Then the boy changed, you see.
First his knees buckled, and he fell. Hard. Face forward down the bottom two porch steps. And I said to myself, "Well, kids fall all the time. And they bounce back. Kids are tough." But when that boy fell, he banged his chin very hard on the cement walkway, and a quick, loud "Uhh!" of pain and surprise escaped him. Then he lay still. And silent.
Until he hitched backward on his belly, with his arms straight out in front of him and his spread legs pointing toward the house, his bones crunching and snapping audibly as his body conformed to the shape of the porch steps, as if he were some sort of huge, misshapen, jellylike crab dressed in corduroys and a red plaid shirt.
And while this was happening, he relentlessly recited his ABCs: "A"—hitch—"B"—hitch—"C"— hitch, until he had hitched backward all the way to the top of the porch steps. And there, very slowly, one vertebra at a time, like someone doing a weird kind of aerobic exercise, he straightened. And as he straightened, his body made a sound like paper being crumpled, and I realized that his bones were snapping back into place.
Then he began climbing up and down the steps all over again, just like a real boy, reciting his ABCs and glancing over at me occasionally and smiling. He's enjoying himself now, I thought. He's being a kid.
And there was no way in hell I was going to wait around for him to fall again, no way in hell I wanted to hear again that small grunt of pain and surprise. What I was going to do was get into the Malibu, fire it up, and drive out of this bizarre little village that was masquerading as Ashley Falls, Massachusetts. Even if the Malibu wouldn't top fifteen miles an hour, it was still faster than walking. And besides, I'd grown strangely attached to it—it was mechanical, it was predictable, it was ordinary; it was real, for God's sake.
I ran down the front porch steps, turned right, rounded the edge of Anton's house. And found that there was no white cement block building called "Anton's Garage." There was an old Dodge Power Wagon half rusted to oblivion, beside it Abner's Malibu, and around them a quarter acre of mud where Anton's Garage should have been.
I fished in my pockets for the keys to the Malibu. I came up with my wallet, a Philharmonic ticket, a couple of quarters. But no keys. I went around to the driver's door, bent over, peered in. The keys were in the ignition. I tried the door. It was locked. "Shit!" I breathed. I glanced about. The dusk had turned rapidly to early evening darkness. Across the street, in the row of white clapboard houses, I could see half a dozen lighted windows; I could see the boy in corduroy hitching backward up his porch steps, "A-B-C-D"; I could hear the classical music; I could hear the argument intensifying, curses shrieked, doors slammed. And as I took it all in, I saw a human form appear at one of the lighted windows. It was a good sixty or seventy-five yards off, and it was backlit, but it was clearly the form of a young woman, and its head appeared to turn in my direction. "Shit!" I breathed again. Another human form appeared, at another window, in another house. The form of a child. And it, too, turned its head in my direction.
I peered frantically through the Malibu's driver's window at the passenger door. It, too, was locked. I tried the driver's door again. Nothing. I pulled hard. "Shit, goddammit!" I shrieked.
Across the way, the loud argument stopped abruptly. I looked up from the Malibu. The boy in corduroy "D-E-F''—wasat the top of the porch steps. He straightened, glanced my way, smiled. Continued smiling.
At another lighted window, another form appeared, and its head turned in my direction.
I thought, This is perfect! Here I am in this town made up of the dead and I want to leave and my car's stuck in the mud and they're all looking at me!
Just as the sanitation workers had, and the woman in red, and the girls in pink taffeta.
"Mind your own p's and q's," Madeline had told me. I was beginning to understand what she was talking about.
The mud around the Malibu was studded with rocks. Most of them were small and flat, like small pancakes, but there were a few as large as fists. I bent over, picked up one of the fist-size rocks, muttered, "Sorry, Malibu," and smashed the driver's window with it. I unlocked the door, opened it, brushed away the broken glass, and climbed into the driver's seat.
The scenario I expected then—following in the old Hammer Films tradition—was that I'd first have trouble starting the car. And while I was trying to start it, I'd glance up and see the dead all around, coming my way, arms outstretched, mouths wide open. Then, when they were within twenty feet or so of the car, I'd get it started, breathe a sigh of relief, put it in gear, hit the accelerator, and listen to the sickening, soul-deadening sound of the tires spinning in the mud.
That was the scenario I expected. That, in its predictability, would have been satisfying, even comforting.
This, however, is what happened:
The car started easily enough. I listened to it idle a few moments, thought it was idling slow and rough. Then, before turning the headlights on, I looked again at the houses across the street. I saw that there were people at all the lighted windows now, their heads turned in my direction. I turned the headlights on, bent over, and looked to the left at the side door of Anton's house, the door that led into the mudroom. That door had a window in it and I could see that a light was on in the kitchen. I could also see a number of people there, in the doorway beyond the mudroom.
I put the car in gear and hit the accelerator.
The engine died.
"Shit!" I whispered, put the car in park, and turned the ignition to "on" again. The engine roared to life. I put the car in gear again, my foot on the brake, hesitated, looked once more at Anton's side door. The kitchen light was off now, but I could see a group of people clumped darkly together behind the door. I straightened, took my foot off the brake. Again the car stalled. I hit the dashboard. "Dammit!" I barked, and turned the ignition key again. The car roared to life. I floored the accelerator, listened to the engine thump, looked at the side door again. The clump of people was outside the door. I looked straight ahead. Like strange, tall hedges that had sprung up between the front of the car and the houses across the street, clumps of people appeared at the perimeter of the headlights.
I frantically put the car in gear and floored the accelerator. The Malibu shot forward a few feet. And the engine died.
"It's your torque converter," I heard.
I shrieked, reached desperately for the key, banged my knuckles against the steering column, found the key, turned it. Nothing. "Dammit, goddammit!" I breathed.
"It's your torque converter, Sam. It's your torque converter."
I tried the key again. Again nothing. "Dammit!" I realized that the car was in drive. I put it in park, tried the key; the engine roared to life.
"I can fix it, Sam."
"No, you can't," I whispered, as if to myself. "I can fix anything now."
Plop!
"I got my own garage now, Sam."
"No, you don't," I whispered.
Plop!
"I got my own garage now, Sam."
"You scare't, boy?"
Plop!
I whispered to the Malibu, "Go, please. Go!" And I floored it, it shot forward a few feet. And the engine died.
"You scare't, boy?"
"Shit, yes," I whispered, turned the engine on again, put it in gear, and pulled very slowly out onto the street.
Again the engine died. I hit the steering wheel furiously, the horn blared, my heart began to race. I fumbled for the ignition, turned the key. Nothing. I tried it again. Still nothing. I took a breath. "Calm down, Sam," I whispered. "Calm down!"
I heard, to my left, outside the broken window, "You gotta put it in park, Sam. Put it in park."
I put it in park. "Thanks," I said.
"Ain't nothin'," he chuckled.
I glanced at him. He had the long-handled axe raised high over his head.