“Okay,” Charlie says. “What about tomorrow? We could spend the whole day here tomorrow.”
“Let’s sit,” Al says.
They head for some benches and Grandpa Al sits. Charlie intends to sit, but it’s impossible to resist the ledge behind the bench. Just as he’s about to climb up, Al pats the bench with the cupped palm of his hand.
“Right next to me,” Charlie’s grandfather tells him.
Charlie sits right next to him, and Al puts his arm around him and squeezes his shoulder.
“I got a call from your mother,” Al says. “I’m going to drive you home tomorrow.”
Charlie looks at him, feeling betrayed. He just got in last night, and this is what he gets? Two hours at the museum?
“This isn’t fair,” Charlie says.
“No,” Al says, “it isn’t.”
This is exactly why it’s impossible to have a fight with Grandpa Al; he always agrees with you.
“Amanda is sick,” Al says. “That’s why I’m taking you home.”
Charlie is wearing old high-topped sneakers. He suddenly realizes that his sneakers arc too small. He can feel them cutting into the flesh above his ankle bones.
“How sick?” Charlie says.
“It’s very bad,” Al tells him. “It’s a virus called AIDS.”
Charlie stands up and faces the museum. “I know what AIDS is, I know it’s a virus.”
“She got it from a blood transfusion,” Al says. “Before they knew about AIDS, before they tested for contaminated blood.”
Charlie bites his lip until he draws blood. He is an idiot. He should have known something was wrong when his mother let him come to New York alone. Al comes up behind Charlie and stands close by. Charlie can feel the subway beneath them, he can feel the heat from the sewers. He cannot help wondering if there’s been some mistake.
Maybe it should have happened to him.
That night, Charlie has trouble falling asleep, and when he does he dreams he is no longer human. He dreams there are red stars overhead and bursts of fire. The earth shakes with something deep within itself. He thinks water, because he can smell it. Water means warm, so he tracks the smell. He is lucky to be alive; the eggs of the others like him were more exposed to the cold, and each one froze.
He has trouble remembering anything before now. What it was like following the thing that was like him but bigger, feeding on whatever it left behind, panicking whenever he lost the scent of the thing that was like him but bigger because he knew, if he lost it, it would never turn around to look for him. Turning around, stopping, means the end.
At the very beginning, there were the eggs of the others for him to eat until he could follow the thing that was like him but bigger. They were together until the thing that was like him but bigger wouldn’t let him near its kill and he struck out at it. He heard a roar from his own throat, and he was so hungry that he wouldn’t give up. The thing that was like him but bigger ran away, leaving behind a pool of blood. He was alone then, he no longer followed the thing that was like him because it was no longer bigger.
He knows enough to keep going. Sometimes, he is almost tricked by sunlight. He lies down and feels it soak into his body, feels it could nourish him, but if he stays in one place too long the cold will kill him. There are times when he kills his food, but more often he eats what he finds. Things that no longer move because they have been frozen. He breaks his nails tearing apart their frozen hides. He searches inside their bodies for some warm core, perhaps a den of flesh to sleep in, but he finds nothing that brings him comfort.
Everywhere he goes there were once swamps, water so warm steam rose from the reeds. Things were alive. There was heat, things smaller to kill and eat, endless green plants. That was before his time. He has always been cold. He feels black inside; outside, scales fall from him and freeze as they hit the ground. He doesn’t look up anymore when he hears things explode in the sky. He used to run and hide. He used to claw at the hard, cold earth. Now he just keeps moving. Now he is going toward water. He is looking for something warm. He cannot eat enough to fill his huge body. When he sees others like him he is ready to fight if he has to, but he doesn’t want to use up his strength, so he waits and often the others look at him and flee.
Tyrant lizard is what he will be called, Tyrannosaurus rex. But he is no tyrant; he has trouble lifting his legs to walk because the cold starts at the bottom and goes all the way up. Water. He can smell it. He keeps following the scent, the same way he used to follow the thing that was like him but bigger. The earth he walks on is as cold as ever; a thin layer of ice clings to his back and tail, but somewhere, deep inside him, there is still heat.
