No Such Creature (5 page)

“Ten years old and already a ham,” says his dad. His wiry black beard made his smile a vivid flash.

Owen glows under their praise, and resumes spelunking in the depths of his frozen hot chocolate, which performs the culinary miracle of being simultaneously hot and cold.

That night, as they drive back home in the dark, he falls in love with the vast glittering bridges, the Fifty-ninth Street and the Triborough.

“Hey, Dad. Do they make models of those bridges?”

“I don’t know, Owen. They might.”

“Would they have lights on them?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we look them up on the Net?”

“That would be so cool. I’d build one right across my bed and sleep under it.”

His mother turns around in the front seat. “Someone’s imagination is working overtime tonight. Did you have a good birthday?”

“The best. Best, best ever.”

“That’s good, sweetie.”

By the time they get to the relative darkness of the Merritt Parkway, Owen is sacked out across the back seat. The road surface is glassy calm after the constant chop of the Bronx, the curves slow.

He can’t have slept for more than a few minutes—Norwalk is only about eighteen miles up the Merritt—before he is awakened by sirens. He’s too sleepy to sit up, or even to open his eyes, but he can hear them getting closer, and his parents’ disembodied voices.

“Police,” his mother says. “My God, there’s someone moving awfully fast back there.”

The sirens get louder. A sudden roar and then the car swerves. Owen sits up, gripping the back of the driver’s seat.

“God, that was a near thing,” his father says, real agitation in his voice. “Idiot barrelling along on the inside lane.”

Horns honk up ahead. The sirens gain on them from behind.

“It’s a police chase,” his mother says. “Can we get in the other lane?”

“Unfortunately, everybody else has the same idea.”

“Owen, sit back, sweetie. Is your seat belt on?”

Owen sits back and adjusts the shoulder strap across his chest. A police car goes blaring by on their left, red light flashing.

“Good Lord,” he hears his father say.

Then an oncoming car veers into their lane. His mother’s scream is the last thing Owen hears.

Eight years later his memory of specific details following the catastrophe is thin. He woke in hospital with no memory of the cars’ actual impact. He tried to call for his mother but couldn’t speak; there was a tube in his throat. Where were his parents? Why weren’t they here beside the bed? He wanted them to come right away and take him home. A young nurse came in and saw he was awake. She checked his chart and called for a doctor.

When the doctor came in, he removed the tube in Owen’s throat and held out a glass of water with a straw in it. Owen took a sip and asked for his mother and father. The doctor wanted to examine him first. He asked him a lot of questions, shone a light in his pupils, and tested his reflexes. When Owen asked again for his mother and father, the nurse said she would have to ask someone else. She and the doctor left together.

They were gone so long that he thought they must have called his mom and dad at home and they would now be driving to the hospital. His room was filled with cards and stuffed animals from classmates. He realized he must have been unconscious for a few days; his parents would have had to go home. Owen was not a boy who cried easily, but tears now flowed from his eyes and down his cheeks. He turned on his side, bruises protesting, and sobbed.

Finally an older woman came in, not dressed like a nurse. He realized later that she must have been the hospital social worker. She had a soothing voice, and the face of a beneficent moon surrounded by a penumbra of platinum hair. Mrs. Callow. She told him he’d been sleeping for three days.

“The first thing I want you to know, Owen, is you’re not alone. Have you noticed all your cards and presents?”

“Where’s my mom? I thought someone was going to get her.”

Mrs. Callow reached out and smoothed his hair. “Don’t forget, Owen, there are lots of people on staff here who care about you and want only the best for you. People who work in other departments, other floors, they’re all asking after you. I think you’re going to find you’re kind of special around here.”

“My mom and dad are coming, though, right? You called them, right?”

“Things may look pretty bleak sometimes,” Mrs. Callow went on, “but Owen, we’re going to do everything we can to help. We’re going to find a way to ensure your happiness, I promise. You’re my number one priority, young man, and I’m going to go all out for you. But,” she added with a social worker’s rhetorical flourish, “I’m going to need your help with that—can you do that, Owen?”

“I want my mom.” Owen couldn’t stop himself, he didn’t want to cry in front of a stranger, but the spigot opened and the tears gushed out again.

“I need to tell you something, Owen. Something very sad.”

“I don’t like it here. I want to go home.” He was bawling like a newborn now. He’d never felt anything like this before, unless it had been in a nightmare, some nameless voracious thing devouring him. He had no idea what this moon-faced woman was about to tell him, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. “I want to go home,” he wailed again.

“I know, sweetheart,” Mrs. Callow said, and took his hands in her warm palms, “but unfortunately that’s the sad thing I have to tell you.”

Owen was absolutely, unequivocally alone. It wasn’t as if he had relatives in the area, or even in the country; he didn’t have any relatives at all. His mother had lost both her parents when she was in her early twenties. His paternal grandmother had been a drunk who died in a psychiatric hospital of Korsakoff’s syndrome, and his grandfather had recently died of Parkinson’s. Like himself, both his parents had been only children, and so he was without aunts and uncles.

The state had to intervene and make him a temporary ward until such time as a suitable home might be found. The order of such business begins with a receiving home, usually run by a good-hearted, inexhaustible couple who are on call seven days a week to take in children they have never met. A child may stay overnight or as long as a few weeks.

If suitable relatives are not forthcoming, and the child is not a major behavioural problem, he or she will then be moved to a foster home. This is intended to be for the longer term—ideally until the child is returned to his natural home or adopted into a loving family. This is not generally expected to happen with children over the age of seven or eight, but the social agencies try to be optimistic.

A difficult child faces a bleaker future of group homes and detention centres, but that was not likely in the cards for a good-natured boy like Owen Maxwell.

