Stories About Things (5 page)

I close my eyes, and breathe in.

Scree, scree, scree.

So quiet it is almost lost beneath the
groaning zephyr murmuring over the foliage. I hear... It is not
like crispy leaves tumbling together, or crispy leaves brushing
over the ground, or crispy leaves clinging to branches. It is
like... nails being scraped over a blackboard half a mile away.

Or.

Or...
something... else
.

Scree, scree, scree.

My hands drop from around Julie.

"You hear it, don't you?" she asks.

"No."
No. No, no I don't. Only suggestion.
Only the suggestion of something else... not something else
itself... No.

Scree, scree, scree.

I don't want to open my eyes to that
sound.

"John?"

Her voice is quiet. It shakes.

"John, please."

She knows. She can
see
me hearing
it.

"We have to go home," she says.

The hand on my arm, gripping just above the
elbow doesn't shake. It squeezes hard, like a frozen clamp. That
grip, desperate and insistent, forces my eyes open.

"Don't step on the leaves," she says. Julie
never whines, not ever, she doesn't plead or wheedle. But now, a
high-pitched terror-strain is creeping into her voice. "Don't
run."

"What is it?"

"
They.
They live in the trees. They
only come out in the autumn, when the leaves are falling. It's
their camouflage."

And I thought she was an indoor girl because
she didn't like to get dirty.

Our hands are cold, frozen together like
ice.

"We should have worn gloves," she says. "They
can smell our skin."

We should put our hands in our pockets, and
we both know it. But fear has cemented them together.

The house is ahead of us. My strides
lengthen.

"Please," she whimpers, "don't run."

I look over at her.

"Don't move," I say.

Our feet freeze to the sidewalk. I extend one
hand slowly, very slowly, to her back.

"It's just a leaf," I say, "just a leaf."

She nods, and the tiny movement seems like it
will shatter her icy form. The leaf shifts.

The veins of the brown, dead thing sticking
to her fleece are too prominent, like those on an old woman's
hands. The maple points are too long, like nails.

I blink and a desiccated hand moves another
millimeter up Julie's back.

But it is too thin, too brittle. I blink, and
it is a leaf again. I start to draw back my hand.

Julie laughs. It is a choke of a giggle that
she can't stop; she clamps her hand to her mouth and stifles the
noise. Tears are still running, and she is a melting and trembling
ice statue now.

The thing on her back moves up another
millimeter.

"It's just a leaf," I say.

"The fingers of trees."

I blink.

The leaf is a hand as thin as paper.

Paper... cuts.

I bat out one hand, and the thing flies off
of her. We grab hands again. One, two, three steps to the house.
Then the door slams behind us.

We stay inside now, during autumn, drinking
coffee by a fire like an old couple. We close the curtains and lock
the doors while we wait for the winter to destroy the
camouflage.

FIVE

The unwashed underwear won't leave him
along. The unwashed underwear and the dirt under his nails and the
tangles in his hair and the blisters on his feet. The tiny
discomforts chafe his sensibilities. Even now.

Ten feet away the grizzly sits up.

Whoooeeeee... whooooeeee.

The bear stares. Its mouth is frozen open,
motionless. But the whine continues, falling over the dangling
tongue.

If only there had been a place to wash up!
But there hasn't been a sink or a pump or even a stream for miles.
There hasn't been much of anything. Only fields.

The bear stares.

Whoooeeeee... whoooeeeee.

Spit drips off its tongue. The unnatural
keening continues.

One nail picks at the dirt under
another.

They're too long.

There hasn't been a pair of nail clippers in
miles either.

While one hand distracts itself with dirty
nails, the other holds a gun. His fingers clutch at it like a child
hiding under the bed clutching a comfort blanket. A cold metal
comfort blanket. His hand hangs, the weapon pointing at the ground,
useless, empty.

But it doesn't matter.

If it were loaded, he would be killed by a
dead bear.

The blank eyes don't recognize the sound
forcing its way out of their own mouth. More spit drips,
unsatisfied.

The bear won't eat him.

"You too, huh?"

"Eat, Sean."

"No."

"Just a few bites, come on, be a good
boy."

"No."

"Sean--"

"--Mommy--"

A man stands at a counter. He reads a
newspaper, oblivious to the woman tapping ten manicured nails
against a polished table pleading with a little blond boy.

"Sean--"

"I don't need to."

"Of course you do."

"No."

"Come on, eat your dinner."

"I don't have to."

"You do if you want dessert."

"I don't."

"Well if you want to see the outside of your
room before next week you will. Eat your dinner or your
grounded."

"I don't have to."

"Yes, you do."

"But I don't need to."

"Come on."

"I don't have to."

"Yes you do! I just told you, now do what
mommy says okay?"

"No, you're wrong. I don't need to. I don't
need to because--"

"No, don't, honey--"

"--because he says so."

"Please... don't say that."

"It's true. He told me."

"I'm sure he did, but you still have
to--"

"I don't have to eat dinner. He says
so."

"Don't you want to?"

"I... I don't know."

"Look, okay don't eat the vegetables. Okay?
Eat--just eat the macaroni. How about that?"

"I don't know... maybe, okay."

"Good, good."

"No, I don't think so."

"Please?"

"No."

"Just one more bite?"

"He says I don't--"

"Okay, okay. Just, go... go to your room,
honey."

"Okay."

The child disappears. One red fingernail
scratches at a lone forehead wrinkle. Then it rests on the table.
The fingers don't tap now. They tremble.

"What's wrong with our boy?"

The man at the counter doesn't look up from
the newspaper to answer the shaking voice of his wife. "He's a
picky eater."

"But he's hearing things."

"No. He's imagining things. All kids do at
that age."

"I don't know if it's that simple."

