Christmas decorations disappeared from store windows and were soon replaced with Valentine hearts and candy boxes. Strands of colored bulbs and sparkling garlands were boxed up and returned to storage. Christmas records and tapes were returned to their shelves where they would stay until the following December. Trees were removed and dry pine needles were vacuumed from the carpet.
All over town, naked toppled Christmas trees lay waiting for garbage men to carry them away; strands of tinsel and bits of garland still dangled from their brittle branches, sometimes blowing in the wind over the snow and ice.
The sky remained a dark steel gray and the air a blade sharp enough to slice flesh. The stripped branches of the trees reached skyward like arthritic claws. The snowflakes eventually turned to raindrops and the snow on the ground became a thick, icy mud....
"We've been meeting for some time, now, yet I don't feel as though I've really learned much about you. Why is that?"
"I dunno. Maybe because I haven't said much about me, you think?"
"Yes, I suppose. Why is that?"
"Mm. Don't like talking about myself, I guess."
"I see. Well, would it be easier if I asked questions?"
"All you've been doing is asking questions."
"Yes, you're right. Well, then...I guess I'm at a loss. You see, your mother asked me to speak with you, oh, a few months ago, I guess, because she was noticing what she thought were some unpleasant changes in you. So I agreed. For a while, it was five days a week, then twice a week, down to once a week. All that time, I kept thinking that if I gave you a chance, you would tell me what was bothering you, what was wrong. Now I'm beginning to think that perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps your mother was mistaken as well. So, tell me, Stephen. Were we? Mistaken?"
Stephen sat where he always sat in Father Wheatley's study, the way he always sat there: on the brown leather sofa, right foot dangling over his left knee, hands locked behind his head, elbows pointing upward on each side of his head like small wings.
Father Wheatley sat in a straight-back chair on the other side of the coffee table in front of the sofa, facing Stephen. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, thin hands joined loosely. He was in his fifties, bald on top with a wreath of white hair around his head. He had glasses with brown tortoiseshell frames and thick lenses; he had a habit of removing them to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
Stephen asked, "Were you mistaken about what?"
Father Wheatley did it again—removed the glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose—as he released a soft sigh. "Oh, I'm not sure really. Were we mistaken about, um...about there being something wrong with you? Tell me, Stephen, has something upset you lately?"
"How lately?"
"Well... anything at all?"
"Yeah. Cancer. That upset me." His voice was not sarcastic; it remained low, level and without expression.
"Of course it did. That's perfectly understandable. But our prayers have been answered. Your cancer is in remission and you seem to be doing very well. Physically, I mean. I'm talking about something that might have hurt your feelings, something that might be making you angry, or...or even scared. Is there anything like that?"
Stephen's lower lip slowly moved inward until he held it between his teeth, nibbled on it slightly as his eyes moved gradually around the room, finally stopping, once again, on Father Wheatley.
"No," he said. "No, nothing like that. I'm fine."
"You don't believe you've been behaving differently?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Different than what?"
"Different than...usual?"
"Uh-uh. Not that I know of."
"What about the way you dress? Your clothes?"
"What about 'em?" The slightest hint of defensiveness showed itself in his voice.
"Well, they're not the kind of clothes you usually wear. Are they? I mean, the jacket, for example. The T-shirts you wear around the house."
"T-shirts? What, you been talking to my mother?"
"Of course. She says you wear T-shirts with rock-and-roll groups and slogans on the front that are...well, offensive. Even blasphemous. Like your leather jacket."
"So? What's wrong with that? Lots of kids wear them."
"But your mother says you never used to wear such things, or listen to such music."
He shrugged. "I do now."
"Yes, but your mother seems to think the sudden change was brought on by .. . well, by something. Is that true? Did something happen that—"
"No. My friend Jason played his tapes for me one day. I liked the music. He gave me a couple old shirts, this old jacket. They just don't like it, is all. The music, the clothes. So they're making like there's something wrong with me because of it."
