from the plate, revealing a dozen or so monstrous cookies with chocolate chips, nuts, and M&Ms. “I baked them last night. I call them my ‘everything’ cookies. Try one.”
I do, and it’s good. I munch slowly; too much sugar and I’ll be climbing the curtains and hanging off Mum’s decorative rods. I smile and nod.
“I’m glad you like them,” she says. “And really, thank you.”
I finish chewing before I speak, like a civilized person. “It’s okay.”
Then she says something I wish she hadn’t. “My mom says you lived out in the woods until you were five.”
“Six,” I correct her, still chewing. “Hard to say.”
She laughs. “My mom used to put her hand over my eyes when we drove past your house, in case you were running around the yard naked.”
I feel my skin go hot and red—the first time I have ever been truly embarrassed at my past behavior. “I don’t do that anymore.”
She giggles again, high and sweet. “I know that. She said you were still...what did she call it? Feral. Like, dangerous. But you’re not.”
I shake my head as I chew another bite of cookie. “Not anymore,” I say. “I might even get to go to school in the fall.”
“That’d be great,” she says. “Then I can introduce you to everybody.”
We talk for about an hour more, polishing off half the cookies between us while she tells me all about school and its endless possibilities: math and reading and civics and basketball and soccer and dances, so many things one could never be bored or lonely.
Finally, close to five, she gets up. “I have to go home now,” she says. “My mom will snap if I’m late for dinner. But thank you again. See you tomorrow after school?”
“Yes,” I say, my mouth full of cookie.
I watch her get on her bicycle and ride away, her laughter ringing like a bell in my brain.
***
Dad gets home at five-thirty, and once he’s changed out of his charcoal suit and into his pink polo and khaki shorts, it’s time for dinner—chicken-noodle-broccoli casserole with American cheese melted on top. Mum says she makes it for sentimental reasons—she and Dad lived on this when they were young. It tastes like salted mucous. I eat it anyway; even in this new life, one eats what one can.
We eat in silence for the first few minutes, our forks making little ringing sounds on the plate, followed by Dad slurping beer from his mug. Mum finally breaks the silence.
“Guess what, Dan,” she says. “Jeremy made a friend today. A girl.”
“Really?” he says, raising a sharp silver eyebrow. “Is she cute?”
I do not know how to respond—the question seems strangely invasive. So I shrug.
Mum answers for me. “She’s very pretty. Jeremy saved her from some bullies yesterday.”
“Is that so?” Dad’s face loses its bemused expression and turns serious. “You didn’t get in a fight...”
“No,” I insist.
He sighs, long and loud. “Thank God,” he says. “That’s the last thing we need. So what’s this girl’s name? Have I seen her before?”
“Katie,” I answer. “She lives a few blocks down.”
His face is blank, devoid of its usual sloppy grin. “You like this girl?”
I don’t wish to answer, but I dutifully say, “Yes.”
Dad leans over with his thick, hairy arm and pats me hard on the back, an aggression born from his career as a Buick salesman. “That’s good to hear, son,” he says in his low cigar-and-whiskey voice. “A boy your age needs friends. Just...you know. Be careful.”
“What are you saying?”
He rests his huge hairy hand on my forearm. “I’m not saying anything. I’m glad you made a friend.”
“Okay.” I grab my plate and slink away, unable to ignore Mum and Dad’s eyes on me. As I go upstairs to my room I hear them whispering, softly enough they think I can’t hear. But fuzzy-mum taught me to listen hard and hear everything.
“I thought we wanted this for him,” Mum says. “It’s important.”
“I know, Miriam,” comes Dad’s reply. “I just worry something will go wrong. Even a little misunderstanding...”
Mum is louder this time. “And just what do you think he’s going to do?”
“Nothing, probably. I just worry.”
It is hard to listen. Mum and Dad keep telling me I can be normal if I want to, that I’m very nearly there. I wonder if they have been lying.
I splay out flat on my Star Wars bedspread—I am not a fan of Star Wars—and lay silent for a while; somewhere along the line I fall asleep, and in the morning my shoes are off and someone has draped the spare comforter over me.
***
Katie walks past the house just after three, in denim shorts, white sneakers and a purple tank top. I take my time pulling weeds out of the mulch so I can be outside when she passes.
“Hello,” she says sweetly. “More gardening?”
“Just about done,” I say, pulling up the last plantain leaves I have been saving until her arrival. I cannot think of anything interesting to say, so I point at the black case in her hand. “What is that? I see you carrying it around all the time.”
