The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel (24 page)

Bound by his thoughts, Nick did not realize how far he had traveled till he looked back and saw the sloping roof of the Keenans’ house. He rightly figured that if he could not see them, they could not see him either. Looking for a windbreak, he walked further and found a trio of pines rooted in a fissure. Beneath the boughs, he crouched and dug out the scraps from his pocket. The spot was calm, but he made sure to weigh down each strip with a little stick or pinecone or piece of shell. He spent a good twenty minutes figuring out the jigsaw puzzle, and he would have been done sooner had not the images bothered him so.

Jack Peter had drawn the babies.

They were as horrible as he remembered, the distorted faces and limbs, the pale misshapen bodies, the lizardlike way they clung to the walls. The torn paper halved some of the images, while others escaped from the page entirely. He had drawn them before they showed up, and then he had ripped the drawing to shreds after they fled. Why? When could he have possibly seen them? Why would he not wake up when they threatened to climb into the room?

Nick gathered the ribbons of paper and shoved them in his pocket. I won’t go back, he said to himself. I can’t. If he just kept walking, he eventually could reach his own house, break a window, and hide out until his parents came back. But that would be the first place the Keenans would check. He could hide elsewhere, not outdoors, he’d never survive the cold, but in one of the vacation homes boarded up for the winter, it wouldn’t be too hard for a few days. The Mackintosh place was nearby, and he could make it there before anyone came looking for him. If someone stumbled upon him, Nick would say he was running away from a haunted house. But he knew that the Keenans would only come searching or call the cops. He could picture Mrs. Keenan worrying, frantic in the kitchen, and could feel how safe he had been in her embrace. She would know what to do, he decided. She would know what the picture meant. Hitching up his pants, he headed back to the house.

As he climbed the last rocks before reaching the Keenans’ waterfront, Nick noticed a soft spot in the sand, a mound just big enough to hide a body or two. He guessed the bone had been found there, and he could picture the whole skeleton at the bottom of the grave. The grinning skull, the birdcage ribs, the long leg bones, and the arm missing its radius. Nick ran the final forty yards to a safer place beneath the deck. Overturned and resting in the sand, a little wooden boat tempted him with a means of escape, but the hull would not budge. He screwed up his courage and went inside. For the rest of the morning, they circled each other, wary as two bears, Jack Peter suspicious and resentful that his friend had left him and Nick paranoid about the games his friend was playing. Mr. Keenan flitted around the edge, cleaning house and looking in on them, vaguely aware of the tension between the boys.

*   *   *

No one greeted them when they entered the house. She hung their coats by the door and called out that she was home, but no one answered. They went through the living room and into the kitchen, where Holly put the kettle on. Miss Tiramaku took a turn around the room, stopping at the refrigerator to admire Jack’s drawing affixed to the door with four magnets.

“Your son?” she asked.

“No,” Holly laughed. “That’s Nicholas in the picture, but Jack drew it. That’s his latest thing, one of many portraits, who knows how long it’ll last. He’s taken it up recently and has become something of a fiend for it. I bought him art supplies for Christmas, and he’s nearly gone through the whole sketch pad already. And poor Nicholas. I’m not sure he’s as interested, but that’s all they do. Draw, draw, draw.”

“He has a certain eye.”

“You think so? A mother can’t be objective.”

“You have a lovely home,” she said.

“Thank you. It’s a work in progress, even after all these years. I’ll give you the grand tour once our tea is ready. Can’t imagine where my husband’s gone off to.”

Overhead a loud clump on the floor let them know they were not alone after all. Holly hulloed again, and the boys came tumbling downstairs, Nick arriving first and Jack on his heels. They stopped in the threshold at the sight of Miss Tiramaku, wary of her strange presence. From his workroom below came Tim, his arms laden with the day’s laundry, ready for folding, in a green plastic basket.

“Where have you been hiding?” Holly asked. “This is a friend of mine. Miss Tiramaku, this is my husband, Tim, and the boy with no socks is our son, Jack, and the sensible one is Nicholas Weller.”

The males waved hello in their dopey shyness. Finding his manners, Tim came over to shake hands properly, but she bowed slightly instead, confusing him, and then they resorted to an awkward exchange of greetings.

“Where did you two meet?” Tim asked.

“Out and about,” Holly said.

