Deadman's Castle

by Iain Lawrence

  Ee-gor! Ee-gor!

  It was, without a doubt, the greatest moment of my life.

  THE SITTER

  Mom and Dad never went out together. One always stayed home to stand guard. So when Parents’ Night came along later in March and they both wanted to go, it seemed like a fight might break out.

  “I think I’d better see what that school’s all about,” said Dad over dinner. “I’d like to meet your teachers.”

  “So would I,” said Mom.

  Then they sat there and stared at each other.

  It was still a few days before Parents’ Night, but I didn’t think that would give them enough time to work it out. I said, “Why don’t you both go?”

  “We can’t,” said Dad.

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s not like it’s late at night or anything. You’ll be back in an hour. I can look after Bumble.”

  Mom shrugged. She tipped her head and smiled at Dad. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see,” said Dad.

  The next day, to my surprise, they said they were both going to Parents’ Night. It was the first time I would be left alone with Bumble, and I looked forward to that. But Bumble dreaded it.

  On that Thursday we ate an early dinner. Then Mom went to get dressed up, and Bumble followed her asking, “Why can’t I go with you?”

  “Because it’s only for grown-ups,” said Mom. “Don’t worry, Bumblebee. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  It was awful to see how desperately my sister clung to Mom. They had barely been out of each other’s sight for all of Bumble’s life. I had to go to the top of the stairs and peel her fingers from Mom’s ankle, one by one, like I was tearing a starfish from a rock. “Come on, let’s go downstairs,” I said. “What do you want to do?”

  I thought we’d end up watching one of her DVDs. But Bumble said, “Let’s play Uncle Wiggily.”

  I couldn’t help groaning. I hated that stupid game. Whenever we saw a dead rabbit beside the road I told Bumble, “Look, there’s Uncle Wiggily.” But then I remembered.

  “We don’t have that game anymore,” I said. “We left it behind in the old house.”

  Bumble looked sad for a moment, then happy again. “So let’s pretend!”

  If there’s anything worse than playing Uncle Wiggily, it’s pretending to play Uncle Wiggily. But that was what we did. As Mom and Dad got ready for Parents’ Night, I sat on the living room floor with my little sister and Hideous George, playing a board game that didn’t exist. We picked imaginary cards from an imaginary pile and walked our fingers along the floor to Dr. Possum’s house.

  At six o’clock Mom appeared in the doorway. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted red. She was holding a pair of shoes.

  “You look pretty, Mom,” said Bumble.

  “Oh, thank you.” Mom had never smiled so nicely. She leaned against the doorjamb and pulled on one of her shoes. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes, Igor.”

  “Great, Mom,” I said.

  “As soon as your sitter gets here.”

  No one had mentioned that. “My sitter?” I said.

  “Her name’s Amy,” said Mom. “She lives in the big apartment building next door.”

  “Does Dad know about her?”

  “Of course. He interviewed her.”

  “Did he fingerprint her?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  I stood up and faced my mother. Bumble shrieked at me, “You’re standing on Uncle Wiggily!” but I ignored her. I said, “Mom, I’ll be thirteen this year. I can look after Bumble by myself.”

  “I’m sure you can,” said Mom. “But we’re not leaving you alone, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Why?”

  “You know very well why,” she said. “Someone has to make sure you’re safe.”

  “So call the army,” I told her.

  “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

  Bumble was watching. In one hand she held an imaginary card, waiting to ask me to read it. Her little fingers were actually pinching something that only she could see.

  “I would love to go out and not have to worry,” said Mom. “But I can’t. Not with that lunatic around.”

  “You mean Dad?”

  Her mouth fell open. “How dare you say that?” she said.

  The doorbell rang. Bumble cast away her invisible card and leapt up with a shout. “I’ll get it!”

  She raced to the door like she always did, forgetting that she couldn’t reach the lock. Mom was busy with her shoes, so I went to help Bumble. But Dad came thundering down the stairs with his tie undone, anxious to see for himself who was out there. No one got in without being vetted.

  Bumble crouched down and peeked through the letter slot. Dad, towering above her, put his eye to the peephole, and the two of them stared out like U-boat captains at their periscopes.

  “Okay,” said Dad. “She’s clear.” He went back upstairs, leaving me and Bumble to let Amy in. I turned the dead bolt and flicked the chain from its catch, and Bumble pushed me out of the way. She loved to open the door. She gripped the knob with both hands and pulled it open.

  There stood Amy, six feet tall and thinner than a skeleton, with green hair even shorter than Dad’s. In faded jeans, her skinny legs looked like swimming noodles.

  Bumble clasped her hands behind her back, looked way up, and said, “Hi! I’m Bumble.”

  “Well, hi to you too.” Amy had a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, her fingers tucked under the strap. She looked at me and asked, like I was eight years old, “And what’s your name?”

  “Igor.”

  Amy laughed. She asked, “Is your master at home?”

  I didn’t even answer. Mom stepped out of the living room and gawked at Amy’s hair. At the same time, Dad came down the stairs to give Amy what he must have thought were the normal rules for babysitters: “Keep the curtains shut. Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone unless you hear our special knock.” He rapped it out on the wall with his knuckles: tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. “Got it?”

