Michael Chabon: Werewolves in Their Youth

“Is Dad coming over?”

“Well, yes, he is, Paul—”

“Great.”

“—because he feels that he really needs to see you, tonight. But the two of you will have to sit outside in the car and talk, or go somewhere else. I’m not going to let him in the house.”

I was astonished. “Why not?”

“Because, Paul, your dad — you know as well as I do — he’s become, well, you know how he’s been lately. I don’t have to tell you.” As if she were angry, she folded her arms, and clenched her jaw. But I could see that she was trying to keep herself from crying. “I have to set some limits.”

“You mean he can’t come over to our house anymore? Ever again?”

There were tears in her eyes. “Ever again,” she said. Once more she crouched before me, and I let her take me in her arms, but I did not return her embrace. In the picture window at the end of the hall I watched her reflection hugging mine. I didn’t want to be comforted on the impending loss of my father. I wanted him not to be lost, and it seemed to me that it would be her fault if he was.

“He said he’s going to collect his things. So I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get rid of them, eh?” She gave me a poke in the ribs. “He must want them after all. Hey,” she said. “What is it? What’s the matter?” She followed my gaze toward the picture window, where our embracing reflections looked back at us with startled expressions.

“Nothing,” I said. A light had just come on in the Stokeses’ house. “I–I have to go over to Timothy’s. I left something there.”

“What?”

“My Luger,” I said, remembering a toy I had lent to Timothy sometime last summer. “The pink one that squirts.”

“Well, it’s time to eat,” said my mother. “You can go after.”

“But what if Dad comes?”

“Well, what if he does? You can go over to Timothy’s tomorrow. He’s probably not allowed to see anyone anyway.”

In five minutes I bolted my dinner — one of those bizarre conglomerations of bottled tomato sauces, casseroles-in-boxes, and leftover Chinese lunches that were then the national dishes of our disordered and temporizing homeland — and ran out the front door into the night. I was sure that Timothy had found the cartons by now. What if he thought I had meant them for a present and refused to give them back? My father was going to be angry enough about my mother’s treatment of his chemistry things, but it would be worse when he found out that most of them, including his notebook, were missing. I sprinted across our yard as quickly as I could, considering my asthma, and went crashing through the maple trees toward the Stokeses’ house. There was a burst of red light as a thin branch slapped against my left eye, and I cried out, and covered my face, and ran headlong into Timothy Stokes. My chin struck his chest and I sat down hard.

He smiled, and knelt beside me. “Are you all right, Professor?” he said. He was wearing the same pair of white jeans and stained T-shirt, under an unbuttoned jacket that was too large for him and that bore over the breast pocket his own last name, printed in block letters on a strip of cloth. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and switched it on. The beam threw eerie shadows across his cheeks and forehead, and his little brown eyes were alight behind his glasses. I saw at once that the antidote I’d administered to him that afternoon had worn off, and he showed no sign of having been subjected to any weird therapies or electroshock helmets. His face looked as solemn and stupid as ever. He wore a rifle strapped across his back and a plastic commando knife in his boot, and three Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos hand grenades poked through the web belt of his canteen, and in his right hand he was carrying, as though it were another weapon, the thick, black, case-bound notebook.

“That’s my father’s,” I said. “You can’t have it.”

“I already photographed all of its contents with my spy camera,” he explained. “I have every page on microfilm. Plus I ran an extensive computer analysis on them.” He lowered his voice. “Your father is a very dangerous man. Look here.” He opened the notebook and shone the flashlight on a page where my father had written, “Myco. K. P889, L. 443, Tr. 23,” and then a date from three years earlier. The rest of the page was an illegible mishmash of numbers and abbreviations, some of them connected by sharp forceful arrows. The entry went on for several pages in the same fashion, cramped by haste and marginalia. I had seen plenty like it before, and I had no doubt that it described a process that could be used to get rid of something that grew between the tiles of your bathroom, or on the skin of your pears.

“Did you see?” said Timothy.

“See what?” I said.

“Your father is Ant-Man,” he said gravely. “I’ve suspected it for a long time.” He unhooked the canteen from his belt. It was covered in green canvas and it sloshed as he waved it around. “This is the antidote.”

He clamped the notebook under one arm and with his freed hand unscrewed the cap. I inclined my face slightly toward the mouth of the canteen, extended my fingers, and wafted the air above it toward my nostrils, delicately, as my father had shown me. I detected no odor this way, however. So he stuck it right under my nose.

“It smells like Coke,” I said. “You put salt in it.” Timothy didn’t say anything, but I thought I saw disappointment flicker across his flashlit face. “What would happen if I drank it?” I added quickly, not wanting to let him down. There was something about the way Timothy played his game, the thoroughness with which he imagined, that never failed to entrance me.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Timothy. “What if it said in this book, here, that your father has been giving you the secret formula to drink, like one drop at a time in your cereal, ever since you were a little baby? And what if that’s why you can talk to ants, too?”

“What if,” I said. I had always felt sorry for Ant-Man, a superhero whose powers condemned him to the disappointing comradeship of bugs. “Timothy, what happened to you today? What did they say? Are you expelled?”

“Shh,” said Timothy. The notebook went flapping to the ground as he reached for me, and drew me to him, and covered my mouth with his hand. His voice fell to a harsh whisper. “Someone’s coming.”

I heard the sound of a car climbing the hill. A pair of headlights splashed light across the front of my house. I yanked my head free of his grasp.

“It’s my dad!” I said. “Timothy, I need to get his stuff back — now!”

“Quiet.” Timothy loosened his hold on me and brought the canteen up to my lips. I took a step away from him. “Quick,” he said. “Swallow this antidote. We don’t have time to test it. You’ll just have to take the risk.” He patted the dull black barrel of his rifle. “I’ve already loaded this baby with antidote darts.”

From the distant front porch of our house I could hear our front door squeal on its hinges, and then the separate voices of my parents, saying hello. I tried to make sense of their murmurings, but we were too far away. After a while there was another long squeal of hinges, and the door slammed shut, and then our house creaked and resounded with the passage of feet along its hallway.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I think she let him go inside.”

“Come on,” said Timothy. “Drink this.”

“I’m not drinking that stuff,” I said.

“All right, then,” he said. “ I’ll drink it.” He threw back his head and took a long swallow. Then he handed the canteen to me, and I drank down the rest of the antidote. It was sweet and sharp tasting, and bitter through and through. I felt pretty sure that it was just Coca-Cola mixed with good old sodium chloride, but then, after I got it down, I realized there must have been something else mixed into it — something that burned.