You are trapped.
No
, the voice interrupts in your head.
No, you are not caught.
It is her, the voice so soft and gentle, comforting. Look, here, turn around.
You turn and the shadows along the brick wall seem to stir, to take on depth.
Still, you cannot really see anything, but you sense movement, and some of the shadows are almost shimmering, like heat waves off asphalt.
Here, Robert. It is a cloak, a very special cloak. Turn, slip it on,
a
nd pull the cowl over your head.
You turn and feel something slipped over your shoulders. And you shiver, but remember to reach back and pull the hood up over your head.
Good. Be still. No one can see you now, Robert. You are cloaked in shadows.
The footsteps approach warily.
The three must be carefully searching along both sides of the alley.
After a lifetime, you hear breathing just beyond the front side of the dumpster, and you recognize Sidney’s voice. “Leroy, that lil sucker jus’ ain’t back here, man. Dude disappeared, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, well, he gotta be here, some place.” You hear things being thrown angrily about. Then, after another eternity or so, Leroy finally admits with a sigh, “You right, Sidney. C’mon, Replay, let’s get on back ’cross the playground, ’fore the Man come ’long ‘n’ bust our raggedy ass.”
“I-I-I hears ya, m-m-m—”
“Jus’ move, Replay.”
You wait, squatting in place behind the dumpster with aching legs, until the footsteps fade away into the misty night. Then you stand and stretch; and the wonderful cloak is lifted off your shoulders, taken back into the wall.
TODAY, THE NUMBER IS TWO.
I
t is early, and you are laying on your bed, listening to a tape by, The Cure, Robert Smith singing the second song, “Siamese Twins,” the part about the girl’s face in the window. You listen with your eyes closed, the crotch of your pants tight.
Suddenly you are disturbed by a knocking on your door. “Bobby?”
Your mother breaks the mood, knocking again, before she jams her head in the door.
“You sure you don’t want to go to the Beaumont’s?” she asks, her voice hopeful you will change your mind. “Donna says Mary Ann would love to see you again.”
You almost laugh. Mary Ann is a cow, a fat cow. She would love to see anyone again, even someone ugly like you.
But you answer back, your anger under control, “ No thank you, Mother.” Then you add the old clincher, “I have a big assignment in English to finish tonight, you know.”
She nods, disappointment heavy on her face. “All right…” But she hesitates a moment, then adds in a tentative voice, “I just thought it might be…oh, natural for a seventeen-year-old boy to be interested in seeing a teenage girl.”
You almost laugh at the irony. You are very interested in seeing women—small, attractive, young women. “Have a good time, Mother.”
She nods. “Oh, don’t forget your medicine.”
“I won’t, Mother.”
She waves goodbye and reluctantly shuts the door. Actually it’s ironic she is so concerned about your welfare, now. For years, when you were little and she had all the boyfriends, she denied your existence. She would bring them home, the men, eventually taking them to her room; and you would watch from the shadows of the hall through the open door, repelled but fascinated by the laughing, giggling, sight and sound of their sweaty coupling. So many of them, so much love for strangers, so little for you. Then the steady stream of men slowed down as your mother grew fatter, aged; and she began to turn to you for attention.
And eventually you responded, letting her closer, except you never let her know about your real life: The creatures in the fog, the Lady’s voice in your head, the importance of the numbers, your night walks, and so on. No, you knew better. Those were all your little secrets, and you were sharing them with no one.
You have no intention of taking the terrible medicine from the talking doctor either. If you do, you won’t be able to hear the Lady’s voice; and of course, you must know each day’s number.
For an hour or so, you listen to The Cure tape; then you fluff up two extra pillows that have been hidden under your bed, and you stuff them beneath your bedcovers. Finally, you slip out the bedroom window into another misty night.
C
arefully, you move down the alley near the 7-Eleven until you reach the dumpster that still hasn’t been emptied. You edge in back in the narrow space, feeling the brick wall.
Lady,
you think, concentrating.
The shadows deepen, like yesterday. Then:
Hello, Robert. You have come back. Yes, I need the cloak, again.
For a long while nothing happens, and you are afraid that you may have overstepped a boundary. You shudder. Maybe the Lady is angry.
But eventually she speaks again in your head.
All right, but you must be very careful and return it before daylight chases the shadows away.
I understand.
You feel there is more, some kind of admonition or warning if you do not come back before daylight; but you are too excited to ask, for again you sense something in the shadows, something blacker than night.
Turn around.
You feel the touch of the cloak draped over your shoulders.
Of course it is better than the darkest, starless night, better than the thickest fog. For with the cloak of shadows you are completely invisible. You can roam anywhere at night and see everything with complete impunity.
Y
ou drift across the playground, pause and watch a couple embracing on one of the park benches, the man clutching at the woman’s breast; and for a moment your mind drifts back, you are watching your mother, again.
Abruptly, the young man stands, and leads the woman away, back around behind the restrooms. For a moment or two you debate whether you want to follow. But no. Tonight, you have something much better, more exciting planned than watching these two.
Yes, indeed!
You walk down Jefferson Street boldly, right in the middle of the black section, passing a group of boys, another couple, and a drunk and his dog staggering out from Yo Mama’s, the bar on the corner near Addison. You almost giggle to yourself, as the mutt follows you a step or two, sniffing the air near your leg; then it offers a tentative growl.
“C’mon, Mr. Nixon,” the drunk says, his words slurred. “Wha’s the matta wif ya?” He stops and stares down at the dumb animal, which is still looking in your direction and whining. “Ya actin’ lak ya seen a ghost, boy. C’mon, now. We late foh suppah.”
