The Shadow Year (21 page)

“That's bad?” I said.

Ray nodded. “If I find what I'm looking for here, I'll never have to go back there.” He sat quietly for a time, staring. When he finally looked up, he smiled and said, “I'm going out to make the rounds. You guys should come for a while. We'll see some stuff.” From one of the brown paper bags, he retrieved his sneakers and changed out of the black shoes.

“Nice shoes,” said Jim.

Ray shrugged. “I took them from the Blair kid. Right out of his closet.”

“You go in houses?” I asked.

“During the day when everyone is out. I can get in anywhere. That's how I get the stuff I need,” he said, tightening the laces of his right sneaker. “I only take what I need,” he added, a little defensively.

We left the school through the door in Mrs. Plog's kindergarten room, which led out into the playground with monkey bars and a slide. Jim couldn't help himself from spinning the whirly thing as he went past. Ray opened the gate and let us out, and then he took off across the field. We followed at a run as he crossed the bus circle and went up onto the grass, where he knelt down next to a fence that bordered the school.

When we finally caught up and were crouched next to him, he said, “Okay, no matter what happens from here on, you can't say a word. Follow me. If you don't know what to do, watch my hand signals. Walk on the sides of your feet when we're near the windows. Watch out for kids' toys lying around in the backyards.”

Jim and I both nodded, but I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to keep up with them. It didn't matter, though, because a few seconds later we were running through backyards, climbing over split-rail and picket fences. When Ray finally stopped, I almost ran past him. He waved over his shoulder for us to follow as he moved from the back of the yard toward the house. I saw where he was headed—a lit window at knee level on the first floor.

Ray leaned over and rested his hands on his thighs as he peered into the bright rectangle. Jim and I came up on either side of him and assumed the same pose. Inside was a heavy man sitting in a chair with his back to us, watching TV. His head was bald, with big wrinkles of fat where his neck met his
shoulders. On a small table next to him was a tall object that looked like the base of a lamp without the shade or bulb but with a hose attached. The man held the end of the hose and was doing something with it near his face. Finally all became clear when a great bluish stream of smoke formed a cloud like a dark thought above his head. It was the kind of pipe the giant caterpillar on the mushroom had in
Alice in Wonderland.

We were off. Because I couldn't see too much, the sounds of the night became clearer—the bubble of a pool filter, television laughter, an owl in the woods, and between my deep breaths the whisper of cars passing, twenty blocks north, on Sunrise Highway. We broke out of the backyards and crossed Cuthbert, went through another yard, and climbed over a fence to reach the houses on Willow.

Our next stop was the Steppersons'. There was a side window that you could look in if you stood on the fence whose last post butted up against the house. Ray quietly climbed up. He stood there perched in midair for a long time. The glow from the window lit his face, and I watched his expression slowly change from its usual alertness to something slower and more distant. When he was done, he dropped to the ground silently and helped Jim get up on the fence. Jim looked for only a couple of seconds. Then it was my turn. Ray grabbed my forearm as I stood balanced on the fence rail. I could feel the wiry strength in his arm as I looked into a bedroom. Todd Stepperson, who was in the grade below mine, lay in bed, asleep. His room was a mess—toys and clothes all over the place. I noticed that at the foot of the bed he had a collection of stuffed animals, and in among them was a kind of baby doll called Thumbelina that had a string you pulled in the back to make it squirm. Mary had one, and Jim and I used to pull the string and roll it down the stairs to see it writhe when it hit the bottom.

Ray held on and helped me to land without making a sound. We didn't run but walked quickly away from the Steppersons'
house and around the two rusted cars parked in the back corner of their yard. There was no fence to slow us as we crossed into the next yard, then the next. We ran through a string of yards, and even though we were traveling along Willow, the street I lived on, I lost track of where we were.

