The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel (7 page)

Even in dim light, the blur of white blazed before his eyes. Hung from the closet rod, the two naked bodies, twined together as if bound, swung in the draft he had created. Despite their disfigurement, they were recognizable at once as the corpses of his parents joined together in one final dance. The rotting smell rolled off the corpses, burning his sinuses and lingering in his mouth. Their skin was the color of bone yet waxy, the consistency of soft cheese peeling off in curled ribbons, and when they swirled into view, their crimson faces were bloated, lips blue, noses scarred as though nibbled by fishes, their wet hair flat and plastered along the contours of their skulls. Their mouths hung open and their tongues lolled hideous as eels. Worst of all, their open eyes stared straight at him, sunken in the folds of skin thick as wet dough. A dead look of accusation. They seemed to have been dragged from the bottom of the sea like a pair of large fish hung on a string to dry.

Nick did not cry out at first, for he could not reconcile the difference between what he was seeing and what his mind knew to be true. Two simultaneous versions of reality from which to choose: the swinging bodies in the closet and the surety that his parents slept not twenty feet away in their own bed, dead drunk to the world, just out of reach. It was the incompatibility of these truths that made him crack, and he screamed, running down the dark hallway to the safety of their room. He kept on screaming until he saw his mother shift beneath the blankets and turn on the small lamp on her crowded night table. In the soft glow, her eyes blinked, bloodshot, and she struggled to sit up against the pillows, fighting the stupor in her mind, and disoriented by the sudden presence of her terrified son.

“What it is, pet? Did you have a nightmare?” She held out her arms to him.

He slipped in beside her on the empty space between her and the edge of the mattress. Roping her arms around his shoulders, his mother pulled him toward her.

“There were bodies in the closet,” Nick said, realizing at once that it could not be so. She was right here. And in there, swinging on a rope next to Dad.

“Are you sure? Skeletons in the closet.” She laughed to herself despite her best efforts at restraint.

“You and Dad were drowned.”

“Drowned? We’re right here.” Her breath smelled of sour wine. She blinked her eyes, fighting sleep, as she tightened her grip around his wrist. He would have stayed there forever had she not nodded off and then suddenly snapped awake, as if she finally remembered who he was. “Still scared? Let’s go see about those bodies in the closet. I’ll bet you anything it’s a couple of coats that just seemed to be something else in the dark.”

Nick started to object, but his mother had already let go and was forcing him off the edge of the bed with her hip. She reeled in the darkness and flipped on the light in the hallway and then again as they entered his room, mother bold and protective with her son hiding behind her nightgown. He was as intimidated by her speed and confidence as he was frightened of what was behind the closed closet door. Had he closed it when he fled? She did not hesitate to reach for the knob and fling it open. Just as she had promised, nothing inside but his old familiar clothes. They stood together for a while considering its emptiness.

“See,” she said in a calm and comforting voice, guiding him to his place. “Nothing to fear. We’ll leave it open if you like, but it was just your imagination.”

Nick climbed back into his bed with a dozen pictures in his head, and as she kissed him good night, he wanted to beg her to stay, at least until he could fall asleep, but he let her go, stumbling back to her room. He turned on the lamp on his nightstand for he knew he could not sleep in the dark.

vii.

His bedroom faced the ocean, and in the morning, the rising sun would blaze fire over water and shine through his window. If he had not drawn the curtains the night before, Jack Peter would watch the reflection of the dawn in the bureau mirror on the opposite side of the room. With a rapt devotion, he would study the way the light chased away the dark. Find the pattern, watch how it repeats itself. He would not move until it was over. He tried not to blink until he saw the whole sun. The glass would slowly come to life, changing by degrees nearly imperceptible, but with patience he could distinguish each shade and hue when the pale lavender sky was shot through by the circle of the sun. Soon he could see the long trail of glowing orange run from the horizon to the shore along the smooth surface of the sea and the gentle breaking of the waves along the bottom of the mirror. Then the burning disk would continue its slow ascent, the sky would yellow then blue, and a new day had begun.