"Well, I must admit, Stephen, the jacket is blasphemous. The cross on your back is—"
"But there's nothing wrong with me. If that's why I've been coming here, then"—another shrug—"I've been wasting your time. I'm sorry."
Father Wheatley looked at Stephen a long while, studied his face through narrow, thoughtful eyes. Then: "Would you like me to tell that to your mother?"
"I dunno. What do you think you should tell her? You're the priest."
"Well, I suppose if you think these visits are a waste of time...then they are. If they stop, would you promise me something, Stephen?"
A shrug.
"If ever you need to talk to someone about something that...well, that you might not want to discuss with your parents or a school friend...will you come to me? I'd be happy to sit down with you any time."
"Yeah. Sure." Stephen smiled.
"I have to admit, Carmen, your boy is going through the throes of adolescence."
"What do you mean? Exactly?"
"Well, he's rebellious. He enjoys doing things that shock you, offend you. That's why rock-and-roll stars are able to make so much money without being talented." He chuckled. "Because the kids know their parents don't like them."
"But it's more than that, Father." Carmen clutched the receiver tightly, pressed it hard against her ear. "He's...changed. His personality, his behavior...it's like he wants nothing to do with us anymore. He stays down in his room almost all the time. Only comes up to go to the bathroom or eat. He sits down there in the corner and mumbles to himself while he listens to that horrible music on headphones. He wears those shirts, that jacket, rings with little skulls on them, all that heavy-metal paraphernalia. I don't even know where he gets it, although I suspect it's got something to do with the boy he's been hanging around lately. Stephen is just not the same boy, Father."
"Yes, it seems they all reach an age where they are no longer the same child. But some change more drastically. It sounds like that's the case here."
"Yes, it is." She closed her eyes and smiled slightly, relieved that he was finally beginning to understand.
"Unfortunately, I didn't see any of that during my visits with Stephen. Oh, he was cranky now and then, a little impatient. But he was well behaved. And yes, I noticed the jacket and the rings. I think your suspicions about Stephen's friends are correct. He mentioned a boy named Jason who got him into the music. He sounds like a bad influence to me."
"Tell me, Father. Did he talk about...our house at all? The house we live in here?"
"No. No, I don't remember him mentioning it at all. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason. So, you don't think...I mean, there's nothing more you can do."
He laughed. "Carmen, dear, I'm only a priest. But, if you'd like, I can recommend a therapist."
"Therapist?"
"Yes. A good Catholic therapist who specializes in this very situation. He works well with teens."
Carmen frowned. "A therapist?"
"Is that so bad? I think it would be a wise move."
"Do you think Stephen is...well, you know, mentally ill?"
"Of course not, dear. I just think he's troubled. In fact, I suspect that a boy that age who isn't troubled is likely mentally ill. Growing up is a difficult project, and Stephen is going through some of the toughest times right now. In fact, he's had the added burden of his illness, something most teens don't have to deal with. No, Carmen, mental hospitals are for the mentally ill. Therapists are for people who've had a little too much dropped in their lap at one time. They're for people who are having trouble with the problems life hands all of us at one time or another. Therapists are for everyone. No, my suggestion of therapy does not mean I think your son is mentally ill. Not at all."
Carmen could think of nothing to say. She did not agree with Father Wheatley, and that bothered her even more than her situation. So, she just sighed quietly into the telephone.
"Do you have a pen, Carmen? Let me give you his name and telephone number. You call, explain the problem, and make an appointment for Stephen. If you'd like, you can make an appointment for the whole family. It's up to you."
Father Wheatley recited the name and number. Carmen did not write them down.
Stephen decided to move into the room that had originally been his, but told no one except Michael. First, he moved all of his things into the room, then, with Michael's help, moved the bed.
"You sure you want to move over here?" Michael asked.
"Yeah. Why?"
"I thought you didn't like this room."
