The Caterpillar King (10 page)

“Yes, you very nearly beat it to death,” I
say. “Now please, we have a guest.”

Galla grunts and puts the kettle on. Notice
her shirt is tucked into her undergarments in back. Don’t know how
she manages to look less appealing every day.

“You called at an interesting hour,” says
Sabonne.

“Interesting problem,” I say. “See…”

She cuts me off. “No need to explain. Is the
child still alive?”

Try to get past the astonishment. Her eyes
don’t give her away.

“May I see him?” she asks.

“Why…yes. He’s just getting cleaned up.
It’ll only be a moment.” I pause. “We were just wondering…if
anyone…”

“Has had an early birth? Of course.”

“But this early?”

She swats away my question like an annoying
fly. “Yes. They’re much less common, though. And they all
died.”

Galla inadvertently gasps, covers it up with
a pathetic attempt at a sneeze.

“Pardon,” she says. “But what was the
cause?”

An amused grin from Sabonne. “Parents blamed
it on the birth. But it had more to do with neglect. Leaving the
kids by the street, leaving the kids by the stairs, leaving the
kids in the bath…”

Ten shades of red burn Galla’s face. Doesn’t
even bother keeping calm; instead, she sprints to the tub.

“You seem quite knowledgeable,” I say.

“It’s my job,” she says.

I’m not talking about your work
, I
want to say. You seem quite knowledgeable about
us
. But why
bother verbalizing it? Sabonne’s probably already read my
thoughts.

“The rehanging is safe,” she says.

“Oh?” I say.

Notice the kettle boiling, get up to tend to
drinks.

“If that’s the path you choose,” she
says.

I laugh without looking at her. “You make it
sound as if there’s a decision to be made.” Turn back with my two
cups of tea. “Is there?”

She stares, doesn’t speak. Could interpret
it a thousand different ways, but what’s the point? Galla
interrupts the stalemate, brings the child back in. The boy looks
refreshed from the bath, but she’s the worse for wear.

“What do you think?” says Galla. Holds the
child out like a butcher would hold a carcass. Sabonne rises.

“If you need anything, call,” she says. She
heads for the door.

“But…” I say. Tongue-tied, I let Sabonne
slip away. Hear the front door open and shut. Look down in dismay
at two cups of hot water.

Galla snorts. “Thought you were on a date,
did you?”

“I have her number,” I say.

“You need
anything
,” mimics Galla.
“Personally, I’d say that’s a bit forward. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hmph,” I say.

Pour the tea down the drain. Chai’s
repulsive, anyway.

***

Galla stays home from work. Perhaps trying
to send us into economic ruin, who can say. At noon, she gets a
call. Claims it’s important.

“Can you look after Tate for 10 minutes?”
she asks. She’s got the boy wrapped tight in her arms.

“You’ve got to let go of him first,” I say.
“You’re on the verge of crushing his lungs.”

She loosens her arms, nearly drops him.
Sends me into a fit of laughter.

“Yes,” I say. “It might be better if you
left him with me.”

I’m rewarded with an angry scowl and a happy
child. Take him in my hands and toss him up and down a bit.

“Mum’s playing the slippery baby game. Oops,
almost lost you!” He squeals with glee. Quite adorable, really.

“I don’t trust you with him,” she says.

“Why use six words when four will do?” I
say.

Galla frowns, mutters something
incomprehensible. She’s already heading for the bathroom. “Quicker
the call, the better!” I shout out.

She doesn’t even bother to slam the door.
That’s how I know she’s angry.

Got a perfect activity planned for the boy.
Going in for another round of steam art, but this time I’ll give
him the full show. Already have some boiling water from the wasted
tea. Throw another couple pots on the stove, should be perfect. In
the meantime, go to the shower to get it warmed up. Everything’s
coming together beautifully.

Back in the kitchen, water’s started to
boil. The little tyke’s balanced against the oven, his hand
reaching up, aimed for the pot. Oh no you don’t. Whisk him away
before he can cause any trouble. Toss him in the bathtub, let the
water run over him. Next to the tub, one of the kettles is already
full, flip it on. Can hear yelps of joy as I hurry away. Think it’s
joy, anyway.

