Rich Shapero (20 page)

"That's what he said." Robbie
rubbed away a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

"You can't go without me."

"Nope."

They gazed in silence at the great puzzle
of leaves. Pieces of viridian, olive and lime were fit into others of emerald
and jade, each bordered with black where their edges touched. Here and there, a
yellow piece had replaced a green.

"Dawn's happy there." Fristeen
lifted her face to the sky.

Robbie did, too. It was the deepest of
blues, without a cloud. The realm of their gods seemed remote and benign.

"Would you do it?" Fristeen
wondered. "I don't know. Would you?"

"One thing I'd really like,"
Fristeen laughed. "If you don't have a body, you don't need food."

***

In the days that followed, they spoke of it
often—the ordeal of fire, ascending the skies, how life would be with Dawn and
the Dream Man after they'd arrived. But they didn't revisit the Cabin, and for
a full week, they stayed away from Too Far.

Summer was ending, and the woods changed
quickly. The Needle Patch yellowed, then Trickle and the slope beyond the log
bridge. On the Hill, the currant stems turned crimson, their leaves splashed
with butterscotch, while the aspens above went from lemon to rose. A few days
later, the Perfect Place flashed pure gold. When the Jigglies changed, the air
was pleased— they were easy to play, these flimsy yellow leaves, and they made
the most delicate yellow music. Then the Bendies let go, and the leaves fell
soft and fleshy, and when you lay in their bed, your calm was deep.

And there was an hour at the Great
Place—ecstatic, unforgettable—when a great wind shook the mighty crowns and
that unreachable world came showering down. All of a sudden— You were
unprepared. Through the glitter you ran, a fortune scattering and only one
chance to gather it. You shrieked, your arms flailed, but there was no way to
catch them. Then breathless, Robbie collapsed with Fristeen beside him, and in
her upraised eyes he saw the reflected cascade: leaves and more leaves, a
fountain of Dawn from deep within her, just for him.

***

Early one morning, the two children sat
facing each other in the Perfect Place. Fristeen was eating pretzels and
cheese, and some fruit Robbie had brought. Her face looked thin and her hair
was tangled. Her socks were dirty and there was a stain on her shirt.

"I want to see Dawn," she said.

"Okay." Robbie stood.

"Do you think she's with him? At the
Cabin?" Fristeen frowned.

"We don't have to go there."
Robbie reached for her hand.

Used-to-Be had changed—the crosses it
nursed had turned purplish, and red berries spurted from the center of each. The
Two-Tree still waved in the breeze, but new flags had been raised—one lemon,
one peach. And then Too Far spread out before them. They were both glad to see
it. Autumn was sad, like your home. But when you crossed the border and entered
the black trees, all that ending vanished.

The weather was sultry. The heat was
pierced with tingling gusts, and the spell of forgetfulness was as strong as
ever. They shed their cares with their clothes, and headed for Big Sponge,
where they jumped and jumped. A small hawk appeared, looping and coasting and
screeching over them. Then the rill led them through the soft pillows, amber
and mauve, lime and maroon. Gusts chafed the red Pool, and wavelets were
running fast to shore. They circled the rim and mounted the low rise, and they
lay down on the moss, and Fristeen tried to summon Dawn.

Again, Dawn didn't come.

Instead, Robbie heard the rushing from a
long way off.

"The Dream Man," Robbie cried.
But when he opened his eyes, the sky was blue. There were no roiling clouds and
no cauldron of thoughts. Just a lone dragonfly hovering inches above his nose.

Was it him?

"We miss you," Robbie said.

"I've been busy," the deep voice
replied.

"We want to be with you," Robbie
assured him. "You and Dawn."

"But we're afraid," Fristeen chimed
in. "Of the Cabin, and being burnt in the fire—"

They both sat up.

The dragonfly darted between them, wings
whirring with feverish life.

"Dawn belongs to those who belong to
her," the deep voice said. "And I—" The dragonfly zipped six
feet in the air, then zipped down again, glaring at Robbie with alien eyes.
"I have other places to go, other thoughts to think."

"Stay with us," Robbie begged
him. "For a little while."

"Alright," the Dream Man said.
"It happens I've got something to show you."

Robbie stood and so did Fristeen.

"Where's Hands?" Robbie wondered.
"Don't we get to ride?"

"He's in the lab."

The Dream Man's voice was dark with
meaning, and when Robbie looked in the direction of the Hollow, he saw a coil
of smoke rising from the trees.

"Smells like broccoli," Robbie
said.

The Dream Man laughed. They were still
close.

"Follow me," the deep voice said.
And the dragonfly darted through the black spruce.

Even though they went on foot, it was still
a trail of mystery. "Look here, look there," the Dream Man whispered,
and they were lost in his voice, thinking things they'd never thought, seeing
things they'd never seen. The bushes in the swales were covered with berries,
and they were midnight blue and safe to eat. There had never been berries that
tasted so sweet. And when they crammed their mouths with them and stood on
their heads, the berries popped all at once, filling their eyes with dark blue
ink.

"Get down, get down." With their
noses in the moss, a new world opened up. There were glades of tiny trees
without branches or leaves, each with a shaker tipped at its top. If you said,
"Shake loose some dreams," they all shook, and dreams sprinkled out.
There were forests of tiny antlers with bowls raised to collect blessings from
Dawn, and remembrances of her marriage—cream-colored candle drippings, upside
down. Mushroom caps were everywhere—apricot, lavender, and hot fudge brown. The
Dream Man showed them how, if you looked from beneath, each was a world free
and complete, a great mountain floating above the earth.

But all these things were just by the way.
Before long, the dragonfly was hovering over "Put-Your-Arm-In," which
was the special place the Dream Man had in mind.

