There was one nanny whom he was convinced was a witch. She was frightfully old and smelled of ether, and after staying up late one night watching movies in black-and-white he learned that she had come to take over his body. He could expect to be trapped some dark, cloudy day while his mother was out, and a horrible spell cast upon him. She would take his place, turn him into an old woman, and then convince his mother to send him away. The fear grew to such a point that one morning several hours before dawn he burst into his mother's room, crying, and declared that he would rather live with grandp'pa than stay in the house with that horrid old witch, alone, any more. Thus the plan was judiciously exposed and the vicious woman foiled. For his mother was a self absorbed, transparent woman, yes, but she was no monster. She asked her son why he had not said something sooner and picked up the telephone. Surely, the old woman thought to herself, startled from a timid slumber, there must be some mistake, but when she answered there was a familiar voice at the other end. 'Ms. Wellington? This is Gregory's mother. I was just calling to tell you that you needn't come by any more.'
To be sure, not all of the nannies were cold and unresponsive. Gregory was five years old when his mother obtained the services of a charming old woman from Newport who had raised seven young boys of her own. She was a round woman, because large wouldn't be the right word to describe her, short, plump, who wore flowery dresses that might also have passed for curtains. Her face was round, too, with pudgy cheeks and topped by a benevolent brow. In her hands she gripped the large, black handle of a large, black pocketbook, and try though he might Gregory could not picture her without it. It was a rectangular box, with a hard surface that looked like plastic when the light shone on it, from which she was known to issue a wide variety of items. Bandages, sweets, a pistol, tokens to ride the subway, and even tickets to the Omni theater, or whatever the moment might have required. Her name was Ms. Woodrow, and as far as Gregory could remember her husband had died sometime during the Vietnam War.
When his mother first brought her into the spacious den of their house in Newton - the one with the oak walls, where he had met so many of his other nannies - young Gregory had been sitting uncomfortably on the couch watching the television. Uncomfortably, because no matter where he was in that damned room the paintings all seemed to be looking straight at him. 'Gregory, dear,' came the sing-song voice of his mother, 'there's someone here to meet you.' It was the one sentence he dreaded. Otherwise, she would call out that Ms. So-and-So had arrived and would he please come to the foyer and greet her?
On this particular day his mother led Ms.Woodrow into the room. A slender hand waved in the short, round woman's direction, a hand attached to a thin, gaunt limb that looked as if made of milk. And tiny ankles that gave way to long feet encased in shoes that were much too small for them. 'Gregory, this is Ms. Woodrow,' came the ghostly voice from somewhere - faint, as if muffled. The feet were perfectly still and the arms fell limply to emaciated flanks. Ms. Woodrow stood in completeness next to the shadow of his mother, awash with colours and a restrained smile echoing in abysmal eyes. It is true that Ms. Woodrow seemed very much alive, which somewhat shocked him, since the nannies to whom he had been accustomed were all women trying to escape death.
His mother took her leave of them. Gregory's first few moments together with his new nanny were unusually silent. He looked up once from the couch before turning spitefully away. Ms. Woodrow approached undaunted and took a seat next to the broken little boy. The couch pulled a bit to her side, and young Gregory resented her the movement. The woman had little difficulty perceiving his hostility, and thought perhaps she could understand why, and so sat quietly with the boy watching the television.
'So, Gregory,' she asked after a time, 'what do you want to be when you grow up?'
Gregory was prepared. 'A drifter.'
'Hmmm. Well, you know it's difficult to get into university for that these days. Do you have good grades?'
Young Gregory shrugged and continued to watch the television.
'I see. Well, I think you have potential to be a good drifter.' Despite himself, the boy looked sheepishly up at her. 'Really. Have you thought to where you might like to go?'
In his head, the young dictator had a vision of floating pleasantly along in the ocean, not necessarily upon a raft but as if supported nonetheless, watching the shoreline carefully. There were many of these drifters, he was sure, floating diligently and with smart attentiveness from the coast of Maine to Florida and back again. He wasn't exactly sure what they were supposed to be looking for, but whatever it was the security of the country depended upon their spotting it. 'India!' he answered gravely. 'But I don't know if they have any.'
'O, in India! Yes, they have drifters. There are drifters everywhere. Have you ever been to India?' Young Gregory shook his head sheepishly, enraptured. 'Well then, did you know there are elephants that walk in the streets of Bombay? Really! I've smelled them with my own nose...'
And so on.
| * | * | * | * | * |
Gregory's father was a military man, a straight man, who fought in the air campaigns during the quest for Constantinople. From out of the remote backplains of Texas he had come, with nothing more than a nylon backpack and a sleeping bag draped across the length of his back, not even family. His hair was as short as it could have been cut without vanishing altogether, and his face was speckled with remnants of encounters from the open road. He was to become a colonel of some reknown, our last free President, but no one really has any idea where he grew up, or how. This was a man without any past; he had been born six feet tall with large hands and an overbite, born with his eyes skipping intimately over his surroundings, calculating, estimating, determining what needed to be done and doing it.
The colonel was never a personable man. He had few friends, and maintained a careful but respectful distance from the rest of his company. For it was his long standing opinion that, with very few exceptions, most of what people said was either utterly stupid or else irrelevant to life in general, and their activities no less so. So he diligently abstained from the vaguely hollow pleasantries and the carefully constructed, self-congratulating phrases that dripped so easily from the mouths of the people he met. Usually, while the others were playing cards or throwing dice, the colonel would read at the foot of his bed or, if the weather was good, lie on the warm asphalt of an air strip and play the guitar. He wasn't very good, and the others never hesitated to tell him so.
It is true that he had peculiar habits. The man was meticulously clean, for one thing. He had spent so many minutes of his life brushing his teeth that by the age of twenty he had stripped away most of his gums. Every so often he would acquire an infection there, and he'd talk funny. And the only blade that ever touched his face was a slim, folding knife that he kept by his bed. Late at night he would whittle at his fresh beard. The sound was loud and abrasive, and some of the other soldiers didn't like it much. After he knocked one of the more vocal critics from his bunk the commanding officer had a word with him about it, and the colonel was obliged to stop.
He was an excellent pilot, though, and everyone knew it. Vain as any woman, the colonel prided himself on the accuracy of his trajectories, and the crispness of his turns. He didn't speak much, no, because he was not eloquent with words. His flying was all the speaking he needed to do, and all the proving his fellow pilots required of him. When it came down to the wire, the colonel was always where he was supposed to be, and closing fast.
The truth was that neither his fellow pilots nor his commanders were ever with him when he was flying a plane, and that was the only time he was himself. They could hear the change, that's true, because in the air the heavy veil of silence that hung over him with such daunting perpetuality was broken; he spoke profusely. He'd freely offer encouragement and advice to his companions, or - as the case may be - passionately acknowledge an error. No longer passive, his voice was thoroughly animated, and it reached them. He could make them all laugh. In the air he was like a ten-year-old boy. Sometimes, at the conclusion of a dogfight, he'd spin away, and he'd dance.
