Radiant Days (18 page)

In the morning, he took Arthur to the police station. “Don’t even think about getting on a different train,” he warned him as they stood outside the station door. “Write me as soon as you get home, and we’ll make plans for when I come back to Charleville. The war can’t last forever; they’ll reopen the school soon.”

Arthur nodded silently. He and the aunts had cried when he said good-bye. Now he felt sick to his stomach at the thought of what awaited him in Charleville.

“Come on,” said Georges softly, and steered him through the door. “‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’”

Inside, Georges greeted the police prefect and gave him the money for Arthur’s fare.

“We’ll take good care of him.” The prefect regarded Arthur through narrowed eyes. “Your poor mother. What kind of a son is so cruel to the person who loves him most in all the world?”

Georges turned and shook Arthur’s hand. “Until next time, my friend.”

Arthur watched him leave, fighting tears, then sat and waited for the officer who would accompany him back to Charleville.

Washington, D.C.

OCTOBER 9, 1978

I DON’T KNOW
how long I huddled there beside the river. It seemed like hours, but when I finally lifted my head, the sky was still dark and filled with stars. I stood shakily, turned, and saw the familiar garland of lights that marked Key Bridge, and on the far shore of the Potomac the spires of Rosslyn’s skyscrapers. The world was as it had been: only Arthur was gone.

I trudged back toward Georgetown, legs aching with cold. My pants were wet, my sneakers soaked through. I needed to find someplace to crash, if only for the night. I dug in my pocket for the fistful of coins Arthur had returned to me. There was barely enough for a meal, let alone a motel room, but maybe I could find a pay phone and call Clea, beg her to take me in long enough to shower and dry my clothes.

But I had no idea what time it was, other than late, and the thought of waking Clea in the middle of the night—or worse, waking her husband—and pleading for help after she’d dumped
me was more than I could stomach. I decided I’d rather freeze, and stuffed the money back into my pocket. The oil pastels had dissolved to a smear of green and yellow that stained my fingers. I had no idea how to find any of my friends—I’d written all their numbers in one of the sketchbooks that had been stolen.

The sudden memory of my lost bag made my eyes tear up. I thrust the thought aside, kicked furiously at a rock and sent it bouncing across the street. Clea, my bag, my drawings, my home—was there another fucking thing that I could lose?

That was when I remembered Ted’s key. Frantically I searched my pockets, and started to retrace my steps when I halted beneath a streetlamp. I turned my hand to the light, gazing at the fresh scab on my palm, where I’d jabbed it with one of the tarnished silver prongs. Then the key had fallen and Arthur picked it up. He’d never returned it.

The lockhouse was lost to me now too, and Ted as well—he’d never speak to me again. I turned and began to run blindly back to the Potomac, not stopping till I reached the river’s edge and climbed atop a concrete pier that thrust out into the black water.

It looked deeper than before, much deeper and faster moving. I knew the water would be cold, but maybe that would make it easier to die. I thought of Clea and how she’d immediately fall apart when she found out I was dead, and as quickly get over it. I thought of my younger brothers crying inconsolably.

But they’d forget, too; they were so young, and my father would do nothing to preserve my memory. My paintings and drawings were gone. Even my tags would fade, or be painted
over by the vandal squad. The river would take me and I would leave no trace. Nothing would show that I’d ever been alive, that I’d created beautiful things and experienced a miracle—a boy from out of time who had seen my work and recognized it; a boy who’d seen and recognized me.

I took a deep breath and stared at the water below. My own face stared back, pale as the moon. Something splashed and sent ripples across my reflection. For an instant it seemed as though another face gazed back at me, and I heard Arthur’s voice, half chanting.

We are children of the moon … the ones who can never be satisfied. Because when one of them finds their missing half … their souls mingle, and even if their bodies can never again become whole, their souls form one being, and that being can never be destroyed.

