Dean Koontz - From the Corner of His Eye

That night, in Barty's room, after Agnes had listened to his prayers and then had tucked him in for the night, she sat on the edge of his bed. “Honey, I was wondering.... Now that you've had more time to think, could you explain to me what happened?"

He rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. “Nope. It's still just something you gotta feel."

“All the ways things are."

“Yeah."

“We'll need to talk about this a lot in the days to come, as we both have more time to think about it."

“I figured."

Softened by a Shantung shade, the lamplight was golden on his small smooth face, but sapphire and emerald in his eyes.

“You didn't mention it to Uncle Edom or Uncle Jacob,” she said.

“Better not."

“Why?"

“You were scared, huh?"

“Yes, I was.” She didn't tell him that her fear had not been allayed by his assurances or by his second walk in the rain.

“And you,” Barty said, “you're never scared of anything."

“You mean ... Edom and Jacob are already afraid of so much."

The boy nodded. “If we told 'em, maybe they'd have to wash their shorts. “

“Where did you hear that expression,” she demanded, though she couldn't conceal her amusement.

Barty grinned mischievously. “One of the places we visited today. Some big kids. They saw this scary movie, said they had to wash their shorts after."

“Big kids aren't always smart just because they're big."

“Yeah, I know."

She hesitated. “Edom and Jacob have had hard lives, Barty''

“Were they coal miners?"

“What?"

“On TV, it said coal miners have hard lives."

“Not only coal miners. Old as you are in some ways, you're still too young for me to explain. I will someday."

“Okay."

“You remember, we've talked before about the stories they're always telling."

“Hurricane. Galveston, Texas, back in 1900. Six thousand people died."

Frowning, Agnes said. “Yes, those stories. Sweetie, when Uncle Edom and Uncle Jacob go on about big storms blowing people away and explosions blowing people up ... that's not what life's about."

“It happens,” the boy said.

“Yes. Yes, it does."

Agnes had struggled recently to find a way to explain to Barty that his uncles had lost their hope, to convey also what it meant to live without hope-and somehow to tell the boy all this without burdening him, at such a young age, with the details of what his monstrous grandfather, Agnes's father, had done to her and to her brothers. The task was beyond her abilities. The fact that Barty was a prodigy six times over didn't make his mother's work easier, because in order to understand her, he would require experience and emotional maturity, not just intellect.

Frustrated again, she said simply, “Whenever Edom and Jacob talk about these things, I want you to be sure always to keep in mind that life's about living and being happy, not about dying."

“I wish they knew that,” Barty said.

For those five words, Agnes adored him.

“So do I, honey. Oh, Lord, so do I.” She kissed his forehead. “Listen, kiddo, in spite of their stories and all their funny ways, your uncles are good men."

“Sure, I know."

“And they love you very much."

“I love them, too, Mommy."

Earlier, the dirty-sheet clouds had been wrung dry. Now, the trees that overhung the house had finally stopped dripping on the cedar shingled roof The night was so still that Agnes could hear the sea softly breaking upon the shore more than half a mile away.

“Sleepy?” she asked.

“A little."

“Santa Claus won't come if you don't sleep."

“I'm not sure he's real."

“What makes you say that?"

“Something I read."

A pang of regret pierced her, that her boy's precocity should deny him this fine fantasy, as her morose father had denied it to her. “He's real,” she asserted.

“You think so?"

“I don't just think so. And I don't just know it. I feel it, exactly like you feel all the ways things are. I'll bet you feel it, too."

Bright though they were at all times, Barty's Tiffany eyes shone brighter now with beams of North Pole magic. “Maybe I do feel it."

“If you don't, your feeling gland isn't working. Want me to read you to sleep?"

“No, that's okay. I'll close my eyes and tell myself a story."

She kissed his cheek, and he pulled his arms out from under the covers to hug her. Such small arms, but such a fierce hug.

As she tucked the bedclothes around him again, she said, “Barty, I don't think you should let anyone else see how you can walk in the rain without getting wet. Not Edom and Jacob. Not anyone at all. And anything else special that you discover you can do ... we should keep it a secret between you and me."

“Why?"

Furrowing her brow and narrowing her eyes as though prepared to scold him, she slowly lowered her face to his, until their noses were touching, and she whispered, “Because it's more fun if it's secret."

Matching his mother's whisper, taking obvious delight in their conspiracy, he said, “Our own secret society."

“What would you know about secret societies?"

“Just what's in books and TV”

“Which is?” His eyes widened, and his voice became husky with pretended fear. “They're always ... evil.

Her whisper grew softer yet more hoarse. “Should we be evil?"

“Maybe."

“What happens to people in evil secret societies?"

“They go to jail,” he whispered solemnly.

“Then let's not be evil."

“Okay."

“Ours will be a good secret society."

“We gotta have a secret handshake."

“Nah. Every secret society has a secret handshake. We'll have this instead.” Her face was still close to his, and she rubbed noses with him.

He stifled a giggle. “And a secret word."

“Eskimo."

“And a name."

“The North Pole Society of Not Evil Adventurers."

“That's a great name!"

Agnes rubbed noses with him again, kissed him, and rose from the edge of the bed.

Gazing up at her, Barty said, “You've got a halo, Mommy."

“You're sweet, kiddo."

“No, you really do."

She switched off the lamp. “Sleep tight, angel boy."

The soft hallway light didn't penetrate far past the open door.

From the plush pillowy shadows of the bed, Barty said, “Oh, look. Christmas lights."

Assuming that the boy had closed his eyes and was talking to himself, somewhere between his self-told bedtime story and a dream, Agnes retreated from the room, pulling the door only half shut behind her.

“Good-night, Mommy."

“Good-night,” she whispered.

She switched off the hall light and stood at the half-open door, listening, waiting.

Such quiet filled the house that Agnes couldn't hear even the murmuring miseries of the past.

Although she had never seen snow other than in pictures and on film, this deep-settled silence seemed to speak of failing flakes, of white muffling mantles, and she wouldn't have been in the least surprised if, stepping outside, she had found herself in a glorious winter landscape, cold and crystalline, here on the always-snowless hills and shores of the California Pacific.

Her special son, walking where the rain wasn't, had made all things seem possible.

From, the darkness of his room, Barty now spoke the words for which Agnes had been waiting, his whisper soft yet resonant in the quiet house: “Good-night, Daddy."

On other nights, she had overheard this and been touched. On this Christmas Eve, however, it filled her with wonder and wondering, for she recalled their conversation earlier, at Joey's grave:

I wish your dad could have known you.

Somewhere, he does. Daddy died here, but be didn't die every place I am. it's lonely for me here, but not lonely for me everywhere.