Part 4 (1/2)

Chuck looked both ways, paused, and ran across the street. He followed the stepping-stones through the man's front yard. He slipped sideways through the bendy twigs of his bushes. Then he pressed his forehead to the wide cool window. He spotted the book right away, sitting on a table. Its pages were a thick stack of brilliantly glowing squares. The whole house s.h.i.+mmered, but the book was something special. Chuck wished he could tell what was wrong with it.

Later, at home, he could not stop thinking about it. His curiosity grew stronger and stronger as the day pa.s.sed. Eventually, he returned to the window to look at it. The next day, and the next, he went there again. He began living behind the bushes as often as possible. He lived there secretly, usually in ten- or fifteen-minute stretches. Week by week, the book shone with its secret pain. Chuck was amazed it didn't set the table on fire. Every so often, the man drifted past like a sailboat. Twice he caught Chuck standing outside peeking in at him. The first time, Chuck didn't think he was even home. Suddenly he just appeared, walked over, and touched the gla.s.s. His fingers landed with a rat-a-tat-tat rat-a-tat-tat, and Chuck ran away.

The second time was a warm, dark, breezy midsummer night. Chuck watched the man shout at a group of teenagers. One of them, a girl, was living with the man. Chuck was almost completely sure she was not his daughter. She had glinting cigarette burns on her arms and legs. They looked like the holes in Swiss cheese, but silver. Once, outside walking, she had called Chuck her ”main man.” She had mussed his hair and given him a Whatchamacallit. ”Chin up, little guy,” she'd said, blowing him a kiss. That was a whole month before, minus a few days. Now the teenagers, the whole skinny crowd, left the house. The girl was the last of them to step outside. Afterward, the man sat on the couch, motionless, breathing hard. He was clutching the book shakily in his slender hands. When he spotted Chuck, he hurled it at the window. Light came whipping out of it in long white ribbons. As Chuck took flight, the bush's twigs sc.r.a.ped his face.

That night, he lay in bed watching the scratches flicker. He kept picturing the book twisting wildly through the air. He wondered what it thought as its pages skittered open. Whether it imagined it was being punished for its mistakes. How it felt without a good solid table underneath it. If it believed the world would always be so frightening. Right then and there, he decided he would rescue it.

Another month went by before the chance came his way. He knew the man's habits, and knew the girl's, too. He had spent the summer watching them like a detective. They both left the house for several hours every afternoon. At night they usually ordered a pizza and watched TV. They slept late most mornings and ate leftovers for breakfast. The man took pictures of the girl with his camera. The girl posed with her arms crossed over her head. Occasionally she rubbed the man's back through his polo s.h.i.+rt. She taught him how to use a knife against himself. Their bodies were both marked with hundreds of narrow cuts. The wounds covered their skin, every inch, in glittering ladders.

One day, shortly after two-thirty, Chuck snuck across the street. He was feeling courageous, invincible (which meant unbeatable, not see-through). He crept into place and waited behind the tall bushes. Around three, the sun turned the window into a mirror. The sight of Chuck's eyes staring into themselves surprised him. He was blinking the image away when the man exited. The girl came with him and off they walked together. Neither of them noticed Chuck standing against the bricks, fortunately. After their footsteps faded away, he crept out of hiding. He took the spare key from beneath the fake rock. He opened the door-first one lock, then the other. The house smelled like bread dough mixed with tennis shoes. The floor was a glossy white with scattered black knots. Chuck made it a rule to tiptoe between the lines. He pa.s.sed a table with a wooden clock on it. He turned a corner and went into the living room. The book was sandwiched between some magazines by the couch. The pages were buckled, the cover scuffed, the letters faded. When Chuck gripped it, his bones showed through his fingers.

Chuck b.u.mped the table in the hallway as he left. The clock teetered and fell with an awful splintering noise. Immediately, it lit up inside, its pieces throbbing with pain. He wanted to hold it to his forehead and cry. But he was scared of getting caught there, scared crazy. He held the book to his chest and ran home. No matter how Chuck tried, he just kept hurting things. That was how the world worked-he couldn't change it.