There are no birds that far above the earth, and the air is thin. The sky is always blue and the sun is a dazzling orb in the hand of a great, faceless goddess with flowing hair that drifts off into the infinity of space. Sometimes he wished he could set himself in a tailspin and plunge to the earth in honor of her. He would leap towards her face and for an instant he would be so close that he could hear the crisp crackling of the burning orb. She would blow him a kiss. And then he'd fall. Hurtling through the air at dazzling speeds, soaring past her breasts, twirling, faster and more tightly than any person on ice skates. And then in a tumult he'd be at her feet, careening, on the verge of apocalypse. The noise would be terrible. The universe around him would be in a rage, screaming in pain as he squeezed her into the two inches of space in front of his face. If he did it perfectly he would graze the top of the ocean, and leap like a dart back to the heavens again, grinning.
But his plane couldn't carry him that far, and so he could only think of it, and wish.
| * | * | * | * | * |
No matter how many times she spoke to them privately, Gregory's mother was never able to persuade the colonel and Ms. Woodrow to be civil. They hated each other, and with such an unhealthy passion that they were not permitted to sit at the same table for dinner. Because the last time that had happened the two of them had gotten into an argument over whether or not the Romans had tomatoes, at the conclusion of which the colonel tossed a bowl full of buttered peas into the nanny's lap. Fortunately for all, the colonel was often away for prolonged periods of time flying planes for the government, and so the Murroughs household was often quiet and peaceful, and Ms. Woodrow's influence over Gregory unchallenged.
Indeed, what alarmed the colonel the most about Ms. Woodrow's presence was the way Gregory ingratiated himself to her. The boy often disrespected his parents, but deep inside the colonel felt that such wild and boorish behavior was healthy for a young boy. Still, the punishments were always harsh. Farther down inside, the colonel also felt that such behavior suited the male gender quite well, and himself in particular. But with a simple look Ms. Woodrow had the power to quiet the little boy, and it disturbed him.
Once, the colonel decided to invite the nanny to church with his family. But much to his surprise Gregory was stubbornly opposed to the idea. 'I don't want to go to any stupid church,' he had mumbled, stamping his fists next to his plate.
'I don't want to go to church, sir,' the colonel stated blandly, staring coldly at his son. A fork was halfway raised to his mouth.
The table at which they ate was unnecessarily long. The colonel and his wife dined at opposite ends, and, as if that distance were not enough to separate them, a large, spidery plant in a great brass pot at the center shielded each from the other's view. When the colonel was at home Gregory sat unnaturally close to him, by his left arm, and longed for the familiar comfort of his mother. But she was far away, across the table, and that damned plant was so big that only one of her slender arms was afforded his view. It wasn't the one she used to eat with, so it often lay on the table, unmoving, for the entire duration of their meal. He would often glare at it while his father was lecturing him, study the deadness of the thing and violently wish it away.
The colonel's wife made quiet mention of the fact that Gregory had not been to church in many months.
'Well, what about that woman you hired?' the colonel asked the gigantic plant in the middle of the table, waving a fork in front of him. 'That Mrs. Winters -'
The colonel's wife supplied the correct name.
'Well, what about her? I can understand that you're a busy woman. But isn't it part of her job?'
'Ms. Woodrow says that God is for weak people,' said Gregory.
The colonel raised an eyebrow. 'I see.'
There was a quiet couple of moments that followed. The colonel brought the fork to his lips several times and chewed. He drank wine from the goblet in front of him and then gestured for more. A fat, balding man in a uniform stepped out of the doorway, bottle in hand, and quietly poured him some.
'Well, despite Ms. Woodrow's prejudices,' the colonel finally declared, soberly, as if he were addressing his butler, 'you are coming with your mother and I to church tomorrow morning.'
'But I don't want to go,' whined Gregory, petulantly throwing his napkin to his plate and appealing to his mother with a sharp glance.
The plant at the center of the table cooly reminded him of his manners.
'Gregory,' started the colonel, holding up a stiff, large hand in his son's face, 'church is just a big building where priests ask you for money. You don't have any money.'
Gregory's mother said something about common decency to her husband, but he wasn't listening.
'But it's yucky, and the seats are hard.'
'They're hard so people pay attention,' explained the colonel as he drank some more wine.
'And everyone who goes is old, and they smell funny.'
Gregory's mother cooly reminded him that he mustn't upset the colonel on his brief vacation home.
'And you have to sit there for so long -'
'Enough, Gregory!' snapped the colonel. 'You are coming to church tomorrow morning and you'll like it. Ms. Woodrow -'
'No!' Gregory threw his chair back from the table and stood up, eyes puffy and watering, eyes leaping from his father's quickly reddening face toward the plant at the center of the table and back again. 'I'm not going!' He accentuated each syllable with a stomp of the foot. 'I'm not going I'm not going I'm not going! And you can't make me!'
Gregory's father continued to eat. 'Very well then.' His voice was deathly quiet. 'Roger!' The fat man who had earlier poured him wine stepped into the room. 'Have Gerald pack Gregory's things.' The fat man nodded and left the room.
Gregory's mother calmly inquired as to where Gregory was going.
'I don't know,' answered the colonel, not looking up from his plate.
Needless to say, Gregory slept at home, but the following morning when he was waked for his pending appointment with the Christian god he had another change of heart. His father, disgusted, dragged the little boy kicking and screaming into the shower, and shut the door on him. Gregory carried on for some time, punching the translucent panes of the stall, while the colonel told him over and over again to turn on the water, threatening the little boy in countless ways in the event that they should be late.
'God can wait!' spat Gregory, three words for which he received a good spanking.
When Ms. Woodrow arrived Gregory was naked on the bathroom floor, crying. His mother was standing in the doorway in a white, silken dress with a white, dainty hat. She was speaking calmly, but the boy wasn't listening. She would have come closer and perhaps even knelt by her son, but she had spent a good deal of time dressing.
The colonel heard Ms. Woodrow come up the stairs. From the open doorway of his bedroom he caught a glimpse of a veiled woman carrying a black pocketbook of what looked to him like very cheap material. There were curves and creases on her that he knew shouldn't have been there, and two stubby feet that stuck toward the floor and ended in what looked to be thick, black clogs. On her head was a large hat with so many feathers that it could have passed for a duck, and a veil that was pulled back over the top of her head. His wife was calling out in relief as the old woman approached, explaining in quick sentences what was the matter. Quietly, absently playing with his tie, the colonel crept toward the bathroom to see what was happening. Perhaps it was the tone of his wife's voice that drew him, as if she were greeting someone who had given her the greatest orgasm of her life.
'Gregory!' exclaimed Ms. Woodrow. 'Stand up at once!'
'But I don't want to go,' he whined, insistant.
Gregory's mother crisply reminded her son that often in life he'll have to do things he won't want to, such as paying taxes.
Speaking enthusiastically and in long sentences, Ms. Woodrow stepped into the bathroom and left a place for the colonel in the doorway. 'O Gregory, you must understand that going to church is like going to someone's birthday party who you don't like. Hasn't that ever happened to you?' Of course, it hadn't, because Gregory didn't go to school. He didn't have any friends. 'You go because it's expected, even if you don't like them, because people will notice if you're not there and they'll think differently of you. Some people don't want to be thought of differently, Gregory.' The nanny was crouching now, next to Gregory on the floor of the bathroom. Her hands were carefully holding up the hem of her dress as she spoke animatedly into his ear.