I let my breath out and sank into a crouch. Something splashed again, a pattering of icy drops across my hand. In the water a carp gazed up at me, its head as big as mine, its eyes inky black. I cried out and the fish disappeared, its golden tail flicking across dark water.

“‘Mother, may I go in and swim?’” pronounced a gravelly voice behind me. “‘Yes, my darling daughter. Hang your clothes on a hickory limb, and don’t go near the water.’”

I scrambled to my feet and turned to see Ted.

“That water’s radioactive,” he said, taking a drag off a cigarette. “I wouldn’t swim in it.”

“I wasn’t,” I said, embarrassed. “I thought you got busted.”

“Nah. They just like to keep an eye on me. ’Specially in cold
weather, they check up on folks sleeping rough, make sure you don’t freeze to death on their watch. Of course they’ll push you right out of Georgetown into another precinct, but I don’t bear them no ill will. They’re just doing their job, like I’m doing mine.”

He pulled out the leather canteen, opened it and took a swig. “What happened to the boy?”

“I don’t know.” I stared miserably at the river. “We were both here, and then he jumped. The carp—he let them go by mistake.”

“And he went after them?”

I nodded, unsure if Ted sounded admiring or angry. “I waded in but I couldn’t find him. I mean, it was impossible—the water wasn’t deep enough for him to drown. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“My band made four brilliant albums and never had a single goddamn hit. We were supposed to be the American Rolling Stones, and we couldn’t get more than five minutes of airplay. Does that make sense?” Ted stubbed out his cigarette.

I sighed. “I just want everything to go back to how it was before.”

“You can never do that, Little Fly.” Ted shook his head. “You can’t step into the same river twice. Water’s always moving. And so are you.” He held out the canteen. “Here. That’ll warm you. Come on, I’ll take you someplace you can dry out.”

I followed him, my relief undercut by anxiety. What would he do when he found out I’d lost the key to the lockhouse? He was empty-handed; maybe he had an extra key, or maybe he’d stashed his guitar case and fishing gear and planned to retrieve them now.

But as it turned out, we weren’t headed for the lockhouse. Instead Ted plodded along beneath the Whitehurst Freeway, turned up onto 30th Street, then led me down alleyways and narrow sidewalks, until we once again reached the C&O Canal. There was a lock, one I’d never seen before, concrete pilings stained with rust and mold, and an ancient-looking streetlight that gave off a sulfurous glow. Willows overhung water smooth as black marble. An overturned metal trash can had been converted into a makeshift barbecue grill, the ground beneath it littered with fish bones. A trio of feral cats scrabbled and fought over these, darting into the underbrush as we approached.

“Home sweet home,” announced Ted, and walked toward the canal. A boat was tied off to an iron post. Not a canoe or dinghy but a proper canalboat, twenty feet long and nearly as wide as the canal itself: a replica of one of the mule-drawn boats that used to bear goods and passengers to Great Falls and beyond. In the summer, they were still used to tow tourists through Georgetown, but it didn’t look like this one had gone anywhere in a while.

I was amazed it wasn’t at the bottom of the canal. Boards were missing from the sides, and paint peeled like lichen from the prow. Newspapers were stuffed into a fist-sized hole above the waterline. I looked around for a building or shed, or another lockhouse, but saw nothing.

“Welcome aboard,” Ted said, and hopped over the side of the boat. He held out a hand and helped me clamber after him, then stumped toward a small hatch and disappeared down a wooden ladder missing most of its rungs. I hurried after him, climbing
hesitantly down into a cramped cabin. A battered kerosene lantern hung from a lethal-looking iron hook; as Ted lit the lantern, his head nearly grazed the ceiling.

“Is this your boat?” I asked.

“Friend of mine lets me crash here. Retired park police; he’d lose his pension if anyone knew, so just keep a lid on it, okay? Give me that guitar.”

Empty bottles littered the floor, clinking softly as the boat rocked, along with several large white buckets. A filthy sleeping bag covered the bunk, the porthole above it scabbed with dirt and cobwebs. The air reeked of stale beer, cigarettes, and dead fish. Yellowing gig posters covered the walls, advertising ancient shows by the Deadly Rays, a few solo gigs by Ted. The most recent had taken place eight years ago.

