Oren
Cristofer and Paul were still gone when the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in and dropped wires of lightning into the ocean beyond the road and dunes, scattering the black flies that buzzed above the buried chickens, washing the ashes and soot from Kay’s studio into little streams and pools that seeped into the sand. Kay stayed in the yard, a mound of grief in the rainwater, until Walter climbed down from the roof and took her inside. Lexi sat on the porch floor, her broken Bible by her side, watching me as I swung on the porch swing.
She said, ‘You never told me your story last night.’
So I said, ‘Once upon a time, a little boy disappeared – a little boy named Oren. All the adults asked, Where is Oren?’
‘Is that your name?’ she said.
‘Do you want the story or not?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ she said.
I said, ‘The adults searched the house and neighborhood calling for Oren, but he didn’t come. It was as if he had become invisible, as if a magician had put him in a box and put the box in a room and turned off the lights and locked the door, and when the others opened the room and shined light in the box, the boy was gone.’ I stared at her.
She showed no recognition. ‘Go on,’ she said.
I said, ‘The little boy hadn’t really become invisible, though you could turn on every light in the house and inspect the box from every angle using mirrors and probes. The trick was that he no longer was in the box or even the house. He had traveled to—’
‘Forget it,’ she said.
‘You don’t like the story?’
She said, ‘I don’t like how you tell it.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ I said. ‘The story tells itself.’
She leaped up.
I said, ‘Or I suppose you could blame me …’
But Paul was coming from the pine woods through the heavy rain, carrying Cristofer. Cristofer seemed to be convulsing in Paul’s arms. Lexi ran to him and I followed, slipping on the wet ground, the rain slapping our faces. Paul stopped and waited, with Cristofer jerking and flailing against his big body.
Paul was grinning. Cristofer was also – grinning and laughing so hard he made no sound. When Paul saw me, he laughed too and tossed Cristofer into the air and caught him. But when he noticed Lexi’s worry, he tried to set Cristofer down.
Cristofer clasped Paul’s shoulders and hugged his chest. His eyes were big and bright with rain or happiness or both.
Lexi asked him, ‘Are you …’
He flailed and laughed in Paul’s arms.
Paul said, ‘You’ve got a terrific brother.’
Lexi yelled at him. ‘Where have you been?’
Paul held Cristofer close. ‘We went walking in the woods,’ he said, as if she’d asked an unreasonable question. ‘Everything got crazy here with the fire, so I thought we would get out of the way.’
‘You were gone almost eight hours,’ Lexi said.
‘What’s the problem?’ Paul said. ‘We hung out. Your brother told me about the trees and the animals. He knows everything about these woods.’
Lexi looked furious. ‘Cristofer doesn’t talk,’ she said. ‘He grunts and keens. Sometimes he signs yes or no.’
‘Oh,’ Paul said, and tossed Cristofer into the air.
Cristofer flailed and laughed a raw laugh. Rainwater flung from his cheeks and his hair.
‘Put him down,’ Lexi said.
Paul looked as if he might challenge her, but I also said, ‘Put him down.’ So he whispered something to Cristofer and set him on his feet. Cristofer stared like he knew he was in trouble.
Lexi asked him, ‘Did you burn Mom’s studio?’
He didn’t answer.
‘I’ll keep Walter from you,’ she said, ‘but I need to know.’
A low keen came from his throat.
‘Do you know who burned it?’ she asked.
The keen grew louder.
‘Leave him alone,’ Paul said. ‘He didn’t do it.’ The rain came down hard, splattering our legs with mud.
‘He needs to let me know,’ Lexi said. ‘Cristofer’ – she went to him and held his wet hands – ‘did you or didn’t you?’
He made a sound that could have meant anything. Then he pulled his hands from her and ran back toward the woods.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ Paul said.
‘Go,’ I told him, and he ran after Cristofer.
Lexi and I went back to the porch and sat on the swing. The rain was falling in sheets, fogging the air, and Cristofer and Paul disappeared long before they reached the pine woods.
I said, ‘Once upon a time, there was a body snatcher.’
Lexi glared at me and said, ‘I’m not up for it.’
I watched her and wondered whose side she would take when our mother and Walter started to bleed. She’d been a baby when they killed our dad – too young to remember him. As far as I could tell, she knew nothing of me. I said, ‘Did you know that Keith Richards once told an interviewer that he snorted his dead dad’s ashes? He mixed them with cocaine. I think it was deeply loving of him in a rock ’n’ roll kind of way.’
‘Goodbye,’ Lexi said, and got up.
‘These are the things you learn when you have a job like mine,’ I said.
‘Maybe it’s time to get a new job,’ she said.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Ted Williams’ son preserved his dad’s body? Cryogenics. He froze the old man. Stiff as a baseball bat.’
Lexi went into the house and let the screen door slap shut behind her, but I kept talking in case she was still listening.
‘Baseball players use pine tar on their bats,’ I said. ‘It improves the grip. Ted Williams’ son could have saved a few bucks by using pine tar on his dad instead of putting him in the deep freeze. That’s more or less how the Egyptians did their mummies. Resin from the Cedar of Lebanon. Smear some on a hall-of-famer and he’ll keep for three thousand years.’