The boy had stopped crying, but his face was crouched in a fervent pout. He was looking at his nanny as if waiting for her to tell him that he didn't have to go. 'But we never went to church before,' whined little Gregory, throwing a beleaguered glance in his father's direction.
'You have too been to church!' snapped the colonel.
'Gregory,' whispered Ms. Woodrow, leaning closer. Her voice had dropped to a barely audible tone, and the colonel's wife, in an effort to hear what she was saying, stepped into the bathroom. 'Gregory,' she breathed, 'you've got to observe the enemy in action. How else will you defeat him?'
'But -'
But no but's. Ms. Woodrow, too, was suddenly tired of Gregory's petulance. She stood up and, pursing her lips, looked down at him with an element of finality. One of her hands was planted squarely on the waist while the other extended towards him, sternly waiting for him to take it.
And behold! The storm fell away from Gregory's face like a crust of ice. The colonel stood amazed, clutching his tie. He looked entirely as if someone were strangling him. Gregory rose subdued from the floor. Sheepishly, he looked from his nanny to his mother and back again, and mumbled something about taking a shower.
Perhaps Ms. Woodrow noticed the way the colonel was gripping his neck, or the strain that was apparent like mascara behind his eyes. His ire did not surprise her. But in her opinion the colonel was not fit for fatherhood, and in the absence of a better model his son could only be destined for a lifetime of folly. She saw this as clearly as the sun in a summer sky, and it alarmed her. Someone had to provide guidance, she believed.
On her way out of the bathroom Ms. Woodrow wasn't returning the colonel's cold stare. She wasn't in the mood for a challenge. 'Good morning, major Murroughs,' she said politely, and that was all.
| * | * | * | * | * |
One Christmas, three years after Ms. Woodrow had assumed her dutiful post by Gregory's side, Mrs. Murroughs invited the nanny to dinner. Of course, had he discovered his wife's intentions in time the colonel would have refused outright, but Ms. Woodrow's children were out of town, and she had mentioned the fact to Gregory's mother in passing one day after Thanksgiving. She had not done so in the hope of earning the woman's sympathy, but rather matter-of-factly when Mrs. Murroughs asked her how she had spent her holiday. 'It was rather dull,' responded the nanny with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. 'My sons have all moved away, and not one of them could afford to fly me out to visit with them. They are all quite pressed for money, I must say, so I can't really blame them. But I spoke with each one of them over the phone, and was quite satisfied to have heard each one of their voices. They are my children, after all.'
Mrs. Murroughs was not an indecent woman; she could not bear the thought of the nanny spending Christmas alone. It was out of Christian charity that she extended the invitation, and had intended to offer it as matter-of-factly as Ms. Woodrow introduced the matter. For Gregory's mother could not help but assume that everyone had a motive for everything they said or did. Of course, Mrs. Woodrow had done nothing of the kind, and was rather looking forward to some time by herself.
'Dear woman,' laughed Gregory's mother when Ms. Woodrow graciously declined, 'there is no need for modesty here. Just sensible, Christian values.' And at that she tapped her head knowingly.
The colonel, however, was not pleased to hear the news. 'Spiteful woman,' he wrote his from Nevada. 'Have you no shame? You would force me to accept a witch to raise my son while I am away, training for the defence of the nation, while she turns his mind against me. Fortunately, he is a feeble-minded boy and more bothersome than dangerous. I should think he'll amount to nothing more than a porter for your wealthy friends in Connecticut. But the thought that my wife, whom I love so very dearly, might have fallen to the designs of this most spiteful woman is a source of the greatest shame to me. I am more than insulted. I am angry. Perhaps I should spend Christmas with more intimate companions, who would have me at their table with kind respect and veneration.'
She wrote back, begging that he reconsider. Clearly, she had not meant to anger him. She had only extended the invitation because Ms. Woodrow had come to her in so destitute a state, appealing to her Christian nature which, she reminded her husband, embraced charity and forgiveness as virtues.
In fact, the only person who was pleased about Ms. Woodrow's presence that Christmas evening was young Gregory. And how thrilled he was! He had always dreaded these dinners in the past, always, because not only had he to suffer his father's forbidding presence, but also because his parents took them with a great deal of severity. But this year Ms. Woodrow was attending, and surely she would not take her meal so gravely. And surely his father never harassed him so much as when she wasn't there.
'Naturally, Father O'Donell was quite upset,' Gregory's mother was saying animatedly to Ms. Woodrow. A fork dangled listlessly in one hand, as if she were about to let it fall. Ms. Woodrow was seated unnaturally close on her left side, so close that she had difficulty eating without brushing her mistress's elbow. It unnerved her to be without space enough to move, and after the first course had given up on eating altogether. She simply sat holding her fork, staring alternately from her plate to her mistress and back to her plate again. Between Mrs. Murrough's thoroughly uninteresting attempts at conversation Ms. Woodrow sought what glimpses of Gregory that she could. But he was at the other end of the table, on the opposite side, pushed up against his father. The great, brass pot made it difficult for her.
'You can quite understand why.' Mrs. Murroughs shook her head loftily. 'And it was such a lewd picture, too!' She raised a sober hand to her chest in abashment. 'I never realized human beings could arrange themselves in such a way! I mean, it looked positively painful. I can't stop to think that a single one of them was enjoying himself. I mean legs over here, and hands through this way, and their faces - I mean, that poor man couldn't have been able to breathe! Positively sinful. And to think that such filth is readily available, and to anyone who wants it. Don't you think?'
Ms. Woodrow had been straining her neck around the brass pot, but the colonel caught her eye. The fork froze in its endless trek to and from his mouth; the eyes narrowed imperceptibly. 'What?' she stammered, perceiving the unanswered silence that hung between herself and Gregory's mother. 'O, yes. I quite agree.' She reached for her wine and drained the cup. Almost before she had put it down Roger was pouring more into it, from a great decanter that itself was never empty.
Gregory, all the way on the other side of the table, was for once deliciously unconcerned about being seated so close to his father. Even though she was invisible to him the mere fact of Ms. Woodrow's presence afforded him a certain freedom of spirit. Before the meal they had all sat in the living room, exchanging formalities, and for once those damned paintings ceased vexing him.
'What's the matter?' Ms. Woodrow had whispered in his ear while his mother was off in the kitchen, directing the preparation of the holiday meal. The colonel sat brooding in his armchair. Gregory had been trying to avoid the countless eyes on the wall, like holes, but even when he wasn't looking he felt their pupils stabbing him. And it's true, he'd peek and they'd be there, every last one, glowering. Some out of the corner, others directly and unashamed, but not a single one was averted.
'O, bubby,' he whispered, throwing his father a furtive glance. The colonel was staring back at him coldly, and the last thing he wanted was for him to hear. 'All the paintings on the wall are staring at me!'
Ms. Woodrow smiled. 'Yes, and such wretched men, too. Are they bothering you? Well then, why don't you stare at them back?'
And so he did. He turned his brow upside down and for once he returned those insulting looks. And do you know what? That gallery of dirty, rotting old men, trying their best to seem so severely wise and so austere in their severity, the rows of pale men against their dank, dark backgrounds: they all seemed so incredibly comical. Like great, overgrown fools from the circus who had wiped the paint off their faces and tried to dress themselves like lords from whom one took orders. The paintings never bothered him again.