His mom was mixing cookies and burning a plain candle. A wax-and-sugar smell like birthday cakes hung in the air. Big important things always happened to Chuck on his birthday. On his second birthday, for instance, he finally started walking. On his seventh birthday, he got sick with chicken pox. He used to have a cat named Alley Cat Abra. On his fifth birthday, she was killed by a car. On his ninth birthday, Chuck decided he would stop talking. He never said anything right, so what was the use? He hadn't spoken since, and it wasn't-wasn't-a phase. On his fifth birthday, he went to Chuck E. Cheese's. Chuck E. Cheese shared Chuck's name, which made them alike. Chuck decided he was his friend, his smiling buck-toothed friend. One was Chuck the Boy, the other Chuck the Mouse. Chuck the Mouse handed Chuck the Boy some gold tokens. Chuck the Boy followed Chuck the Mouse into the kitchen. Chuck the Mouse carried him back outside by the armpits. His giant head bobbed around like something inflated with helium. Later, Chuck the Boy got trapped inside the crawling tubes. His pretend dad yelled, ”Climb the h.e.l.l out!” at him. He coaxed him slowly through the maze, pointing and shouting. ”To the car!” he demanded, and Chuck's birthday was over.

Now he was ten: ten years and seven months old. His last birthday party was already a whole half-year ago. He thought about the presents his parents had given him. His favorite was the picture box with the multicolored pegs. His second favorite was the tic-tac-toe game with the beanbags. His least favorite was the robot with missiles for arms. He remembered kneeling on the dark green living room carpet. He remembered clapping his hands during ”Happy Birthday to You.” Then his mom set down a cake with burning candles. ”How does it feel to be another year old, Chuckie?”

His pretend dad touched the softest part of his neck. ”Your mom and me paid serious money for this cake. That means no throwing up this time, you hear me?” He turned and smacked Chuck's mom playfully on the b.u.t.t. ”Things sure were different ten years ago-weren't they, honey? We had a lot more money before that that little accident.” little accident.”

”Frank!” she said and gave Chuck a little nervous glance. She looked away, and after that everything came in tens. There were ten flames that disappeared in threads of smoke. There were ten fingers squeezing Chuck's shoulder as he swallowed. There were ten pictures on the wall in the hallway. There were ten steps between his bed and his dresser. There were ten birdcalls from the trees, then another ten. There were ten houses on each side of the street. There were ten boys in his cla.s.s, and ten girls. There were ten checkmarks by his name on the chalkboard. There were ten words in every sentence-yet another rule. There were ten soft beats in every moment of time.

Chuck took the book and hid it in his dresser. That night, he leafed through it quietly in his bedroom. It seemed to be a diary of miniature love notes. Each one was a single sentence written in blue ink. They all began with the same two words: I love. I love the smell of your perfume on my s.h.i.+rts. I love the way you curl up against my body. I love watching the sunset from the roof with you. I love seeing your number appear on my cell phone I love. I love the smell of your perfume on my s.h.i.+rts. I love the way you curl up against my body. I love watching the sunset from the roof with you. I love seeing your number appear on my cell phone. The notes stopped suddenly in the middle of a page. The blue ink threw a glare up from the paper. It danced on the ceiling like sunbeams reflecting from water. The man must have been writing to someone very special. Were they for the girl with all the cigarette burns? The one who had been teaching him to cut himself? No, no, they were for his wife, his dead wife. The one who had pa.s.sed away in the car accident. The one who went away and left him all alone. Who turned him into a poor son of a b.i.t.c.h. The answer was obvious once Chuck gave it some thought.

All summer long, he read the book bit by bit. After a while, he felt like he knew the man. The night he finished, he started again from the beginning. He got a Magic Marker and highlighted his favorite sentences. I love the poems you wrote in junior high school. I love how you fumble for words when you're angry. I love holding you tight when you ask me to. I love knowing exactly how crazy I am about you. I love sensing you beside me on long road trips. I love the idea of growing old and forgetful together. I love how skillfully you use a pair of scissors. I love watching TV and sh.e.l.ling sunflower seeds with you. I love your ”Cousin Cephus and his pet racc.o.o.n s.h.i.+rley.” I love the mess I made of braiding your hair. I love your ten fingers and love your ten toes I love the poems you wrote in junior high school. I love how you fumble for words when you're angry. I love holding you tight when you ask me to. I love knowing exactly how crazy I am about you. I love sensing you beside me on long road trips. I love the idea of growing old and forgetful together. I love how skillfully you use a pair of scissors. I love watching TV and sh.e.l.ling sunflower seeds with you. I love your ”Cousin Cephus and his pet racc.o.o.n s.h.i.+rley.” I love the mess I made of braiding your hair. I love your ten fingers and love your ten toes.