He got out of bed and scurried to his desk. Although the winter sunshine now filled his room, he switched on the lamp to throw a spotlight on his work. Last night’s drawings lay hidden under sheets of virgin white. The stub of a pencil weighed down the papers, and he stared at the blank surface, waiting for an image to appear, some transfer from his mind, and then with the pencil in hand, he carefully drew the first curved line, satisfied that he had at least, at last, started. Within those first few moments, he was free from all exterior distraction and possessed by the flow of lines against the page. A face appeared slowly out of nothing, not a real face, but facelike enough to stand for the thing itself, so that the image on the page became a substitute for the image that had been in his mind.

He had nearly completed his new picture when the others began to awaken. The alarm clock in his parents’ room disturbed him from his work, and his mother rose from her bed, the box springs creaking, and out slipped a mild curse as she stubbed a toe. She would be in soon to awaken him, after she had made a pit stop in the bathroom, so he had just enough time to put away his drawing, turn off the light, climb back into bed, and pretend to be asleep.

“Jack,” she called from above, and when he refused to answer, she spoke his name again, careful not to touch him. “Rise and shine. I can’t afford to be late today.”

With a long and deep moan, he rolled away from her entreaties, so she circled around to the other side and sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes and offered himself to her, remembering yesterday morning he had struck her by accident and wanting to make peace. He pulled her hand to his face, and she caressed his cheek and then brushed his mussed hair with her fingers. “C’mon, Jack, you’ve got to help me out here. Wake up, wake up, buttercup. Time to get out of bed, sleepyhead. We need to get dressed and have some breakfast.” After a few moments of cajoling, she succeeded at last in raising him to a seated position. He pretended to rub the sleep from his eyes.

Mornings had become a game between the two of them. He would dawdle as long as possible whether actually tired or not, and she would coax as long as patience held out. “Lift your arms,” his mother said, and when he had surrendered, she tugged his pajama top over his head. The cold gave him the shivers and he yearned for his sweater.

From the direction of his desk came a rattle, and as they turned toward it, they saw the top drawer shake slightly in its slides as though something inside wanted to get out. Her fingers flew to her mouth to trap in her apprehension. They waited, still and quiet, until the scrabbling began again.

“You’ve got a little visitor, Jack.”

He hugged himself, his thin, bare arms as pale as his undershirt. “What is it?”

The drawer jerked lightly on its rails.

“Sounds like a big mouse.” She smiled and joked, “Or a small rat.”

Gathering the fabric into a circle, she guided the sweater over his head, and he smiled, as always, once he’d pushed his way through the opening. As he worked his way into the sleeves, Jack Peter asked, “Aren’t you going to see what’s in there?”

“Are you kidding? I have no intention of opening that drawer. Would scare me half to death, whatever’s in there. I’ll have your father take a look. That’s why I keep him around—to kill spiders and get rid of mice.”

“But don’t you want to know?”

“I do not. Now, do you think you can put on your pants by yourself and some socks and shoes and march down to breakfast?”

He nodded, so she kissed him on the forehead. She lingered a moment at the foot of the bed, regarding him with tenderness and a short smile, and then she was gone. Jack Peter gathered the blankets around his legs and listened to the next part of the morning routine.

Through his open doorway floated the familiar rhythm of his parents’ fleeting conversation. His mother roused his father from his slumber and readied herself for work. Reminders of the day’s schedule were exchanged, and this morning, words about a mouse in a drawer. She hurried downstairs, poured herself a mug of coffee for the trip to the office, and left, closing the front door with an emphatic click. Some days, after his mother had gone, a brief interval of silence returned to the house, a sure sign that his father had gone back to bed. No such luck today. Down the hall, the pipes rattled and the shower gushed. He had seven minutes before his father would arrive.

As he quickly dressed and straightened his sheets and blankets, he stole glances at the desk drawer to make sure it did not suddenly pop open and release its contents. He sat on the smoothed quilt and counted off the remaining minutes, tapping his left foot on the floor to keep time. At the seven-minute mark, he got up and went to the doorway, anxious for the schedule to be maintained. Even though he knew it was coming, when the door swung open, he was caught by surprise. Clad in a yellow robe bright as a canary, his father stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam that trailed him to the bedroom door. “Up and ready to get cracking? We have Dr. Wilson this morning.”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t like Dr. Wilson.”

