9
Carver spent hours patiently working them through tying the invisible knot, connecting the safety line, making the transit. Over and over. Then he shifted them into the living room and began showing them how to fashion the portal. Using the energy. Drawing invisible lines in whatever surface was before them, or in the air. That was tougher, not having a wall to focus on. Carver showed no annoyance when they failed, which happened a dozen times and more, mostly with Sean.
Sean felt unbalanced by having released his rage against Dillon, as though he had exposed a dark edge that tainted him. This troubled state impacted his ability to transit. But Carver remained patient, bland, watchful. What was more interesting was Dillon’s response. Sean’s brother looked increasingly troubled every time Sean failed. As though the whole thing was his fault.
When they had both successfully transited five times, Carver called a break. Sean moved to the bathroom and was inspecting the place where Dillon’s rock had struck him when his brother appeared in the doorway. He carried a plastic briefcase that he set on the sink. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I know that.”
Dillon opened the case to reveal a miniature pharmacy. “Whoa. The dude has got himself a portable operating room.”
Sean stared at the case and its contents. The rage turned to something sick. There on display was every risk they might be facing with future tests.
Dillon found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, wet a towel, and said, “Turn around.”
Sean did as he was told. His brother probed. “Ow.”
“The blood’s stuck to your hair.”
“Leave a little skin, why don’t you.”
“I’m trying to be gentle. Hold still.”
“Ow again.”
“Almost done.” Dillon dropped the pink-stained towel in the sink and opened a tube of antibiotic ointment. Dabbed a bit, capped the tube, shut the case. Said to the sink, “I shouldn’t have thrown the rock.”
Sean had a hundred different responses, but they remained unspoken. He could not remember the last time Dillon had apologized for anything. “It’s okay.”
His brother’s relief was evident. “We’re good?”
“Until I leave you stranded on some ceiling.”
Dillon grinned. “Dude, you did some serious damage to the colonel’s house. Your strikes made a crack in the foundation big enough to let the night in.”
“I don’t think it matters.”
“Take a look around. The soap is still in the wrapper. The towel you just used still has its sticker.”
“I don’t . . .” Understanding dawned on his face. “Carver doesn’t sleep here. He doesn’t stay here.”
“If you could transit whenever you wanted, would you stick around Plantation Heights? I mean, think about it.”
But Dillon’s mind was tracking in a different direction. “This house, the furniture . . . Carver is here for us.”
“We already know that.”
“Yeah, but this is, I don’t know . . .”
Sean nodded. He understood. “Totally different.”
“The dude comes in, does his instruction, then picks up his lunch bucket and transits off to . . .”
“Argonistan. Back to the house and the kids and the two-headed dog.”
Dillon’s grin was infectious. “I want me some of that.”
Sean started to ask, Even if it costs you an arm? But he decided there was no need to point out the risk. Because he already knew the answer to that one. For both of them.
They were both exhausted by the time they completed ten transits each. Which was a little strange, since nothing about the transit was the least bit physically demanding. But by the time they halted, Sean’s entire world felt slightly out of focus. His muscles ached. Correct that—his bones were sore. Dillon sat across from him at the kitchen table, his shoulders slumped, his eyes vacant.
Carver told them to quit for the day, led them back to the front door, and saw them off with, “It will come more easily tomorrow.”
For once the silence at their dinner table was welcome. Sean had no idea what was on the television droning from the next room. Dillon did not speak once the entire meal.
Their father, Big Phil, was an accountant with the state’s Department of Agriculture. When they were young, Dillon thought his father said he worked for the Department of Oatmeal. The name stuck. The Department of Oatmeal pretty much said everything people needed to know about Big Phil and his wife, Gladys. Sometimes at night Sean and Dillon tried to remember the last time their parents had hugged. Forget kissing. Or had a conversation that wasn’t punctuated mostly by silences and unfinished sentences. They never fought. They never yelled at the twins. That would have required too much effort. The most excitement the twins ever saw Big Phil show was at the neighborhood cookout, when their dad got together with other dads and compared how long they had until retirement. Big whoop. Their mother managed the local CVS. She left in the morning tired and came back exactly the same.
When dinner was over and they had helped clean up, Sean dragged himself upstairs and collapsed with his clothes on.
Dillon appeared in the doorway. “How do I make the link at dreamtime?”
Sean wanted to tell him to go away. But his brother’s quiet desperation managed to filter through his fatigue. “Carver said it was an invitation. Try accepting the idea before you sleep.”
“De nada.” Sean dozed off in mid-word. A couple of hours later he got up, drank three glasses of water, undressed, brushed his teeth, and went back to bed. Dillon snored softly throughout.
He was back in bed before he remembered the circlet. He wanted to say, Not now, not tonight. But he got up anyway and fitted the dingus into place. The language-dream started up as soon as his head hit the pillow, or so it felt. And truth be told, the lessons were fun.
Sean woke the next morning to the sound of Dillon’s alarm clock. He had forgotten to set his own. He lay in bed, wishing he could get his mind to focus, when his brother called, “Breakfast in ten.”
Only Dillon did not speak the words. He sang them.