Chuck liked the sound of the words in his head. Not every sentence made good sense, or not right away. Some of them were bizarre or mysterious, some downright baffling. It was fun trying to figure out what they meant.

I love your terrible puns: ”Miro, Miro, on the wall.” What was a ”Miro,” Chuck wondered, or a ”Miro, Miro”? Were there really supposed to be two on the wall? Or were they like tom toms or yo-yos or BBs? Were they a single thing that had a double name?I love the ”carpet angels” you make after I vacuum. Chuck decided that carpet angels must be like snow angels. He tried to make one with his arms and legs. He lay down, scissored them open, then stood back up. The carpet looked just the same-green, without any angels. Maybe the trick only worked right after someone had vacuumed.I love that little outfit you wore on my birthday. Chuck pictured a cowboy outfit: hat, gun, bandana, and all. Once, in kindergarten, Todd Rosenthal had worn one to school. He kept pretending to fire his gun at Mariellen Chase. Finally, Ms. Derryberry had to send him to the office.

There were many other strange, confusing sentences in the book. Yet it seemed gentle to Chuck, not sad or angry. He wished he could understand why it shone so brightly.

At the beginning of September, he started the fifth grade. He went to the normal school, not the special one. Both his psychiatrists had 100 percent agreed: Chuck was normal. He was normal, not special, and definitely not a r.e.t.a.r.d. His pretend dad was just plain wrong about some things. Chuck was five when he began seeing his first psychiatrist. His name was Dr. Diehl, and he called Chuck ”Charles.” Chuck liked him anyway because of his gla.s.s octopus bowl. Inside it he kept lollipops with gum in the middle. He always let Chuck take one before they began talking. Chuck would suck the lollipop, rolling it over his tongue. The hard globe of candy would become thin and pitted. Sometimes it would taste like strawberry, sometimes like root beer. Eventually, he would crunch through it with his back teeth. Then came the part where he would chew the gum. Sandlike grains of candy would crack open in his mouth. A sweet powder would coat the insides of his cheeks. Eating the lollipop was the best part of Wednesday afternoons. He truly missed it when he stopped visiting Dr. Diehl.

Chuck started seeing his second psychiatrist after he quit talking. They still met once a week, every Monday after school. He was a tall, skinny, gray-haired man called Dr. Finkelstein. Dr. Finkelstein, whose name was almost the same as Frankenstein. Dr. Finkelstein, whose forehead had a triangle of red sunspots. Dr. Finkelstein, with his pencil jar and stack of note cards.

He might ask Chuck, ”Care to use your voice today?”

Chuck would take one of the note cards from the stack. No, sorry, I don't feel like talking aloud right now No, sorry, I don't feel like talking aloud right now.

”Why do you think that is?” Dr. Finkelstein would say.

Chuck would tap the pencil against his knuckles awhile. Did you know New Mexico's state bird is the roadrunner? Did you know New Mexico's state bird is the roadrunner?

Dr. Finkelstein would read the card and ask, ”Beep, beep?”

Chuck didn't know why the doctor said such strange things. He would lean forward, smiling, waiting for Chuck to respond. Chuck would gesture at him to return the note card. He would shade in all the a a's, o o's, and e e's. Then he would move on to the b b's and d d's. He would fill the rest of the hour drawing roadrunners. Chuck was good with eyes but terrible-hopeless-with bodies. His roadrunners looked like feather dusters attached to gardening rakes.

Chuck's fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Mount, was nicer than Mr. Kaczmarek. She was teaching them about the states and their birds. That was how Chuck knew about New Mexico and roadrunners. The state bird of Delaware was the blue hen chicken. The state bird of New Hamps.h.i.+re was the purple finch. The state bird of South Dakota was the ring-necked pheasant. ”Why would Della wear a blue chicken on her head? That new ham you brought me sure is purple, Finchie. Dakota, I'm going to wring your neck,” she would say. This was her way of helping them remember the facts. The circle of her hands tightened around an imaginary neck. She made a choking noise and stuck out her tongue. A sore glistened on the tip like a white crater.

