“Their forepaws,” Cammy said. “I didn’t notice till now. I was so taken with their eyes, I didn’t notice their forepaws.”
“What about them?”
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Cammy’s knees still felt loose, her legs shaky, but nervous energy brought her to her feet. “They aren’t paws. They’re hands.”
“Yeah,” Grady said. “Like monkeys.”
Her hands were suddenly damp. She blotted them on her jeans as she said, “No. No, no, no. Not like monkeys.”
Twenty-seven
As a man of impeccable personal hygiene, Henry Rouvroy longed to take a bath. His activities since arriving at the farm had caused him to break into a sweat more than once.
He would be forced to costume himself as a rustic for the next few years, to pass as Jim. But he refused to be reduced to one of the Great Unwashed, either intellectually or physically.
With his tormentor on the prowl, however, he dared not be naked and vulnerable. The noise of the bathroom shower would leave him deaf to an enemy’s approach.
The most he could do was wash his hands. As he quickly filled the sink with hot water, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.
From the soap arose a cheap scent, a poor imitation of the fragrance of roses. The lather was not as rich as that of the fine soaps to which he was accustomed. In fact, it felt like slime.
When Henry stocked the cellar for the possibility of society’s collapse, he would have to lay in a good supply of the right soaps. No doubt their shampoo, hair conditioner, toothpaste, and various toiletries were also purchased because of price and were inadequate.
The condition of his fingernails distressed him. Unspeakable grime was embedded under every one.
How could he have eaten dinner with such filth under his nails? Perhaps, like a malign fog that begins as wisps of mist, the rural way of thinking crept into a newcomer’s mind without his awareness. One day you neglected to clean under your fingernails, and a week later you found yourself chewing tobacco and buying bib overalls because you liked them.
He must guard against an unconscious slide from sophistication into uncouth practices and boorish ideas.
In the soap dish lay a small rectangular brush with medium-stiff bristles, clearly meant for scrubbing the stubborn grime of farm work out of knuckle creases and from under fingernails. Henry applied it vigorously to the disgusting scum under his nails.
As he labored, he realized with dismay that he would no longer be able to avail himself of the services of a manicurist twice every month. Ensuring the health and attractiveness of his nails, of his cuticles, would henceforth be his responsibility and his alone.
His hair. With a shiver of horror, he suddenly understood that he would have to cut his own hair.
In the surrounding county, in this kingdom of rubes and hicks, barbers could no doubt be found, but he suspected that they learned to cut hair by shearing sheep and would do him up in full redneck style. Anyway, when anarchy swept the nation, venturing out to a barber would be as foolhardy as walking barefoot through a snakepit.
The water was foul, lukewarm. He had cleaned four fingernails to his satisfaction. He drained the sink and filled it again.
He scrubbed, scrubbed. He drained the sink once more and filled it a third time.
When his hands were clean, he felt that he had washed away not only the filth but also every stubborn vestige of superstition. He believed that he would suffer no further from paranoid fantasies of the resurrected dead. Good-bye, Jim.
With the shotgun in hand, Henry toured the house one more time.
In the kitchen, he stared at the glow leaking under the braced cellar door. He was disturbed by the light pooling below, down there where only darkness ought to be—pooling, rising, insinuating.
He stood there for so long, gripping the shotgun so fiercely, that eventually he became aware that his hands ached.
He returned to the bedroom and stood staring at the faux sleeper under the bedclothes, the make-believe Henry composed of pillows and rolled blankets. The simulacrum was convincing.
As his flashlight brightened in his hand, he doused the overhead light with the switch by the door. He left the door open. The hallway light was too dim to relieve the deep gloom in the bedroom.
He retrieved his shotgun and took it into the empty half of the closet, from which he earlier removed Nora’s clothing. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, leaving the riddled door open. He clicked off the flashlight.
Outside, the tormentor would see the glow of the living-room lamp, the other rooms dark. He would most likely sense a trap and wait for Henry to step out of the house before making his move. If the sonofabitch dared to use his key to come inside, Henry would be ready for him.
The simulacrum under the bedclothes looked like someone sleeping.
If the tormentor stepped into the room, switched on the lights, and opened fire on the fake Henry, the real Henry would return fire from the closet, killing him.
Sitting in the dark, Henry recalled the shape on the bed, under the covers. He could see it clearly in memory.
A real man lying on the bed would present exactly the same form as the pillow-and-rolled-blanket dummy. Exactly.
He knew the sleeper was nothing but pillows and blankets because earlier he arranged them under the covers. He knew. Just pillows and blankets.
Henry listened for a distant door to open. He listened for the stealthy footsteps of an intruder. He listened intently for the sound of the bedsprings adjusting to a shifting weight.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Yet.
Twenty-eight
For Cammy Rivers, the sudden recognition of the nature of the creatures’ hands was a wardrobe-to-Narnia, tornado-and-Toto moment, when the well-known land of a lifetime suddenly proved to be—to have always been—one door away, one wind away, from another reality.