  “Yes,” said Amy. And then, both smiling, Mom and Dad went out the door.

  Bumble didn’t mind them leaving if Amy was there. She reached up and took her hand. “We’re playing Uncle Wiggily,” she said.

  “Oh, good.” Amy let herself be pulled into the living room. She looked down at Hideous George sitting in the middle of the floor and asked, “Where’s the game?”

  “You have to pretend.”

  That was Amy’s introduction to the wonderful world of the Watsons. I felt embarrassed. “Maybe we should watch a movie,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Bumble. “Do you like My Little Pony?”

  “Love it.”

  I would have liked to take My Little Pony out behind the barn and shoot him. But I sat down to watch because there wasn’t anything else to do. Amy stretched out on the sofa.

  “Does everyone who comes over have to give a secret knock?” she asked.

  “Nobody comes over,” I said.

  Bumble put in the DVD of My Little Pony and sat on the floor with her grumpy. She’d seen the movie at least a thousand times, and she kept looking up to tell us everything that was going to happen a minute before it did.

  Amy ignored her. “Your dad has a lot of rules,” she said.

  “He’s just being protective,” I told her.

  For five minutes she lay there on the sofa and stared around the room. Then she said, “You don’t have any photographs.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “On the walls,” she said, like I was stupid. “There’s no stuff in this house. It’s like you don’t really live here. There’s no knickknacks. No souvenirs. Everyone has souvenirs.”

  “Oh, you’ve been to everyone’s house?” I asked.

  Amy didn’t recognize sarcasm. She kept gazing at the empty walls, the empty shelves, the empty tabletops. “There’s no wedding pictures. No baby pictures,” she said. “Didn’t your dad ta
ke baby pictures?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t have a camera.”

  “So what? He’s got a cell phone, doesn’t he?”

  I shook my head.

  “Really?” Like it was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. “This is so weird. There’s no vacation pictures.” Amy wriggled on the sofa, turning over to face me. “Don’t you think that’s unusual?”

  I only shrugged. She was coming close to the edge of our secret life, to things I wasn’t supposed to talk about.

  “Are there pictures upstairs?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s so weird. I’m going to ask your parents.”

  “You better not,” I told her.

  Bumble fell asleep in front of the TV. She was still there when Mom and Dad came back just after seven. Dad headed straight upstairs. He seemed grim and quiet, like he had a headache, but Mom was really happy. She saw Bumble sleeping on the floor and knelt down to kiss her forehead. I turned away before she could do the same thing to me.

  “We met all your teachers,” she said. “That Mr. Little is such a nice man.” She looked at Amy. “Everything went well?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Watson,” said Amy. “They were no trouble.”

  Mom opened her purse and took out her wallet. She told me, “You’re one of his favorites. Did you know that?”

  Embarrassed, I shook my head.

  “He said you’re like a hermit crab that had to be brought out of its shell. He’s watched you grow. He’s very proud of you.”

  I saw Amy’s little smile and wished Mom would shut up.

  “He says you’re making friends. You’re even chatty now.”

  Mom counted out money and gave it to Amy.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Watson.” Amy hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. She started toward the door, then stopped and looked at Mom. “Hey, I was wondering.”

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  In a laughing voice, with a tilt of her head, Amy asked, “Why don’t you have any pictures?”

  It was like time stopped. Mom’s fingers froze on the latch of her purse. Amy kept smiling, like she was expecting a funny story about the kooky Watsons. But Dad stepped into the doorway.

  He appeared as suddenly as a psychopath in a horror movie, and just as creepy. “Now why would you be so worried about that?” he asked.

  Amy looked flustered. “I wasn’t really worried. It just seemed a little strange.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Dad. “Well, maybe we’re still unpacking. Did you think of that?”

  I doubted she had, as there were no boxes anywhere.

  “Or maybe we lost everything in a fire,” said Dad. “Or maybe it’s just none of your business.”

  Mom gaped at him, as though she couldn’t believe he would say such a thing. Amy turned bright red. “I better go,” she said.

  Mom went out on the porch to see her off—and maybe to apologize. As soon as they stepped outside, Dad turned on me. “What did you tell that girl?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He grunted. “So she pointed out this bizarre absence of photographs, and you just sat in stony silence?”

  “Why are you mad at me?” I asked.

  “You’re pressing your luck.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like how you’re changing,” he said. “You’re becoming bumptious.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Brash. Arrogant.”

  Something had happened at school. That was the only way to explain his mood. I spent most of the night wondering what Dad could have seen or heard to make him so suspicious. He’s very proud of you. You’re one of his favorites. No, that couldn’t be it. I didn’t believe Dad would feel jealous.

  You’re even chatty now.

  Of course that was it. Chatty. It would have terrified Dad to hear that. Suddenly I was sure he’d already decided to take me out of school and was only waiting till morning to tell me. The thought made me so cold inside that I shivered. But when days went by and that didn’t happen, I decided to press my luck again.