It was a hummock of loose cone scales, and
it was punctured with holes—some shallow, some deep. You fixed on one—how far
did it go? You didn't know until you put your arm in. Fristeen tried it first.
She wasn't afraid. She picked a hole, felt with her fingers and slid her hand
in to the wrist. Then she closed her eyes and leaned forward. Her arm
disappeared to the shoulder.

"What do you feel?" Robbie asked.

"Is that your hand?"

"No!"

Fristeen giggled. "Fooling,
silly." Her eyes were still closed. "See if you can."

So Robbie chose a hole, held his breath,
and reached his arm in as far as it would go. It was cool and damp.

"You've got the idea," the Dream
Man said. "Would you like it back?"

It was then Robbie realized what
"Put-Your-Arm-In" was really about. The Dream Man was preparing them.

So they put their arms in, and then their
legs. And sometimes they came right out when you pulled. And sometimes they
didn't. They just disappeared. The Dream Man did that so you could see how it
would feel. How it would be when you gave your body up. It was scary, but fun.
When you had both your arms in, and your eyes closed tight, you imagined you
were bodiless and floating, just smoke drifting across a stormy sky. And the
Dream Man was with you, whispering close, like a finger in the soft mud of a
Too Far pool, drawing out a runnel down which new thoughts would flow.

But he left without a word.

They were jabbering and gasping, and they
opened their eyes and the Dream Man was gone.

They found the way back on their own.

***

Late that same night, Robbie was jerked from
sleep. There was a choking sound, like a dog with something caught in its
throat. He rose and opened his door. From his parents' bedroom, Mom's muffled
voice reached him. Then the choking again— It was Dad, sobbing. Robbie listened
until he couldn't bear it any longer. He lay back down and put his pillow over
his head. "It's okay, Dad," he thought. "It's okay, it's
okay."

Robbie didn't say a word to his parents the
next morning. He thought he might not even tell Fristeen. But they kept nothing
from each other, and he wanted to talk about it, so that's what he did.

"My dad was crying last night."

Fristeen nodded. "Grace cried when she
ran out of love for Dada. It's like the fire in your stove when you run out of
wood. It gets smaller and smaller, and you get colder and colder. That's what
Grace said."

The heart of the forest was getting colder,
too. Time was racing forward, and there was no holding it back. In the space of
a few days, all the busy creatures vanished; the buzzing ceased and the woods
grew silent.

It was during this quiet that things
finally came undone.

Robbie and Fristeen had spent the first
part of the day in Too Far, idling around the Pool. They talked about their
gods and the Cabin. They dared each other, and made short forays down the path,
but it didn't go beyond that. In the early afternoon, they retreated to the
Jigglies, and when the light grew dim, Robbie escorted Fristeen home.

Grace wasn't there.

No sooner had they arrived than the rumble
of a motorcycle sounded outside.

There was a rap on the door. They didn't
answer, and the rapping turned into pounding.

"Guess who," Duane shouted.
"Grace?"

More pounding. Fristeen and Robbie huddled
in a corner.

The pounding stopped. A brief silence. Then
a large rock shattered the living room window, and a black boot followed,
shards flying across the room.

Duane climbed through the frame, glanced
around, and saw them crouched on the floor. "Where's Grace?" he said.

"She's gone," Fristeen replied.

"Uh-huh." He smirked, swaying,
clapping his hand to the wall to steady himself. "She's only around when
she's out of dope. Hey!" He tromped through the living room, bumped into a
floor lamp and swiped it aside. It struck the wall and went crashing to the
floor.

Robbie shrank, holding Fristeen to him.

"Grace?" Duane yelled.

Robbie saw the rage in Fristeen's face. She
rose, trembling.

Duane reeled into Grace's bedroom.
"Where the hell—" They could hear drawers dropped and splintering,
then a
pop,
and tinkling as the remains of a mirror fell to the floor.

Then Duane stumbled into Fristeen's room.

"Get out of there," she screamed,
and she would have launched after him, but Robbie restrained her.

They heard a window and another mirror
shatter, then they saw him through the doorway, holding a doll by the legs and
swinging it like a club, toys flying and clattering around the small room.

"What a dump." Duane reappeared,
surveying the damage. "My cell was nicer than this." Then he barged
into the kitchen. They heard him open the refrigerator. Fristeen approached,
dragging Robbie with her, and when she peered in, Duane had both hands on the
refrigerator door. He gave a loud grunt and tugged, and the refrigerator swung
out from the wall, screeched against the counter and thundered onto the floor.

Duane noticed a solitary pear on the
counter and picked it up.

"That's ours," Fristeen cried.

Duane smiled and bit in.

"You think you're so great,"
Fristeen sneered.

Duane laughed and nodded.

"You know what Grace says about
Duane?" Fristeen turned to Robbie. Her eyes were wild.

Duane stopped chewing.

Robbie circled Fristeen's waist with his
arm.

"Duane's a joke in bed," she
crowed.

Duane's eyes narrowed.

"Know what that means? A joke
in—"

Robbie wrenched her back in time to evade
Duane's lunge. The animals in the black jacket shrieked and snarled. Robbie
stepped in front of Fristeen, shaking his head mutely at Duane to caution him
away.

Duane scowled and stooped toward them, then
seemed to think better. He straightened, flung the pear aside and lumbered
toward the front door.

"A joke in bed!" Fristeen
screamed after him.

"Suck my dick," Duane muttered.
Then he stomped out.

They heard the motorcycle roar to life and
fade down the drive.

The two children collapsed together. Robbie
felt humiliated. Fristeen cried.

"I should've kicked his butt," he
said.