The man's eyes snap up from the paper.

"Why do you always do that?"

"Wha--"

"Why do you try to make things more than
what they are? Do you want it to be something else? Do you want
there to be something wrong with him?"

"No, but--"

"Do you want a child that's different?"

"No."

"He has an imaginary friend. All kids do.
Most of them aren't dietitians, but at least he's not jumping off
the roof in a cape and a mask."

"But I don't think it's the same."

"Don't worry. He'll grow out of it."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"But--"

"I told you not to worry, didn't I?"

"Yes... yes."

The bear whistles.

Whoooeeeee... whoooeeee.

The unnatural, impossible, open mouthed
whine rushes over the flat fields. The gun hits the ground.

There's dirt under Sean's nails. His
underwear's dirty. He's pretty sure he'd smell it if it weren't for
the pesticide from the crops. There's an itch down there too. Could
be his imagination trying to distract him, but it's bothersome.
Everything seems bothersome now.

Everything except the gaping predator dead
ahead and the thing howling inside it.

The bear stares.

Then it grunts. Then grunts again, an animal
sound. A sound from the bear itself, not the thing wearing it.
Confusion. Frustration. It shakes itself, spiky fur shivering,
blubber rolling--an animal twitch. It's tongue drips, mouth still
open. It grunts.

"I know, teddy. I know"

The bear stares.

"He's lost so much weight."

"Thirty five pounds. Dangerous for a child
his size."

"But my husband doesn't want... he doesn't
want to--"

"The weight's not the biggest problem."

"I know.

"How long has he been hearing voices?"

"Voice. Just one, I think. Since he was very
little--eight, I think... at least that's when we noticed."

"Two years?"

"Yes."

"And you can't get him to eat?"

"Not often enough. And only little bits when
he does. I try to get him to eat. But I can't--I can't... I've
tried, I've really, really--"

"It's not your fault. It is difficult to
reason with the mentally ill."

"Is he... is-is he ill?"

"Maybe."

"My husband thinks it's just
imagination."

"It's not."

"He doesn't think, or want to think there's
anything wrong."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. I don't know about these
things. That's why I came here. I don't think it's just imagination
though..."

"It isn't."

"But how do you know? He's still young."

"He's ten. Besides I've seen children with
imaginary friends, and I've seen kids with voices in their heads.
The ones with imaginary friends don't starve themselves."

"So you've seen this before?"

"Well, no, not this particular symptom, but
mental illnesses often manifest in self-harm."

"Can you help?"

"Yes. There are medications to suppress the
delusions."

"Is there any way you could... leave this
off the record?"

"I have to record all treatment."

"But he's just a child. Can't we just...
just keep it between you and me?"

"I am a fully licensed doctor, Ma'am, not a
back ally quack. I cannot alter his records. Especially if I am to
prescribe medication--"

"Please! This will affect his whole life,
won't it?"

"Schizophrenia can be managed."

"But background checks for jobs and
things--people could find out. He'll lose opportunities, or-or
people will be biased. He wants to work in security, you know."

"I can't--"

"But you're a doctor! Can't you just get him
the medication somehow? Leave it off the record? Couldn't you do
that if you wanted to?"

"Yes, but I will not--"

"Please. I can pay you more. I have my own
account. My husband won't know about it. I can pay you whatever you
ask."

"I can't--"

"Please? Name your price."

"He would have to get his medicine from me.
He would have to check in regularly..."

"He can, he can. Will... will you?"

"What can you pay?"

The bear yawns, snout wrinkling, eyes
scrunching up. The massive head shakes. It groans, then it growls.
Then the growl rises to a screeching pitch and repeats the sound
that can't come from a bear.

Whoooeeeee... whoooeeeee...

Another grunt cuts it off. One giant paw
bats the open muzzle, as if to bat away the alien sound coming from
it's own mouth. A nail slashes its face. Blood drips over the
spikes of fur.

The bear howls.

"Sorry, teddy. I don't think you can get it
out like that."

It groans. The great head dips for a second.
The paw swats it again. The blood smears. Another howl turns into a
whimper. It's hard not to feel sad for the crying grizzly.

Whoooeeeee... whoooeeeee...

And the eyes are blank again, the paws
still.

"Come on. Come on."

"Black belt?"

"Yes, sir."

"For how long?"

"Since I was sixteen. Took karate since I
was a child. My mother didn't want me to get bullied."

"Why would you be bullied?"

"No particular reason. Quiet, smart,
allergies. And I was little. Kids are cruel."

"Of course."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly do you need me to do?"

"Protect my daughter."

"From what?"

"Oh nothing in particular. Herself mostly.
She's out to college now and a bit wild. I just worry, you know, as
a father does."

"I see."

"Her mother bought her a very sheltered life
you know--not like yours I guess. Doesn't really know how to handle
herself. Doesn't know her limits."

"I understand."

"She's out at all hours of the night, and I
don't doubt doing things she shouldn't be."

"College is like that."

"She's a pretty girl, too. Attracts
attention, you know what I mean? And she wants it, too."

"She's young."

"Yes, yes. And I want to look over her
shoulder, keep her out of trouble."

"Of course."

"But she's an adult now, just turned
eighteen. She's got to break out on her own. Learn to live and make
mistakes and all that."

"Right."

"I don't want to smother her, you know.
That'll just make it worse. But I need someone who can keep an eye
on her."

"I can do that sir."

"You're young, you'll blend in with her
crowd. Just watch out for her."

"I will."

"You've been doing this a while you said,
right? Private security?"

"Five years."

"Good, good."

"Daddy?"

"She's here--hey, sweetie. What are you
doing home?"

"I'm going out. Just stopped by for an
outfit."

"Okay, but I want you to take your new
security."