'Gregory!' It was the colonel. He was sitting forward in his chair, the pipe clutched tightly in one of his hands. Gregory started, if only because the man had been sulking for an hour. 'What's so funny?'
'Look at him!' responded the boy, giggling, pointing out the man captured in the largest portrait. It was, in fact, that largest in the house. There were two thin swaths of hair combed across his bare head. In one hand he was holding a silly looking rod and a thick, grey tome in the other. Gregory had once imagined that the rod was for clobbering insolent, young boys, but now he thought it was for finding his way in the dark. There was a nose on his face that was almost as hooked as his forehead, which protuded over his eyes like a great ridge of stone. But now that he thought about it - now that he took the time to look - most comical of all were the rouged cheeks, thin patches of a woman's make-up on a vain man reaching for his younger years. 'It looks like a gorilla!'
'Gregory!' It was the colonel. He was sitting forward in his chair, a fork clutched tightly in one of his hands. Gregory looked up from his plate, unabashed, the smile still echoing faintly in his eyes. 'What's so funny?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing, sir.' The colonel shot a pungent look at his son.
'Nothing, sir,' repeated little Gregory as he returned to his peas. The smile crept onto his face again, even though he fought against it. But, really, for once his father didn't frighten him, and he couldn't think of a good reason for fighting. And that ridiculous old man! After dinner, he'd have to go stare at him again.
'Gregory! I asked you a question.'
Ms. Woodrow turned her attention from her patron, who was still talking about the Christmas day collection cup, and saw the colonel perched on his throne ready to pounce. The colonel was always ready to pounce.
But Ms. Woodrow could never have understood that the colonel sorely missed his goddess, and that was all. Often, during those extended periods of silence when he was staring into space, he was still careening at her feet, in perfect awe of her completeness. Always a little farther away, she was beckoning seductively, whispering. He feared that eventually she'd grow tired with his procrastination and go away.
'I asked you, boy, what's so funny.'
'Nothing,' muttered his son, suddenly sullen. The fork fell to the table; the tiny head bowed. Why did that damned man always have to impose on him? Ms. Woodrow couldn't have been farther away, nor the demon so close.
'Well,' said the colonel, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. 'It must have been something.'
Which is when Ms. Woodrow stated, in the most neutral voice she could muster, 'I had almost forgotten, major, that you were dining with us.'
The colonel didn't respond. He just passed the nanny another one of those aristocratically threatening glances.
Gregory's mother laughed nervously and gestured meekly to Roger. 'Yes, so silent over there at the other end of the table. But my husband is a quiet man. A good man, though. Words don't do him justice.'
'Shut up, Karen,' snarled the colonel as he waved away Roger and his hovering decanter of wine.
A few silent moments passed. The porcelain echoes of silver clashing on silver stabbed the air lightly, like tiny bells. Ms. Woodrow sat watching Gregory's parents eat, and every once in a while tried to peer unnoticed around the great plant at the center of the table. The boy was still playing with his peas. She was about to remind him that peas were for eating when Roger interrupted her. After that, she forgot what she had been about to say.
The colonel ate grimly, mechanically. He appeared to be thinking, and not of his great, beautiful goddess, either. His face was aimed at the brass pot, as if he were trying to transmit his thoughts to his wife. Occasionally he chewed. Gregory, next to him, was having a wonderful time burying his peas in the mashed potatoes.
'So,' he said finally, 'Ms. Woodrow. Why is it that you carry your purse with you to the table? I don't mean to be rude, it's just such a peculiar habit.'
Gregory's mother looked pleased at the tone of her husband's voice, if only a little surprised.
Ms. Woodrow smiled. 'I keep a great many things in here, you know. I would feel uncomfortable without it.'
'Bubby has a pistol in there,' interjected little Gregory. Despite the demon's displeasure the mirth had returned. There was the peculiar feeling that nothing could harm him. And the demon, well, the demon seemed to have departed and left his father in its proper place.
'A pistol? I see.'
'Dangerous times, these are, and I think you'll agree.' There was a fanciful feeling in Ms. Woodrow head; she felt completely unlike herself. She wasn't used to so much wine. 'Why just the other day a man was killed on Charles Street, by the Common, getting out of his car. In broad daylight, too. It makes you wonder. If it ever comes down to it, I'll be prepared.'
The colonel laughed. 'Well, I'd hate to be the fool who tries to take your money!'
'Ms. Woodrow says that I'm too little to touch it,' said Gregory, grinning, 'but one day I'll be able to have one for myself. She said she'll even show me how to shoot it.'
'O dear,' breathed Gregory's mother, a tiny, milken hand flying to her breast.
'The boy is exaggerating,' responded Ms. Woodrow a bit quickly. 'I told him that one day he might own one of his own.'
'And that you'd let me shoot it! Bang! Bang! You're dead!'
'We'll see, Gregory,' said the colonel darkly. 'We'll see.'
Ms. Woodrow nervously reached for more wine. But she stopped herself just before the glass touched her lips, and returned it to the table. Her head felt big, and all of a sudden she didn't like it.
Gregory's mother was talking about the midnight Mass. 'Father Nelson's sermon was positively moving. Really. I don't think I've ever heard one quite like it. He is quite a speaker, that man. A wonderful voice, too, and he has this way of picking the right word. Never any difficulty getting across what he wants to say. But last night was definitely his best performance yet. Do you have a well spoken parson? Ms. Woodrow?'
'Parson?' Ms. Woodrow looked partially confused. 'O, yes. The parson at my church is a crotchedy old man. A bore, too.'
Gregory's mother looked taken aback. 'How terrible! What did he talk about?'
'What?'
'Your parson. What did he talk about last night?'
'Last night? O, damnation and hellfire, I suppose.'
'On Christmas? How terrible! I don't blame you for not paying attention.'
'Gregory!' snapped the colonel from his place at the other end of the table. 'Stop playing with your peas!'
'It's hard to pay attention when you're not there,' said Ms. Woodrow, but she was looking the other way.
'Oh.' Gregory's mother couldn't help but look a bit startled.
'Sorry, sir,' muttered Gregory.
'Don't be sorry,' stated the colonel dryly. 'Just eat them.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well,' continued Gregory's mother, 'Father Nelson was absolutely fabulous. He spoke about bad priests in the Church. About how they prevent the love of Jesus from spreading among us, and give the good fathers a bad name. Because let's face it, these are sinful times. I know he doesn't like to talk about it, but Father Nelson was pretty much saying the same thing last night. But fortitude, Ms. Woodrow! If we good Christians just close our eyes and keep the faith, Satan cannot overcome. It's as simple as that.'
'Gregory!'
'But, sir, I'm eating them.'
'Not one at a time!'
'Perhaps if the Church would modernize, then we could take it seriously. You know, it does seem to have been deserted by the young -' began Ms. Woodrow, but she wasn't allowed to finish.
'And enough from you, too,' snapped the colonel sourly. 'I can't believe the things I'm hearing. It was obviously a mistake to invite you to dinner, as I thought it would be. Which makes me think my wife and I shouldn't keep you on as Gregory's tutor.'
'Now let's not be hasty,' cautioned the colonel's wife rather quickly.
But Ms. Woodrow was smiling. She was drunk, and determined not to be intimidated. 'Well then, why don't you let me go?'
