was hard, they said when asked, looking surprised—surprised not at the question, but that the two policemen would think there was anything strange about their assuming care.
Graves remembered the kids’ names, Alexander and Isobel. A lot of responds followed that one, he was new, shifts were packed with challenge, danger, new experiences, apprehension. So he never followed up, never found out what became of the family, what had been wrong with the older Glaisters. Never even thought much about it till years later, and when he did, he got to wondering if it might be something hereditary, something the kids had in them too.
Probably best not to think about that, take that too far.
Given where he was right now, probably best not to think too hard about much of anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE BOY CAN COOK.
He didn’t know why, but the phrase, a remark his father had made years ago, always went through his mind when he was in the kitchen, rolled around and around in there like a loose ball bearing. He’d learned in pure self-defense, unable to digest, barely even to eat, what his mother put on the table those times she tried at all, but he’d come to like it. It made sense to him. Once you got the basic moves down, broiling, braising, browning, roasting, you pretty much had it. Reliable commonality in combinations of flavors, spices, and sauces, all built up from sweet, sour, savory, salty. You started with one thing, added others, turned it all into something else. Cooking made sense the way geometry or numbers made sense.
He had put on stew meat earlier, fire as low as he could get it and as little water as he could get away with, and was chopping celery, onions, carrots, and potatoes to add.
Cooking made sense. The dreams were another matter.
This time he had been walking down a long corridor. People watched from within the frosted-glass doors that lined either side. He couldn’t make out features, couldn’t see the heads really—just ill-defined ovoids that changed shape behind the glass as they went from profile to straight to profile, tracking his progress. There were small numbers on the upper left-hand corner of the doors’ glass panels, like page numbers in a book: 231, 230, 229. And a window far ahead at corridor’s end, black beyond. As he passed door after door, though he still couldn’t really see them, the heads appeared to change more substantially, becoming larger, out of proportion, like the heads of animals.
He never felt the pain, just looked down to see blood spreading over the cutting board, chopped onions gone pink. Even then, it didn’t register. He stood holding the knife in his right hand, thumb and middle finger still around the onion, tip of his index finger lying alongside. Interesting how, instead of blossoming into pain, the finger went numb, as though it were not even there, as though it were someone else’s finger. It bent when he willed it, but he couldn’t feel the movement.
In the bathroom he ran cold water over the oozing raw flesh, poured peroxide over it, held a compress against it. Feeling slowly returned, first as pins and needles, then as burning pain. He’d dealt with injuries before, even closed a three-inch slice in his arm with butterflies improvised from adhesive tape, but he couldn’t think how he might be able to fix this. Supergluing the tip back on didn’t seem like a good idea.
Mrs. Flores opened her door wearing an apron and a surprised expression. Her eyes went directly from his face to his hand. The washcloth he’d wrapped around his finger was dark with blood.
Ten minutes later he was in her friend’s truck, a comfortably middle-aged Ford F-150 that had at least three different colors of paint warring across hood, fenders, and bed, being driven to a free clinic that, Mrs. Flores said, wouldn’t ask questions. She still had her apron on.
Three hours after that, he was sitting at the table in her house having dinner with Mrs. Flores,
Graves remembered the kids’ names, Alexander and Isobel. A lot of responds followed that one, he was new, shifts were packed with challenge, danger, new experiences, apprehension. So he never followed up, never found out what became of the family, what had been wrong with the older Glaisters. Never even thought much about it till years later, and when he did, he got to wondering if it might be something hereditary, something the kids had in them too.
Probably best not to think about that, take that too far.
Given where he was right now, probably best not to think too hard about much of anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE BOY CAN COOK.
He didn’t know why, but the phrase, a remark his father had made years ago, always went through his mind when he was in the kitchen, rolled around and around in there like a loose ball bearing. He’d learned in pure self-defense, unable to digest, barely even to eat, what his mother put on the table those times she tried at all, but he’d come to like it. It made sense to him. Once you got the basic moves down, broiling, braising, browning, roasting, you pretty much had it. Reliable commonality in combinations of flavors, spices, and sauces, all built up from sweet, sour, savory, salty. You started with one thing, added others, turned it all into something else. Cooking made sense the way geometry or numbers made sense.
He had put on stew meat earlier, fire as low as he could get it and as little water as he could get away with, and was chopping celery, onions, carrots, and potatoes to add.
Cooking made sense. The dreams were another matter.
This time he had been walking down a long corridor. People watched from within the frosted-glass doors that lined either side. He couldn’t make out features, couldn’t see the heads really—just ill-defined ovoids that changed shape behind the glass as they went from profile to straight to profile, tracking his progress. There were small numbers on the upper left-hand corner of the doors’ glass panels, like page numbers in a book: 231, 230, 229. And a window far ahead at corridor’s end, black beyond. As he passed door after door, though he still couldn’t really see them, the heads appeared to change more substantially, becoming larger, out of proportion, like the heads of animals.
He never felt the pain, just looked down to see blood spreading over the cutting board, chopped onions gone pink. Even then, it didn’t register. He stood holding the knife in his right hand, thumb and middle finger still around the onion, tip of his index finger lying alongside. Interesting how, instead of blossoming into pain, the finger went numb, as though it were not even there, as though it were someone else’s finger. It bent when he willed it, but he couldn’t feel the movement.
In the bathroom he ran cold water over the oozing raw flesh, poured peroxide over it, held a compress against it. Feeling slowly returned, first as pins and needles, then as burning pain. He’d dealt with injuries before, even closed a three-inch slice in his arm with butterflies improvised from adhesive tape, but he couldn’t think how he might be able to fix this. Supergluing the tip back on didn’t seem like a good idea.
Mrs. Flores opened her door wearing an apron and a surprised expression. Her eyes went directly from his face to his hand. The washcloth he’d wrapped around his finger was dark with blood.
Ten minutes later he was in her friend’s truck, a comfortably middle-aged Ford F-150 that had at least three different colors of paint warring across hood, fenders, and bed, being driven to a free clinic that, Mrs. Flores said, wouldn’t ask questions. She still had her apron on.
Three hours after that, he was sitting at the table in her house having dinner with Mrs. Flores,
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