Read The Peculiar Night of the Blue Heart Online
Authors: Lauren DeStefano
The Peculiar Night of the Blue Heart
For Mary, who is wonderfully peculiar.
Never stop being you.
CONTENTS
Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells
And sights, before the dark of reason grows.
âJohn Betjeman
Lionel was a wild boy. Sometimes he forgot he was a boy at all. He growled and purred, and fell asleep curled beneath the table during breakfast.
Mrs. Mannerd was always exasperated with Lionel, but she had seven other children to mind, and some days it was easier to serve him his porridge under the table than it was to make him use a chair.
Lionel might have been useful if only he'd been cooperative. When he talked to the chickens, they would lay eggs, but he would not dare steal them from the roosts. He was so patient and so still and so endearing that he could lure a wild rabbit into his hands, but he would not allow Mr. Porter, the butcher, to skin it for supper. One afternoon he walked into the barn just as Mr. Porter was
about to take an ax to the Thanksgiving turkey, and he screamed and caused such a ruckus that the turkey was spooked and took off running, and feeble old Mr. Porter had to chase it around the barn with his bad back and his ax in one hand, all as Lionel shouted, “Run, run!” and tried to set the turkey free.
It had been a delicious turkey supper, but Lionel spent the whole meal sobbing in the darkness of the stairwell, blowing his nose on the good napkins with the embroidered fleurs-de-lis that the late Ms. Gillingham had imported from France (God rest her soul).
Everyone in the house agreed that the boy was strange, except for Marybeth. Marybeth could often be found following Lionel, and she always offered him some of the pralines that her second cousin sent for the holidays.
Marybeth was a very normal girl, with dark hair that she wore braided into pigtails, and round spectacles with red metal rims. She always washed her face and brushed her teeth without being asked, and what she wanted with a boy like Lionel was perplexing to everyone in the house.
Mrs. Mannerd hoped that some of Marybeth's graces would rub off on the boy. Marybeth was nine and Lionel was nine and three-quarters, but she was at least five years wiserâor so Mrs. Mannerd liked to say.
But Marybeth hoped she wasn't an influence on Lionel; she quite liked him the way he was: clever and brave, as though he could never be harmed simply because it never occurred to him.
Before she followed him outside that morning, Marybeth snuck two of Mrs. Mannerd's coconut cookies into her dress pockets and ran through the screen door in the kitchen. Lionel was already several yards ahead, and she hurried to catch up to him, her braids bouncing against her shoulders. “Where are you going?” she asked him.
It was a question Lionel heard often. He never sat still and he was always going somewhere, and he was always gone for a long time. He was very good at not answering. He would yawn or bite into an apple or howl like a wolf. But he liked Marybeth; she never scolded him or stole his pillow or told him to eat his stew. So he gave her a straight answer. “I'm going to make friends with a fox I saw last week.”
“Is it one of Mrs. Rustycoat's babies?” Marybeth asked. Mrs. Rustycoat was the name of a fox they'd found last spring. She wouldn't come close while Marybeth was in tow, but Lionel told her that when he was alone, Mrs. Rustycoat came and ate blueberries from his hand. He said she was so aloof and cautious because she had a litter somewhere.
“It wasn't one of hers,” Lionel said. “It had a blue coat.”
“Can foxes be blue?” Marybeth asked.
“I've never heard of it,” Lionel said. “But I know what I saw. It stood on its hind legs and looked at me and then ran into a shrub.”
“Did you look it up in the encyclopedia?” Marybeth asked.
“Mrs. Mannerd says I'm banned from the encyclopedias for a week.”
“That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.”
“She said they give me wild ideas.”
Mrs. Mannerd was an adult, and had been one for a long time. So long, in fact, that the children suspected she had no memory of being a child herself. Her hair was gray and she was very tall. She was afraid of children with wild ideas. She said that she'd been caring for orphans for forty years and she had seen all kinds of childrenâgood ones and mean ones and smart ones and dull onesâbut she had never under all her stars had a child like Lionel. She once said that Lionel must have been born in a barn, and Marybeth politely pointed out that Jesus had been born in a barn, and Mrs. Mannerd didn't have anything to say to that except, “Finish your carrots, Marybeth.”