The colonel was looking at the old woman, but he didn't respond. His face was as tight as leather.
'Are you ill?' pressed the nanny sweetly, condescendingly, into the ensueing silence. She was trying not to slur her syllables. The colonel's wife was still, statuesque, hardly breathing. 'Two simple words. You can say them.'
Still the colonel didn't answer. But he was growing visibly angrier. His eyes were flickering this way and that about the old woman's face, and his fingers were fidgeting fiercely on the wood of the table.
'I think I have to go to the bathroom!' complained young Gregory, squirming in his seat. He seemed unaware of his father's torment.
Gregory's mother tried to make as little as possible of the situation. But there was a quickness in her voice that betrayed her agitation. 'How amusing, Ms. Woodrow. But really, perhaps we should speak of something else. I hear they're opening a new silver and gold shop on Boylston Street -'
'Major,' continued Ms. Woodrow, her voice slow and biding, softly deceitful like a cat. She hadn't dropped the colonel's ferocious stare. 'You're face is a bit flushed. Perhaps you mean to say something?'
'Ms. Woodrow, please!' Gregory's mother laughed nervously.
'Perhaps -' purred the nanny, dwelling on the word like a delicious sweet. She took the time to fold her hands in front of her. '"You're fired"?'
'Get out of my house,' growled the colonel all of a sudden. It was all he dared to say. The words came half under his breath, as if he were trying to hold them back.
Ms. Woodrow pursed her lips. 'I see,' she said. Carefully, she picked herself up from the table. She didn't want to stumble, nor otherwise demean herself. Of course, it was a matter of some relief to her that she had been invited to leave. In the end she could blame her words on the wine. And tomorrow the colonel would be away again flying planes.
But the colonel hadn't finished speaking. 'You arrogant, ignorant woman!' he exclaimed softly, squeezing the words from his throat. 'I would never have known, listening to you tonight, that we were in the twentieth century.'
Ms. Woodrow smiled and reached for her black pocketbook. 'Any person with strong Christian beliefs,' she said rather loudly, 'is a part of the most dangerous threat posed to the posterity of this country.'
'Daddy,' cried young Gregory suddenly. He seemed to have awakened to what was happening around him. All in an instant he was dismayed at the idea of the nanny's imminent departure. 'Why are you making Ms. Woodrow leave?'
'Shut up, you!' snapped the colonel to his son. And then his chair was thrown back and in an instant he was standing, arms in front of him and his chest bared forward. The veins were standing out clearly on his forehead, and his eyes were wide and protruded furiously from behind his nose. If he had had a tail it would have been thrashing. Gregory's mother gasped and clutched at her throat when she saw him hovering fantastically over the dying plant at the center of the table. And little Ms. Woodrow, who had also gotten to her feet, and somehow found her way over beside the raging giant. 'Don't you see what she's trying to do to you?' Now he was facing the old woman. She was standing still at his feet and looking up, quietly holding her shiny, black pocketbook with both tiny hands in front. 'I won't let you do it! It'll be over my dead body. He is MY SON!' A jagged hand punctured the air in front of Ms. Woodrow's face. 'I don't know if you're living in some fantasy land' - a deep breath - 'or something, but this is my son and we pay you to EDUCATE HIM! Not to pervert him, or tell him when she thinks his parents are wrong, or to stick her nose in their GODDAMN BUSINESS! -'
'Is it my fault,' Ms. Woodrow interrupted with crisp indignation, 'that you are ashamed to be living on a monthly allowance from your wife?'
The colonel was robbed of his speech. He stood with broad immensity over her, gagging on whatever he had been about to say next, and looked with disbelief upon the tiny, adroit woman who thought to berate him. Gregory's mother muttered something at the other end of the table, but it was inaudible. Besides, Gregory wasn't listening. He was looking at the backside of his father, and thought he could actually see the air sizzling.
He wasn't staring into the valley of his back for long. Because the colonel had turned around and snatched the boy from his chair, and without Gregory even seeing him do it. Before he knew he was in any danger the world was gawking at him from an uncomfortable angle, and his body was being jerked now against a hard leg and then against the heel of the table. Gregory cried out terribly and covered his head with both hands.
What Gregory didn't know is that his father was holding a large knife intended for cutting steak near his stomach. He was threatening Ms. Woodrow with it. 'This boy is the creation of my own flesh and blood, and that gives me certain rights! To raise him any fucking way I damn well please, and you had better get that straight!'
'Major -' began Ms. Woodrow, urgently trying to appeal to his calmer nature.
But the colonel was not interested in listening. It so utterly infuriated him that this woman was trying to manipulate his family. 'It's my kidney in there!' he shouted over Gregory's screaming. 'It's mine if I want it!'
He said other things, too, but Ms. Woodrow didn't bother to listen. Gregory's mother had fled the room along with the butler, leaving her alone to face the colonel's wrath. She was instantly aware of this. And so she did the one thing she had feared doing the most.
The knife went spinning across the room, twirling, and fell against some porcelain standing against a far wall. It was that fraction of a second that Ms. Woodrow had to herself, because the colonel was watching the knife with blind amazement. But as soon as it struck the porcelain with a hollow PING! he was awakened. The other hand let go, and Gregory fell toward the floor. The boy bumped his arm, but that was all, and before he had time to feel any pain he was off, scampering out the door and into the corridor beyond, screeching as loudly as any young boy possibly could. Which is very loud if you've ever heard one.
But Ms. Woodrow was quicker. A hand slipped into her pocketbook as soon as she struck at the one holding the knife, and had been given enough time to bring out the cold steel of the revolver and point it at the colonel's face.
The colonel's mouth dropped open when he realized what he was looking at. Still he was, arms thrown wide, but his attention was intensely focused upon the end of her weapon, staring up at him like a third eye. He wasn't at all sure, standing there then, what the old woman was capable of doing. She wasn't shaking, either, and her eyes - encased in droopy, sagging flesh - did not flinch. The revolver felt comfortable in her hands. And she wasn't shaking. The colonel did not dare to speak. Suddenly, he was all too aware of the fact that they were alone.
'You shouldn't have made to leap at me like that,' she said after a moment. There was an intensity in her voice and in the way she was looking at him that was alarming. 'I didn't want to have to do this.' And it's true. Ms. Woodrow was as surprised about the revolver as the colonel.
'I don't know what you're talking about.' The colonel's voice was low and lanky. 'You're the one with the gun.'
'I know I'm the one with the gun!' shouted the nanny all of a sudden, and stamped her foot. Her eyes flashed, and the gun jerked, but it didn't go off. 'And you were the one with the knife! Holding it to that poor little boy like he was a piece of meat next to mashed potatoes and peas!'
The colonel didn't answer. He was waiting to see what she would do next.
'It absolutely astounds me - no, it really does - utterly dismays me! That this society permits a man like you to live with children!'
Someone else spoke then, and much to the surprise of them both it was the colonel's wife. She was propped up against the doorframe, sobbing, her face and hair a mess of tears and odorless makeup. She was muttering into her arms, peeking out of the teary corners at them, so it was difficult to hear what she was saying.
Of course, eventually she put it back into her pocketbook. She felt ashamed, too. Because a gun is never a good tool to theaten with if you have no intention of using it.