Run the shuttle back and forth, carrying
steaming pots. Have to use flowery holders to prevent burns, but
art comes at a price. That price is self-respect. One pot here, one
pot there, even spacing around the bathroom is key. Kettle’s
already billowing smoke, all is joyous. Close the bathroom door,
seal it in. Barely able to see through the fog. A mystical
experience, really. Only interrupted by the sound of Tate’s bowel
movements.

Glance at the shower to see if it was all
bark and no bite. Sadly, looks like a bit of each. Well, he
is
in the right place to freshen up. I let him wallow in it
for a while to teach him a lesson. Even take the time to draw a
couple lines. Not long before the smell of steaming faeces
overpowers my inspiration. Grab the boy, spin him around, hold him
in front of the shower head until visible traces are removed. It’s
all rather runny and it slides down the drain easily. Find myself
thinking,
how fortunate
. Also find myself thinking,
six
more hours
.

The boy looks a bit too comfortable, so I
pull him from the tub. Wouldn’t want him to cause any permanent
damage. Need a different activity for him. Figure something more
hands-on might work.

“You want to be like Daddy? Of course you
do.” I place him in front of the mirror, and he finds his
balance.

“See, this is how you make…”

Before I can show him, the boy’s smacked his
hand against the mirror. Smears it downward, then pulls back. Image
looks a bit like a castle turret. Color me impressed.

“Nice start,” I say. “Now try a bit of
subtlety. Soft touches, more empty space, etc.”

Not sure why I insist on treating the boy
like an actual person. Maybe I believe he understands something.
Maybe I pity him.

Tate keeps at it, a pinky sliding this way,
a thumb soaring above. Two finger technique quite effective, I must
say. Step back and watch him work, my chest swelling with pride.
Look at the smile on his face- I’m sure mine’s twice as big. The
image develops, lines branching out in every direction. At first,
seems to merely be an abstraction, but sure enough, form soon
reveals itself. The long handprint was no turret, it was a trunk!
The tree is quite recognizable; it’s the very same one in my
backyard. The boy saves the empty bag for last. Underneath it,
there’s a blurred figure. Realize that he’s drawn the first scene
of his life. From an
outside
perspective. Genius.

He looks to me, his big round eyes begging
for approval. I want to hug him; I want to cry. How do I feel?
How’d
La Joconde
feel when she saw Leo’s masterpiece? It’s
stunning. The boy’s already far eclipsed my ability, and he’s only
had one go at it. Consider taking the whole mirror down and framing
it. Of course, that’s an impossibility. But there are other avenues
to explore. Always had a backup plan in case I ever created
anything of real value. Very long ago, I bought a box of frosted
glass panes, each square about the size of a small window. Smear
some Vaseline on your hands, start painting, and the frosting comes
right off. Effect isn’t perfect, but it’s close enough. Never
wanted to bring my art to the masses unless I had something that
could floor them. Now, I do.

Assuming this isn’t beginner’s luck (it’s
not), Tate could lead us to glory and riches. Already begin
planning an extravagant future. I could have him paint a dozen…two
dozen…the possibilities are endless. Naturally, I’d take a small
amount of credit for the work- I did introduce him to the medium,
after all. But he’d reap the benefits eventually. Too bad my golden
ticket’s scheduled to be bagged this very evening.

Look at the painting once more, and it’s
settled. Absolutely cannot go through with the rehanging. There’s
no guarantee he’ll be the same once he’s reborn. Can’t take the
risk of losing such talent. The boy’s just too valuable. But then,
how to break the news to Galla? Not a clue. Also, small problem
with regard to next twelve years of childcare. Details always get
in the way of one’s dreams. And now someone’s banging on the
bathroom door.

“Call’s over!” says Galla.

“Minute, please,” I say.

“You can’t lock the boy in there whenever
you feel the need,” she says.

I’m still going over the painting, need to
block out her brassy voice. Get the baby out of the tub, open the
door, complete the handoff. Galla nearly chokes on a burst of
steam.

“Strange idea of a good time,” she says.

“It’s art,” I say, shutting the door. “It’s
supposed to be miserable.”

Back to the drawing board, as it were. Study
it like I’d study one of the masters. What gives some work such
life
? How can the same lines- rearranged- evoke opposite
feelings? Makes it seem like there must be a key, a one word
answer. But of course there isn’t. The greatness of a work is in
its totality, in the exact correctness of every single piece.

