Crying Wolf (16 page)

But the woman was still singing, still close by. He put his ear to the tunnel wall. Fucked if she really wasn't singing just on the other side.

What did he have on him? Pliers, couple screwdrivers, pocket knife. He opened the knife, took it to the drywall, cut out a fist-sized hole. The singing grew even louder, even clearer. And what was that? A woman's laugh? He stuck his hand in, felt not cement or brick, what the tunnels were usually lined with, but nothing. Taking the knife, he cut a neat door in the drywall, stepped through.

He shone the flash. He was in a little square room with a dirt floor, nothing in it but a stool, a heavy old wooden stool—he'd seen a few like it over in storage—placed by the opposite wall. If you sat on it, he saw, you'd have access to a hinged flap in the wall. Freedy blew the dust off the stool, sat down. He opened the flap.

A tiny round hole: he put his eye to it. A spyhole! Amazing. He snapped off the flash.

What Freedy saw he couldn't take in, not all at once. Candles burning, dozens of them, in a room—no, more than one room, there was at least another through a door at the back—a room straight out of a palace or castle. Music came from somewhere, horrible old scratchy music, not live. But there were live people in the room, live people from the present day, a guy and two girls.

Two girls. One sat on a couch near the guy, the other was standing in front of them. She, the blond one, said, “How do I look?”

She looked fucking incredible. So did the other one, the brown-haired one. Also fucking incredible. The girl at the bus station was pretty, but these two.
Fox
wasn't the word. Freedy shifted his peering eye from one to the other, trying to decide which was better-looking, unable to make up his mind. Then the guy said something Freedy missed, and the two girls laughed. That kind of pissed Freedy off. He took a look at the guy—some kid, college kid, that he could break in two. Bust through the wall, break the college kid in two, take the girls back into that other room, where he could see some sort of weird bed, and fuck their brains out. Get them to do a few things together, and then—
whoa, Freedy. Getting ahead of yourself, boy.
He reached for his stash, took one little sniff, just to stay grounded.

When he peeked back through the hole in the wall, things had changed. They were all up, finishing their drinks, drinks a little lighter in color than Saul's V.O., and blowing out the candles. The room went dark candle by candle. They went through the doorway to the other room, started blowing out candles there too. Freedy thought he could make out a rope ladder hanging down from above. One of the girls climbed it, then the other, finally the college kid, carrying a candle with him. They all went up the ladder easily, the college kid easiest of all, like he was an athlete or something, but that didn't fool Freedy. He could snap him in half. Like Thanksgiving. Crack.

The college kid disappeared from view, and everything went dark. Completely black. That didn't bother Freedy. What bothered him was the fact that the music was still playing, the woman with the strange, high voice singing on and on.

 

W
hen Freedy got back home that night, his mood was mixed. The bad part was he hadn't gotten into the science building. He'd found it all right, building 17 at the end of F, but from the other side of the door leading to the utilities room had come voices, maintenance guys working on some electrical problem. So no laptops, just a fax machine and a cordless phone with speed dial he'd grabbed from the lounge in 51. The good part, though, the very good part, was the strange place he'd found where F passed under N somewhere beneath building 68; and those girls. He'd worked in maintenance with guys who were lifers, sorry assholes, and no one had ever said anything about rooms, fancy rooms, under 68. But it existed, and those girls knew about it. That was so promising. Freedy didn't know how exactly, or at all, just knew that it was.

He went in the house real quiet, what with the phone and the fax, past her bedroom, toward his bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was open and blue light leaked out. Freedy looked in, saw his mother, in that Arab getup, standing before the open laptop. He walked in behind her, but real quiet, stuck the phone and the fax under the bed before he spoke.

“Little Boy is home,” he said, reading the poem title right off the wall.

She jumped, actually got airborne, which was pretty cool, jerked around, said, “Oh my God,” holding on to her tits. “Why do you scare me like that?”

“I said hi. You just didn't hear me, what with concentrating so hard on my laptop.”

Her gaze went to it. He moved closer to see what was on the screen, saw what had been there before:

To: Phil. 322

From: Prof. L. Uzig

and all that.