The creature with the plush yellow duck found the pressure point that made the toy speak: Quack, quack.
At once, its companion answered with the purple bunny: Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Panting in anticipation of play, Merlin stood poised to move whichever way the action might go, looking from one to the other of his new friends.
Quack. Squeak, squeak. Quack, quack. Squeak.
Throughout most of her childhood, Cammy had wished desperately for a magic moment, for a wave of change to wash away the way things were, for all that seemed impossible to become possible in a wink. Having given up long ago, having been old and without dreams even before her brutal childhood ended, she now found herself on the brink of an event potentially so momentous that it seemed to have the power to put her past in a new perspective, to diminish the memory of her suffering, and to open a door through which she could step and be transformed.
Squeak. Quack. Squeak. Quack, quack, quack.
The word wonder was inadequate to describe the feeling—both emotion and sensation—that flowered in her more fully by the minute, and the right word no longer eluded her. But she feared that speaking it even to herself would jinx her, would ensure that what seemed to be momentous would turn out to be mundane.
Squeak, squeak. Quack. Squeak, squeak. Quack.
Sitting on the footstool again, Cammy remained riveted by the animals’ hands as they squeezed the toys. “No, not like monkeys. There’s over a hundred species of monkeys, some with hands instead of paws, but not all. Those with hands don’t always have thumbs.”
Grady rose from the arm of the chair behind Cammy and knelt beside the footstool on which she sat. “These guys have thumbs.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, they sure do. And some monkeys have thumbs that help them hold things. But only capuchins and one or maybe two other species can pick up things between their thumb and forefinger.”
Squeak. Quack. Squeak, squeak. Quack, quack.
One of the animals made soft chortling noises that seemed to express delight, and the two appeared to grin at each other.
Making a t
impani of the floor, Merlin galloped out of the room.
“Of monkeys, only capuchins and—I think maybe—guenons can move the thumb around to touch a couple of the other fingers.”
Grady counted, “One, two, three, four,” as he moved his right thumb to each finger on his hand.
“I don’t know of any monkeys that have fully opposable and extendable thumbs, capable of such dexterity,” Cammy said. “A lot of monkeys can’t hold things with their thumb, they just press the object between their fingers and palm.”
“Anyway,” Grady said, “these guys aren’t monkeys. They don’t look anything like monkeys.”
“Definitely not monkeys,” she agreed. “Some lemurs have pretty flexible hands, but these hands aren’t like the hands of any lemur.”
“What has hands like theirs?”
“We do.”
“Besides us.”
“Nothing.”
“There must be something.”
“Yeah. There’s them.”
Having made a selection from his toy box in the kitchen, the wolfhound thundered into the living room with a plush raccoon in his mouth.
The animals on the sofa reacted to that ring-tailed treasure with interest.
Hoping to tease them into a chase, Merlin bit the raccoon, and it produced a squeak identical to that made by the purple bunny.
As if disappointed that the raccoon lacked a unique voice, the creatures returned to the examination of their toys.
“Look at the way they handle those things,” Cammy said.
“What way?”
“The way they stroke the fabric.”
“So?”
“Look at that one, Grady. Look how it likes the feel of the duck’s rubber bill.”
“Yeah, and Merlin loves to chew on it. So what?”
“The other one. See? The way it keeps rubbing its thumb across the bunny’s nose? I bet there’s something else they share with us besides the shape and function of their hands. A richness of nerve endings in the fingertips. Did you know, compared to other species, the human sense of touch is highly refined, it’s unique on Earth?”
“I didn’t know,” he admitted.
“Now you know. Unique on Earth. Or it was.”
As if tiring of the toy, one of the creatures tossed the purple bunny across the living room, where it bounced off the fireplace mantel and fell to the hearth.
Merlin dropped his raccoon and scrambled after the rabbit.
The second creature threw the duck to a far corner of the room.
The wolfhound seized the rabbit, dropped it, and plunged after the duck.
One of the animals began to pry up a sofa cushion, apparently to see what might be under it.
The other had taken an interest in Cammy. It slid to the edge of the sofa and leaned forward, staring intently.
At the centers of its beautiful golden eyes, the pupils were not black but a dark copper color.
Merlin returned with the duck. He squeaked the toy twice, but neither of the creatures wanted to play.
“Calling them ‘it’ doesn’t feel right,” Cammy said. “We ought to name them.”
“I don’t name every animal in the woods.”
“They aren’t in the woods. They’re here now.”
“Probably not for long.”
“Are you paying attention?” she asked.
“I thought I was.”
“They’ve moved in.”
“Wild animals don’t just move in.”
“Wild isn’t the right word for them. You yourself said they were almost tame, like somebody’s pets.”
“I did. I said that. You think they’re someone’s pets?”
She shook her head. “No. Not pets. But they’re something.”
“We aren’t making any progress. We’re back to the something theory.”
After discovering that neither of his new friends was in the mood for a chase, Merlin came to Cammy with the duck, squeaking it teasingly.