Much to think about, but the steam’s
overtaking the image. Turn off the shower, the kettles, etc, but
it’s far too late. The scene is gone. Hope the boy has mother’s
memory. Mine’s positively worthless.

Finish up in the bathroom with thoughts of
Ms. Sabonne. Put my own exaggerated touches on the vision. Sabonne
enters the room, her clothes dissolve in steam. We lie on an
oversized, fogged-up mirror, our bodies imprinting themselves in
art. And…down the pot she goes. Takes all of three minutes.

Go on the hunt for my little protégé. Need a
strategy to convince Galla to keep him. Can I fake love? Why not?
Women have been at it for centuries. Head to the bedroom and am
greeted by one of the more bizarre scenes I’ve ever witnessed.
Galla and Tate sit next to each other on the floor, a sea of bright
green earplugs all around them. Galla’s silent and crying. Tate
looks as if Brutus is behind him. Face shrieking in pain, eyes
bulging out of his skull, lips blue. But completely silent.

“May I interrupt?” I say.

Galla looks up as if she doesn’t recognize
me.

“Care to explain what’s happening?” I
say.

She points to the earplugs beside her.

“
Now
you’re not talking?” I say.
“Always seem to get what I want, but at the absolute wrong
time.”

“He….” Galla’s voice trembles. “He
swallowed…”

Scene finally becomes clear to me. Blue
lips, silent scream. The boy’s choking. Obvious, really.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” I say.
“Save him!”

But she’s paralyzed. Looks like this’ll fall
on me. What to do? Something, anything. All I know: movement is
necessary.

“Pick him up!” I scream. “Turn him upside
down!” Never been one to keep cool under pressure, I’ll admit it.
Galla follows my orders like a good soldier. Grabs him by the
ankles and dangles him in the air.

“Now shake him,” I say. “Shake him
harder!”

She bounces him around for all he’s worth.
Likely to put him at risk for whiplash. Still, nothing comes out of
his throat.

“Better yet,” I say. “Hold him still.” Galla
stops the wash cycle. “I’ll hit him,” I say. “That’ll do the
trick.”

Galla moans something unintelligible. Don’t
care. I’m focused. Target is right at the belly button. I’ll run
through, blast him with a punch, and the cursed little cork should
fly right out of him. Might have a nasty stomachache afterwards.
Generally preferable to death, though.

Steel myself, bounce on my heels a time or
two, then I charge. Galla holds the boy like a red flag; I’m the
bull. Fist cocked back, ready for impact. “Aaaahhh!” I scream. A
meter between us, then half that. Galla’s grip loosens. I swing
through and hit air. The force sends me tumbling into the wall.
Behind me, hear the second sickening thud in as many days.

“You dropped him…” I manage. Untangle
myself, turn around, and look at Tate. He’s flat on his back, a
slimy green earplug resting on his chest. Could it be the one?
Quick answer to my question: the most deafening scream I’ve ever
heard. Half think about going for a pair of earplugs myself. Would
be slightly insensitive, though.

“Oh, I’m sorry love, I’m sorry.” Galla’s
finally free from her stupor. She picks up the child and cradles
him. Makes some cooing noises to boot. Haven’t seen her act this
gentle since…simply haven’t seen it at all.

“Well,” I say. “Well.”

Galla looks me straight on. “Arboss,” she
says. “We’re not rehanging him. I won’t allow it…I won’t have him
taken from me.”

Can’t believe her reaction. Expected her to
rush out to the tree and bag the boy this instant. Instead…she
wants to keep him? So they’ve bonded over trauma. Suppose it can
happen. Start thinking practically, and I’m thrilled. Galla and
I’ve come to the same conclusion- for disparate reasons, of course-
but still. It means I get my way.

Love it when that happens.

13.

Ned was in my basement so that’s where I
went. It smelled like home. I crossed through the workshop and made
my way to the cave door. Without Ned, I had no leads. I almost
regretted putting him in there. Almost.

I opened the wooden door. It was unlocked
again. I didn’t know what was happening, but I wasn’t happy.
Inside, I could see a faint glow. The cocoon pulsed with light. I
flipped open my pocketknife and made my way into the cave.