Theo (10 page)

Fucking hell. The words echo from somewhere ahead. Then louder: Fucking police.

Theo enters the kitchen and Seal sits at the scarred heavy table,
wrapped in a blanket, with a sketchbook and scattered pens in front of him. He’s drawing Colin, using both of his short,
flipper-like
arms to hold the pen. Colin sits in a chair, with his profile toward Seal, facing the door through which Theo entered.

Have you met Seal, Theo.

Yes.

The Seal instead of singing for his supper is going to make portraits of the residents of the house. He’ll do you too.

There are police here wanting to talk to you and to Gus.

I heard. Ponces. They don’t have a warrant. They’ll need to come back with lawyers and catapults and –

Did you and Gus do something wrong.

No, my friend. One thing you’ll learn is that one never has to do anything at all to attract unwanted attention from enforcement crotch-sniffers. They get bored, they’re doing someone else a favor, they got yelled at by their wives, their bleeding feet hurt – they take it out on the poor citizenry, because they can. Like why does a dog lick his balls. Because he can. They’re the ones with the guns. They’re bullying gits. I will not give in to their intimidation.

What do they think you did.

I haven’t the slightest idea.

Theo wonders if they’re here because of Colin’s day off last week, and asks, the words making his head hurt.

Every couple of weeks, Colin said, right, I’m off for two days. Don’t bother me. He’d take one of the cars and go away.

Last week, the morning after Colin left, Gus came up to the attic wheezing, and knocked on the door.

Theo, come on, wake up son. I’ve got to go get Colin. Can’t leave you alone.

Where is he.

Jail.

They drove down the beach to the town part of the island, a blur of low buildings with paintings and fishing nets in big windows, and hanging signs for doctors and lawyers and restaurants. Gus drove as always slowly and deliberately, both hands on the wheel, not talking. Still can’t get used to this bloody wrong side of the road business, he said, every time he had to drive.

Colin was sitting on a bench, legs crossed, smoking, in a smelly waiting room across from a man in a uniform behind a glass window with a hole in it. Colin had cuts on his face crusted with blood. When Gus and Theo walked in, Colin stubbed his cigarette out on the bench, saluted the man behind the window and said, later, Jackson.

What did you do, Colin, Theo asked as Gus and Colin walked without speaking back to the car.

Colin shook himself and said, I rode a horse into a bar. They arrested me for littering and animal abuse, and petit larceny of the horse, because the bar owner’s a paid-up friend of everyone and a spectacular moron.

Why.

I don’t know why, I presume it’s something genetic.

I mean about the horse.

Colin exhaled smoke out the window, into the glittering outside and the people and things passing at a sedate pace, staring: when Gus drove, it felt like riding in a parade.

I got into an argument with some idiots and so at the time I figured the best way to make my point with them was to deliver it from the back of a horse.

Um. Where did you get the horse.

Borrowed it. Plenty around, favorite accessory of every bleeding debutante in this bleeding summer camp. What a country.

What were you arguing about.

Oh, man. It doesn’t matter. I am a little quiffed at the moment and I think I’ll just try to get some shuteye on the trip back.

Any other damage. Keep all your teeth this time, Gus asked.

We had a good spirited debate and all sides were aired, including the horse’s. Some calisthenic exertion was involved, but that’s good for the circulation and god knows I need more exercise. Plus I had a good jail breakfast this morning, they brought it round from the drug store lunch counter, which luckily for me and the other residents of the big house also serves breakfast. It was greasy and hot off the griddle, served up on a paper plate in a glistening lake of fat. Runny eggs and some variety of sausage. White toast. Oleo pat. Colin picked a bit of tobacco from his lip. Oleo pat. I like the sound of that, should be the name of some obese prostitute.

I worried you weren’t eating right, Gus said making a careful turn, hand over hand, like the car was a boat.

Colin tried to kiss Gus but Gus elbowed him. Hey, I’m driving.

Thanks, mate, Colin said, after a minute, pulling out a cigarette.

They talked normally, mostly about names Theo didn’t know and he stopped listening. Gus seemed to never get angry with Colin. Lots of other people did. He would have to ask Gus about it.

Lie low
. The Seal sketches. Theo’s stomach growls. It’s not really the stomach but the intestines making noise. That’s the kind of thing Theo likes to know. He likes learning, but school was about not getting embarrassed, or hurt. Theo didn’t really know the girls very well. Maybe they were different. There were other kids like him, a couple in the class, each eyeing the others; they knew, like a secret club, could tell, but they didn’t really help each other or anything. Just noticed.

I want to know. Why am I not supposed to do any of that stuff.

Oh, christ, would you give it up.

No. Theo’s mad. He’s not a kid.

Like a damn badger. Okay. Look. The police want a chat with your father. Immigration wants me and your dad. School wants you. Social services wants your mother and dad. And you. They’re lined up like planes at LaGuardia, waiting their chance at us. Your dad thinks it’s best if you are not put in a position where you have to talk to someone or see or hear stuff you won’t understand that will only scare you. The place is gauntleted by lawyers so no worries.

What do they want my father for.

Just for once, be a good boy and say, aye aye, sir.

No. I’m not scared. And I don’t care.

Well, that’s the end of the news, mate. No more. Just don’t break my you-know-whats, eh.

The Seal stares at both of them. Somewhere upstairs is a saxophone, and where is Theo’s mother. He wants out, he wants out, he wants to run, so he does, into the ballroom, in a circle, past the drum kit, the motorbike gone, the electric piano, the pile of shirts, cardboard boxes. Roller skates, his skates. He has two pairs. Where are the others. He likes to skate in the ballroom, but not now. Out. He needs out.