The routine made Chuck laugh with a great big ”Ha!” All the other kids turned around to stare at him. First, he was weird, and second, he never said anything. Those were the thoughts he could see on their faces.

That was the morning Todd Rosenthal pushed Chuck during recess. Chuck was waiting in the seesaw line when it happened. He fell forward, landing on the rubbery green Nerf-like foam. Todd hoisted him back onto his feet by the elbow. He said, ”I'm going to wring your your neck, Chuckie boy.” neck, Chuckie boy.”

Todd Rosenthal had been bossing Chuck around ever since kindergarten. Kicking his desk chair and snapping his pencils in two. Firing spit wads at him with a flat popping noise. At lunch, he would sit across the table from Chuck. Chuck never quite knew how he was going to behave. Sometimes he would just eat his Doritos, ignoring Chuck completely. Sometimes he would crush Chuck's sandwich inside its Ziploc bag. Chuck felt bad for his crushed sandwiches-horrible, in fact. They became swirling oil slicks of peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly. They were marked with the dents of Todd Rosenthal's fingers. He wished he knew how to put them back together. Todd usually stood behind Chuck in the recess line, too. He liked to b.u.mp into him while they filed outside. Or step on his ankle so his shoe came loose. Or whisper, ”Will you be my gay boyfriend, Chuck Carter?” But why would Todd Rosenthal want to wring his neck? Chuck had never understood him, not for a single minute. Chuck was weaker than Todd, smaller, a lot less threatening. He kept waiting for all his little meannesses to end.

That day on the playground was like every other day. After Todd said ”Chuckie boy,” he said, ”Count on it.” He said, ”I'll wring that scrawny neck like a chicken's.” He said, ”When you least expect it, there I'll be.” Then he slapped Chuck, softly, like a gangster, and left.

For the rest of the day, Chuck's elbow felt tight. He kept stretching his arm, hoping the joint would pop. The skin rippled slightly where Todd Rosenthal had grabbed him. It was nearly impossible for him to scratch his back.

That afternoon it rained and then gave way to sunlight. The parking lot reflected the sky from a thousand puddles. The basketball hoops dripped onto the pavement like s.h.i.+ning halos. At three-thirty, Chuck's mom picked him up in the car. She took the fast way home, speeding along the highway. The road was drenched with sheets of blue and white. At fifty miles per hour, the seats began to shake. Chuck's teeth chattered in his mouth like a wind-up toy. His mom honked and shouted ”Moron!” at the other drivers. Her voice s.h.i.+vered as she sang along with the radio. They stopped for gas, then groceries, then finished the drive. The rain had washed the dust out of the gutters. The bricks of Chuck's house were dyed dark with water. They were stacked together like crispy double vanilla sugar wafers. He had not been caught licking them in several months. That was back in February, before the Illumination began. His pretend dad had come storming across the yard, furious. He had promised to whip Chuck, hard, unless he stopped. He couldn't keep sticking c.r.a.p like that in his mouth. Seriously, was he that messed up in the G.o.dd.a.m.ned head? He needed to grow the h.e.l.l up and quit it. Chuck knew the rule by heart: no tasting the bricks. But sometimes, rule or no rule, he still wanted to. It was one more problem he could not figure out.

Chuck left his mom alone to unpack the grocery bags. He dropped his backpack on the floor of his bedroom. A bullfrog mirror hung on the back of his door. Chuck saw himself staring out from inside its s.h.i.+ning mouth. The finger-shaped bruises on his elbow were purple and silver. There were five of them-one, two, three, four, five. Five times two was ten, so everything still fit together. He sat at his desk and took out his notebook. The stories he had heard about fifth grade were true. He had lots of homework-too much, in his opinion. Nearly every day he had some new a.s.signment to complete. One night he might have to draw a plant cell. The next he might have to answer questions about Ethiopia. Or color and label the four chambers of the heart. Or fill out the tiny squares of the multiplication table. Or write a paragraph about Benjamin Franklin flying a kite. Today it was time to study for his vocabulary quiz. He would have to spell the words, then define them. Evaporate, illiteracy, physician, membrane, diminutive, fragile, majestic, chandelier, sabotage, approximately Evaporate, illiteracy, physician, membrane, diminutive, fragile, majestic, chandelier, sabotage, approximately. They were longer than most of the words he knew. He practiced using them in a sentence to memorize them.