She sets down her backpack and opens it. It is a long black tube, pointed at one end with a slight bell at the other, covered in an intricate network of chrome keys. “It’s an oboe. I’m in band.”
I have never seen such a thing in person; my musical education is limited to what Mum plays on the radio while I do my homework. She has a ragged upright piano in the living room, but she only plays it on New Year’s Eve, when I am in bed and my parents and their friends sing drunken songs downstairs.
“Are you any good?”
“I’m first chair,” she says, though I don’t know what that means. “Miss Klepsh thinks I should b
e a music major when I go to college.”
“Play something,” I demand. We sit on the front porch; Katie straightens her back, takes a deep breath, and plays. The tone is low and mellow, and while I am no critic, the melody is simple, elegant and lilting. I resist the urge to sway.
“I like that,” I say. “What is that song?”
She stops playing and looks at me with one eyebrow raised high. “You’re kidding. That’s ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”
I shrug.
“You mean your mom never sang that to you when you were little?”
I shake my head. I was six when Mum and Dad found me, naked and shivering in the rotting husk of a tree trunk, too wild for such things.
“What else don’t you know about?”
I shrug again. “Play something else,” I plead.
She begins, but after a few seconds her eyes dart to the street and she stops. “Oh boy,” she mutters.
I look up; two blocks down I see Janice, the fat girl from a few days ago, and a boy of about seventeen in a torn black sleeveless tee shirt, a backward black baseball cap, and gray plaid shorts. He is scowling.
I lean over to Katie. “Who is that?”
“That’s Max. Janice’s brother. You should go in now.”
But it’s too late. I see Janice point at me; the boy throws his cap on the ground and begins to march toward us. I feel the tiny hairs on my forearms and neck rise.
“You the little fucker sprayed my sister with a hose?” he spits, pointing at me. He is a head taller than me and twice as thick.
I stand up. “Yes.”
“Leave him alone, Max,” Katie pleads. “He didn’t do anything to you.”
“Shut up, twat,” he says, glowering just a few feet from us. I don’t know what that word means, but it sounds ugly, hateful.
I remind myself to be civilized. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Max repeats it back mockingly. Then he stares at me for a second. “Hey, aren’t you that kid they found fucking gophers out in the woods? Or was it squirrels?”
“Go away,” I say.
He smirks, lets out a mirthless laugh. “Or what? You’ll hump my leg?” He gives me a shove and I fall back on the porch.
I feel something swell up in my chest and throat, Katie’s and Janice’s screams muffled and distant. There is only this boy standing over me, his blank stupid face in mine. My lips retract over my teeth, my fingers curl into claws, and I am on him. We tumble together to the concrete walkway; I land on top of him, my right arm pinning his head to the ground, my canines poking into the flesh at the side of his neck. A little bite and the blood will spurt, and that will be the end of this.
He moans, loud and desperate.
Then Max goes limp, lays his head back against the grass, arms flat at his side. Without a thought I release him. He sucks in a breath, rears his fist back; I feel a dull impact against my left eye, and find myself on the ground. He runs away, pressing his hand against the teeth marks in his neck.
From inside I hear Mum shout. I turn to Katie, but she is standing still on the porch, her oboe hanging from her trembling hands, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“I should go home,” she murmurs.
Before I can say anything, Mum is outside, helping me up and leading me back to the house. Behind me I hear Katie pedaling away, fast as she can.
Mum is pressing a plastic bag full of ice to my eye when Dad comes home. “What’s going on?” he asks.
Mum sighs. “Our little angel got into a fight with the Henkel boy.”
“What?” Dad says, his voice flat and humorless. “What have I told you about getting into fights?”
Mum raises a hand to silence him. “Just wait, Dan. We need to talk.”
He follows her into the kitchen, turning once to point at me. “Don’t you move a muscle, mister.”
I nod.
I hear them bickering for a half-hour or more, Mum trying to explain what happened, Dad reminding her of the risks of physical confrontation.
“They didn’t call the cops, did they?”
“I don’t think so,” Mum says. “That boy would have to explain what he was doing here.”
“At least there’s that.”
He comes out a few seconds later. I dutifully remain on Mum’s blue floral couch, remove the icepack from my eye.
“Leave it,” he says. He looks me over carefully. “That’ll be quite the shiner in the morning.”
I wait for his explosive baritone, but he just looks at me all sad and weary, as if he’s dreaded this day for a long time.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I try to explain. “He pushed me and....”
“Your mother told me. You could’ve killed that boy.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. “I didn’t even hurt him.”
He sits down next to me on the couch. “Fighting doesn’t solve anything. It just gets you into trouble. Especially you. It was years before Social Services left us alone. One more incident like that and they might come for you.”