Charlie wakes near dawn, terrified by the sound of his own heart pounding. He puts his hands on his chest; his skin feels hot through his pajamas. He counts backward from one hundred and, as he does, his heart stops racing. He falls back into a dreamless sleep, and later, when he wakes up, he’s still tired. He can’t stop thinking about his dream. He dawdles over breakfast, he watches TV till noon, he takes his time at lunch and forces himself to have two grilled cheese sandwiches not because he’s hungry, but to waste time.
Late in the afternoon, Charlie’s grandmother sews one of the tyrannosaurus patches on his denim jacket, while his grandfather gets the cooler and packs apples and c heese and beer for the ride. The apartment has old air conditioners, which hum loudly. The slipcovers on the couches are bordered with large pink roses. Charlie’s grandmother will not be driving up with them. She has pointedly not been invited. Claire knows Polly is afraid she’ll break down; Polly has never forgiven her disappointments that happened so long ago Claire doesn’t even remember what they were.
Charlie notices that his grandmother’s hands shake as she sews on the patch. She was once a seamstress at Bendel’s, but her stitches are not as small as they used to be. Charlie kisses her good-bye when she finishes the jacket.
“Don’t you dare turn around and drive back tonight,” Claire tells her husband.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” Al says, and he winks at Charlie. Charlie’s grandfather has been the building super for thirty-five years. He has his own parking space in the small underground garage, he knows nearly everyone on the block, at least the old-timers, and he can fix almost anything or, at least, make it seem that he has until the next time it breaks down. He built Charlie his first hamster cage, out of wood and chicken wire, and he has several strange habits: he drinks hot water with lemon at breakfast, he refuses to watch a movie made after 1952, and he always drinks a beer when he drives out of Manhattan. The beer is the tangible object that separates the city and Al’s never-ending duties as super. It is what, before today, has always seemed like freedom. Once they’ve gone over the Triborough Bridge, Al asks Charlie to open a bottle of beer.
“It’s just as well your grandmother’s not coming with us,” he tells Charlie. “She doesn’t handle illnesses well. Although, as far as she’s concerned, doctors can cure anything. I always tell her she should have married a doctor. Mind if I smoke a cigar?”
The smell makes Charlie sick, but he says, “Sure,” and gets one from the glove compartment. His grandfather isn’t allowed to smoke at home; he has to sit in the basement if he wants a cigar. Al hands Charlie the cold bottle of beer to hold, then takes the cigar and lights it.
“Do you think she’ll die?” Charlie says.
“Well, son,” his grandfather says, “we’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a baby,” Charlie says.
“You’re right,” Al says. “I forget how old you are. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t look good.” He glances at Charlie to gauge his reaction. “Want to try that beer?”
Charlie looks over at his grandfather to see if he’s kidding. Al’s eyes are on the road. Charlie takes a swig of beer, which stings as it goes down. It is disgusting. Charlie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Not bad,” he says.
/>
They take the turnoff for the New England Thruway. Charlie stares out the window and imagines the tyrannosaurus in his dream. It is taller than any of the trees along the road, taller than the lampposts and the water towers. The sky is clear, the luminous blue it turns on summer evenings, just before dark. Charlie thinks of teeth and claws, blood and bones. He always thought he was smart, and now, quite suddenly, he sees that science has made him stupid. He really believed that, given enough time, science could answer any question, but it cannot answer what is most important: What if there’s no time left?
“I’ve been up and down this road so many times, I know it by heart,” Grandpa Al says. “Want some music?”
“I don’t want to go home,” Charlie says.
“Of course you don’t,” Al says, his foot steady on the gas.