The colonel's wife, seeing that the danger had been averted, exclaimed a senseless thanks to her god and ran to her husband. She sounded foolish, like a small child who makes words up where he hasn't the proper vocabulary. Along the way she stumbled, and fell to her knees, so that when she reached him the only thing she could grab was one of his thighs, and tenderly press her tear streaked face against it.
The colonel didn't seem to notice. He only had eyes for the old woman in front of him. There was a strange look on his face - not entirely violent, but angry still, perhaps at himself. He seemed to be looking at her for the first time.
Ms. Woodrow, you may be sure, was fidgeting with the stiff handles of her pocketbook. She could not hold the probing eyes of the colonel, and so she stood staring abjectly at the floor. At times, the raw emotion of her humanity disturbed her.
'Roger!' The colonel barked the word as if calling a faithful dog. Sure enough, the butler stepped into the room. He must have been standing just outside the doorway.
'Yes?' the butler asked without inflection. He tried not to look at the old nanny, but his eyes strayed.
'Has anyone called the police?'
'I don't think so, sir,' answered the butler.
'No one?' The colonel raised an eyebrow.
'The cooks are all in the kitchen and the maids were sent home, sir.'
The colonel didn't respond. He was thinking about the newspapers.
'Shall I get someone over here, sir?'
'No!' answered the colonel a bit hastily. And then: 'That will be all.'
Roger bowed his head and retired.
Ms. Woodrow was looking at the colonel strangely. But before she could absorb anything more she needed a moment to herself. 'I think,' she said, her words awkwardly formed and uncomfortable, 'that I should visit the bathroom.'
The colonel nodded his head absently and looked down at his wife. 'My god, woman!' he exclaimed, as Ms. Woodrow was heading for the open doorway. He gave his leg a solid shake. 'You're sopping my pants!'
| * | * | * | * | * |
Gregory was standing in his father's study, rubbing his arm and looking forlornly out the window. Outside, it was dark. From time to time the garden was illuminated by a sudden flash of light, and moments later the huge, booming peals of thunder. He knew by the light when they were coming, but still he flinched with each crack and shudder from the sky. The weather frightened him, but he did not feel entirely safe inside the house, either. He dreaded having to face his father again, and was expecting at any moment to hear his heavy footfalls and a bellowing voice, angrily calling his name. So he leaned against the wall by the window, gingerly rubbing the dull ache that lay deep within one of his arms, and thought preciously about running away.
The colonel's study was a rudely organized heap of items of various kinds. There were leather boots and hats, old, stern looking uniforms from wars long past, and all sorts of video tapes about great leaders and proud people, including the entire collection of I, Claudius. Also oil lanterns of different shapes and colours, and a variety of antiques including civil war pistols and coins dating from the time of the Revolution. The walls were covered in bookshelves, which were for the most part entirely occupied. From Polybius' Roman History to Dune, including a complete collection of Shakespeare's works, as well as those of Aldous Huxley, and John Irving, and Oscar Wilde. There were books on how to build decks and how to put a new sink in your bathroom, and books with pictures about far away places. A great many of these books were lying scattered over the other items in the room, and many of these were lying open. Buried deep behind all these things, by the window, squatted a spacious oaken desk with intricate carving, itself topped by a computer with a modem and a multitude of papers and documents, and pens. There were serious looking medals and plaques, too, with inscriptions on them, many of which Gregory could not read.
The colonel's study was perpetually locked, but Gregory knew where he kept the key. It was a great place to escape his mother. It was only when the colonel was at home that Gregory was in any danger of being caught, and from the manner in which he had been warned he imagined that he would have been punished severely for any infraction of the rule.
The thought of punishment flooded his head with darkness. Inside, there was a new emotion, and it felt tremendously sweet. And lively, too. The dull, electric waves that made his eyes squint seeped deliciously into the cracks of his mind, and it thrilled him. How it thrilled him! Because he felt powerful, even with all that fear stacked up like great columns in the airy confines of his being. He felt justified, too, and in that instant, as images of his father's face were being passed around the corners of his conciousness - to be jeered at and insulted - he knew that what he was feeling was evil. He was young, yes, but not too young to understand something so simple as that.
Gregory turned around and peered through the dim lighting into the far shadows of the study. Standing near the door there was looking back at him another boy, the same age or thereabouts, of vaguely similar features and stature. The body was shrouded, and melted unsettlingly into the background, but the green eyes were bright and intense, and they did not waver. Gregory was not suprised to see him; they were old friends.
An intimate moment passed between them, at the end of which Gregory turned to face the window once again. Except this time he wasn't meaning to look out. Slowly, almost religiously, he picked up the candle that had been meticulously placed on the center of the sill. The wax felt warm, and the flame danced in the air as it moved, lingering. A bright swath of giddy light followed in a trail, and Gregory couldn't help but think it was beautiful.
He also couldn't help but think it was beautiful when he had started a much larger fire, this one on his father's desk. The heat felt refreshing, unlike the moist, hateful pressure that had exuded earlier from his father's back. He watched enchanted, hardly daring to breathe, allured by the stark beauty of the living fire as it danced artfully in front of him. It glowed terribly, casting about torrents of healthy, orange light, light with so much texture that all the books and the hats and the medals seemed coated in a delicious looking, Halloween frosting. Gregory watched as strangely coloured sheets of paper decorated with neat handwriting were blackening underneathe the toes of the flame. There was a strange, acrid smell that didn't please him, too.
That pungent, dirty smell broke the spell over Gregory, and in an instant his fear returned. For like a deceitful woman of impeccable beauty the flames had held him enthralled a moment too long. Now the fire was too big, and it was no longer whispering; it was screaming. Laughing with delight, and for precious freedom.
Gregory fled the desk. The familiar companion by the door was gone, but the young boy had forgotten all about him. He was too busy trying to get out of the room, hoping perhaps that if he couldn't see or hear or smell the fire then it would somehow disappear. As if the fact of his disbelief would somehow make it true.
Outside in the dark hallway, Gregory ran into the ubiquitous form of Ms. Woodrow. She started, and Gregory slammed the door behind him with such force and with such a culpable look on his face that he knew he had been caught.
Ms. Woodrow, though, was in a terrible mood herself. 'O, Gregory!' she exclaimed, a flustered hand flying to her throat. 'My, what a terrible fright you gave me! You shouldn't tumble out of doorways like that.' She peered then toward the closed door of the study. 'You're not to be in the study, or so I thought. But no matter. No matter at all.' Her voiced had faded away, and for a moment Gregory thought he had lost her.
Ms. Woodrow was lingering over the strange, sooty smell in her nostrils, but she did not wonder at it. Far back in the muddy backwater of her thoughts, she attributed the odor to her clothing. Yes, it must have been her clothing. 'Well,' she said, as if rousing herself from a sudden trance, 'you look as if you've had quite a scare yourself. I guess you have. But I've had quite a scare, too, and it was not a very pleasant one. Not very pleasant at all.'
Gregory looked dumbly up at the old woman, tense, and said nothing.
There came a rickety bash of thunder then, and - as if she could perhaps get a good look at it! - the old woman lifted her head toward the ceiling. 'And such frightful weather. It will be a horrid task getting home.'
'But the thunder!' exclaimed Gregory of a sudden, and all thoughts of smoke and fire were pushed inextricably from his brain. Because she had reminded him that she was leaving.
