Part 38 (1/2)

My father turned back around. ”Gideon,” he warned.

”Told me what? ”I said.

”Oh, come on,” Gideon chided my father. ”You wouldn't try to punish me for telling the truth, would you?”

”What truth?” I said. ”What's he talking about?”

”I'm talking about the big master plan,” Gideon said. ”The one Aaron here cooked up with old Greyface. You still think you were a part of it, don't you? But you weren't.”

”I don't understand. . . 'Greyface'? You mean Dr. Grey?”

”The one who just died. She and Aaron had it all worked out: tame the mult.i.tudes, put up the house, create a new front man -- except that last bit wasn't part of the original plan.”

I shook my head, still not following.

”He was supposed to run the body,” Gideon said, pointing at my father. ”That was the plan.”

”No.” I shook my head again. ”No, that was supposed to be my job. My father was tired --”

”We were all tired. But Aaron wanted to be in charge. And hey!” -- Gideon held up his scarred left hand -- ”he proved he was tougher than I was. . . or at least more ruthless. But he was supposed to take charge of everything. . . only at the last minute, he decided he wasn't really up to it. So he improvised, and called out a little helper. . .”

I turned to my father. ”Is that -- that's not true, is it?” My father didn't answer; but from the way he looked at Gideon, and from the fact that Gideon did not spontaneously shrivel up and die, I realized that it might be true. ”Father?”

”Let's go back to the house,” my father said.

”Wait. Does that mean it is true?”

”We're not going to discuss this in front of him,” my father said. ”Let's go back to the house.”

And he turned and walked off into the mist.

”That's right,” said Gideon, ”go back to your playhouse!” Then, seeing that I was still there, he decided to sow one more seed of mischief. ”Speaking of the house,” he said, ”there's something you can help me with. Do you happen to remember how many doors there are on the first floor?”

”What?”

”The first floor of Aaron's playhouse. How many doors does it have?”

”Three,” I said. ”Front door and back door.”

Gideon nodded. ”Front door and back door. . . and that makes three, does it?”

”Andrew!” my father called.

”I. . . I've got to go,” I said, and started backing away. Gideon smirked at me.

”That's right, little figment,” he said, ”you go on back to the playhouse with your father. But we'll see each other again soon maybe, huh?” All at once he lunged forward, stamping his foot and throwing his arms wide as if to grab me. I fled, Gideon's mocking laughter chasing me all the way back down to the sh.o.r.e.

I rejoined my father aboard the ferryboat, and Captain Marco pushed off again. This time he didn't take us straight across. Instead, sensing that my father and I had private matters to discuss, he took us out on the water, out of sight and earshot of both Coventry and the mainland, and stopped poling. We drifted in the fog.

”It's true, isn't it?” I said.

”It's not all true,” my father replied.

”Not all. . . then what part is true?”

”Let's start with the part that's false,” my father said. ”I didn't 'improvise.' I didn't call you out on the spur of the moment.”

”Then what --”

”There was more than one plan. Always. In therapy, Dr. Grey and I discussed a number of options for the final disposition. One plan, the one I personally favored, is the one you know about: I would run things inside, and create someone new -- you -- to run the body.”

”The one you favored,” I said. ”But Dr. Grey didn't?”

”Dr. Grey felt. . . given the problems I'd had with Gideon trying to take over, she thought it would be better if I didn't share authority with anyone. She wanted me to at least try running the body on my own. She always stressed that it was ultimately my decision, but that was what she recommended. And it is true,” he added, ”that at the last session we ever had together, I did agree to try her plan. But then after she had her stroke, I rethought it, and changed my mind again.”

”Did Dr. Eddington agree with you about changing your mind?”

”No,” my father admitted. ”He thought I was making a mistake.”

Which would technically make my whole existence a mistake -- but I didn't care to dwell on the implications of that. Instead I asked: ”How come you never told me this before?”

”I didn't think you needed to know it.”

”Was there anything else I didn't need to know?”

No answer. I took that as a yes.

”Gideon asked me a funny question right before we left,” I said, a few moments later.

”What question?”

”He wanted to know how many doors there are on the ground floor of the house.”

”Three,” my father said. ”Front door and back door.”

”Yes, that's what I told him. Only. . . that doesn't really add up, does it?”

My father looked at me curiously. I had to count it out, holding up fingers: ”Front door is one. . .

back door is two. . .”

”Right.”

”Right, but then what's three?”

”Three is the front -- . . . no. No, three is. . . it's. . .”