They drive the rest of the way in silence except for the few songs Charlie’s grandfather sings, old songs Charlie doesn’t know the words to, love songs Al himself can barely remember. After they skirt Boston, the air begins to feel salty. They drive on 95, past Peabody, and Gloucester, and Ipswich. At the exit for Morrow, they see three white herons walking along the side of the road. Charlie’s grandfather switches on the high beams and he has a second beer, not quite cold enough to be good for anything, certainly not for quenching his thirst. There are no more fireflies, and it’s gotten darker earlier than it did only a few days ago. They drive through town, past the green and the shops.
“Almost there,” Al says mournfully.
They turn onto Chestnut Street, go half a block, then pull into the driveway. Ivan is out on the front porch, waiting for them maybe, or just getting some air. He stands up when the car pulls in. Charlie is afraid to look at his father, but he does anyway. His father looks just the same as he did when he drove Charlie to the bus, only now he’s wearing a blue shirt, beige slacks, and loafers without any socks. He stands in front of the house and doesn’t move; he’s frozen in place. Charlie starts to open the car door before the car comes to a stop. As he walks to his father, the patch Charlie’s grandmother stitched on his jacket begins to glow like a piece of ashy, forgotten meteor.
Charlie does his best not to talk to anyone for the rest of the evening, and as soon as he can, he escapes up to his room. When Amanda comes to his room, the light is off and she can’t make anything out.
“Are you here?” she says.
The window is open and the white rice-paper shade moves back and forth, hitting against the sill. The children’s grandfather is spending the night, and he and their mom and dad are out on the porch, drinking beer and talking low. So low, Amanda is pretty certain that they’re talking about her.
“I’m here,” Charlie says.
For some reason he doesn’t want to take any of his clothes off before going to bed, not even his jacket. Amanda sees the phosphorescent dinosaur patch and she follows it to the bed. She sits down on the edge of the bed, and, though her eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, she can feel Charlie’s presence.
“I guess you didn’t get to spend a lot of time at the museum,” Amanda says.
“Two hours,” Charlie says.
“That patch is pretty neat,” Amanda says. She can see his face now.
“How do you feel?” Charlie asks Amanda formally.
“They’re all crazy,” Amanda says. “I’m fine. I’m great.”
“Yeah,” Charlie quickly agrees.
“I wish I could have gone to New York instead of going to that disgusting hospital,” Amanda says.
Amanda is the one who really should have gone to New York. She’s the one who’s so wild to live there.
“See anybody famous?” she asks.
She is a maniac for famous people and has already seen George Burns, James Taylor, Sting, and Carol Channing, all walking down the street, and nobody, except for Amanda, even stared at them.
“Nah,” Charlie says. “It’s too close to Labor Day. All the famous people go to their vacation homes.”
“Mick Jagger goes to Montauk,” Amanda says wistfully.
They listen to the rice-paper shade hitting against the sill.
“I wish it was the beginning of the summer,” Charlie says.
They can hear their father’s raised voice outside; he is arguing with someone, their mom or Grandpa Al, but they can’t make out the words. They don’t want to.
“Don’t tell Mom,” Amanda whispers. “My throat hurts.”
Charlie reaches into his pocket; behind the dinosaur patch he bought for Sevrin there’s a roll of Life Savers.
“Here,” he says. He puts the roll of Life Savers into Amanda’s hand and recoils when he feels how cold her hand is.
“You can’t catch it from touching me or anything like that,” Amanda tells him.
“I know,” Charlie says, embarrassed. He wasn’t afraid of that, he was afraid of the cold. He thinks of his tyrannosaurus walk ing on the icy ground as the sky fills with shooting stars. “You can keep the whole roll,” he says.
Amanda takes a cherry Life Saver and pops it into her mouth. “Thanks,” she says.
Since they told her, Amanda has been afraid to go to sleep, but she’s always tired early. She stands up now. Her eyes have adjusted and she can see Charlie, huddled against the wall, still wearing his jeans and his jacket and his sneakers.
“I just wanted to find out how New York was,” Amanda says.
Charlie reaches into his pocket and feels the edges of Sevrin’s dinosaur patch.
“I got you a present,” Charlie says.
“What’s the joke?” Amanda says.