  WALKING TO SCHOOL

  On the last Monday in March, I announced that I was walking to school.

  I said it straight out while Dad was at the breakfast table with his clown face painted on. He was wearing the whole suit except for the giant wig. Mom was standing at the open front door with the car keys in her hand, ready to give me a ride. I said, “I’m walking to school. Bye.”

  She was too surprised to move. I was out of the house and down the steps before Dad came running after me with his huge pants swinging around his waist like a bell.

  I almost made it to the street. Under the little tree that grew in our front yard, he grabbed my arm.

  “Let go,” I said, trying to squirm loose.

  “Get in the car,” he told me.

  I twisted away, coming half out of my jacket. “Let go!” I said again.

  Dad held the empty sleeve. “If you don’t get in the car I’ll put you in the car.”

  That would never happen. I pointed up at the apartments, at all the windows and balconies, and told him, “I’ll scream.”

  Dad kind of froze, like a gopher caught by headlights. There was no way in the world he was going to drag a screaming kid into a minivan. Especially not while he was wearing clown clothes.

  I pulled my sleeve out of his hand. It flopped between us.

  “All right,” said Dad. “Will you please get in the car? I’ll drive you to school and we’ll talk about this later.”

  “No.” I hated the disappointed look behind his painted smile, but I couldn’t help that. “I’m walking to school.”

  I strode out to the street and took the shortcut between the buildings. As I passed through the iron gate I was surprised to see Dad’s jelly bean car pull up beside me. He must have jumped into it the moment I left and raced up Dead End Road. He must have known the way around.

  The passenger window went down with a whirring sound. Dad said, “Get in.”

  I kept walking.

  He drove ahead, stopped, and waited for me to pass. “I won’t tell you again,” he said. “Get in the car.”

  It was an empty threat, and we both knew it. So I walked along like he wasn’t even there.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  The window rolled up again. The minivan crept along behind me, staying exactly a foot behind. If I hurried, Dad drove faster. If I stopped, he waited.

  I came to the school from the back, ducking through the narrow gate onto the football field. Dad couldn’t possibly follow me there. But he cruised slowly along the fence, tracking me right to the corner where he could see the front steps. And that was where he parked.

  Zoe was sitting on the concrete lion, surrounded by the other kids. Someone saw me and shouted, “Hey, it’s Igor!” and I saw Angelo turn to look. As I got closer he came out from the group and grabbed me, pretending to wrestle. Zoe said, “Come sit up here.”

  I wasn’t sure I could climb up that pillar. I was shorter than Zoe and not very strong. But she patted the lion and said, “Come on.” So I had to try.

  I jumped up and grabbed for the top of the pillar. I missed. I tried again and missed again, then managed to dangle by my fingertips while kicking in the air.

  Everyone laughed. Even Zoe. I thought it was a disaster, but Angelo stepped up and gave me a boost. The kid who had sworn to kill me actually held out his hands to make a step. He lifted me up, and Zoe grabbed my wrist and swung me the rest of the way, and I landed behind her like a knight on a charger. One of the kids started chanting: “Ee-gor. Ee-gor.”

  I looked over their heads, off to the corner of the school yard, and saw my father the clown leaning against the fence.

  He had gotten out of the minivan. He had left the driver’s door wide open and cars were jamming up in the street as people tried to swerve around it. I wondered if he had seen me swallowed by the mob of kids and—in a moment
of panic—had started running to help me. Now he just stood there in his funny clothes and big bow tie, with his arms spread along the top of the fence. Everyone was staring at him as they passed by, but he didn’t move until someone took out a phone to take his picture. Then he hurried back to the van and drove away.

  He must have spent all day thinking about it, because there was no jelly bean car waiting to pick me up after school. He might have remembered his stupid dream of building a raft and floating down the Mississippi. He might have just remembered what it’s like to be a kid. For sure, something changed his mind.

  As soon as Bumble went up to bed, he made me sit down in the living room with him and Mom. “We’ve been talking,” he said, “your mother and I. And she has convinced me to let you walk to school.”

  “And home again,” said Mom, smiling.

  “Yes, and home again,” said Dad in a grudging way.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s great.”

  “But the rules still hold,” said Dad. “Stay on this side of the river. Don’t cross Jefferson. And if you’re walking, you need to be home by five o’clock.”

  “When we moved here you said I could stay out until dark,” I told him.

  “The days are longer now.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “No arguments.”

  And I didn’t argue. Dad had given me more freedom than I’d ever had before.

  WHO ARE YOU?

  To make sure I followed the rules, Dad went out that night and bought me a watch. He didn’t spend very much; it wasn’t anything fancy. But when I put it on the next morning and walked out of the house I felt like a prisoner set free after seven years in jail. I took the path between the apartments and the town houses, passing through the iron gate into bright sunshine. It was like I was walking into heaven. And when the day ended I lounged around the concrete lion with the other kids.

  The ones with cell phones took them out. They started texting, taking pictures, recording little videos. I had been told since I was small that I should not have my photo “splashed all over the internet,” so I automatically looked away, turning my back toward the tiny lenses.