A Good and Happy Child (39 page)

299

“Look atcha,” he said. “Look like you’ve been dragged behind a truck. I think you’re the next candidate for a hot bath.” He grinned, but his eyes remained somber.

The air rippled, and I felt a pulse of white-hot hatred. “I found the card,” I said.

“What card?”

“The one you sent to Mom,” I said. “The one for her birthday. The mushy one, that says
to go with your beautiful blue eyes.
My mother’s birthday is in March.
March!
” I repeated. “My father didn’t leave until
June.
”

I let this sink in. Kurt’s features grew troubled. His hand slowly dropped to his side.

“You’ve been together all this time—since before he left,” I continued, venomously. Then I drew a deep breath and screamed at the top of my lungs: “You and Mom broke his heart. That’s why he went down there. He didn’t care if he lived anymore.
You killed him!
” My voice echoed across the water and under the tall, white-fingered trees. Kurt drew back. Fear flickered over his face. I saw him shudder. Suddenly I shivered, too. Even in the frigid air, there was something new now—another level of chill, one that reached the bone. Something caught my eye, and I turned to see a figure dressed like me, with my angry posture—balled fists, chin jutted forward in an accusatory glare—right next to me. It was me. It was Other George. Instinctively I touched my throat. Had it been me to say those things, or him?

Kurt held his ground. “I think you’d better talk to your mom about this,” he said.

My mother.
Something clicked in me, spurring me on.

“You hurt my mother.”

“George, I was hundreds of miles away. We need to stop this. Please, just come inside.” Kurt’s voice seemed less certain now—

unnerved.

“Not you,” I said.

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but only gaped. “Excuse me?” he said finally.

“Look at me,” I said.

300

J u s t i n E v a n s

Other George, with a bored roll of the eyes, turned away from Kurt. In its sullen boredom it reminded me of Dean Prantz: that superior and dead-eyed cruelty. We faced each other. A gust of wind blew snow from the trees. It dusted my cheeks and eyelashes. The figure did not stir.

“Go away,” I said through clenched teeth.

“
You
go away,” it replied, unruffled.

“What’s going on here?” said Kurt.

“He wants to lock you away—are you going to let him?” said Other George, nodding at Kurt.

“You’re the reason,” I challenged. “If it weren’t for you . . .” Then I caught myself. Don’t argue with it, don’t engage, Tom Harris would have warned me.
Say your prayers.
But what prayers? Something about daily bread. Or Hail Mary, full of grace.
I’m not even Catholic,
I thought. Did it count if you didn’t know the whole prayer? Did fragments have the same effect? Quotations?

“Now I lay me down to sleep,” I said aloud, “I pray the Lord my soul will keep.”

Other George stared at me, dumbfounded, then erupted in laughter.
You may as well not bother
came a voice in my head. Instead I took a step toward the figure. Its expression changed, to one of surprise. “I’m not afraid of you,” I said aloud. “I know what you are. I saw your eyes.”

And what am I?

“A demon.”

Other George’s face transformed to an expression of scornful anger. I felt a blast of chill air.

And you’re nothing,
the voice roared in my head. It shook me—

its impact was skull-shaking—and I fell over backward in the snow. Another gust whipped snow from the trees. I raised a hand to shield myself. Each snowflake seemed to carry a message.
Your family is
nothing here,
the snow said.
Your father died
—
one layer stripped away. You
and your mother move from town
—
another layer. You go to a home
—did it say a home, or a hole?—
and all that’s left is scraps. Just vanish,
the voice commanded.
Just run, and never stop.

a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

301

Snow filled my eyes.
I won’t, I won’t,
I repeated. I knew if I did not resist, I would slip away, lose myself in its myriad voices. I felt strong hands on my jacket. I opened my eyes. Kurt was pulling me to my feet. Over his shoulder I saw Other George, ten feet away, smiling indulgently.
Poor kid, just look at him,
its expression seemed to say.
Lucky he’s got someone to take care of him.

“No!” I wriggled from Kurt’s grip. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul will keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul will take.”