Then her gaze was on him, that dark, stoned gaze, right into his eyes, like she was trying to see inside. “What's going on, Freedy?”

“It's for business purposes,” Freedy said. “I got it off Ronnie Medeiros for a song.”

“I didn't know Ronnie took Phil three twenty-two,” she said.

“What's that got to do with anything?” Freedy said.

The consequences of our actions take us by the scruff of the neck, altogether indifferent to the fact that we have “improved” in the meantime.

—Professor Uzig's citation from Nietzsche in banning makeup work from Philosophy 322

A
fter midnight, aboveground. Grace and Izzie left Plessey Hall to cross the quad, Nat continuing upstairs to his room, seventeen on the second floor. He stopped at the landing, looked out the window. Snow was falling, dark flakes blowing through cubes of light outside the dorm windows, through ovals of light under the Victorian lampposts on the quad. Grace and Izzie were about halfway across, both wearing ski hats with tassels, their gaits, their carriages identical, impossible to tell apart. One swept a handful of snow off Emerson's bronze leg, flung it at the other. Then they were both running across the quad, chasing each other like little girls, and disappearing in the shadows; Nat thought he could hear their laughter, very faint. At that moment, with the laughter and all, he knew that everything was going to be okay.

It wasn't that he was drunk—oh, maybe just a little from the cognac, much more from the fact of it being one hundred years old, and from the whole magical experience down there—but the realization that “everything” didn't amount to much, so why wouldn't it be okay? What was wrong? He made a short mental list. First came Izzie's insistence on keeping their relationship secret from Grace. He would have to persuade her to change her mind. Her fear of Grace's reaction was exaggerated, probably due to years and years of Grace's dominance, now coming to an end. He reminded himself to learn the ending of the SAT story.

Second, there was Patti. She had to be told—no, he corrected himself—he had to tell her, and as soon as possible. First thing in the morning, even if it meant waking her: he would call Patti, tell her the truth. There was someone else.

Third, he had to catch up in biology. He hadn't come all this way to miss classes. That was for tomorrow as well. In twenty-four hours he would be caught up.

There. He felt better, as he should have with only three problems in his whole life, the last one trivial; all solvable and solvable soon. Meanwhile, although he hadn't really known what to expect at Inverness, any half-formed expectations had already been exceeded. He loved the place. Loved it, and knew he could do well. Not only that, but there were other kids from his town who could do well here too. He would make sure Mrs. Smith knew that when he went home for the summer. Mrs. Smith, and how she had brandished the Fourth of July special edition of the
County Register
at the sky: he understood her now.

Nat came to his door. A note was tucked under the brass 17. He opened it. A note written on economics department stationery, from his first-semester professor:

Nat—Your final exam grade last semester is being changed from a B minus to an A plus, a change that will be reflected in your course grade as well. I've reexamined your answer to the last question. I was looking for an analysis of capital and current account theory as it related to the hypothetical and since you didn't give me that, I gave you zero. On reflection, and having conferred with several colleagues, I believe that your application of monetarist methodology is fresh, cogent, and quite defensible. Have you given much thought yet to your choice of major?

Nat loved Inverness. Had he ever been happier in his life? He was so lucky. He owed them—Mrs. Smith, Miss Brown, his mom; and all the others back home.

Nat opened the door. It was dark in the outer room, the only light coming from his screen saver, but not dark enough to hide the person sleeping under a blanket on Wags's couch, still not picked up by the movers. Was it Wags himself, released or escaped? Nat found himself smiling at the prospect. But going closer, he saw it was a woman, her face turned away, her hair longer than Wags's and curlier. He bent over. It was Patti.

Patti. Nat froze right there, and
froze
was the word, with that icy tingling in his fingertips. What's she doing here? Answers came, none convincing: some vacation he didn't know about, a school trip, an internship in an eastern city. To find out, all he had to do was wake her. He didn't want to. He wanted to let her sleep, there under Wags's afternoon nap blanket. To simply let her sleep, because nothing had gone wrong yet; to let her sleep before he told her the news. He noticed a small but bright red zit in that curved indentation on the side of the nose where zits liked to form.

