Authors: Jonathan Gash
Snow seemed odd stuff to Clint. It went on and on. Pop kept talking about it.
“Isn’t it great, Clint?”
They drove in Pop’s big automobile through the falling snow among trees to a big house. There was a party for kids. There was a Santa Claus who had a big beard said “Ho ho ho” and rang a bell and everybody was real happy.
There was a Christmas tree with presents on the branches. It was bigger than usual and coloured lights kept flashing on and off. Clint liked the colours of the flashing lights but best of all he liked the shapes of the presents that were wrapped up in different colours.
They played games, kids running round chairs till the music stopped. The kids were all given lanterns with a flashing light inside. They turned off the room lights so the only light came from the Christmas tree, bigger than ever, and the lanterns. They paraded round the room singing Christmas carols. The kids clapped because they sang really well and Clint really liked it and he sang with the rest.
The kids were each allowed to chose a Christmas carol
to sing and they argued and sang “Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly” that everybody knew best then they sang “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” like as usual and then Clint went straight on with “See Amid the Winter Snow” but somebody said no not that, something different. Clint thought maybe he’d done wrong so he started up “Adam Lay Y-Bounden” but stopped real soon because nobody else sang. Mom came and hugged him and said no not that either because it was too sad. Then they brought in the Christmas cake and Mrs McCallion who you had to call Angie because she was Zoe’s Mom and a Democrat lit the candles. The kids blew the candles out. It was real neat. Clint blew most of the candles out with one puff and Mom said he deserved a special clap for that.
Clint liked the snow. When they turned the lights out for the candle cake, shadows were on the snow like in the hospital room at Doctor’s clinic.
The shadow time was the time he felt happiest, when the shadows went across the wall. Like the shadows on the snow in Angie’s garden. The shapes were even better than the parcel colours.
He told Mom and Pop when they were driving home. Everybody waved on Zoe’s doorstep and called bye bye and come again y’hear. Mom and Pop said what a great Christmas party and what great neighbours.
Mom said the snow was real nice but so cold and she hated winter. Clint said he liked the Father Christmas and the colours and the shape shadows on the snow. Mom said say Santa Claus because it was his real name so Clint said Santa Claus.
He asked could he draw some pictures of the patterns on the garden snow at Zoe’s house and Mom said you mean yard Clint don’t you and Clint said yes. Mom said
sure. Clint got a present from Zoe’s Christmas tree, a box of crayons with special paper for drawing on and a wooden board. Clint saw the wooden board wasn’t much good because it was four-ply. Somebody hadn’t used glasspaper, but he didn’t say anything. Any case, Zoe and Angie’d made a great party and Clint had a great time. The shadows made him feel warm even though Mom said brrrr she wanted this cold weather to go away.
Clint liked the crayons. One was purple. Another was nearly purple.
Two days later Pop and Mom took him to see the decorations in the shopping mall and they met some of the kids from the party at Zoe’s. Clint kept looking for the right shapes but there was none. He didn’t really mind because he’d drawn some with his crayons. Two of them looked just right and were his favourite. He got Mom to give him some kind of sticky and put the drawings up in his room. Mom said they were real pretty. He liked them best because they were like, well, like best.
And guess what Zoe’s present was when she unwrapped it. It was a little fluffy dog not a real one but still a little dog that yapped when you put the battery inside. Clint liked it and said to Mom and Pop could he get a real one. They said we’ll see. Clint knew they’d call Doctor and he’d say no.
In the shopping mall he looked for a dog but didn’t see one. Clint drew one with his crayons. He drew a brown dog with a long tail.
It was a great Christmas.
“Notice something odd with the folio?”
They were on Donna Curme’s patio, trying to ignore next door’s thunderous lawnmower. Rye, her partner, was
indoors working a prosecution file. By the time Donna carried the tray out Judy Trabasco had arranged the papers on the cane table.
“This the TV competition?”
“See anything strange?”
Two sets of children’s drawings, eight in each, showed the now familiar little figures complete with weird angular hats. The backgrounds showed rectangular clouds and kites galore and odd stones.