I couldn't fix our position until I caught up with Ray and Jim standing outside a lighted playroom window watching Marci Hayes pull off her jeans. She stood there in her white underwear and a yellow button-down shirt, her blond hair loose to the middle of her back. Next, a button at a time, the shirt came off. Jim's mouth was wide open, and he had a look on his face like he was about to cry. Ray was smiling. Marci unhooked her bra and turned to the side to remove the strap from her shoulder, and there they were—not too big, with dark nipples. When she slipped out of her underwear and that pink ass was staring him in the face, Jim staggered forward slightly and stepped on a twig.

Marci's head turned sharply. Like a shot, we were gone. From the bushes at the back of the yard, we watched as she came, now dressed in a nightgown, to the window and peered out.

At the Bishops' a phonograph was playing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” booming loud through the windowpanes. Reggie was in feet pajamas decorated with little cars. The music stopped, and we watched as he lifted the needle to start the record again. “No more,” said Mr. Bishop, coming into the room. From where we stood, we could see the bald spot in his gray hair and a profile of his weariness. He kind of sagged like old laundry and waved his hands in front of him.

“But I'm not tired yet,” said Reggie. The music started again. He ran over to his father and, putting his feet on his dad's shoes, slung his arms around the old man's neck and clasped his hands. Mr. Bishop staggered forward as Reggie let his body go slack. His father moved around the room slowly, lurching back and forth, doing the box step. At one point he
stared directly out into the night at us, but I had no fear those eyes would see me.

We passed silently by Dan Curdmeyer, sitting in his grape arbor in the dark, asleep, a beer on the table in front of him. Ray motioned for us to go on ahead, and he walked carefully over to where Mr. Curdmeyer sat. In one swift movement, he lifted the glass, drained it, replaced the glass, and was suddenly back by our side. There was something impossible in his speed. We crossed the side street by Mr. Barzita's house and wound up behind the Eriksons'. A light shone in their dining room, but it was empty. Ray took longer looking into the empty rooms.

All three of us stood on the wooden deck around the pool in the Felinas' backyard and watched Mr. and Mrs. Felina lying in bed together talking. They looked comfortable on their pillows as they smiled and laughed. We watched for a long time. Finally they stopped talking, and she rolled close to him. I thought they were going to sleep, so I got ready to go. Before I could take the first step down the deck ladder, though, Ray tapped my shoulder and pointed. I looked up and saw that the bedcovers had been thrown aside. The Felinas were completely naked, Mrs. was on her knees, and Mr. had a giant boner. Jim started laughing without making noise, and the suddenness of the whole thing made me laugh, too. I thought Ray would be mad at us, but he joined in. We watched until the show was over, then ran on to see Boris the janitor sleeping in front of the TV, Mrs. Edison in her dining room by candlelight with a bowl of water in front of her on the table, Peter Horton sitting at his too-small desk, sobbing.

“That's just one night,” said Ray. We walked leisurely down Willow Avenue, sticking to the edges of the lawns instead of the street. “There's lots more to see.”

“Thanks,” said Jim and I echoed him.

“The next time you come out, I'll have a plan to catch Mr. White,” Ray said.

We left him outside the Farleys'. He ducked into the backyard, and we ran across the front lawn to our house. A few minutes later, we were each in our respective rooms, dressed in our pajamas. I'd just gotten into bed when I heard my father come in. I lay there wondering what Ray might be seeing and what he was looking for. It struck me that out of all we had seen, it was Peter Horton and his sorrow that kept returning to me.

Pop and I were out in the backyard inspecting his trees. I carried an old coffee can with some stinking black mixture in it. He had a big old stiff-bristled paintbrush. He dipped it into the can and leaned over, painting the bottom few feet of a tree trunk all the way down to the ground. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was actually hot. Pop wore only a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, and I had no coat. Before painting each tree, he'd look it over from a distance, and then he'd get in close, rubbing the bark and lightly touching the buds he could reach. He said there would be a lot of cherries come summer and that the bugs would be bad.

When we finished with the last tree, we sat across from each other at the picnic table. He dumped the can of tree paint into the grass and put the brush on the bench next to him. He lit a Lucky Strike and said, “I want you to do me a favor.”