Various friends and neighbours came forward in the early days—Owen didn’t lack for friends—but none of their families proved suitable to the Department of Children and Families. Either they could not make the required long-term commitment or they had children too close in age, which would be likely to cause conflict. Owen was lucky in one way: both his parents had been covered by munificent life insurance policies. In some cases the applicants to foster Owen may well have been motivated by something other than altruism.

He would never forget the cold clench in his stomach when Mrs. Callow first took him to the receiving home. It was a natty little house of red brick in a corner of Norwalk with which he was completely unfamiliar. Mr. and Mrs. Platt were both jolly ovoids with carroty red hair, as if a pair of Toby jugs had leapt from the shelf and incarnated themselves for the sole purpose of greeting newly orphaned boys.

Mrs. Platt showed him where the bathroom was, explaining the house rules, which were Byzantine, and showed him to the IKEA-crisp chamber he would be sharing with a buzz-cut urchin some two years his senior nicknamed, appropriately, Buzz. Buzz had claimed the top bunk upon arrival some days previously and warned Owen on his first night that if he tried to storm that fastness he would be repelled “by any means necessary.” Those were his actual words.

Outside the borders of his own bunk, Buzz had no concept of privacy, or of its corollary, private property. Within the first three nights Owen lost a Harry Potter book, a Game Boy and a much-loved baseball mitt. Buzz was a versatile sportsman, and one of his favourite pastimes was a game he called Goober. The rules were not complex. When the rest of the household was supposedly dreaming, Buzz would roll back the top end of his mattress, affording him a perfect if somewhat segmented view of Owen, lying awake in grief and loneliness.

“Watch this,” Buzz said one night, and with a solemn expression he released a viscous blob of saliva from between pursed lips. It elongated, drooped toward the transfixed Owen, and was then reeled back up by a sudden intake of Buzz’s breath. “The trick,” Buzz explained, “is to see how low I can get it to go without actually hitting you.”

“Kind of a one-sided game,” Owen pointed out. “What am I supposed to do—spit upward and see if it’ll reach you?”

“No, doofus. You’re supposed to not move a muscle, no matter how close it gets. It’s a test of nerve.”

“I don’t want to play.”

“Too bad, ‘cause here it comes.” Another hideous blob drooped toward him.

“If that hits me,” Owen said, “I will kill you.”

Buzz made an insincere attempt to recall his missile and it hit Owen squarely in the forehead. His reaction was instantaneous. He booted the springs above him with all his strength, causing Buzz to carom off the ceiling and plummet to the floor. The noise was stupendous, and brought Mr. and Mrs. Platt clattering into the room. Accusations were hurled, evidence weighed, and a rapid judgment reached: the boys would alternate bunks every other day until they learned civility. The experience left Owen with a lifelong aversion to bottom bunks.

Terror and loss were with him day and night, and yet Owen behaved with the utmost calm and politeness to his social worker and foster parents. But every night, when Buzz was asleep, he wept, clutching his pillow to his face in a hot, soggy mass.

After a few days in the land of Buzz, Owen was taken to visit a prospective foster home. Melanie Prine, his social worker from the Department of Children and Families, drove him for miles and miles outside of Norwalk, so that he really had no idea where he was. She was pretty, and yet he couldn’t bear to look at her. To him she consisted entirely of the ten red fingernails that gripped the steering wheel and the chirpy voice telling him about the Tunkles, his prospective foster parents, but his heart was too thick with grief to take anything in. Owen, strapped into the passenger seat as the ever-bleaker countryside rolled by, felt a heavy numbness travelling upward from his ankles until it encased his whole body.

The Tunkles were waiting on the front porch. Melanie Prine gave them a cheery wave as they drove up, five scarlet fingernails flashing in the sun. They were nice enough, and their house was a nice-enough house. Owen could see that it was a comfortable place, a house where people could live with each other, but it was not
his
house. He did not live here. He did not know anyone here.

The family had an older daughter of sixteen, a blonde girl who said hi and then vanished, and a still older son who was away at college. Melanie Prine abandoned Owen there for the afternoon, leaving the Tunkles to try to interest him in farm life. He was shown to his room, a nice-enough room to be sure, but not his. Just as the bathroom was not his bathroom, the kitchen not his kitchen, the basement not his basement, the front yard with its single stunted maple not his yard. It was as if everyone was playing a game: Let’s pretend this is normal. Let’s pretend we know each other. Let’s pretend we care.

With each minute that ticked by, Owen was exiled deeper into an inner Siberia. The worst moments were when Mr. Tunkle, a bony little man whose skin looked parched and stiff as if he’d been salted and left to dry in the sun, took him by the hand (a hand rough as a plank) to show him the pigs, the chickens, the fields, the cows. Owen had never seen anything so dreary.

Norwalk is not a big city, but it is not a small town and it is most definitely not the country. To Owen, farms were something you drove by to get somewhere interesting—a river, an aquarium, a museum, a campground, an airport. You didn’t stop at farms. The sunlight beat down on the place in a way he had never experienced in shady Norwalk. The chickens were repulsive, the cows somnolent, the pigs appalling. Owen was not afraid of manual labour; he had enjoyed helping his father fix things around the house, and he earned pocket money shovelling snow and raking leaves. But the idea that he would be expected to spend time with these creatures made his heart shrivel.

He would be required to change schools, the nearest neighbour was a mile away, and he would probably never see his friends again.

“Well, what did you think of the Tunkles?” Melanie Prine asked when they were on the way back to the receiving home. Her fingernails had dimmed to carmine in the late afternoon light.

Owen couldn’t answer.

“They’re nice, don’t you think?”

“They’re okay.”