"Oh, it's not so bad."
Michael frowned. "You didn't even like our room at first."
"Yeah, well, I guess that was stupid."
Michael's frown did not go away. Hands on his hips, eyes narrowed, he stared at his brother with concern. "It wasn't so stupid a while ago. Why the sudden change?"
"I just want a room of my own. Is that so bad?"
"You sure you're all right, Stephen?"
Stephen laughed. "Why?"
"'Cause you've been...well, kinda weird lately."
Another laugh. "You're startin' to sound like them." He jerked a thumb upward, toward their parents upstairs.
"Yeah, but...I hardly ever see you anymore. You're always spending time with Jason. And you're always wearing them weird shirts and rings, listening to that music and—"
"Oh, you're just too young yet. You'll be listening to that music, too. You'll wear these shirts 'cause you like the groups. You'll see." Michael's frown faded slowly. His mouth curled into a half-smile.
"You think so?" he asked. "Sure."
"Oh, well." Michael shrugged.
"Look at it this way. You've got your own room again."
"Yeah, but...I kind of liked it when it was our room."
"You'll get over it," Stephen chuckled.
The month's bills were spread before Carmen on the dining room table, but her attention was directed toward one in particular. Carmen noticed that Al—he was seated at the end of the table to her left—was looking at the power bill, which she'd already seen; she watched his mouth become a tight, straight line, his eyes become wider and wider, his shoulders sag from shock, until he finally exploded.
"Holy shit, have you seen this?"
Carmen could only nod.
"This is...I mean, son of a bitch, this is ridiculous, what've we been doing, lighting up the whole neighborhood?"
He looked at her, mouth open, holding the bill out before him, waiting for an answer.
"Um, I think," she said hesitantly, "it might be because of the lights being left on all night downstairs."
"Are they still doing that?" he asked, his voice so low she almost couldn't hear them.
"I think so."
He stood and slammed his fist onto the table hard. Carmen could hear his teeth grinding. He turned and left the dining room, turned right in the hall and started downstairs.
Carmen got up and followed him, moving quickly, hoping her presence would keep him from getting too carried away.
"Stephen?" he called on his way down the stairs. "Stephen, where—what the hell is going on down here?"
Carmen reached the basement in time to hear Stephen explain that Michael was helping him move into his original room.
"So, if you're not afraid to move into a room by yourself, why in the hell have you still been leaving the lights on all night down here?" Al bellowed.
Stephen and Michael stared at him silently.
Al held out the bill. "Look at this. The power bill. You wanna count all the numbers in that little box at the bottom? You know why they're there? 'Cause you've been leaving these goddamned lights on all night, that's why!"
The boys said nothing.
Al jerked the bill back, slapping it against his thigh. "So, you know what I'm gonna do? I'll show you what I'm gonna do!"
Moving as if he were in a terrible rush, Al first made his way through Michael's room, then Stephen's, removing every single lightbulb from every socket. He put them in an empty cardboard box he found in the corner of Stephen's room.
"Please don't do this," Michael said quietly.
"Nope, too late for that. You should've thought of that when you were leaving the lights on all night, running the power bill through the roof. Should've thought of it then."
"But how're we gonna do our homework?" Michael asked.
"Do it upstairs. Come down here when you're ready to go to bed." Holding the box under one arm, Al stood at the foot of the stairs and faced the boys. "No spending money or allowances for a while. They'll be going toward this goddamned bill." Then he stomped up the stairs.
"Well, boys," Carmen said, folding her arms over her chest, "I don't know what to tell you. I think the law has just been laid down."
Michael sighed and bowed his head.
Stephen just stared at her. He hadn't said anything so far, just stared without expression, his face giving away nothing.
Carmen shrugged and said quietly, "You should've listened to your dad in the first place."
"He's not our dad," Stephen said. His voice was low and flat; his lips had hardly moved as he spoke.