'O, the thunder!' cried the old woman, and turned her head back to the little boy in front of her. He was still clutching the cold, brass doorknob. 'Are you afraid of the thunder, Gregory? Why, I never knew!' The old woman stepped closer now, and knelt beside him. Which was no easy task, not for a woman that size. The stark look on her face was dreadfully in need of his attention.
For his part, Gregory was sensing that something was dreadfully wrong. She was shaking; he could see it, even in the darkness. Her hands were twitching, too, and every so often she would glance down at them frightfully. And her face looked strained, as if she were undergoing a powerful and violent metamorphosis. The poor woman wouldn't have noticed if her big toe had been caught in a mousetrap.
'There's no need to be afraid of the thunder, dear Gregory. Listen to me.' And she leaned closer still, until her face was almost touching his. Her breath smelled putrid. Still, Gregory did not pull away, because he found her presence comforting nonetheless. 'When I was a little girl I used to live on top of a mountain. A great, big mountain made all of stone. It was a high place with an incredible view -'
'What was the mountain's name, bubby?' interruped Gregory eagerly, forgetting her disposition, because the nanny's stories were always so interesting.
For once Ms. Woodrow looked annoyed with him. Her face drew back in the darkness and cast a leveling glance in his direction. 'Well, she didn't have a name,' she said with as much neutrality as she could muster. 'Except the one I gave her, but that's between me and mountain, isn't it?' She paused then, and drew a deep, lingering breath. Yes, he was listening now, thought young Gregory, so get on with it!
'You hear the thunder, Gregory, and it frightens you, but let me tell you: you know nothing about how vicious and loud a storm can be on the top of a lonely old mountain. It's true. -'
'But you said not to be afraid!'
'And don't! Because I used to be afraid of the thunder, too, until one day I was caught in a terrible storm on my way home from picking wild berries. O, the thunder! You see, Gregory, there's something you have to understand about storms on the tops of mountains, something which few people know because they're not often on the tops of mountains when there's lightening. You see, storm clouds lie quite close to the ground, and mountains are often very tall, and sometimes the clouds are so low and the mountain so high that they touch.'
'You mean you were inside the clouds?'
'Haven't you ever been in an airplane?' But of course he hadn't, because his mother was possessed of a morbid fear of flying. 'Anyway, Gregory, as luck would have it I found myself stumbling home inside the clouds, with the wind shrieking all around me - O, Gregory, the wind! It was so frightfully strong, and it had hands. I thought it would pick me up and fling me off the side! The clouds were so thick I couldn't see. Not a thing except the basket I held in front.'
'Did you get hit by lightening?'
'No, not exactly. You see, the thunder started to approach. The lightening I couldn't see. O, it was around me - everywhere, in fact, but down here on the ground you get such a better view. Up there, the lightening is just a deep glow off in the mirky distance above you somewhere, and it's gone before you really have a chance to get a good look. But the thunder! So loud, and it was coming closer.' Ms. Woodrow's eyes were looking at Gregory, but she was not seeing him.
'I tried to hurry,' she continued softly, 'but I could only go so fast. Fortunately, I had lived in those parts all my life, and needed very few landmarks to be sure I was in the right direction. But sure enough, the booming and the cracking and the rumbling came closer, and closer still, until I thought that a piece of the mountain might just fall away beneathe me.' And sure enough, there arrived a vicious CRACK! and then a BOOM!, and Gregory jumped.
'So I climbed behind a great boulder where there was a little shelter and hoped to let the storm pass in safety. Which is why they didn't see that I was there.'
'Who?' demanded Gregory, who had taken his hand from the warming doorknob to place it on the nanny's waist.
'The cloud giants. Well, one actually. A great, surly beast that stood as tall as a house, and made entirely of stone. He had a great, muscular body, a resonant grey the colour of granite. And how quickly he moved! Like a car on the freeway, with long, loping strides and sure feet and steps so light that they can run across clouds. It was difficult to see in all that rain, peering around the side of the boulder, but there he was running straight at me. And do you know what? There came flying from somewhere behind a rock about the size of a dwarf, and it smashed into the boulder so hard that it shattered into a thousand tiny, spinning pieces, racing through the air in all directions. I was fortunate not to have been struck by one.
'But the sound it made! I'm telling you Gregory, you think the thunder is loud down here, but up there -!
'My ears were filled with a terrific ringing, and I scarcely had time to see the giant reach for piece of rock himself and tear it from the mountain. With a giant heave! he tossed it into the far distance, and then ran off the way he had come. In an instant he was gone. But sure enough, from not very far away I heard - or I felt, rather - a tremendous shaking, and the thunder rolled off the sides of the mountain into the valley far below. SMASH!'
She paused and cocked her head. 'I imagine they are trying to catch them. I can't imagine what for, but I'm sure those flying rocks are meant to be caught. Perhaps it's a sporting event of some sort. I never did see them again.'
Ms. Woodrow was blinking her eyes and smiling stupidly at the little boy in front of her, perhaps waiting for him to speak.
'You mean there are giants that run around the tops of clouds throwing rocks at each other?'
Ms. Woodrow nodded her head enthusiastically, patting Gregory dotingly on the head.
But Gregory pulled away. Instinctively, Ms. Woodrow reached toward him. 'No there weren't,' he said accusingly, and Ms. Woodrow's arm fell. 'Thunder comes from the lightening. I saw it on TV. And you can't walk on the clouds. You'd fall through.'
There was a moment of silence before Ms. Woodrow started to shake her head. 'O, Gregory,' Ms. Woodrow whimpered, her voice delicately trepid. 'O, Gregory.' It was all she could say.
'Stupid old woman! Everybody knows that! Thunder comes from the lightening!' And that's how Gregory left her, kneeling all alone in the dark corridor watching him go, shaking her head and crying, while he called after himself over and again, 'Thunder comes from the lightening! Everybody knows that!'
He continued for some time, even after he was out of her hearing, and wandered through all the dark rooms of the house. Once, he stole past the open doorway to the kitchen, and saw his mother hunched against the stove, alone, sobbing to herself quietly. Each time there came a new crack from the skies above, he began his chanting anew. Sometimes he was laughing. Of course, he was laughing at the freedom he felt, because the thunder no longer frightened him any more, either.
| * | * | * | * | * |
The fire poured from the open doorway to the study, flooding across the ceiling with a gargantuan tone of voice. He pressed himself against a wall, cringing from the waves of acrid heat and smoke. Inside, the world had gone mad. Gregory shuddered and turned away, and continued his steady approach toward the bathroom, even though his mother was apparently shouting at him not to. But her voice could not penetrate the awful cacophany of conflagration. Behind her stood his father the colonel, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, looking with obvious disgust upon the inside. He was saying something, too, but to whom was not immediately apparent.
As Gregory drew away from the study, the roaring grew less threatening, and he could hear his mother ordering him to come here. But he ignored her and pushed onward, enraptured by the sight of his father, standing so crisp and tall, the vibrant light of the flames dripping from his clothing, looking into the bathroom and speaking his mind. He stood calmly and without a breath of defeat, without any hint of chaos at all, in fact, when so much chaos seemed to have vanquished already. His mother's disposition only frightened him, and that evening he had learned a great deal about fear already. He knew it had to be grabbed by the horns and stared straight in the face, and then wrestled to the ground if need be. So leave his mother to cry in the corner; she can be fetched when it's time to leave.