“Patti?” he said quietly.

She didn't wake up, didn't stir.

“Patti?” A little louder, but only a little, not wanting to scare her, and no more effective. She was probably tired from her trip; had she taken the bus? The bus all the way from Denver? Nat remembered his last trip, a flight in a private jet with a black
Z
on the tail. He touched her shoulder.

Patti's eyes opened. For an instant she didn't know where she was. Then she saw it was him, and the look in her eyes changed completely. She smiled, a smile that could only be called sweet, as sweet, in fact, as he'd ever seen.

“Nat,” she said.

“Hi.”

She sat up. “Your hair's longer. It looks nice.” Her hand moved, no more than an inch or so, as if she'd thought of touching his hair and reconsidered.

“I called you a couple times,” she said, “once from Chicago and once from . . . somewhere else. I can't even remember, isn't that weird? Especially since I was trying to take it all in.”

Like him, him until a little while ago, she'd never really been anywhere. Nat remembered the phone ringing while he'd been in the bedroom with Izzie. He had to tell Patti and tell her now. It would be too cruel to allow her another one of those sweet smiles. He forgot whatever it was he'd rehearsed, just opened his mouth and hoped something not too terrible would come out.

But Patti spoke first. “Oh, Nat,” she said, her voice suddenly unsteady. “I'm pregnant.”

Thoughts poured into Nat's mind, first—whatever it said about him, good or bad—first came the knowledge of what Patti must have crossed out in her note:
I missed my period.
Then came more: it could only have been at Patti's house, before Julie's party, before the drinking. But they'd used a condom. That raised the possibility of some other guy. Man. Of some other man. Out of the question: he knew Patti, and she wouldn't be here if it wasn't him. It had to be true. Patti was pregnant and he was the . . . father. He squirmed from that idea, that word. But he knew there would be no getting away from it, he wouldn't let himself get away from it, because he'd had a father, too; he'd had a father, briefly, a father who'd ignored his responsibility, who'd walked away.

“Nat?”

“Yes.”

“Aren't you going to say something?”

He nodded. “How are you feeling?”

“Horrible.”

What was the name for it? It came to him. “From the morning sickness?” he said.

She smiled at him again, almost as sweetly as before. “Not that,” she said. “I feel great. My body feels great. Inside is where I'm so messed up.” Patti started crying, first just a silent tear or two, then, maybe catching some expression in his eyes, many more, and far from silent. “And now I'm messing you up too. The best thing that ever happened to me.” Or something like that. Nat couldn't really tell because of the sobbing. He sat down on Wags's couch and held her, awkwardly, sitting on the edge.

She leaned against him, leaned with all her weight, holding nothing back. “Oh, Nat,” she said.

He hugged her. If he'd been at all drunk before, physically or psychologically, he wasn't now.

Her lips moved against his chest. “I can feel you thinking,” she said. Her voice vibrated through his skin. “What are you thinking?”

“I don't know,” he said. But he did: he was remembering what had happened when they got to Julie's party. Julie's family had money, at least what he'd used to think of as having money. Julie's father, brother of Mr. Beaman, Nat's mother's boss, was a pharmacist. They could afford to keep two or three horses in a barn behind their house. The loft had been turned into a guest bedroom. He and Patti had ended up there, in the bed where the vomiting incident happened. But before that, they'd been asleep. He'd awakened with Patti on top of him. She'd rolled off a moment or two later, saying she didn't feel well. Had he been inside her? Had it happened then? He didn't know. It was all vague, half remembered, half aware in the first place, the horses stirring uneasily beneath them the only sure thing.

“Are you mad at me?” Patti said.

“No.”

“Something, then.”

“No.”

“You're thinking.”

“I'm not.”