As soon as the sun rises, the water will evaporate.

I was sick, so I went to see the physician.

There is nothing good about illiteracy, so learn to read.

Fridays and Sat.u.r.days were like a diminutive summer or Christmas. For approximately two days, Chuck could do whatever he wanted. His parents usually let him stay up late with them. They sat side by side in the fragile TV light. They slurped beer and whispered and flirted with each other. They let their fingers walk quietly up each other's legs. Meanwhile, Chuck colored pictures, ate honey-roasted peanuts, and drank soda. A membrane of Cherry c.o.ke trembled above the gla.s.s's rim.

One Friday, he decided he would draw a majestic rainbow. An actor was on TV accepting a lifetime achievement award. His lungs shone with cancer through his tuxedo like chandeliers. Chuck looked down and tried to concentrate on his drawing. One by one, he used all sixty-four of his crayons. He was getting ready to shade in the last section. He took his favorite color, cornflower blue, from the box. But his pretend dad s.n.a.t.c.hed the sheet of paper away. He waved it in the air like an American flag. He said, ”Bedtime for Bonzo!” and made a chimpanzee noise.

There was that feeling of miniature needles in Chuck's eyes. He hated crying so easily, but he couldn't help it. His rainbow was only one curve short of being finished. His pretend dad had ruined the drawing with his sabotage. Now, like always, he was angry at Chuck for crying. Underneath his breath, he said, ”For the love of G.o.d.”

Chuck tried to stop sniffling, but it did no good. His bears and his elephant were waiting on their bench. They were frightened and lonely and wondering where he was. He ran to his bedroom in his socks and pajamas. After he shut the door, he heard his parents whispering. His pretend dad said, ”What's the use in me trying? I could be Mr. Perfect, and it still wouldn't matter.”

He said, ”Face it, we've raised one Grade A brat.”

He said, ”You try to make a single monkey joke-”

Chuck's mom sighed and cleared her throat to interrupt him. ”If you really attempted to figure him out, you could. It's not like you have to be Sherlock-frigging-Holmes. You want to know how to put him to bed? There are three different ways to do it,” she said. Chuck pictured her extending her fingers as she listed them. ”'Chuck Carter, Chuck Carter, it's time to sleep till morning.' 'Your stuffed animals are waiting for you to say goodnight.' And then, if he absolutely won't listen, there's another one. 'I want your head on that pillow in five minutes.'”

His pretend dad smacked the table and asked, ”But why?”

”I can't explain why, honey-I just know it works.”

”You're saying he'll cry whenever he doesn't get his way.”

”I'm saying what harm does it do to humor him?”

”The world will eat him alive when he grows up.”

”That doesn't mean that we should eat him alive, too.”

Chuck put himself to bed and listened to them argue. He lay there for a long time before falling asleep. He dreamed he was riding the gla.s.s elevator into s.p.a.ce. The Earth disappeared beneath the clouds and a billion stars. He was either Superman or Batman or the Green Lantern.

The diary Chuck took still shone like a wounded animal. Sometimes he liked to sleep with it under his pillow. The light was sad and bright and comforting to him. In the morning, he would wake up inside its glow. Some of the book's pages were bent into a wave. Chuck tried everything he could imagine to press them flat. He took his shoes off and stood on the cover. He put it beneath the leg of his dresser overnight. He piled all his other books on top of it. He even ran it under the heat of an iron. He thought he felt the curve loosening beneath the weight. Then his nose p.r.i.c.kled with the smell of something burning. A fis.h.i.+ng line of black smoke lifted into the air. An orange spark crawled over the paper like a ladybug. When he blew, it turned into a dozen smaller sparks. They smoked and vanished, leaving brown pinholes in the page. Chuck was worried that he had only made things worse. The book was still kinked, even after all his work. He had stepped on it, scorched it, weighted it down. What if it believed he was angry-was punis.h.i.+ng punis.h.i.+ng it? He picked it up and hugged it to his chest. He thought, it? He picked it up and hugged it to his chest. He thought, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it. The light was as bright as it had ever been.