Charles Baxter - Gryphon - New and Selected Stories

Two days later he arrived at work before dawn and found Gilbert standing motionless in front of Cooper’s own baker’s bench. Cooper closed the door behind him and said, “Hey, Gilbert.”

“It’s all right,” Gilbert said. “I already called the cops.”

“What?”

Gilbert pointed. On the wood table were hundreds of pieces of broken glass from the scattered skylight in a slice-of-pie pattern, and, over the glass, a circle of dried blood the width of a teacup. Smaller dots of blood, like afterthoughts, were scattered around the bench and led across the floor to the cash register, which had been jimmied open. Cooper felt himself looking up. A bird of a type he couldn’t identify was perched on the broken skylight.

“Two hundred dollars,” Gilbert said, overpronouncing the words. “Somewhere somebody’s all cut up for a lousy two hundred dollars. I’d give the son of a bitch a hundred not to break in, if he’d asked. But you know what I really mind?”

“The blood,” Cooper said.

“Bingo.” Gilbert nodded, as he coughed. “I hate the idea of this guy’s blood in my kitchen, on the floor, on the table and over there in the mixing pans. I really hate it. A bakery. What a fucking stupid place to break into.”

“I told you so,” Christine said, washing Cooper’s face. Then she turned him around and ran the soapy washcloth down his back and over his buttocks.

August. Three days before Christine’s birthday. Cooper and his son were walking down Main Street toward a store called the Peaceable Kingdom to get Christine a present, a small stuffed pheasant that Alexander had had his eye on for many months. Alexander’s hand was in Cooper’s as they crossed at the corner, after waiting for the WALK sign to go on. Alexander had been asking Cooper for an exact definition of trolls, and how they differ from ghouls. And what, he wanted to know, what exactly is a goblin, and how are they born? In forests? Can they be born anywhere, like trolls?

Up ahead, squatting against the window of a sporting-goods store, was the man perpetually dressed in the filthy brown corduroy suit: James. His hands were woven together at his forehead, thumbs at temples, to shade his eyes against the sun. As Cooper and his son passed by, James spoke up. He did not ask for money. He said, “Hello, Cooper.”

“Hello, James,” Cooper said.

“Is this your boy?” He pulled his hands apart and pointed at Alexander.

“Yes.”

“Daddy,” Alexander said, tugging at his father’s hand.

“A fine boy,” James said, squinting. “Looks a bit like you.” The old man smelled as he had before: like a city dump, like everything.

“Thank you,” Cooper said, beaming. “He’s a handsome boy, isn’t he?”

“Indeed,” James said. “Would you like to hear a bit of the Gospels?”

“No, thank you, James,” Cooper said. “We’re on our way to get this young man’s mother a birthday present.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” the old man said.

As Cooper reached for his wallet, Alexander suddenly spoke: “Daddy, don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t give him any money,” the boy said.

“Why not?”

Alexander couldn’t say. He began to shake his head, looking at James, then at his father. He backed away, down the sidewalk, his lower lip beginning to stick out and his eyes starting to grow wet.

“Here, James,” Cooper said, watching his son, who had retreated down the block and was hiding in the doorway of a hardware store. He handed the old man five dollars.

“Bless you,” James said. “And bless Jesus.” He put the money in his pocket, then placed his hands together in front of his chest, lowered himself to his knees, and began to pray.

“Good-bye, James,” Cooper said. With his eyes closed, James nodded. Cooper ran down the block to catch up with his son.

After Alexander had finished crying, he told his father that he was afraid — afraid that he was going to bring that dirty man home, the way he did with the red-haired guy, and let him stay, maybe in the basement, in the extra room.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Cooper said. “Really. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” his wife asked, that night, in bed. “Wouldn’t you? I think you might.”

“No. Not home. Not again.”

But he had been accused, and he rose up and walked down the hall to his son’s room. The house was theirs, no one else’s; his footsteps were the only audible ones. In Alexander’s room, in the dim illumination spread by the Swiss-chalet night-light, Cooper saw his son’s model airplanes and the posters of his baseball heroes, but in looking around the room, he felt that something was missing. He glanced again at his son’s dresser. The piggy bank, stuffed with pennies, was gone.

He’s frightened of my charity, Cooper thought, looking under the bed and seeing the piggy bank there, next to Alexander’s favorite softball.

Cooper returned to bed. “He’s hidden his money from me,” he said.

“They do that, you know,” Christine said. “And they go on doing that.”

“You can’t sleep,” Cooper said, touching his wife.

“No,” she said. “But it’s all right.”

“I can’t tell you about Paradise,” Cooper told her. “I gave you all the stories I knew.”

“Well, what do you want?” she asked.

He put his hands over hers. “Shelter me,” he said.

“Oh, Cooper,” she said. “Which way this time? Which way?”

To answer her, he rolled over, and, as quietly as he could, so as not to wake their son in the next room, he took her into his arms and held her there.

TWELVE YEARS OLD, and I was so bored I was combing my hair just for the hell of it. This particular Saturday afternoon, time was stretching out unpleasantly in front of me. I held the comb under the tap and then stared into the bathroom mirror as I raked the wave at the front of my scalp upward so that it would look casual and sharp and perfect. For inspiration I had my transistor radio, balanced on the doorknob, tuned to an AM Top 40 station. But the music was making me jumpy, and instead of looking casual my hair, soaking wet, had the metallic curve of the rear fins of a De Soto. I looked aerodynamic but not handsome. I dropped the comb into the sink and went down the hallway to my brother’s room.

Ben was sitting at his desk, crumpling up papers and tossing them into a wastebasket near the window. He was a great shot, particularly when he was throwing away his homework. His stainless-steel sword, a souvenir of military school, was leaning against the bookcase, and I could see my pencil-thin reflection in it as I stood in his doorway. “Did you hear about the car?” Ben asked, not bothering to look at me. He was gazing through his window at Five Oaks Lake.

“What car?”

“The car that went through the ice two nights ago. Thursday. Look. You can see the pressure ridge near Eagle Island.”

I couldn’t see any pressure ridge; it was too far away. Cars belonging to ice fishermen were always breaking through the ice, but swallowing up a car was a slow process in January, though not in March or April, and the drivers usually got out safely. The clear lake ice reflected perfectly the flat gray sky this drought winter, and we could still see the spiky brown grass on our back lawn. It crackled and crunched whenever I walked on it.

“I don’t see it,” I said. “I can’t see the hole. Where did you hear about this car? Did Pop tell you?”

“No,” Ben said. “Other sources.” Ben’s sources, his network of friends and enemies, were always calling him on the telephone to tell him things. He basked in information. Now he gave me a quick glance. “Holy smoke,” he said. “What did you do to your hair?”