Donna looked over her friend’s shoulder. “Say what you see.”
“Crappy kids’ drawings,” Judy said, gauging the other’s tense mood. “Am I missing something here?”
“You’ve arranged them in sequence, Judy. That kite propeller thing, third along? It’s the
fourth
in the top row.”
She looked again. “Okay, there’s one missing in the bottom row.”
Donna cupped her elbows.
“Move them along.
Now
do you see?”
“They’re the same, allowing for normal variation.”
“The top row are the kids’ drawings
after
the TV programme.”
Judy examined the bottom row of sketches. Crude, the figures lacking in perspective, the usual messes. “So they show the same scenes.”
“The top row were drawn
after
the TV show, the bottom row
before
.”
Judy guessed, “This Clint kid did the pictures
before
they came on TV?”
“You got it.”
The lawnmower mercifully puttered to quietude.
“Right. Easy explanation: Clint’s folks have reception TV.”
Donna shook her head. “Judy, we all get the same reception in Tain.”
“Reviews, then? Clint simply copies magazines. Or from some Internet thing. Kids do it all the time.”
“You can’t believe that, Judy.”
“How did you discover them?”
“The kids tell me. Clint’s drawings have become a fun game. They’re all in on it, wanting tomorrow’s story – from Clint. They told me Clint always knows
tomorrow’s
story.”
“Clint’s got some cranky electronics?”
“No way. He’s a dreamer. They crowd round, laughing, make Clint tell.”
Judy decided to nip this nonsense in the bud. “Then he’s got relatives in Canada, or wherever they get it first. Different time zones.”
“But surely —”
“Donna,” Judy said firmly. “You’re making a problem out of nothing. Chrissakes, they’re kids’ scribbles. Check with the TV company. Ask them. They’ll tell you.”
“Clint just guesses right. Spooky.”
“Don’t give me defiance, girl!” Judy reprimanded with mock severity. “Check it out. Clint’s got some distant relative sending him videos.”
Donna looked at the drawings. “I think it’s strange.”
“Don’t do anything rash, like going for
dahling
Lois, y’hear? La Marquese has friends in high places. Promise?”
“Promise.”
The following Saturday Donna and Rye walked by the park where the kids did training.
While Rye chatted to the junior coaches she saw Clint’s parents admiring the team’s hitting practice. They were
older than she’d have expected, sure, but, she sighed inwardly, wasn’t everybody? Suppose Clint were adopted – he fair, they dark, so what? It was their business. They obviously adored the boy.
She found Dale Porrino. It was easy, seguing from hello-there to her question.
“What is it about this game? Hit a ball with a piece of wood and run? Big deal!”
Dale laughed. “It’s exciting, you dumb broad!”
She saw Clint fail, applauded anyway, shoving and joshing with the rest. Happy kid, no doubt of it. Dale checked her gaze.
“Clint’s fine. Healthiest kid on the block.”
“What was it you said, some Jamaican kid and one from the Bahamas?”
“Sure. It’s not uncommon. Cricket, see?”
No, she didn’t. Amused, Dale explained.
“Kids from cricket countries do it. You want to see that Nassau kid spin the ball! They play it at home. Make good outfielders but start off rotten pitchers.”
He interrupted himself to bawl outrage at some kid hesitating in a run. Donna joked that she had to prise Rye away from all this boredom, and left. So the mystery was explained. You run different in cricket. So Clint must have cricket-playing relatives. They were clearly phoning him news of the next TV episodes.
Judy had been right. Any case, dear
dahling
Lois Marquese had reinstated Clint-Leeta-Carlson. No more mystery.
Mom and Pop were concerned about the forthcoming school trip.
Mom said. “It’s the possibilities.”
“It’s an ordinary camp.”
They were alone, Clint in school. “Hyme, listen up. At home, we control who he meets. Out there, it could be anybody.”
“Out there? Jeech, it’s Colnova Falls, chrissakes. Everybody’s kids go to Colnova.”