I marched to the figure. I raised my hand to strike it. But my fist locked in the air. It was a bad dream: one where you’re falling off a cliff, paralyzed, or cannot strike at your mortal enemy.
You killed my father,
I said, through angry tears.
It was you, not Kurt.
I didn’t do it,
said Other George, assuming a pouty, innocent voice.
It was mosqitoes, malaria, madness.

Kurt’s voice came faintly to me—“George, what are you doing?”—

but Kurt didn’t matter anymore. The demon and I had entered that strange vacuum where voices could not reach us. I needed to be rid of him, to free my mind and soul; when I had freed my mind, I would also be free of Forest Glen. But I would have to do it without the help of Tom Harris and my friends—I was all alone.

You know how malaria works, don’t you?
Other George continued, warming to its story.
The sickness makes its victims smell sugary sweet.
That brings more mosquitoes. They come to suck at the victim, and they
come, and come, and pound at him, so that he’s swatting them away, a cloud
of them, for hours, unceasing . . . it drove your father crazy!
Other George laughed gleefully.
It wasn’t demons. He died. He just died. For no reason.
Wah, wah, wah,
he mocked me with baby-crying sounds. I dove for it, and this time, my body obeyed. My hands gripped the demon’s shoulders and I pushed it to the ground. We hit the road with a hard thud.
You can’t hurt me that way,
it said, but its eyes were doubtful. We struggled.
Our father,
I recited in my head.
Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy
name.

302

J u s t i n E v a n s

Kill Kurt,
the demon hissed.
Not me. He’s the one trying to lock you
away! He’s the one who killed your father!

The demon pinned me against the snow. We had rolled under the guardrail, on the far side of the road. I lay there, heaving, looking up at its triumphant face—the superior upperclassman, sneering.
It wasn’t Kurt,
I thought.
I don’t believe that. It was you.
A tide of fury rose up in me. The demon had killed my father, the demon had cursed my family, cursed us with a sickly existence on Piggott Street, laying the reek of unhappiness in our house and on our skin, so badly that those with noses to smell the worst in people, the Deans, the unforgiving gossips, would say,
Your house smells,
and what they meant was,
There is something wrong with you.
My mother, lonely in a suffocating town; my father, isolated by visions others couldn’t see or understand; me, their creature, their awkward, unlovable son. The demon, the vision of evil, had done its magic, twisted time and fate and collided all our failings, so that the conclusion was death. My father, alone in a camp. And other endings: hope for my freedom outside the animal cage of psychiatry. My mother’s love for me. I grabbed onto the guardrail with both hands. I strained, dragging myself from under Other George’s weight. Gravel scratched my back. Pulling free, I rolled to the far side of the guardrail, and stood, arms out—exhausted from the effort, but ready. In a blink, it stood beside me.
You can’t win,
it whispered, but I seized its jacket—identical to mine—and pushed from my legs, just as Kurt had taught me. I shoved it along the narrow riverbank that sloped steeply into the freezing water. All the while I recited the prayer in my head.
Thy kingdom come,
thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Stop it,
it said, casting a fearful glance back over its shoulder.
Stop
it, enough. Enough!

But I kept pushing, stretching myself into a wrestler’s pose, shoving it backward. I felt sweat on my face, felt the movement warming my chilled body, and with that heat, the fear and humiliation—all the sniping, picking voices—melted away.
I am Jacob wrestling the angel,
I thought,
wrestling the fallen angel.
I heaved. The demon gave way, and a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

303

we both toppled over and slid down the gravelly slope, our feet splashing in the water. The demon recovered. It pulled itself up, gripping the roots of a vast tree for assistance, and scrambled back up the slope. I chased him. Sweat drenched my hair. I continued praying. The words came fast and clear now.
Give us this day our daily bread,
I panted,
and deliver
us from evil.
Other George reached the top and began climbing the tree like a cat. Surprised, I looked for a way to follow, and saw rungs nailed to the bark. This was the rope-swing tree. I tested the rungs—they were firm—and followed it, my arms burning, muscles depleted, scarcely able to squeeze my fingers around another plank. The demon reached an upper limb. I climbed two rungs, three . . . but could not climb anymore. I saw its face smiling down at me in delight, eyes glinting.
I’m still here,
said a voice in my ear. With a grunt, I forced myself to climb. At last I reached the top. We faced each other. I stood on a branch. He was farther out, bobbing on it—just as he had been when I had first seen him, outside my window, a scruffy Huck Finn, an ally.