She rubbed his head and said, “Not right now, you big sweetie.”
Astonishment and amazement affected the heart and the mind only momentarily and couldn’t be sustained. The wonder that gripped Cammy was continuous, however, in part because the longer she observed the creatures, the more they intrigued her.
Their nostrils quivered frequently, suggesting that their nasal cavities were richly supplied with blood vessels and nerves, like the noses of dogs, and that their olfactory sense was highly developed. Their teeth were those of omnivores, quite human in shape, sharpness, and arrangement. In spite of the masking fur, their facial muscles allowed a wide range of expressions. Their toes were longer than those of humans, and the great toe appeared to be a kind of thumb, not fully opposable but functional enough to make them good climbers.
With every new observation, Cammy was further energized. Ideas, questions, and suppositions that gave rise to additional questions spun through her mind. The flint of one idea sparked against the flint of another and another and another.
Indicating the animal that perched on the edge of the sofa and stared intently at her, Cammy said, “She’s so totally mysterious, I’m going to call her Puzzle.”
Because the genitalia were well-concealed in fur and folds, Grady asked, “How do you know it’s a female?”
“I’m guessing. But she’s slightly smaller than the other one. And her tail isn’t quite as plumey.”
“Male peacocks are always showier than female, huh?” “It holds for a number of species, though not all. Male golden retrievers tend to have plumier tails than females.”
Puzzle slid off the sofa, onto all fours, cocked her head, and continued to study Cammy.
Immediately, the other animal turned to the cushion on which Puzzle had been sitting and tipped it on end to look underneath.
Grady said, “So you think the one searching for loose change is a male?”
“I’m pretty sure. But the names work either way. I’m going to call him Riddle.”
“Puzzle and Riddle. I guess that’s better than Ebb and Flo.”
“You should be forbidden by law from naming animals.”
“I still think Howard would’ve been a good name for Merlin.”
“You were going to call him Sassy, for God’s sake.”
“That was only to scare you into letting me call him Howard.”
Pointing at the female, Cammy said, “Puzzle. That’s you. But every puzzle has a solution.”
Seeming to confirm the judgment that these animals were not wild, that they were familiar with people, Puzzle scampered to the footstool, climbed into Cammy’s lap, and curled up for a cuddle, as if she were not a fifty-pound package but instead a lap dog.
Laughing, Cammy stroked Puzzle’s coat—and exclaimed at the density and singular softness of the fur. “Grady, feel this.”
He put a hand on Puzzle. “So soft, like mink.”
“Softer than mink,” Cammy said. “Softer than sable. Softer than anything.”
Under Cammy’s ministering hands, Puzzle purred with pleasure.
“Look at you,” Grady said. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m not glowing,” Cammy objected.
“I’ve never seen you glowing like this.”
“I’m not a lamp.”
“Your face is like the face of a saint in a painting.”
“I’m no saint.”
“Well, you’re glowing, anyway.”
Twenty-nine
The incident occurred in the afternoon, and Tom Bigger thought about nothing else all day and into the night before deciding what he must do.
He was vomiting into a trash barrel when it happened.
Without a shriek or shrill, a flock of seagulls swooped out of nowhere, wings beating the air low over his head. The mere act of ducking, turning, and looking up into the sun was enough to trigger vertigo.
A trash barrel stood a step away. If it hadn’t been there, in his confusion he might have thrown up on his shoes. He h
ad done that before.
The barrel served a small rest area off the coastal highway. Two concrete benches offered vantage points from which to enjoy the sun-spangled sea and a curve of coastline.
Occasionally, on days when he looked as presentable as he got, Tom climbed up from the beach to panhandle the motorists who stopped to commune with nature. If he tried to beg when he was too rough-looking, the marks didn’t get out of their cars.
The name Bigger fit him better in his youth. At forty-eight, more than fifty pounds lighter than in his glory days, he was gaunt, although at six foot five, he still towered over most people. Large-boned, with wrists as thick as axe handles, with sledgehammer hands, he could knock down anyone, but the condition of his face ensured that no one ever challenged him.
Three times over the years, when the self-hatred became too poisonous to contain, he pounded his massive fists into his own face until the pain burned as fiercely as he deserved. Each time, someone found him, and he was hospitalized.
He accepted basic care but refused reconstructive surgery other than some dental work. He wanted to look like what he was: broken, the nonfunctional wreckage of a man. He wanted people to see the real him and to witness their pity, their disgust.
Humiliation kept his acrimony focused on himself. He feared only that one day his bitterness would turn to hostility against others and that he would act upon his enmity. He dreaded what violence he might perpetrate, what a horror he might become.
When he panhandled, he held a sign that identified him as a veteran, the survivor of a bomb blast in one Middle East conflict or another, but he was a veteran only of the war within himself.
On this day, shaved, hair freshly washed in the sea, wearing rumpled khakis and a parrot-pattern Hawaiian shirt, Tom appeared sufficiently presentable to take in thirty dollars and change in three hours.