“That’s the point. Everybody’s.”
He reached for coffee. His wife removed the percolator. Hyme was on two a day.
“No, you listen up, Clodie. The other kids will talk if we keep Clint away. Will they talk about him if he goes to Colnova Falls? No.” He sighed, the coffee out of reach. “If a system works, don’t fix it.”
“It’s so far!”
“It’s two hundred miles, Clodie. We’d be there in four hours. Christ,” he burst out in exasperation, “we could stay there, except they’d talk worse.”
“It’ll be just terrible without him.”
“Clodie. Use the time. Get decorators in. Make surprise.”
“Will there be enough teachers? Camp helpers?”
“They’ve never had an accident. Mrs Daley said so.”
“He’s never been out of our sight before.”
Hyme could have done without this. He wanted a few clear days, fly east, round trip before Clint’s return. He had things to sort. Borkanen in Radial Marketing was a real asshole. He’d snafu Hyme’s entire fucking fiscal year. He had to be there, hand on the moron’s throat.
“Clodie, talk with the teacher. See what she says.” He used the concession to grab the percolator. “I’ll agree, whatever.”
“Do they have a nurse there? A doctor, in case Clint gets hurt?”
Hyme felt he’d made it. He could book a flight east. Clint would go to Colnova Falls. Clodie would decorate. Truth to tell, Hyme was becoming restless. Marketing was a pig. Sometimes reorganisation worked, sometimes not. Vertrek, scheming Dutch bastard, had brought in two ingrates from Boston in his middle tier. Incompetent socialites were putty in the wrong hands.
High time he made a shock visit, in those doors like a gunfighter, scare the crap out of the lot.
The small pond at the end of the garden was as he and Davey had left it except for the far side, where weeds had overgrown the stones. Buster frolicked, foolishly hoping for an extra walk.
“Remember this, Buzz?” Bray asked. Buster started hunting among the large stones. “No. Stop that.”
He sat on one of the wrought iron chairs. This was where he and Davey watched tadpoles, the boy squealing.
Buster trotted away, tail high, hoping for a marauding squirrel.
It was here Bray had dug out a rectangular pit inches larger than the shed’s end wall. It had taken him two days. A panel beater had built a huge flat metal case, and delivered it late one Saturday. A precaution, in case they’d become too inquisitive and damaged Davey’s KV layout. A wise precaution, in view of Kylee’s admission. The case was fashioned of light motor metal. Bray had sprayed it with every combination of preservative.
The shed’s original wall panels, complete with Davey’s drawings and chalked colours, the entire KV story, were neatly interred. The case lay there, to be brought out for Davey to recognise on his return.
He went next door to sit in Davey’s room. He had no way of knowing if Shirley and Geoff had made subtle changes, swapped this round, cleaned that surface.
On the window sill were the wooden pieces he and Davey had cut for the first time, a yellow Papri wood rectangle, Davey’s original cut. Saw marks everywhere, the angles awry. He could still hear Davey’s “Ooooh, party wood!” as the beautiful garish colour emerged. Students were often tricked, calling it Indian Elm.
The pieces were covered by a thick felt, for sunlight bleached. Was it a memorial? That idea was repellent, for it signified a vacancy, of one doomed never to return. No. Let others weaken.
“You’re right.”
Kylee startled him. She must have let herself in. She stared round the room, noting the toys, the uneven drawings, small class trophies, photographs stuck to walls.
“I don’t often come up,” Bray confessed. “I couldn’t.
Rage, you see. Then it was rage kept me out.”
“You and rage? Ooh er! Scary!” It was her old jeering tone but he knew her now.
“I needed one last reminder.”
“Daft bugger. You can draw every inch.”
He didn’t quite know how to say it, but the journey was already upon him.
“You’ve been my strength, Kylee. I couldn’t have gone on.”
“Crap,” she said bluntly. “Go over it. I’ll be downstairs.”
He let her go, adjusted the dust covers on the sills, checked each carving, and followed. She was pouring herself a glass of beer. He worried about that, her age, him alone in the house. It wasn’t right.
