“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.
A broom to sweep it all away
No more parties to plan
We’re in the family
“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.”
&nb
sp; 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.”
“You would?”
“Yes. I would. Now. Why don’t you take that thing off your chest?”
“I shouldn’t do that.”
“Yes. You should. It’s the right thing to do.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes. I do.”
“And you’ll stay with me?”
“I promise.”
His little mouth puckered up. “Don’t you want to go into the grass and the trees?” he said.
“Not yet. And I don’t want you to, either.”
“We could do it later, right?”
She said, “I’m going to take the lighter and get that thing off you now. Okay?”
“Oh, I don’t think you should do that,” he said.
“I don’t think the shells will make their sound for you if you have it on. They’re very sensitive.”
“Oh. Well. Okay.”
And just that easily, he handed her the lighter. Here it was, a piece of red plastic you could buy anywhere for ninety-nine cents. She slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.
She helped him out of his jacket. His chest was bare underneath. He was so thin, his sternum so sunken—the bomb must have been heavy for him.
She got a pair of scissors and cut through the tape that held the bomb to his chest. It stuck to his skin as she pulled it away. He winced. She was surprised to find that she hated to hurt him.
When she had the bomb, she put it on the kitchen counter. It was only a footlong piece of pipe, with a cap on either end and a fuse sticking out of a hole drilled in one of the caps. Easy to buy, easy to assemble. It sat on her countertop, next to the coffeemaker and the toaster oven.
He was harmless now. He was just a little boy.
“So now we’ll go?” he said eagerly.
She paused. She knew what she had to do. She had to take him to see the shells at headquarters. He couldn’t hurt her, or anyone, now.
And yet. He was so trusting. He was so happy about being taken to a beach. He had no idea what was about to happen to him. She should at least let him get a little sleep first.
“Not right now,” she said.
“No?”
“We should wait until morning. You can’t really see them at night.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You must be tired. Aren’t you?”
“No. Well, maybe a little.”
“Come on. You take a nap, and then when the sun’s up, we’ll go.”
“Okay.”
She took him into her bedroom, had him take off his jeans. There he was in a pair of tiny underpants. He was so frail. His right shoulder was three inches lower than his left. She tucked him into her bed.
“This bed is nice,” he said.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, touched his wispy hair. “Sleep, now,” she said.
“If I had a dog, would he really sleep with me at night?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Would a dog like to go to the beach?”
“Oh, yes. Dogs love the beach.”
“Did you ever have a dog?”
“A long, long time ago. When I was a little girl.”
“What was his name?”
“Smokey. His name was Smokey.”
“Smokey’s a good name.”
“Did you mean it when you told me you don’t have a name?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is there some kind of name you call yourself?”
“Not really.”
“We should give you a name.”
“I like Smokey.”
“Smokey is a dog’s name.”
“Oh.”
“Go to sleep now.”
“Okay.”
He closed his eyes. After a few minutes, his breathing evened out.
She sat watching him, this changeling, this goblin child. What would they do with him? He hadn’t hurt anyone, that would weigh in his favor, but others would know, as surely as she did herself, that he’d been fully capable of it. Still, he was a child, and a very suggestible one—he could be reeducated. And once his picture hit the papers, good Samaritans would be lining up to adopt him after the government had done its work.
But would they release him, ever? People were spooked; people were seriously spooked. They’d want to study him, of course, but would they want to rehabilitate him? Not likely. What kind of message would it send, if you could be part of a group that blew up random citizens on the street, undergo intensive therapy, and be released back into society? No, it was zero tolerance for terrorists. Even child terrorists.
Here he was, sleeping in her bed. Here was the devil—a malformed child who’d been meant to die in an alley in Buffalo, born prematurely to some woman who’d done God knew how many drugs. Here he was, dreaming about being taken to a beach to hold a shell up to his compromised ear. Willing to be called a dog’s name.
She put the bomb into her bag, along with her copy of Leaves of Grass. Crazy to take it with her, but she couldn’t leave it in the apartment with the kid, could she? She got her pills from the medicine cabinet, took one into the bedroom with a glass
of water, and woke the kid up.
He blinked in confusion. He didn’t seem frightened, though, not like a normal kid would in a strange new place. For a while now, everything had been strange to him. It had become the way of the world.
She said, “Sorry to wake you up. I want you to take this pill.”
“Okay,” he said. Just like that. No questions. Endearing and creepy at the same time.
He opened his mouth. She put the sleeping pill on his tongue, gave him the water. He dutifully swallowed.
“Back to sleep now,” she said. She sat with him until he fell asleep again, which took only a few minutes.
Then she slipped quietly out of the apartment and locked him in. As she turned the key she paused for a moment over the possibility of a fire, saw herself as one of those women on the news, the ones who had just run out for a moment for cigarettes or milk, had left the kids alone because there was no one else, no one to watch them, it was always her, only her, and she needed cigarettes, she needed milk, she needed to be someone who could run a simple errand, and then a few minutes later there she was, held back by a fireman or a neighbor, wailing as the flames did their work.
Fuck it. He’d be okay. Please be okay, little killer.
She walked to the precinct. It was fifteen blocks or so, but she wanted the time, she wanted the solitude. She wanted to be somebody walking alone. It seemed briefly to her, as she walked the depopulated streets, that she could slip out of her life altogether, could be just anyone anywhere, herself but unhaunted and unharmed, untutored in the hidden dangers, a woman with a job and a child and the regular array of difficulties, the questions of rent and groceries. It seemed, as she walked, an unimaginable happiness.
Pete was waiting for her in front of the precinct office. He was smoking a cigarette. He’d quit smoking years ago. He stabbed the smoldering butt into his mouth, strode up the block to meet her.
He said, “There’s been another one.” His voice was soft and low.
For a moment she thought the boy had detonated in her apartment. No, she had the bomb in her bag.
She had a bomb in her bag. Right next to her copy of Whitman.
“Where?” she asked.
“Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“It came over the wire twenty minutes ago.”
“What do they know?”
“Looks like the same thing.”
“In Chicago.”
“Shit’s still coming in. No IDs yet, but it matches. Single victim, as far as they can tell. Out on Lake Shore Drive.”