“No joke,” Charlie tells her.
He moves to the side of the bed and throws his legs over, so his feet reach the floor. He hands Amanda the dinosaur patch, which glows through its cellophane.
“I’m going to put this on my gym bag,” Amanda says.
“Great,” Charlie says.
“Is this really for me?” Amanda says.
“I gave it to you, didn’t I?” Charlie says.
“What’d you do, put poison on it?”
“Look, if you don’t want it, just give it back,” Charlie says.
“No way,” Amanda tells him. “Thanks, beetle brain.”
“You’re welcome, dogface,” Charlie counters.
“Just remember,” Amanda says, “no backsies.”
“All right, all right.” Charlie kicks off his sneakers and, realizing how warm it is tonight, takes off his jacket and stretches out on his bed.
“No backsies,” he agrees.
FIVE
POLLY HAS ALWAYS TAKEN the children shopping to Bradlee’s for new clothes and school supplies, and she doesn’t intend to stop now. The parking lot is a madhouse, but even before they get there Polly’s so tense that her neck aches. A nervous childhood habit of hers has returned; she has begun to grind her teeth.
“Mom!” Amanda shouts, when a Volvo backing up nearly hits them.
Polly doesn’t slow down. She’s been cheated out of everything else, she’s not about to get cheated out of the parking space she spies in the second row. She pulls in so fast that the children are jettisoned forward before being pulled back by their seat-belts.
“Good going, Mom,” Charlie says from the backseat.
Polly is sweating hard. She would have killed to get this parking space. All over the lot there are mothers whose only concern is finding the right size corduroy slacks and sweaters. Polly and Ivan have met with Ed Reardon three times this week, and he’s let them know that the biggest threat to Amanda right now is pneumonia. Their decision to let her go to school is a dangerous one, not for the other children but for Amanda, who could easily pick up any of the multitudes of viruses that so often sweep through classrooms. But how can they keep Amanda from the one thing she wants that she can still have? Afraid that she’ll pick up a stomach virus any other kid would be free of in twenty-four hours but which might keep her in bed for weeks, do they isolate her completely? That can’t be kindnes
s.
It can’t be what’s best.
Last night, at supper, they talked about the gymnastics finals, which are always held in June. Not only does Amanda believe she’ll be in the finals, she’s certain she’ll win. She is already planning her floor-exercise routine for the first meet at the end of September, practicing on the gray exercise mat down in the basement, playing her tape, Madonna’s “True Blue,” so often that Polly already knows the song by heart.
As they walk from the car to the store, Polly has to fight off the urge to touch Amanda. Buying Amanda new school clothes feels like signing her death warrant; what Polly would like to do is keep her daughter home and lock all the doors. She can’t understand how Ivan can continue to go to the institute every day, even though they have promised to go on with their normal lives as best they can, because as far as Polly is concerned her work is over and done with. She would not spend one minute in the darkroom Ivan made out of the laundry room in the basement if that meant a minute away from Amanda. Everything that excludes Amanda is wasted time. But, of course, Polly knows she’s not allowed to let anyone see that nothing but Amanda matters.
Inside Bradlee’s the air conditioning is turned on high and the fluorescent lights flicker. Polly grabs a shopping cart and heads directly to Preteen Girls. Charlie, who hates new clothes, has already slunk away to the school-supplies section. Amanda begins to look through a rack of dresses, all of which seem to be purple and which, at least to Polly, look exactly the same. As Polly tosses several pairs of tights into the cart, Amanda comes over with two of the purple dresses.
“Not both,” Polly says automatically.
Instantly, she regrets what she’s said. What the hell difference does it make if Amanda gets both dresses?
“I need them both ...” Amanda begins, with a whine.
“All right,” Polly says quickly, before Amanda can explain. She takes the dresses, drapes them over the cart, then moves on to pajamas. She looks up to see Amanda studying her. Before Polly can roll the cart over to the next aisle, Amanda comes over and takes one of the dresses out of the cart.