I nodded.

“Come around here behind me. I want you to look at something on my back.” He set his cigarette on the edge of the table and lifted his T-shirt as I went to stand behind him. The tattoo dog was waiting for me, blue and swirling.

“Look at the dog,” he said. “What color are its eyes?”

“Red,” I told him.

He pulled his shirt down and waved at me to sit. He lifted his cigarette and said, “I could feel it.”

“What's it feel like?” I asked.

“It itches, sometimes to the point where it burns. I haven't felt it in a long time. That's not red ink. Those eyes usually show just the color of my skin.”

“Is it Chimto warning you?” I asked.

He nodded. “Something's coming. Some dark crapola's on the way, and it's getting close.”

“What are you gonna do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “What can you do? You just wait to see where it lands and then start shoveling. It's good to know that it's coming, though. Early warning, you know?”

“Is it all bad stuff?”

“The old Javanese who gave me the tattoo told me that when the eyes turn red, it means serious trouble is approaching. I told him, ‘Sure, whatever,' and he started in with the whalebone needles. About halfway through the job, he gave me this kind of gum to chew, like tree resin. It tasted like licorice, and it made me tired and kind of dizzy. After chewing it, I could hear, just outside his shack, a giant dog snarling and barking.”

“Has the dog ever saved your life?”

He pointed at me and said, “That's what it's all about.”

I nodded, unsure what he meant. We sat there for a while without speaking. The leaves were coming back, and I noticed that the grass was getting greener. The sun felt great. Eventually I got up and started toward the house.

“You and your brother sneaking out at night wouldn't be a good idea right now,” he said.

I turned around and looked at him. He put his finger to his lips.

I told Jim all about my conversation with Pop.

“Shit” was his response.

“I don't think he's gonna tell,” I said.

“The dog's eyes really were red?” he asked.

“Bright red.”

“The dog sees Mr. White,” he said.

“That's what I thought.”

“Well, if the dog sees him, how come Mary doesn't see him? The white car's been up on Hammond for a couple weeks now in Botch Town.”

We went in search of Mary and found her in her room, lying on the wood floor, putting together a jigsaw puzzle of a forest path. I was surprised she wasn't gabbing with Sally O'Malley and Sandy Graham. Jim must have felt the same way, because he said to her, “How come you're not Mickey as much anymore?”

“Shut up,” she said, fitting a piece into the puzzle.

Jim told her about Pop's dog tattoo, and then he asked her how come the white car hadn't moved.

“Make a Mr. White,” she said without looking up.

“He's not in the car?” I asked.

“Thank you,” she said, and told us to leave.

I tried to fit the dog's warning, Mr. White on foot, Ray,
and all the rest of it into some sort of pattern I could analyze. I went out into the backyard to get some air. Jim followed me.

“He's coming for Mary,” said Jim.

“We should tell Dad,” I said.

“No. Ray knows everything about it. We should find out what his plan is first,” said Jim.

“I'm not going,” I said.

“Then I'll go by myself,” he said.

“What if Mr. White finds you before you find Ray?” I asked.

He shrugged and said, “That's a chance I'll just have to take.”

That night after dinner, Nan came in to tell us that the police had been across the street that afternoon.

“Where?” my mother asked.

“The Hayeses' place,” said Nan. “The daughter heard someone outside her window the other night.”

“Did she see who it was?” asked Jim.

“It was too dark,” said Nan.

Later, down in Botch Town, Jim brought the prowler back from the Hall of Fame and painted him completely white, even the steel-pin arms. The eyes still glowed through from underneath the paint. In the middle of his work, he looked up and said “Marci Hayes” to me, and we both laughed.

“Make the moon,” said Krapp. “I don't care how you do it.”

He passed around a book with pictures of the moon.

“Craters,” he said. “Round and gray with craters. Papier-mâché, clay, paper, plaster—it doesn't matter, but it's got to look like the moon. Hand it in next week. Thursday.”