“I work for Father Bolden,” Miss Tiramaku spoke over her. “At the Star of the Sea, and I met your wife there. How come I didn’t see you at Mass on Christmas eve?”

The scowl on his face came and went in an instant, but everyone noticed. “I don’t go to church. I don’t believe in such things. I only believe in what my senses tell me, what is real.”

“
Spiritus est qui vivificat
, Mr. Keenan. ‘It is the Spirit which gives us life.’”

Holly could see that he was growing annoyed, so she changed the subject. “Boys, Miss Tiramaku came all the way from Japan, clear on the other side of the world.”

“How did you end up all the way in Maine?” Tim asked. “At a Catholic church, no less.”

“I was an orphan raised by nuns,” she said. “Years later I came here as a young woman, intended for the religious life, but God had other plans for me. I keep house for the priest.”

The teakettle whistled, and Holly asked if anyone cared to join her in a cup. Tim crossed his arms and slouched against the back of his chair.

“It’s called tiger tea,” Miss Tiramaku said as she joined the boys at the table. “The secret ingredient is the stripes of a tiger.”

Jack giggled at her remark, but Nick rolled his eyes. They added teaspoons of sugar and a schlook of milk to their cups. Everyone sat up straight in their chairs, good posture, and Holly smiled to herself when she saw Jack mimic Miss Tiramaku’s grip on the handle, one dainty pinkie sticking out. Tim sulked at the end of the table, nursing his drink.

“You boys have a good Christmas?” Miss Tiramaku asked. “Santa Claus was generous this year?”

They nodded. Nick’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“You are so lucky,” she said. “At Christmastime, there wasn’t too much for all the children in the orphanage. We all got some special treat, a slice of fruitcake and some roast turkey, but only one present, you see—there wasn’t too much money. And all the other girls, they wanted a doll, perhaps, or maybe a teddy bear or something they could hold and carry around like little mothers. But not me. Do you know what I wished for?”

The boys looked down into their teacups and had no answers.

“I saw a picture in a magazine about a windup fish. It was a koi, with a tiny key and golden scales and jade eyes. The most magnificent thing ever. So I prayed for it, and told the nuns about it, and would you guess, bless them, there was the windup goldfish for my Christmas gift, and it was as lovely as I had imagined. The special thing was that if you wound the key and put it into the water, the fish would really swim. All through that winter, I would play with the windup fish in a basin, or when they would give us a bath it would circle round the tub, and I never tired of it. Often I dreamt of it at night, swimming in my dreams. When spring came, I took it outdoors. There was a stream behind the orphanage, and one day, I wound it up and put the koi in the water, and it could swim just like a real fish. The most astonishing thing. But then the fish kept going down the stream and I ran beside it, chasing from the banks, but I was not fast enough. It swam out into the river and from the river into the sea and across the sea to America, and though my heart was broken, that is how I knew I would one day end up here in this country.”

When she had finished her story, Miss Tiramaku folded her hands in front of her atop the table. The boys fidgeted in their seats, freed from the spell.

“I like to draw,” Jack said.

“So I hear,” said Miss Tiramaku. “What do you like to draw?”

“What is in my head.” His right hand began to twitch, as though he could not control the impulse to draw even at this moment.

Tim tapped a spoon against his teacup. “I think that’s enough, Jip.”

Miss Tiramaku unfolded her hands and placed one on each side of Jack’s teacup, and in a near whisper, she asked, “What do you imagine in that mind of yours?”

“Monsters,” said Nick. “He draws monsters.”

She reached out to still Jack’s hands, and he did not even flinch.

“Would you mind if I talked alone with your son?” Miss Tiramaku asked. “Somewhere the two of us could have a private chat. Give us the chance to speak frankly. I’ll come get you when we are through. It won’t be long, but I feel certain that Jack wants to say some things, if he could take me into his confidence.” She raised one eyebrow, and Holly took the cue, and pushed Tim and Nick into the living room, shutting the door behind them with a firm click.

“Why is
she
here?” He was simmering anger just below the surface. “What are you doing in church, Holly? You mean more than just at Christmas?”

Holly frowned at him. “I needed to talk with someone. About Jack.”

“So you went to see a priest without saying anything, and he sent his … minion over here to plant ideas in our son. She kicked me out of the kitchen, my own kitchen.”