Y
ou climb over the white picket fence and go around back of the one-story frame residence on the corner of Jefferson and Lamont.
Only once before, on a very foggy night, have you worked up the nerve to prowl this yard, because it is so well lit by the streetlights and the backyard so visible from passersby on either street. You walk cautiously up to the back of the house and listen carefully at the frosted window of what you know to be the bathroom.
Water splattering. Someone is in the shower.
You pull the garbage can quietly in place and climb up on it. The top window, which is frosted too, is cracked about two inches. But stretching up on your tiptoes on the can you are able to peer down inside.
Oh, what luck! It is her.
The girl. Kris!
Your thoughts drift back in time.
The number that day had been five, when you first saw her in your fifth period Trig class at school. She had moved here from overseas in January—the fifth month of school—her father in the Air Force. From that first glimpse you were smitten. Kris was a black pixie, no taller than you. And her unusual eyes, almond shaped and glittering like emeralds.
But you have never been able to even speak to her, because Henry Johnson, the school’s star basketball player, is always with her outside of class. Although once you thought she looked your way and smiled at you.
He is six foot two.
They look ridiculous together.
As you peer down into the tiny bathroom, Kris is just stepping out of the shower, and her nakedness takes your breath away. Your heart thumps in your chest, your mouth drier than a cotton swab.
She is exquisite, only the barest hint of curves contouring her boyish shape, tiny breasts but the aureoles dark, almost purple against her coffee-colored skin, the nipples pronounced in the cool air as she rubs them dry. Your gaze moves slowly down to the dark, triangle, almost velvet like in texture. You watch for another few minutes as she slips on a nightgown and bathrobe. Then she turns, smiles almost knowingly, and peers directly at the slightly opened window with her sparkling eyes.
You duck down out of sight, holding your breath, until you realize it is too dark out here for her to have seen you. When you ease back up and peek back through the slot, she is gone. You blink twice, hoping the number two will draw her back to the bathroom for some forgotten thing.
But she doesn’t return, today’s number not strong enough.
After another minute of watching, you finally give up and climb down, moving the garbage can back to its original location.
Then you retrace your steps back to the alley by the 7-Eleven, back to the wall, returning the cloak of shadows.
TODAY THE NUMBER IS ONE.
I
t is very late, the moon shining brightly, illuminating everything; but you are drawn back to the house on Jefferson and Lamont, the cloak of shadows with its cowl shielding your presence even in this almost daylight brilliance. You vault the picket fence easily and circle the house quietly. It is dark, everyone apparently in bed. You stop at her bedroom and suck in a breath, trying to calm your racing heart.
The window is open, the blind up halfway.
You blink, thinking you must be dreaming. It’s like.an invitation. Then, holding your breath, you peer in, and freeze, for in the moonlight you can see Kris clearly. She is lying on her side on her bed, staring directly at you. You blink.
No. Her eyes are squeezed shut. It was only your imagination. You reach up and test the window. It slides up easily and quietly.
With a slight effort you pull yourself up and over the sill, dropping to the floor in her room. Crouched, you watch for any movement. But she remains asleep, a kind of coy smile on her face. She must be dreaming. You rise. Then, on tiptoes, you move noiselessly to her side.
Her chest rises and falls so gently, her face so serene. Suddenly, she stirs, moaning, lifting up her arms.
She has heard you!
An icicle of dread stabs into your chest; you hold your breath, and will your heart to stop beating. One, one, one.
No, she has not heard you.
On her side now, Kris smiles—something in her dream?
You kneel, only a foot or so away from the sleeping pixie; and you gaze into her face, the features so elegantly crafted. Your chest is about to burst.
On impulse you try to lean down and kiss her lips.
But you have forgotten the cloak, its cowl preventing any contact.
Frowning with frustration, you stand up, glance about, and listen to the house creaking in the night, the moonlight still streaming through the window and spotlighting Kris’s loveliness.
You debate with yourself for a moment, questioning the wisdom of shedding the cloak. Should I?
You wait, hoping the Lady of the Numbers will advise you. But there is nothing but the creaking sounds of the house.
Finally, you decide, shedding the cloak, letting it slide to the floor at your feet. Then you just stand there a moment, watching her breathe rhythmically. So lovely, so beautiful. Quietly, you slip from the rest of your clothes, letting them slide to your feet into the pile of blackness on the floor.
It is time we are one, Kris.
You take one step forward and trip over the cloak and pile of clothes, falling and reaching out toward the nightstand to catch yourself. But you only slam to the floor, knocking over the nightstand with a loud shattering of glass.
You leap back to your feet, glancing nervously at the closed bedroom door.
Somewhere nearby in the house, a masculine voice shouts, “Kris, baby, what is it? Are you all right?”
She is awake now, sitting up, with the bed sheets pulled up around her, looking surprisingly calm, a strange mix of exasperation and anger on her face.
Confused, but operating with animal instinct, you scurry to the window and jump through, running as your feet hit the ground. Vision tunnels, panic clutching at your thudding heart, but you keep moving. Run, run, run…one, one, one, repeats like words from a song in your head.
The cool air suddenly reminds you that you are completely naked, vulnerable out here in the bright moonlight. Oh, no. You have forgotten the cloak, left it behind in Kris’s room. The wonderful cloak of shadows. But you cannot go back now; so you continue running across the playground, two black men watching awestruck as you fly by—a lopsided, nude sprinter.