Lionel had smiled at her from across the table. Only for a moment, though, and then he dipped his head. He
didn't like for the other children to know what he was thinking.
He was in good spirits now. He stepped into the woods, as light on his feet as a ghost. Marybeth stayed close behind him and tried not to make too much noise. She looked over her shoulder just once, to see how far they'd gone from the little red house where Mrs. Mannerd would be collecting the laundry from the hampers right about now, muttering about things the children left in their pockets. The older ones would be in their rooms studying their French and their cursive, no doubt envious of Marybeth and Lionel, who were the only children young enough to be allowed to squander their Saturday mornings outside.
Not long ago, there had been another child their age, a little girl with long hair and eyes the same color as when the daylight hits the sea. She was extremely polite and curtsied when she said hello. She was adopted by a young couple with kind eyes and creased clothes, and once she was gone, Mrs. Mannerd told the children, “You see what happens when you behave?”
There were infants sometimes as well. They came and went, each one identical to the one before it. Mrs. Mannerd didn't like infants. They always needed something, and they couldn't help out around the house. But they were adopted off soon enough. Babies were preferred by
the barren. Best to shape them from the beginning, rather than taking an older child and dealing with who they've already become.
Lionel was certain that nobody would ever adopt him. That suited him just fine. As soon as he was old enough, he would live in the woods and be a wild thing, and he would never eat porridge again.
“Stop,” he said, and held out his arms. When the leaves ceased to crunch under Marybeth's scuffed black boots, he listened. The animal was nearby. He could feel its pulse in the air, like the rumble of a train getting closer.
He crouched low, and then he began to crawl.
Marybeth stood still, holding her breath for as long as she could stand just to be quiet.
Finally she said, “It won't come out because I'm here.”
Lionel stood. His eyes were distant, and at first Marybeth didn't think he'd heard her, but then he said, “Maybe.”
“I can go inside.”
“I don't want you to go,” Lionel said. He wasn't looking at her, and he gnawed on his lip pensively as he considered the hiding animal, unaware of how his words had touched her. Marybeth, like the other children in the house, was unaccustomed to being told she was wanted.
“Come out, you stubborn thing,” Lionel said. “Mr. Porter and the older ones aren't here. It's just us.”
“Maybe it's best that it's scared, whatever it is,” Marybeth said. “No animal would become supper if it knew to stay away from humans.”
“We aren't humans,” Lionel said. “We're Lionel and Marybeth.”
Sometimes, for just a moment, Marybeth stood on the very edge of his world, and through the shadows she could almost see what he was thinking.
“Come on,” she said. “We can go to the river and talk to the fish. They always come to you.”
“All right,” Lionel said, quite frustrated with the blue creature, who could not, it seemed, know the difference between an ordinary human and Marybeth. He began to suspect he had overestimated the thing's intelligence.
They spent the rest of the morning making faces at the fish and chasing each other, giggling as they caught each other between the trees until Mrs. Mannerd called them to their chores, and they ran to her voice.
That evening, after dinner, Lionel slipped outside as the older ones argued over who got to take the first bath while there was still plenty of hot water.
Mrs. Mannerd knew that Lionel had gone because he'd left the storm door open, and the wind made it flutter against the frame.
She also knew that going after him would prove futile. He was quick as a fox, and he liked to climb. She lost her breath chasing after him, always to no end.
Marybeth, however, was never any trouble to find. She was sitting at the empty table, her posture ever straight as she read from a cover-worn book she'd checked out of the library.
“Do you know where Lionel's gone off to?” Mrs. Mannerd said.
“To feed the foxes, maybe,” Marybeth offered. “He had berries in his pocket.”
So that was why the blueberries kept disappearing, Mrs. Mannerd thought.
Marybeth closed her book. “I can find him.”
“Don't be too long. The sun's going down.”
Of all the children in the house, Marybeth was the only one to ever do as she was told, and without complaint, no less. She didn't even need to be reminded to put on her coat before she opened the door.