“Would you keep your voice down? They’re right in the next room.”

He raised his voice. “I will not. What sort of monkey business are you trying to pull, Holly? I don’t approve—”

“Please don’t shout.”

“I’m not shouting,” he shouted.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Nick pretending to inspect the ornaments on the Christmas tree, as if he were oblivious to their conversation, but those boys heard everything, noticed every little detail. Turning her back on her husband, Holly went straight to the stereo cabinet and chose an album from their collection, and then put the record on the old-fashioned turntable and switched it on. The stereo had belonged to her parents, and it was one last link to her childhood and family. The arm swung in motion and dropped the needle precisely in the groove for the first track. “Jingle Bells” by Frank Sinatra. The music was loud enough to drown out their conversation.

“I don’t like this,” said Tim. His tone had changed, his manner much calmer. “Did you ever see such a creature? That eye. There’s no call to bring in strangers to talk to our son. Especially without my permission.”

“I don’t need your permission, Tim.”

“He’s my boy, too.”

“I’m going out of my mind, and if you won’t do something, I will.”

Tim perched on the arm of the sofa. “How long has this been going on?”

“For years,” Holly said. “He’s going to be out of control one day. And despite what you think, he’s getting worse. Not worse, but more difficult.”

“I don’t mean Jip. I mean, how long have you been seeing this priest and this voodoo woman? She gives me the creeps.”

“Just a little while, and you shouldn’t judge people by how they look. Even an oyster hides a pearl.” She uncrossed her arms and leaned on the opposite wing of the sofa. “It’s getting to me, Tim. It all started when I surprised Jack in his sleep. My head is hammering all the time. Noises, tap-tapping, and then you come in a bloody mess, and poor Nicholas comes crying in the middle of the night.”

Nick looked away, as if embarrassed to be remembered.

“We’re all on edge, and you have to admit there’s trouble with Jack—”

“It’s a phase,” he said.

“Not a phase, Tim. Not another damned chapter, but the whole rest of the story.”

He looked away from her, and she turned her head in the opposite direction. Cemented in place, just as Nick had seen his own parents so many times, and he began to wonder if this was not part of what it meant to be a grown-up, to reach an impasse in the argument too deep for words. Even for adults. Sinatra kept crooning, and when the songs were over, she flipped the record and they listened to the other side, trapped in the living room by the circumstances of the day.

When the door opened, the woman, bowed with fatigue, ushered in the boy with a hand on his shoulder. Her face was wilted but she seemed clearly pleased by the conversation. Jack Peter looked the same as ever, a bit tamer perhaps, or calm enough at last to bear the weight of human contact. Mr. and Mrs. Keenan rose from their places, expecting some news from beyond, and they both seemed surprised by the simple presence of their son.

“We had a good talk,” Miss Tiramaku said. “Didn’t we, Jack?”

Jack Peter smiled and nodded his head.

“We’ll have to talk again, if that’s okay with you.”

“Do you think you can help?” Mrs. Keenan asked.

There was a moment’s hesitation that stretched and swallowed hope. “Yes,” Miss Tiramaku finally said. “I’ll help.”

By her side, with the deft motions of his fingers, Jack Peter drew figures in the air.

iv.

Tim could no longer remember with any clarity the moment he realized the truth about his son. As first-time parents living on their own far away from any family, how could they be expected to read the signs? Their pediatrician had told them not to worry—each child develops at its own pace, there’s no strict timetable for rolling over or sitting up or vocalizing, no matter what the books might say. The only other baby in their sphere was Nell’s son, Nick, and he wasn’t exactly a prodigy but more or less the same, so what could Tim be expected to know? They eat, they cry, they sleep. They need their diapers to be changed. One day they seem to recognize you, respond to the sound of your voice. They coo, they drool, they smile. They work as designed. The way they are meant to work. Until they don’t.

And then the experts tell you the truth. The doctors, all supremely diffident even when they mean to convey empathy and good bedside manners, they tell you something is not right with your son, and your wife goes to pieces, and you tell yourself that he can be fixed. Everything broken can be made whole again. Bit by bit, day by day, measured in minor victories, Jip could be restored. Faith and hard work will make it so, and then suddenly she says, no, he’s getting worse, if such a thing is possible. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know what a father can do. No need for priests and one-eyed witches and their hocus-pocus.