“No changes, goddit?”
He ignored her crude mimicry of an imagined American accent. She seemed to think it funny, without laughter.
“I’ve asked Lottie to fax you any changes.”
“I hate the old bitch. You’re too fucking soft. Tell me it all.”
This was the reason she had come, to see he had the scheme off pat. She was worse than a monkey mother.
“Lottie keeps check in Gilson Mather.” He ticked his fingers. “She tells you my times, addresses, auction houses. She’ll send word to Jim Stazio.”
“And?” she asked like a teacher.
She’d go berserk if he stumbled. “I confirm, morning and night.”
“Using your laptop, goon!” She screamed it, swiping at him. “Thirty minutes every night, eleven o’clock proper time.”
“You gave me a timed programme.” He fumbled, pulled out a printed sheet.
“Your laptop reminds you, fucking Yank time zones.”
“I have it.”
“Remember you’re a silly old fart, so do what the laptop tells. Don’t change a fucking thing. No extra talks. Don’t go somewhere not on your list. Say it.”
“I stick to the schedule. No extras. I confirm everything with you, eleven o’clock GMT.”
“Only phone me on your mobile, ’kay? Phone Gilson Mather any old how because they don’t matter. No KV talk on the phone.”
“Phone only on the mobile. Everything secret.”
She belched, scrutinised the bottle’s label. “Gunge, this. Memorise the codes.”
“We’ve been over this.”
She leant forward angrily. “There’s hundreds of millions of the bastards. Them as stole Davey, so don’t get fucking careless. Them codes are old dead lingo called Linear B. Some cunt in Dongle Production did them. Got your dongle?”
Bray showed her the small electronic inserts.
“Your laptop won’t work without it. If you lose it, I’ll courier you replacement everything.” She opened another beer with a grimace. “This is gnat piss. Your codes, one more for the road.”
Obediently he recited the dozen encryptions with which they would communicate.
“Last,” she said severely. “You missed out last.
Twelve
is fucking
twelve
.”
“I know.” He’d deliberately omitted the one denoting certainty, end of the hunt, good or bad.
She relented. “I’ll let you off this once. You’d better get that far.” Her watch pinged. She dropped the bottle, simply opened her hand. It fell to the carpet, its residue
trickling out. “Is that fucking wolfhound okay?”
“Buster stays with Christine and Hal’s sister until… Hal’s own dog Mongo’s a maniac. Until I’m back.”
Bray did his tickets, passport, cards. He straightened and locked the door.
“You have your keys?”
She admonished him, “Do as I worked out. Come back in one piece.”
“Ta.” He hesitated, seeing the taxi at the kerb. “Kylee, I don’t often say thanks —”
She walked ahead. “Talking’s fucking stupid.”
She didn’t bother to answer. All the way to the station she hardly spoke, except to start on about somebody who made a mistake, but grew irritated when he couldn’t see the point of her tale.
“Think on,” she said on the platform.
“About what?”
“Stick to the schedule. Do your teeth, ’kay?” And explained, “It’s what the pigs say in prisonages.”
“I promise.” He could never recognise jokes, or tell one.
To his surprise she bussed him. “Give me the okay on time, unless.”
She didn’t say unless what. There was an awkward moment while he hefted his case into the train. Two young football fans in coloured scarves shouted to Kylee as they passed, “Don’t worry, darlin’, we’ll look after your grandad.”
“You fucking better,” Kylee shot back to them, her grey eyes never leaving Bray. “He’s the only one I got.”
Bray turned away, the whistle saving him from having to speak. He raised his hand to Kylee. She made no sign and, hands in pockets, walked with the train as it began to move. Suddenly he wanted to lean out, somehow tell her
of his gratitude for having stayed so impossibly loyal. The barmier his scheme, the more resolute she’d become. An abrupt jerk of her head seemed a benediction, filled with understanding. He thought, she knows my feeling, just like Davey could.
Can
.
The train glided away from home, such as home was.