Specimen Days (25 page)

Children know where the teeth are hiding They only tell us what they think we can bear
Pete said, "You should go back and interrogate her." "I don't interrogate."

"Whatever. Go have a chat with the murderous old bitch."

"Glad to. You've got more people coming, right?"

"About half the force."

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"I was about to say, Don't worry. Now why would I say a thing like that?"

"Take a cab back to the precinct, okay? I need all the boys here."

"I love a cab." "Get the receipt."

"You know I will."

It took her a while to get a cab in a neighborhood this close to the projects. When a courageous soul finally stopped for her (Manil Gupta, according to his ID;

thank you, Manil), she let herself sink into the piney semidark of the backseat, watched the city slip by.

She asked Manil to take her to her apartment instead of the precinct so she could pick up her copy of
Leaves of Grass.
She might want to refer to it as she talked to the woman, and it seemed unlikely there'd be a copy lying around the Seventh.

Manil nodded and took off. Even if he was only taking her to East Fifth, she found it nice to be driven like this, to hand over control to somebody else. The late-night New York you saw from a moving car was relatively quiet and empty, more like anyplace else in nocturnal America. Only at these subdued moments could you truly comprehend that this glittering, blighted city was part of a slumbering continent; a vastness where headlights answered the constellations; a fertile black roll of field and woods dotted by the arctic brightness of gas stations and all-night diners, town after shuttered town strung with streetlights, sparsely attended by the members of the night shifts, the wanderers who scavenged in the dark, the insomniacs with their reading lights, the mothers trying to console colicky babies, the waitresses and gas-pump guys, the bakers and the lunatics. And scattered all over, abundant as stars, disc jockeys sending music out to whoever might be listening.

She got out of the cab at the corner of Fifth Street, paid Manil and gave him an extravagant tip. At first, as she approached her building, she merely understood that a small person was huddled in the doorway. Finding someone camped there was not unusual. She'd gotten used to stepping over drunks and vagrants on her way in. This one was smaller than most, though. He sat with his back against the vestibule door, knees pulled up to his chest. He was wrapped in a khaki jacket, army surplus. He was white. When she reached the bottom stair, she knew.

"Hi," he said. Here was his voice.

Although it was hard to tell from his bunched-up position, she guessed he was just over three feet tall. A midget child. Or was it a dwarf? He looked out at her from the upturned collar of his oversized jacket. He had a pale, round face. Big, dark eyes and a tiny mouth, puckered, as if he were whistling. He might have been a baby owl, roosting on a branch.

"Hello," she said. Calm. Stay very, very calm.

They were silent for a moment. What should she do? She could have the boys here in less than ten minutes, and she had his only exit blocked. Even if he managed to get around her, she could probably catch him.

Not yet, though. Not right this second. She mounted one stair tread. He didn't seem to mind her coming that much closer. This might be the only chance to get him talking. After this, it would be the interrogators.

She said, "Are you all right?" He nodded.

Cat fingered the cell phone in her coat pocket. "Have you decided to let me help you?" she asked.

He nodded again. "And you've decided to let me help you, too, right?"

"How do you want to help me?"

"Every atom of mine belongs to you, too."

"I know," she said.

"I brought something." "What did you bring?"

He opened the jacket. Strapped to his tiny chest was a length of steel pipe. It seemed to be attached with duct tape. In his right hand he held a lighter, one of the cheap plastic ones you can get anywhere. It was red. He flicked it, produced a flame.

She drew a breath. Focus. Stay calm and focused.

"You don't want to do this," she said. "I know you don't."

"We have to do things that are hard sometimes."

"Listen to me. Walt is telling you to do something bad. I know it seems like it's right, but it isn't. I think you know that, don't you?"

He faltered. He looked at her pleadingly. He let the flame go out.

"You have to do it so it isn't murder," he said. "You have to do it with love."

"You have a lot of love in you, I think. Am I right?"

"I don't know," he said.

"And you're alone now. Is that right?"

He nodded. "We moved out," he said. "We're not home anymore."

"It's just you now."

"Well. Me and Walt."

"Walt left you on your own?"

"It's my time."

"Are you afraid of Walt?"

"No."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not sure."

"I think maybe you're afraid of getting hurt. I think you're afraid of hurting other people, too. Is that right?"

"It isn't murder if you do it with love." "Are you afraid you don't feel enough love?" "I guess."

"I think you have a lot of love in you. I think you're loving, and I think you're brave. It's brave of you to want to talk to me."

"That's nice. But it's not true. You don't know." "What don't I know?"

He paused. His little puckered mouth curled in on itself.

She said, "Listen to me. You're confused. You know what Walt is telling you to do is wrong. I want you to take that thing off your chest and give it to me. Then everything will be all right. I promise."

He stood. He was barely three feet tall. It was impossible to tell, in the big jacket, how deformed he might or might not be. The eyes were slightly too big, the mouth too small. His round head was big for his frail body. It stood on the shoulders of the coat like a pumpkin. Like a picture of the moon in a children's book.

"I can't tell what to do," he said.

"Yes, you can. Take that thing off and give it to me. I'll make sure you're all right. Everything will be all right."

"I didn't want to move. We always lived there."

"It's hard, moving. I can understand why you're upset."

He nodded gravely. Cat was seized by a spasm of dreadful compassion. Here was a monster; here was a frightened child. Here was a tortured little boy who could at any moment blow them both away. Her ears buzzed. She was surprised to know that she was not afraid, not exactly afraid.

"I
am
upset," he said.