I found the guitar and handed it to him. Ted sighed, and settled with it on the bunk. “Make yourself at home.”

I looked around in vain for a spot on the floor that was free of spilled beer or moldy clothing, resigned myself, and sat. I was relieved that the guttering lantern kept much of the room in shadow.

“So.” Ted opened his guitar case, pulled out a bottle, and took a long drink. I huddled on the floor and tried to avoid looking at him, fearful of that uncanny flare of green behind his eyes. Finally he stood and shuffled across the cabin, moving aside buckets filled with scrap wood and old newspapers until he revealed a tiny potbellied stove, so small I could have cradled it in my lap. He crouched and opened the door, poked around inside,
humming to himself; stuffed the firebox with crumpled newspapers and kindling, then leaned back on his heels before extending his hand. A tendril of cobalt lightning leaped from his fingertips to a shred of newsprint, flickered into leaves of golden flame that, within minutes, grew to a steady blaze.

“There.” He closed the stove’s door and beckoned me over, swiping his hand across the floor to clear it of bottles. “Have a seat.”

I knelt in front of the stove and luxuriated in the sheer joy of heat and light after the seemingly endless October night. For a long time neither of us spoke. Now and then a blue flash would spill from Ted’s fingertips as he lit a cigarette; he’d pass me the canteen of fiery liquor and I’d take a mouthful, until at last my clothes were dry and I felt as though I’d swallowed one of the embers burning behind the stove’s isinglass window. I took off my bomber jacket and turned.

Ted sat on the bunk with the guitar in his lap, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted. His hands stroked the guitar’s body, lovingly, as though it were a person and not a thing of wood and steel wire. After a moment his eyes opened and he stared at me, irises shot with emerald sparks, each pupil a glowing pinpoint.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and set the guitar aside. “Forgot I had company.”

I looked away, embarrassed. “Do you—is this where you live?”

“Sometimes. I move around a lot. Occupational hazard. What about you?”

“I don’t know.” Without warning, without wanting to, I began
to cry. “I told you, I got kicked out of the place I was living.”

“Right. I remember now. Booted out of college, booted out of your house, your girlfriend dumped you, and some punk kid took off with your art supplies. Bad day at Black Rock.” He picked up the canteen and took a drink. “You have my sympathy.”

“It’s not a fucking joke!” I grabbed an empty beer can and threw it at him. “I’ve lost
every
goddamn thing in
one goddamn day
.”

Ted caught the beer can, crushed it in one hand, and threw it back at me. I ducked. It bounced off the woodstove, and Ted scowled. “Screw that, Little Fly. You lost everything? Big fucking deal. Boo hoo. You said you were an artist, right? Well, this is where it starts to get interesting.”

“But I don’t have any paint. And my sketchbooks—all my drawings, my brushes, my charcoal pencils—”

“You don’t need that stuff. I’ve seen your tags. You need another aerosol can? Steal it. Wouldn’t be the first time, I bet. Steal everything you need. If you’re good enough—if you’re great—they’ll forgive you. And if you’re not good enough?” His eyes narrowed. “In that case, Little Fly, nobody cares.”

I said nothing. Overhead, the kerosene lantern burned with a steady dull ocher flame. The boat rocked softly, and I heard the patter of rain against the porthole window. Ted continued to stare at me. Finally he spoke.

“‘The poet must be a thief of fire.’ Someone I know said that. What do you need to draw, anyway? A charcoal pencil? Here—”

He stood and crossed the cabin in two steps, opened the door
to the woodstove and thrust his arm inside, grabbed something, then withdrew his arm and closed the door again.

I gasped as he held his hand out to me. In the palm was a glowing ember, runnels of flame still licking across it.

“Here,” he said. “Take that—go ahead.”

“But—”