A friend. And I had needed a friend so badly.

I felt the full fury of its betrayal. Another surge of anger filled me. I took a breath—and leapt.

The demon grinned. It was a stupid move. One foot landed on the branch. The other swung out in midair. I clutched at the branches. My fingers grasped a fistful of twigs that bent, bunched in my hand, and steadied me, but could not hold my weight. The river heaved black and silent beneath me. My head reeled.

I heard a soft laughter. The demon now appeared above me, leering. It had climbed to a higher branch, and stood there, weightless, bobbing.
I’m still here,
it said.

I felt my legs quiver with fatigue, felt sweat dribble down my legs, my back. I knew I could not last much longer. I swung my arm around. Not to punch him—to grab him. My fist closed on the jacket.
Get away,
he said, shaking me fiercely. I held tight, swinging precariously over the water.

304

J u s t i n E v a n s

My thrashing left hand hit something soft. Instinctively, I seized it. I pulled it toward me. It was the rope-swing rope, thick and furry under my palm, anchored on the trunk above our heads. I tugged it once, trying my weight on it. It held. I knew what I had to do. With one hand firmly on Other George’s jacket, I put all my weight on the rope. My body pulled downward—taking the demon with me. It lost its grip on the braches overhead and toppled toward me with a cry. It fell against me—now clinging to my jacket for support. I let go of his jacket and gained purchase on the branch below with my legs. Now our faces were inches apart, mine heaving hot breath, the demon’s odorless, a living chill. I gazed once more into its eyes and saw the void.
Do it,
I said to myself.
This is what killed your father.
I wrapped the rope around its head and yanked.

Other George’s eyes popped. Its fingers clutched at the rope. But its hands had been holding on to me for support—when those hands let go, the demon fell. The rope tightened around its neck. Its feet desperately sought out the branch. It began pulling itself back to safety. I looped the rope around its neck a second, a third time. I put both hands against him and pushed.

But I had gone too far. My feet slipped from under me. I flailed, then dropped into the freezing water. Shock numbed me and stole my breath. In the thigh-deep water I managed to steady myself, my sneakers sinking into algae-slimy mud. With my last strength, I tipped myself forward, my chest landing heavily on the sandy bank. I lay there too exhausted to stand. I used my elbows, chin, fingernails, to heave my legs and feet from the river. My face came to rest on gravel and snow. I closed my eyes. r r r

If you have never run outdoors in complete darkness, the experience is difficult to imagine, or even to process logically while you are doing it. You feel that somehow, some streetlight, some star or moonbeam,
must
be able to penetrate to wherever you are. But sometimes it cannot. a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

305

A tree canopy, and heavy clouds, kept me enveloped in blackness. I ran on snowy pine needles. Broke through bushes. Finally, I reached asphalt again—a parking lot. I ran, stumbling, unaccustomed to the even ground. I felt snowflakes on my face.

Then ahead I saw them: one red pinprick, and then a silver. Then a cluster, like frozen fireflies. Christmas lights on dogwood trees. Joy burst in me.
I would be saved now! I would be saved!
I veered toward the house—its windows lit yellow, warm, welcoming—feeling the sensation of treading on an even lawn.

The lights came closer. The shadows turned to shapes: a great wooden door, some eight feet high, curved into an ecclesiastical arch. My breath came noisily. I rang the bell. The
clunk
of a thrown bolt shook the door.

A crack appeared in the darkness, and warmth—almost steamy to my bone-chilled frame—poured forth. I heard voices, the tinkling of glasses. A figure stood in silhouette.

“Hello?” he said quizzically. Then he looked down, and saw me.

“Goodness!” he exclaimed. He stood apalled for a moment, taking in my appearance, before he squinted at my face. He grasped my shoulders and pulled me inside.