Michael Cunningham - Specimen Days

“What don’t I know?”

He paused. His little puckered mouth curled in on itself.

She said, “Listen to me. You’re confused. You know what Walt is telling you to do is wrong. I want you to take that thing off your chest and give it to me. Then everything will be all right. I promise.”

He stood. He was barely three feet tall. It was impossible to tell, in the big jacket, how deformed he might or might not be. The eyes were slightly too big, the mouth too small. His round head was big for his frail body. It stood on the shoulders of the coat like a pumpkin. Like a picture of the moon in a children’s book.

“I can’t tell what to do,” he said.

“Yes, you can. Take that thing off and give it to me. I’ll make sure you’re all right. Everything will be all right.”

“I didn’t want to move. We always lived there.”

“It’s hard, moving. I can understand why you’re upset.”

He nodded gravely. Cat was seized by a spasm of dreadful compassion. Here was a monster; here was a frightened child. Here was a tortured little boy who could at any moment blow them both away. Her ears buzzed. She was surprised to know that she was not afraid, not exactly afraid.

“I am upset,” he said.

She hesitated. What was going to work? Too much kindness, and he could decide he loved her enough to kill her. Too little kindness, and he might do it out of rage.

She moved a step closer. Why not? It wouldn’t make any difference, if he detonated. And if she got closer to him she might be able to knock him down, pin his arms, get the bomb. He’d have to strike a flame and light the fuse. She’d probably have time to stop him. But she couldn’t be sure.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His nose had started to run.

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve got nothing to feel sorry about.”

Whoever put him up to this had abandoned him. No child responds well to abandonment, not even a deranged one. She decided. Her best chance was to take him in, try to gain his trust. Wait until he let his guard down, and make her move.

She said, “Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“Why don’t you come upstairs with me? I could make you something to eat.”

“Really?” he said. “Yes. Come on, it’s fine.”

She went up the last two stairs and stood beside him. She took the keys out of her bag. Her hand was shaking (funny, she didn’t think she was afraid), but she managed to unlock the door.

“Come in,” she said.

She held the door open for him. He waited. He wanted her to enter first, didn’t he? He must know that if she got behind him, she could grab his arms.

She went in ahead. He followed.

“It’s upstairs,” she said.

She mounted the stairs, with the kid right behind her, and opened the door to her apartment. He refused to go in ahead of her. He remained two paces behind.

“This is nice,” he said.

It wasn’t nice. It was a dump. It was dirty. There were shoes and clothes strewn around.

“Thank you,” she said. “Why don’t you take your coat off?”

“That’s okay.”

She went into the kitchen. He followed close behind. She opened the minifridge. Not much there. There were a couple of eggs, though, that were probably still all right. No bread. She thought she might have some crackers somewhere.

“How about scrambled eggs?” she said. “Okay.”

She washed out the skillet, which had been soaking in the sink for a few days, and passed through a moment of surreal embarrassment about her housekeeping. The boy stood a few feet away, watching her. In the light, she could better appreciate how compromised he was. His shoulders, frail as the bones of a bird, canted to the right. His ears were mere nubs, bright pink, like wads of chewing gum stuck on either side of his big round skull.

“Where are your children?” he asked.

“I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any at all?”

“No.”

He was getting agitated. He was looking around the apartment and fingering the lighter. Apparently he thought every woman had to have children.

“Okay, yes,” she said. “I have a little boy named Luke. But he’s not here now. He’s far away.”

“Is he coming back soon?”

“No. He’s not coming back soon.”

“Luke is a nice name.”

“How old are you?” she asked as she cracked an egg into a bowl.

“I’m the youngest.”

“And what’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“What do people call you, then?”

“I know when they’re talking to me.”

“Your brothers didn’t have names, either?” He shook his head.

Cat broke the second egg. She looked for a moment at the two yolks, their deep yellow, floating in the pallid viscosity. It was so normal: two eggs in a bowl. She beat them with a fork.

“Did you love your brothers?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You must miss them.”

“I do.”

She poured the eggs into the pan. Ordinary, ordinary. Making scrambled eggs for a child. Should she throw the hot pan at him? No, his hand was still inside his jacket, holding the lighter. It was too risky. She scraped the eggs with a spatula, put them on a plate with a couple of Triscuits.

“Come on,” she said. He followed her to the table in the living room. She put the plate down for him, went back for silverware and a glass of cranberry juice. It was that or tap water.

If he detonated in here, the whole apartment would go-She took him a fork, a napkin, and the juice. She sat in the other chair, across from him.

“Don’t you want any?” he asked. “I’m not hungry right now. You go ahead.” He ate innocently, hungrily. She watched him. “Have you always lived with Walt?” she asked.

“Yes.” He took a sip of the cranberry juice and grimaced.

“Don’t you like the juice?” she asked.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve just never had it.” He took another sip.

He was trying to please her. He was being polite.

“Does Walt hurt you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why do you think she wants you to die? That doesn’t sound like love to me.”

“We don’t die. We go into the grass. We go into the trees.”

“Is that what Walt tells you?”

“It’s in our home.”

“What’s in your home?”

“Everything is.”

“Do you go to school?”

“No.”

“How often have you left?”

“At first, I never did. Then it was time, and we went outside.”

“What was that like?”

“It was hard. I mean, I was surprised.”

“By how big the world is?”

“I guess.”

“Did you like it?”

“Not at first. It was so noisy.”

“Do you like it now?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you’re not sure if you’re ready to go into the trees and the grass?”

“I’m not brave,” he said. “I’m not loving. My brothers were.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The world is more beautiful and wonderful than you can imagine. It’s not just the city.”

“I know that. It’s on the wall.”

“But it’s different when you see it. There are mountains. There are woods, and they’re full of animals. There are oceans. There are beaches covered with shells.”

“What are shells?”

“They’re… They’re the most beautiful little round boxes. The ocean makes them. And when you put them close to your ear, you can hear the sound of the ocean inside them.”

“The ocean makes boxes and puts itself inside?”

“It puts its sound inside. Wouldn’t you like to go to a beach and see the shells?”