She hesitated. What was going to work? Too much kindness, and he could decide he loved her enough to kill her. Too little kindness, and he might do it out of rage.

She moved a step closer. Why not? It wouldn't make any difference, if he detonated. And if she got closer to him she might be able to knock him down, pin his arms, get the bomb. He'd have to strike a flame and light the fuse. She'd probably have time to stop him. But she couldn't be sure.

"I'm sorry," he said. His nose had started to run.

"Don't be sorry. You've got nothing to feel sorry about."

Whoever put him up to this had abandoned him. No child responds well to abandonment, not even a deranged one. She decided. Her best chance was to take him in, try to gain his trust. Wait until he let his guard down, and make her move.

She said, "Are you hungry?" "A little."

"Why don't you come upstairs with me? I could make you something to eat."

"Really?" he said. "Yes. Come on, it's fine."

She went up the last two stairs and stood beside him. She took the keys out of her bag. Her hand was shaking (funny, she didn't
think
she was afraid), but she managed to unlock the door.

"Come in," she said.

She held the door open for him. He waited. He wanted her to enter first, didn't he? He must know that if she got behind him, she could grab his arms.

She went in ahead. He followed.

"It's upstairs," she said.

She mounted the stairs, with the kid right behind her, and opened the door to her apartment. He refused to go in ahead of her. He remained two paces behind.

"This is nice," he said.

It wasn't nice. It was a dump. It was dirty. There were shoes and clothes strewn around.

"Thank you," she said. "Why don't you take your coat off?"

"That's okay."

She went into the kitchen. He followed close behind. She opened the minifridge. Not much there. There were a couple of eggs, though, that were probably still all right. No bread. She thought she might have some crackers somewhere.

"How about scrambled eggs?" she said. "Okay."

She washed out the skillet, which had been soaking in the sink for a few days, and passed through a moment of surreal embarrassment about her housekeeping. The boy stood a few feet away, watching her. In the light, she could better appreciate how compromised he was. His shoulders, frail as the bones of a bird, canted to the right. His ears were mere nubs, bright pink, like wads of chewing gum stuck on either side of his big round skull.

"Where are your children?" he asked.

"I don't have any."

"You don't have any at all?"

"No."

He was getting agitated. He was looking around the apartment and fingering the lighter. Apparently he thought every woman had to have children.

"Okay, yes," she said. "I have a little boy named Luke. But he's not here now. He's far away."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No. He's not coming back soon."

"Luke is a nice name."

"How old are you?" she asked as she cracked an egg into a bowl.

"I'm the youngest."

"And what's your name?"

"I don't have one."

"What do people call you, then?"

"I know when they're talking to me."

"Your brothers didn't have names, either?" He shook his head.

Cat broke the second egg. She looked for a moment at the two yolks, their deep yellow, floating in the pallid viscosity. It was so normal: two eggs in a bowl. She beat them with a fork.

"Did you love your brothers?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You must miss them."

"I do."

She poured the eggs into the pan. Ordinary, ordinary. Making scrambled eggs for a child. Should she throw the hot pan at him? No, his hand was still inside his jacket, holding the lighter. It was too risky. She scraped the eggs with a spatula, put them on a plate with a couple of Triscuits.

"Come on," she said. He followed her to the table in the living room. She put the plate down for him, went back for silverware and a glass of cranberry juice. It was that or tap water.

If he detonated in here, the whole apartment would go-She took him a fork, a napkin, and the juice. She sat in the other chair, across from him.

"Don't you want any?" he asked. "I'm not hungry right now. You go ahead." He ate innocently, hungrily. She watched him. "Have you always lived with Walt?" she asked.

"Yes." He took a sip of the cranberry juice and grimaced.

"Don't you like the juice?" she asked.

"No, it's okay. I've just never had it." He took another sip.

He was trying to please her. He was being polite.

"Does Walt hurt you?" she asked.

"No."

"Then why do you think she wants you to die? That doesn't sound like love to me."

"We don't die. We go into the grass. We go into the trees."

"Is that what Walt tells you?"

"It's in our home."

"What's in your home?"

"Everything is."

"Do you go to school?"

"No."

"How often have you left?"

"At first, I never did. Then it was time, and we went outside."

"What was that like?"

"It was hard. I mean, I was surprised."

"By how big the world is?"

"I guess."

"Did you like it?"

"Not at first. It was so noisy."

"Do you like it now?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you're not sure if you're ready to go into the trees and the grass?"

"I'm not brave," he said. "I'm not loving. My brothers were."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Uh-huh."

"The world is more beautiful and wonderful than you can imagine. It's not just the city."

"I know that. It's on the wall."

"But it's different when you see it. There are mountains. There are woods, and they're full of animals. There are oceans. There are beaches covered with shells."

"What are shells?"

"They're… They're the most beautiful little round boxes. The ocean makes them. And when you put them close to your ear, you can hear the sound of the ocean inside them."

"The ocean makes boxes and puts itself inside?"

"It puts its sound inside. Wouldn't you like to go to a beach and see the shells?"

"I guess."

"I could take you there. Would you like me to do that?"

"I guess."

"You can have a long, wonderful life. You can see the ocean. You can sail on a ship."

Why did she feel even slightly guilty, telling him that?

He said, "I like dogs."

"Of course you do. Dogs are nice."

"But they can bite you, right?"

"No, a dog wouldn't bite you. A dog would love you. He'd sleep with you at night."

"I think I'd be afraid."

"You wouldn't have to be afraid. I'd be with you."