I have never heard such worry in Dad’s voice; I feel a little moisture well up at the corners of my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I insist. “But what was I supposed to do?”
Dad sighs, sinks into the cushions. “I don’t know. Just not...that.”
My eye is so cold I can’t feel it. “Then what?”
He thinks for a second, staring down at the floor. Then he looks up at me like he’s just had the greatest idea in the world. “I’ll teach you how to box,” he says. “Just...no more trying to rip people’s throats out. It doesn’t sit well with the neighbors.”
I nod. “So it’s not okay to do what I did, but it is okay to punch him in the face.”
He thinks about it for a second, then shrugs and says, “Yeah.” He pulls his creaky body up off the couch and heads into the kitchen for his beer. “We’ll start Saturday.”
***
The next morning I go outside and wait in the yard for Katie, hoping to catch her as she rides her bicycle to school. My eye still hurts, but there’s not much bruising. There’s no sign of her.
I feel an aching need to explain myself.
I wait until the junior high lets out and go looking for her. While I have never seen her house, I assume it cannot be far; this street dead-ends in a cul-de-sac four blocks down. So for the first time in years, I leave the yard alone, scanning every yard, looking into windows for a flash of her blonde hair.
I don’t have to go far before I see her bicycle in the garage of a bright yellow bungalow. I step onto the porch, and for the first time in my life, I ring a doorbell. A few seconds later, a bearded, bearlike man opens the door.
“Yes?” is all he says.
Fuzzy-mum taught me to retreat when severely overmatched. But I ignore my quivering legs and stand my ground.
“Is Katie in?” I mutter.
He glares sternly. “And you are?”
“Jeremy,” I answer. He tilts his head as if he recognizes me, then shrugs and calls for Katie. Half a minute later she appears at the door, hair falling long and straight over her shoulders, glasses off. I cannot speak.
“Hi,” she says meekly.
I can barely push the words out. “I’m sorry I scared you yesterday,” I stammer. “I’m not really like that. Not anymore.”
She sits down cross-legged on the front step, pats the wood for me to follow suit. Her bare toes are just visible under her thigh. “It’s okay. I was just upset.”
“So you’re not mad?”
She smiles, and all the weight drops from my shoulders. “Is that what you thought?” She reaches out; her fingertips land lightly on my leg. “Max is a colossal dick. I wish you’d bitten his head off.” She laughs, and instantly I feel better.
I run home giddy, propelled by a force I do not recognize.
***
Saturday afternoon, as Mum grills pork chops in the backyard, Dad shepherds me into the garage. We are both bare-chested in gym shorts and sneakers
, our hands stuffed into oversized padded gloves, my head wrapped in a puffy vinyl mask. The rubber mouthguard is loose over my teeth.
“If you’re going to defend a girl’s honor,” Dad says, “best learn to defend yourself.” He begins to shuffle on the concrete floor. “Keep moving,” he huffs. “Don’t stand still. Jab with your left....” He pauses to demonstrate, “...and come at ‘em with your right.” He throws a variety of combinations in the air until, two minutes later, he seems winded, sweat beading in his iron-gray chest hair. “Okay,” he says, beckoning me with a gloved hand. “Let’s see what you got.”
I put my fists up and start moving. He jabs; I dodge, effortlessly.
“Come on,” he says through the mouthguard. “Don’t just dodge. Hit back.”
The idea of punching him is alien to me, but I rear back and strike his hairy belly. The blow hits like a soft slap.
“Come on, little man,” he taunts. I feel a gentle tap on my forehead as he hits me with a light jab. “Hit me! Hard as you can.”
So I do—a left to the gut, then a hard right to the side of his head, and he flops face-first on the concrete.
I bend to help him up, expecting his wrath any second. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to.”
“S’okay,” he grumbles, slowly hoisting himself up. “You’ve got this covered.”
***
Mum and Dad are under the impression that Katie and I have ridden our bikes to the Dairy Dream for ice cream; but instead we are at the state park where I was found seven years ago. They have forbidden me to come here alone, for fear I might vanish into the forest and never come out. Once they’d have been right. The woods are deep, twenty square miles to hide in, a little creek to drink from, rabbits and grubs and birds to eat—all I could ever need.
We abandon our bicycles at the first picnic area and start walking. The woods are a warm hug to my senses: the smell of decayed leaves; hot dogs cooking at a campsite; the sound of cicadas, frogs, red-winged blackbirds. I am home.
“This is where they found you?”
Feral Boy Meets Girl Page 3
