Джош Малерман - Inspection

It was true; J indeed had a theory for D.A.D. It’s what the Alphabet Boys were raised to do.

Think.

But J was thinking of A or Z, impossibly mobile, crouched and unmoving.

Tell him, J thought. But a deeper voice argued. One that sounded like it belonged to a wise brother.

A dead one?

“I’m thinking,” J said. “I want to articulate this the right way.”

He should’ve woken Q last night is what he should have done. He’d considered doing it, of course. The boys on Floor 8 had long crept into one another’s rooms when a particularly powerful storm came through. Or a nightmare of equal measure. J had knocked on Q’s door as recently as a month ago, feeling sick and hoping Q had some soup remaining from dinner. But last night, despite wanting confirmation, he remained by his large window overlooking the Yard, a window almost as wide as the wall. He knew Q would have something intelligent to say, would perhaps even be able to prove the form as an unfortunate combination of branches, leaves, and moonlight. Because it was probable that what J had seen was no more than a combination of inert, non-sentient pieces. And yet…J felt knowledge coming from those woods.

J felt life. Or something like it.

Felt like you were being watched is what it was.

“I think it’s because of the coming floor shift,” J said. “I’ve grown up with D and L and Q. To be moved, in the shuffle…I don’t know. I agree that it’s a good thing for the Parenthood to do, to promote fresh experiences, to forge new bonds, but it’s also a little…”

J felt cold leather upon his shoulder.

“A little like being lost?” D.A.D. asked. Gently, D.A.D. turned J to face him. The bulb hung directly over the man’s head, and parts of his face were obscured by shadow. J thought how D.A.D.’s entire face looked to be covered in hair, as if the shadows cast were actually his beard growing, rising up to his shining eyes, climbing higher yet to his thick, fur-like pompadour.

“Yes.” J swallowed. “A lot like being lost.” He glanced past D.A.D., to the notepaper upon the steel desk. There was a lot of activity on the page. Many notes.

The Inspection begins, J thought again, the moment you walk through the door.

D.A.D. did not nod. He did not smile. He simply stared. It felt, to J, as if the man were using those shovels indeed, searching J’s mind for a better dream-prompt than the coming floor shift.

Then D.A.D.’s face changed, a little bit. Both eyes squinted and the right side of his mouth lifted. Just enough to suggest warmth.

“I get it,” D.A.D. said. “And I’m sure I’ll run into more stories like yours today, as we make our morning Inspections.” He did not pat J on the shoulder and then walk back to his desk. He did not say anything else on the topic at all. Instead, he remained, staring. “I’ve just had a wonderful idea,” he said. “How about if I manufacture a means by which you can tell me your thoughts, your feelings, directly. Something we can share, just you and I. A notebook perhaps. You take notes and…deliver them to me. Why, we could be pen pals in that way.”

There was never a feeling so bright as being singled out by D.A.D.

“That would be…really nice,” J said.

“It would, yes. Excellent.”

Yet, as D.A.D. continued to stare, continued to study, the usual list of horrifying diseases crossed J’s mind. The reason, the boys had long been told, for the Inspections in the first place.

Vees. Rotts. Placasores.

Was D.A.D. looking for these? And could he spot them in J’s eyes? Could he spot them in a notebook, too?

“Gentlemen,” D.A.D. said. He snapped his gloved fingers. A sound that was almost as familiar as the word Inspection itself, as it came shrill through the floor’s one steel-meshed speaker in the hall.

Collins and Jeffrey removed their magnifying glasses and advanced. D.A.D. retreated, but not all the way to his desk. J, turning back to face the Inspectors, could feel D.A.D. crowding him still, standing close behind with his arms crossed, his leather gloves gripping the sleeves of his red jacket. Both Collins and Jeffrey looked to D.A.D. with the same expression J imagined himself to be wearing. A tick past confusion. A few ticks shy of fear.

D.A.D. had never watched an Inspection from so close.

Why this one?

Hysteria, J thought, and decided it was the last time he was going to think it. It was only Mister Tree’s low-hanging branches. Natural as cherries in the Orchard. And a dead brother crouching at midnight was…was… hysterical.

No. He was hiding nothing because there was nothing to hide.

“Go on,” D.A.D. said, his voice like flowing water over J’s shoulder. That water became a wave, and in that wave J imagined a figure crouched behind Mister Tree. “I want to make sure J understands that, in light of his bad dream, he is in the care of the Parenthood and that the Parenthood will always be here to protect him. By way of Inspection.” The Inspectors held their magnifying glasses up to J’s naked body. D.A.D. continued to talk. Close. Too close. “I want you to know, J, that if something like what happened in your dream should ever occur in waking life…impossible as that scenario is…you needn’t worry about finding your way back to the Turret.”

“Lift,” Collins said. J lifted both arms and the Inspectors brought the magnifying glasses to his armpits.

“If ever you stray so far, J, my J,” D.A.D. said, “the Parenthood will find you. ”

I’ll cut right to it: If it’s order Richard cherishes most in what he himself has dubbed “the Delicate Years,” then this is simply not the time to shuffle the boys’ bedrooms. The simple take is this: Richard’s right—at age twelve the boys are treading very close to experiencing a degree of sexuality unparalleled thus far in their lives. It’s a phase that each of us adults knows well. And do we remember how vivid everything became a year or two past twelve? How frightening and exciting at once? Most important, how emotional? (NOTE: Richard, I realize you loathe when I address you directly in my reports, but I cannot underscore this point enough: You must try to recall your own blossoming, for there is nothing quite as potent as male sexuality in bloom. Now multiply that by 24.) I would not be surprised to discover, reading today’s Inspection reports, that many of the boys are already expressing anxiety with the shuffle. Some might express anger. Some might even lie. My rationale for including the latter is not to instill fear into Richard and it is certainly not with a mind to belittle him, but rather…I think it’s true. Teenagers lie because teenagers aren’t yet aware that their warring emotions are natural. The Alphabet Boys are knocking on teenage’s door. And in an environment like the Parenthood, they don’t even have the example, usually set a year or two prior…by girls.

One of the many difficulties in keeping the knowledge of the existence of women from them. But, admittedly, one we have been prepared for.

Now, Richard’s logic for instituting the room shuffle at this time is sound. Rather than wander the halls of the Parenthood confused and restless, the boys might blame their growing anxiety on the move itself, therefore supplying them with an easily avoided focal point, by which they can carry on with their studies as Richard contends they will. This logic makes sense, yes, but only stands as a placeholder and eventually will fade out. And when the uneasiness with the shuffle does fade out…what then will the boys blame their sudden emotions on? I know Richard well enough to believe he has a second distraction planned…and a third…and what must be an entire deck of cards, already arranged, to be flipped, out into the light, new worries, new concerns, until the boys become visibly comfortable with the fresh feelings within them.