Gregory's mother called out to her husband in warning. And somehow he heard her. Slowly, cleanly, he turned his head. An eternally sober gaze fell upon the little boy, but he did not cease his trek just yet.
'Gregory, go with your mother.' The words were hard and well packed like stones that nothing so much as air or sound could overpower.
Still, Gregory did not turn back. Because there was something hideous-sounding emitting shrieks from the bathroom, and he wanted to see what it was. Huge, dreadful yelps and an occasional stream of jagged speech, high pitched and whining, and deleriously mad in its tirade. The colonel seemed to be impervious or unaware that he was in any danger.
'There are more answers than death if only I could find them!' The throaty words rolled from the bathroom like tumbleweed.
The colonel did not protest again. He watched calmly as his son inched forward, the roar of the flames rising anew. The voice within the bathroom continued. 'It's senseless to dread the inevitable! Now isn't it, major?'
The angle of Gregory's sight veered ever more toward the open doorway. The look on his face told plainly that he expected something horrible, and the colonel thought perhaps that it was best if he saw. And he did see.
A sheet of flame arced from the sink across the width of the room, sealing the interior from any intervention by way of the door. On the other side, writhing on the floor by the toilet, there was Ms. Woodrow, or at any rate a creature that was wearing her clothing. The screen of the flames made her skin look mottled, and the hue there was a dreadful greenish red. But worst of all was the face. A gaunt neck stretched and pushed a protruding, angular head with ears much too large for it toward the doorway, thin, purplish lips opened wide like a snake's. The darkness within was astounding, and could not be penetrated by light nor air nor sound. But sound did emerge: grunts and choked laughter, and the occasional, prophetic phrase. Her limbs were thrashing about the floor, but Gregory could plainly see that the flames had not yet reached her, and for a moment he thought that it was not really her arms and legs at all but a great, green tail, prancing through the air like an angry cat's. It had already smashed the small window behind her, and occasionally knocked one of the remaining panes into the blackness of the night, and the rain.
'Gregory!' it screamed, and in an instant all movement inside the bathroom ceased.
Gregory looked toward his father, the revulsion swimming awkwardly in the flesh of his face. The colonel returned his questioning look gravely. There was nothing he could say that the boy's eyes could not plainly see.
'Gregory!' called out the creature inside the bathroom once again. 'Come here!'
The boy's eyes returned to the interior, and the shriveled woman crouched behind her sheet of hinterland flames. And, it's true, for an instant he really wanted to go.
'Come away from your father!'
It was staring straight at him. Gregory caught its tired, feline eyes once and would not look again. It might have been the ferocity of the flames, but Ms. Woodrow's eyes were burning of their own right. And the pupils were malformed, taller than they were wide, and green. Gregory shuddered and turned toward his father.
The colonel was smiling gravely, and for once the look on his face was understanding. 'Go with your mother, boy,' he repeated calmly.
Gregory hesitated only a moment longer. He looked from his father toward the inside of the bathroom once again, but he did not let his gaze rest for very long upon any particular spot, for fear of catching the look of that hideous demon.
'Noooo!' cried Ms. Woodrow as Gregory turned and started back toward his mother. The voice was hideously tormented, and rang with the knowledge that everything was lost. 'By the gods, no! You can't just leave me here!' She was sobbing, too, perhaps wondering where she had gone wrong.
'Go ahead, Gregory,' whispered the colonel so softly his voice could barely be heard over the spreading of the fire. 'I'll go get Ms. Woodrow.'
The colonel's words comforted him, and so he took his mother's hand. At once she bombarded him with a multitude of questions and accusations, and commenced to tug him toward the far end of the corridor, at one minute reminding him how horribly he had behaved and the next hugging him passionately and telling him he was the most beautiful boy in the entire world. How could anyone want to hurt him?
He looked back once, as his mother and he were about to turn out of sight into the foyer. Ms. Woodrow was frantically screaming now, whatever vestiges of reason that had held together the fragile fabric of her sanity torn asunder. Most of what she was saying was inaudible, but occasionally Gregory could catch an entire word.
The colonel was stepping slowly, quietly inside the room, and now he was gone. But the high-pitched shrieking continued unabated. 'Don't leave me here with him alone!' she was pleading, but there was no one to hear her. Just the colonel with that deadeningly calm look on his face, approaching menacingly.
What Gregory didn't know is that the nanny was reaching into her black, plastic pocketbook once again, feeling, searching, her uneven speech giving way here and there and now entirely to yelps and groaning and the occasional unintelligible squeal as she closed her hand around the thing she was looking for, hot and fierce from the heat of the flames, which were already setting fire to her precious leather sac and all the things that were in it.
| * | * | * | * | * |
Outside now, standing in the rain pressed against his trembling mother. They were in the street, safely separated by about fifty feet of green, drenched grass and earth from the burning manor. For Gregory, the sight was one he would not easily forget. The sky was black as the night, and encased everything about them. Everything, that is, except the flames. They lept from open windows like giant tongues licking the darkness, seeking, but never finding what they so very much desired. Most of the first floor had already been engulfed in the inferno, and an occaisional, sickly light flickered from an upstairs window. From the rest, unhealthy smoke poured through the broken panes like lava, drifting upward and disappearing into the night.
Except the smell. The dry odor of burning filled Gregory's nostrils, and reminded him of the small fire on the desk in his father's study. How small and inconspicuous it had seemed, how specifically beautiful. And what could have stopped it?
Gregory's mother gripped him uncomfortably about the shoulders, pulling him toward her. He asked her a question or two, but she did not answer. She only had eyes for the house. Obviously she was waiting for something, but for the life of him Gregory could not understand what it was. They were both safe and sound, breathing clean air, and who cared if the manor in which he had lived all his life was burning away before their very eyes? Good riddance.
Eventually, before the firemen arrived, there emerged out of the conflagration the figure of a great man, holding something large and uncomfortable in his arms and coming fastidiously toward them. At one point, Gregory's mother ran to her husband. The little boy followed, and saw his mother leap upon the colonel, hug him and kiss him and whisper into his ear how thankful she was that he was alive.
Gregory heard his mother ask, 'What about Ms. Woodrow?'
The colonel shrugged and turned back toward the burning house. He put an arm around his wife and hugged her toward him, and reached with the other for his son. Whatever he had been holding was sitting on the turf, the top edge resting comfortably against his thigh. Thankfully, the boy gave himself up to his father, and felt what comfort and safety that he could. 'I couldn't save her,' he said quietly. 'But I got this here,' he added, and gestured toward the object that was leaning against his leg: one of the paintings from the living room. It had been the largest one in the house.
Gregory's mother nodded, scarcely giving the portrait so much as a glance, and pressed her face against the colonel's chest.
The colonel, for his part, squeezed his son comfortingly, and turned his gaze smugly toward his doomed manor. There was the hint of a smile on his taut lips, and the radiance of victory sparkling in his eyes. He was so enraptured that he did not see Gregory looking mysteriously up at his blackened face. It was not with ill-will, nor hatred, but rather with an unwilling respect. Because there couldn't have been anyone else alive in the world as powerful as this man, his father. Not even a god.
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.