“Oh, please don’t stay home on my account,” she said. “You were right not to let me hold you back. I’ve been selfish. I needed you too much. I never should’ve brought us here from Toronto. This place is so dangerous for a boy.”
“Can’t we leave?” Will said into her chest. “We could go tonight. Can’t you just make yourself get on a plane?”
“I wish it were that simple. Years ago, maybe. Not now.”
“We could knock you out? I could get you some grain alcohol or give you some drugs and put you in a car, and you’d wake up someplace you weren’t afraid of?”
She shook her head. “That place doesn’t exist, Will.”
He could have tried explaining the mess with the Butler and Marcus and Titus. Other mothers would have called the police. Demanded action. Sorted it out. Or left town. But not his. She’d been Inside too long. And it was only getting worse. The truth would destroy her. All that remained was the sick feeling that if only he’d kept painting his stupid masterpiece that day and not been lured out by the bang of Marcus’s match bomb, everything wouldn’t have gone so terribly wrong. The Outside wouldn’t be ruined if he hadn’t been there to ruin it.
But he said nothing, and soon sleep wafted over from her body into his, sharing it.
Relaxation Time
That morning she woke, marooned in bed—her only lifeboat now in a sea of panic. Will was gone, his imprint still rumpled in the sheets beside her, the doorbell ringing, had been ringing for some time. She knew instantly that to set foot on the floor today would mean risking everything.
It rang again. Deliverymen were rarely this persistent. Will had locked himself out. Or it was Jonah, wanting to make up after their fight. Or some official, here because something had … she threw the sheets from her body, reached and guzzled an entire bottle of codeine syrup, then snapped her elastic twenty-five times and drew six deep breaths. Just as the codeine slid into her bloodstream like liquid lead, she dropped to the floor fast enough to keep the panic from grabbing her ankles and darted through the towers of paperbacks and trash and unopened packages and mail to the door. She threw it open and before her stood an older man, in a suit and topcoat, with a tempest of white hair and an apologetic smile.
“Sorry to trouble you, Ms. Cardiel,” the man said warmly, “but I went by the school today, and the principal informed me that your son, Will, hadn’t been there for some time. So I thought I’d stop by to chat with him here.”
“He’s out,” she said, the codeine a cold smolder in her now. Was she swaying or was it the wind in the trees?
“Oh. Out?” the man said. “Any idea where?”
“No, I don’t,” she said, bracing her hand on the doorframe, fighting to keep her eyes focused upon his, and not the pure disorientation and terror that lay beyond him.
“You don’t know where your son is?” he said, surprised.
Her mind gluey, she nearly told him that she’d begged Will to stay, but he just wouldn’t listen, then stopped herself. Who did he say he was? Had he?
“You don’t look well, Ms. Cardiel,” he said. “Are you feeling ill? Perhaps I should come in?”
“Wait,” she said, resetting, trying not to sway. The codeine made the floor impossibly soft beneath her feet, like turned earth. But he was familiar somehow, with his theatrical face, like someone from a Fellini film. “Who are you? And why are you looking for my son?”
“Oh, my apologies,” he said with a wide smile. “My name is George Butler. And, come to think of it, I remember you and your brother as children, down at the elevator in the old days, bringing your father’s supper.”
She placed him now. He was the grain inspector at the harbor, who Theodore called “the bug man.” In snow-white coveralls he’d go around checking lakeboats for pests, weevils and worms, before giving the okay to ship them out. He was educated and knew grain as well as Theodore. He was also the one selling Charlie those pills for his asthma that kept him up every night.
“It was truly a shame what happened to your brother. But I have a feeling that wherever he is, it’s a much better place,” he said. “You were living away, I remember? Of course I’m in a different line of work now,” he went on. “You wouldn’t recognize very much on the harbor these days, I’m afraid, Ms. Cardiel. Unfortunately, child apprehension is currently the only growth industry in Thunder Bay.”
“Wait, did you say child—”
“Oh, no,” he said, putting his hand to his heart, “that’s certainly not why I’m here, Ms. Cardiel. But I am afraid your son has found himself mixed up with some boys who are currently on my caseload. Will’s got a bit of his uncle’s—shall we say—moxie? But I’m here to ensure his safety.”
Everything was going too fast for her. She’d expected a deliveryman, a quick exchange. Her mind was sliding. This man’s mouth didn’t match his words.
“Are you sure you don’t know where your son is?”
“He said he had something important to do today,” she said thinly, shutting her eyes to keep the light out.
“Did he, Ms. Cardiel?” he said, leaning closer. “Like what?”
“He said …” She felt a great itchiness under her scalp; the codeine was already waning. She wasn’t sure how much more of the blinding doorway she could stand. “He said he’d left something behind, and he had to go get it.”
“Maybe he was referring to this?” From behind his back he raised Will’s old helmet, dangling from his finger by the chin strap. “We found it in an abandoned shack frequented by criminals. It has your last name written in it, Ms. Cardiel. At first I thought it belonged to another boy in town, but now based on what you’re saying, I’m convinced that your son is in grave danger. Think hard for me, please: do you have any idea where your son went today?”
She braced herself against the door, everything churning, the subway platform finally closing over her, and into her tumbling head came all the smells she’d been finding on Will’s clothes when he returned home from schooclass="underline" grease, sweat, blood, sawn lumber.
Grain.
23
Will found him sitting in a straight-backed chair in the workhouse, the woodstove roaring like a cast-iron dragon. Titus had shaved, his half-grayed hair dangling at his unlined cheeks like slips of smoke. Beardless, his face was even more fearsome, all diamond-cut angles and the scars of hard Outside living, but younger than Will had expected. Closer to his mother’s age. Titus sat with eyes glazed and fixed, sweat sheening his brow, both hands plunged in the pockets of his parka with large coils of wire wound around the sleeves.
“It’s you, Icarus Number One,” he said, clearing his throat and twisting his head with a queer surprise. His voice was hoarse, and Will pictured him awake all night, yelling at ghosts, Marcus’s included. “Sturdy choice of headgear,” he said.
Will tugged at the strap under his chin. It was tight, but his orange Helmet still fit, though the cranial pressure had him feeling a touch dazed. Perhaps all that he’d learned Outside had made his head bigger. “Felt like I needed a little extra protection today,” he said.
“And your compatriot?” said Titus.
“Don’t know,” Will said. “He won’t be coming down here anymore.”
Titus’s face fell and he shook his head. “I wasn’t ever in much danger of triumphing as his favorite citizen, but that Icarus could piss his name in a sheet of plywood,” he said. “You two should congeal together. Especially if you insist on perpetuating more ventures to this jurisdiction.”
“Well, this is my last time coming down here. I came to ask you some questions.”
“Allow me one last suffrage,” Titus added, standing. “If you’re capable. Plenty of time for exchanges as we venture.”