But she was right. Thoughts like:
Are you sure you're pregnant? How do you know?
Those remained unspoken: Patti wouldn't have been here if she wasn't sure. And:
abortion.
He didn't even know where Patti stood on abortion. He assumed she was for it—he assumed he was for it—but they'd never discussed abortion, not the right and wrong of it. And then there was Patti's uncle in Denver, a big red-faced Broncos fan who'd taken them to a game, bought them beer and hot dogs, screamed like a maniac at the ref; Patti's uncle, the priest.

“Nat?”

“Yes.”

“What are we going—what should I do?”

He looked down at her: curly hair, pale face, blue-lit from the computer screen, against his chest, his shirt dampening with her tears. Her gaze shifted up to his, like a baby watching its mother. That was the image that came to mind, and he hated it.

“Do you love me,” she said, “just a little bit?”

He was silent.

“You don't have to answer,” she said. “I'm sorry, sorry for everything.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said.

She clung to him. “You're such a good person.”

“That's not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

He didn't love her. There had been times last summer when he'd thought maybe he did; now, because of the contrast with what he felt for Izzie, he knew for certain he never had. He also knew she was wrong: he had to answer the question. “I don't love you, Patti,” he said. He said it as plainly as he could, deliberately closing the door to interpretation, but at the same time he held her tight, as tightly as he ever had. Completely crazy, but he couldn't help it.

Patti sobbed. Half a sob, really, cut off sharply through an effort of will he could feel in the muscles lining her spine. After that, they were silent for what seemed like a long time. Blue-lit snow piled up on the window ledge; his shirt got damper. Then it got no damper, and later less and less, almost dry again.

The chapel bell tolled. Patti yawned, the kind of big yawn impossible to stifle.

“You're tired,” he said.

“A little.” So quiet, both their voices, but very clear.

“Then sleep,” he said. “It can wait till tomorrow.”

“You're sure?”

“We'll think better in the morning.”

“All right.”

He made her sleep in his bed. She lay on her back, under the covers, curly hair spread on the pillow. “You can come in, if you want.”

“That wouldn't be a good idea.”

“Why not?” Patti said. “What could happen now?”

She laughed. That was Patti. He laughed too. At that moment, and just for that moment, he came close to something like love: more craziness.

Patti took his hand. “Nat?”

“Yes.”

“What's gone wrong?” She wasn't crying anymore; her face was puffy but somehow peaceful too.

“How do you mean?”

“People used to get married at our age. Settle down, have . . . kids, and everything was all right.”

“Not in my family,” he said.

She let go.

 

N
at took his sleeping bag into Wags's room, lay down on Wags's bed. Wags hadn't showered enough, especially toward the end, Nat realized now, but he'd compensated with spray-on deodorant, some brand that smelled like evergreens and coconut. Nat closed his eyes; the evergreen-and-coconut smell, rising off the mattress every time he moved, grew stronger and stronger,

You want me to flunk out, don't you?

Right. And then all this will be mine.

Nat rose, went to the couch in the outer room, tried to sleep where Patti had been sleeping.

At dawn he stopped trying, got up, shaved, showered, put on fresh clothes, tried to look fresh. Patti was still asleep, her face still peaceful, her breathing almost unnoticeable. He left a note on the bedside crate, laying a granola bar on top of it:
Gone to class. Back by noon. N.

Nat went to the bio lab, made up the work he'd missed. Problem three, from the old set of problems, taken care of; the precious pre-med option preserved. Problems one and two were now buried under the new ones.

English 104. Izzie wasn't there. The professor, handing back the
Young Goodman Brown
essays, said, “I'm a little disappointed with these. Only two of you—” She glanced around the table. “—one of whom is absent, identified the pathos at its core.”

“Which is?” someone asked.

“Page ninety-five,” said the professor, opening her book: “Referring to Goodman Brown: ‘But he himself was the chief horror of the scene.' ”. Nat stuffed the paper in his backpack without checking the grade and hurried back to Plessey, taking shortcuts through the snow.

Izzie was at his desk in the outer room, playing solitaire on the computer. She turned as Nat came in. He went into the bedroom. The note and granola bar were where he'd left them, but Patti was gone, the bed neatly made.

Izzie was watching him through the doorway. “They went out,” she said.

“They?”