“Look, I had to call and get them to squeeze you in this morning. I know you don’t want to go, but it’s mandatory, I’m afraid. No Dr. Wilson, no magic pills.”

“I don’t want to take the magic pills.”

His father scowled at him. “Jip, I’ve told you a hundred times, that’s not an option. Now hurry and get ready. We’ve barely enough time for breakfast.” Just as he was about to leave, the scrabbling and bumping in the drawer began again.

“Wait!” The boy held out his arms like a toddler. “Didn’t Mommy tell you about the noise in the drawer?”

“The mouse?”

Jack Peter took two steps back into the room, hoping to entice him to follow. “Aren’t you curious? Aren’t you going to check?”

His father followed him in. “Curiosity killed the cat, my boy. Or, in this case, the mouse.” He quickly opened the drawer and peered inside, pretending to shuffle the contents. “Nothing here to meet the eye. But not to worry, if there’s a mouse in here, it won’t eat much. We’ll take care of it later. First, Dr. Wilson. There’s no time for games.”

The eggs had gone cold and the little triangles of toast had become hard and dry by the time he came downstairs. He pushed the food with his fork and sipped at a mug of lukewarm cocoa, stealing glances at his father, who was spying on him from behind the newspaper. With a bit of effort, he thought he could dawdle all day, but his father folded the sports section with a crisp crease and laid it down beside his empty coffee cup. “Time to go.”

Condemned, he pushed away from the table and followed his father to the mudroom. First came the dark sunglasses, which made the day into night, and then his coat and hat, his scarf and mittens. He tried to screw his feet into the floor, but he hadn’t the strength to resist his father’s tug at his hand. On with the red boots. They marched to the doorway, and Tim left him standing at the threshold while he went to start up the Jeep. The sun fell brightly upon his face and the cold air wormed its way through the layers of clothing and fingered his skin. He tucked his chin against his chest and shivered. The engine roared to life and his father came trudging from the driveway with an old stadium blanket they kept in the back for just such occasions.

“I can’t,” Jack Peter said.

“Of course you can,” his father answered, and he threw the blanket over Jack Peter’s head and shoulders and wrapped him up so tightly that only his face could be seen. With a firm hand against his son’s back, Tim guided him onto the driveway. On the first step outside, the boy let out a low moan that rose to a steady wail as he was herded the few feet to the car. His father pushed him into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door behind him. Jack Peter banged the seat with his back over and over until he was strapped into place. His cries subsided to a quiet singsong whimper that Tim drowned out by turning on the radio.

“Honestly, Jip, can you cool it just this once?”

Behind his dark glasses and buried in his swaddling, the boy whined softly all the way to the psychiatrist’s office. Once a month to Dr. Wilson. Once every other month to the state-provided therapist. Twice a year to the dentist’s. The odd trip to the pediatrician for other maladies. Every time a little hell.

Even so, it was better now than in the beginning. They had not understood at first what triggered the seizures, and it was only through months of tribulation that they realized that it was being outside that made him panic. When their son first started having the attacks, Tim had to carry him, seven years old, bawling like a rabbit in a trap, pleading not to be taken from inside.

The ordeal with Dr. Wilson took the rest of the morning. First, they had to move from the car to the medical building and then unwrap the blankets once inside. Then Jip had to adjust to the new environment of the pediatric waiting room filled with people. He liked to sit on an end seat with his father next to him, but no two seats together were available, so they stood by the water cooler affecting a casual air. As usual, they went in together for the interrogation.

Wilson rose from his chair, a giant of a man, and reached down to shake Tim’s hand in his huge paw. Emerging from his bushy beard, his smile of greeting was alarming, for he usually wore a severe expression on his face. His joker’s grin was his attempt at appearing nonjudgmental, which often had the opposite effect. While he settled into his throne across from them, Wilson invited them to sit on the couch. He gave Tim one last cursory glance and then turned to the boy.