Onto the terrace, empty. Downslope at the end of the long ragged lawn, Theo sees Gus up in his chair. Why haven’t the police out front found him. Theo worries. Should he try to get Gus inside. Is Gus in trouble. Why didn’t Colin mention Gus.

Theo moves toward Gus, sun overhead a bright button on a blue shirt. He’s over the terrace stone, air hot, the day a year old, and he still hasn’t eaten. Can the police arrest Theo. Can they make him talk about things. Theo’s stomach churns and sours. The dark humps in the grass near Gus are dogs. Gus
waves. Theo hurries at him, watching the near wing of the house. There’s a Brazilian flag now hanging from one of the upper windows on the other wing. His head hurts.

Getting closer, the dogs see Theo and wag but don’t get up, tails just whapping the ground like a signal. Don’t beavers do that.

There are police here.

What say.

There are police here. They want to talk to Colin and to you.

Gus straightens in the old chair he dragged here from one of the rooms. It has claw feet, with the claws holding balls. And the back is very straight. Beside the flowery white iron one with rust like blood, the wooden chair seems sad, away from home. It looks lonely.

Immigration possibly. Hmm. Where are they.

At the front door. They said they’d wait till you came back. Frieda said you were gone.

Where did she say I went.

She said you and Colin were at a meeting in the city.

Gus sighs. Bloody hell. Go on now, son, go do something fun.

Gus grips a white stein with a silver top on it that flips up and with snow and deer on the outside. He slowly rises to his full height, taller than Theo and shorter than Colin. The blue devil on his shirt looks Theo in the eye. The devil’s eyes are white dots.

When will my dad be here.

Can’t say yet, son, details still being worked out. It’s complicated, like moving the prime minister, getting your dad from place to place.

Colin said the police were after him.

Gus frowns. That man talks too much. Your dad’s fine. Don’t worry about what Colin says.

The dogs still beat the ground, but much more slowly, like they have to suddenly remember and thump. Theo feels weird, weak, light-headed again, his head slowly aching, rings around things if he looks long enough. Okay.

Theo lies down in the shade near the dogs, under the umbrella curling and uncurling above.

Watch out for fleas: Gus is talking to him.

Okay.

Just a joke. Gus is further away, his voice quieter.

Everything keeps happening the same as before. Theo’s back on the ground, the dogs are here, the sun’s up, and Theo runs in circles, he’s a dog too, checking on the cattle. He feels like the day has started over a million times. And his head still feels funny, and nothing has happened. Nothing any grownup has said so far today has been true, and nothing has happened. Theo wonders about why. Theo figures it’s because everyone is doing it: you can’t say something real if everyone else is not. So they just keep pretending about everything. He guesses his dad does it too, but he can’t remember.

Theo’s stomach hurts. Theo pushes himself up; Gus is still visible, a slow walker. The dogs thump but lie on their sides, hoping they don’t have to move. It’s okay, Theo says aloud, and moves over to pet each of them. They wag harder, like they mean it, and push themselves up, panting, smiling. Dog smiles. Theo does a dog smile and pants too: he understands them. Then he turns toward the house, because he has to eat something. He can’t escape, he keeps getting pulled back inside, the magic that won’t let him leave. He steps over the motorcycle track: the border. Which side is madness. They say craziness in America. Mad is angry.

They’re gone.

Gus stands far away at the edge of the house’s right wing, yelling at Theo, now something about safe for democracy. Theo doesn’t know what the democracy means.

They said they would wait but they didn’t. They wanted to talk but they didn’t. School had opposite days, but it just meant putting clothes on backward. You couldn’t talk opposite or do opposite things or you’d get in trouble. And it just made it easier for Theo’s buttons to get pulled off, so his shirt flapped open and people snickered, even the girls, who squealed and tried to keep the boys from pulling their buttons, but some of them didn’t try too hard, and some of the boys didn’t try hard to pull, so it’s already starting, the doing one thing and meaning something else.

Mingus is emerging onto the terrace now, carrying something in his hands. One of his cars. He makes things. They look like cars but he calls them weapons. He says they have power, and value, and some people want to steal the power.

What’s up, man. Mingus is looking up at Theo walking toward him, heading for the kitchen.

I’m hungry.

Me too, starving for everything. I am famished all the time.

What are you doing with your car.

I’m taking it outside – if the government finds out it’s in here, the house becomes a target, because this ain’t no car. It’s power for the one who holds it. I’m getting it away from the house. Made it last night.

There were police here but they left.

See. See.

They were here to talk about immigration.

Of course, they always have a front, but that’s never why they really come. They get their orders from deep in the tower, and
sometimes even they don’t know why, they’re just following orders, man. But the real power’s right in my hands and they know it.

Mingus hunched over the car, looking up, and started running toward the trees. I’ll be back. Don’t talk to them, okay. They can take stuff out of your brain before you even know it’s gone.

Okay but they’re not here.

Halfway down the grass, hunched and running, Mingus yells back, they’re never gone.

Theo keeps moving toward the opened French doors, the dogs trotting behind, wondering if it is true about police. Theo is afraid to ask too many questions, or even think them. Is that being superstitious: some people think that’s bad. Theo can’t help it, however. Birds, insects, when a shadow passes over and something you’ve never seen and don’t understand attacks – superstition is what animals know. Maybe you called it to come, by saying its name.

Theo’s eyes adjust to the dark inside and he walks toward the kitchen, empty now except for the dogs who hustled ahead and now lie on the cool terracotta. He feels better, his head feels better. Not hurting too much but things fuzz over a little at the edges.