Carmen jerked her head toward him, shocked. Stephen had never said such a thing before. He'd always called Al "Dad," always introduced Al to his friends as "my dad."
"You don't say much," Carmen breathed, "but when you do, you sure know how to say something rotten, don't you?"
"Well," Stephen shrugged, "he isn't."
"I think that's about enough out of you," she said. She turned to go back up the stairs, but stopped and turned to Stephen again. "If he's not your father, I'd like to know who is. Who's done everything for you that needed to be done over the years? Who's always taken you fishing? Who wanted to drop everything so he could be at your bedside while you were sick? And who was—"
"That doesn't make him my father," Stephen said.
His voice was a whisper, but he could not have hit her more forcefully with his hand. She'd thought, for a moment, that perhaps she was getting through to him, that maybe she was finally saying something that would work, that would stick, make him think.
She realized, as she looked at his dull, expressionless face, that she'd been wrong.
Carmen spun around and hurried up the stairs, hoping the boys had not noticed that she was crying.
"You didn't have to say that," Michael said angrily after their mother had gone. He stood at the foot of the stairs watching Stephen, who stood in his own room.
"What?"
"About Dad. It was a shitty thing to say."
"But it's true, isn't it? I mean, even if we call him Dad, that doesn't make him our dad, does it?"
Michael cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes as he stared at his brother; one corner of his mouth turned up in a look of disgust and he shook his head slowly. "What's wrong with you, Stephen? What's the matter with you?"
Stephen's head tilted back slightly as he laughed. "I dunno. What's the matter with you?"
Still laughing, Stephen reached out and closed the French doors.
Michael heard his brother's muffled laughter continue as he stared through the glass and watched Stephen flop down on his bed.
Al was deep in a calm, dreamless sleep—a rarity lately—when he was jerked awake suddenly. At first, he thought it was the bed again, but he was wrong.
He sat up to find Michael standing beside the bed in the dark.
"I'm sorry," Michael whispered.
"Whatssamatter?"
"My light's on. In the bedroom. It woke me up."
"Well, jeez, Mike, turn it off." Al started to lie down again, started to roll over, get comfortable and go back to sleep.
"But, Dad, you took out all the bulbs."
Al froze. He became alert suddenly when he realized that he had, indeed, taken out all the lightbulbs downstairs earlier that night.
Facing Michael again, Al whispered, "Whatta you mean, the light's on?"
"It's...on. It's shining."
"Did you put a bulb in?"
"No."
"Then Stephen must've—"
"Uh-uh. There's no bulb."
Al turned to Carmen when she stirred and made a breathy noise in her sleep. When he was sure she wasn't going to wake up, he tossed the covers aside, got out of bed and put on his robe. He followed Michael out of the room and into the hall.
He was certain Michael had been dreaming. He was sure it was nothing more than that. He told himself it was nothing more than that over and over as he followed the boy.
As Al started down the stairs, he realized there was light down there.
"Okay, c'mon Michael, what'd you do, take one of the bulbs from the drawer in the kitchen?"
"No!" Michael hissed. "There's no bulb!”
Al stopped halfway down the stairs. The back of his neck tingled and he felt his stomach tighten, felt his testicles shrink upward into his body.
Michael continued down the stairs until he realized Al was not following him. He stopped and looked back.
"Are you coming?"
Al's voice was dry and hoarse when he finally spoke: "Yeah, yeah, I'm...I'm coming."
He continued down the stairs, but much more slowly now, his hand clutching the bannister as he went. Once at the foot of the stairs, he stood for a long moment in a pool of light shining from his left before turning to follow Michael into the bedroom.
"See?" Michael said, his voice groggy. "See what I mean?"
Al turned.
His breath caught in his throat as if it were a rock.
An empty light socket was glowing with a strong, off-white light that made Al squint. It was not a normal light, though. There was something very odd about it, something deeply unnatural.
Al stared at the light, mouth open and working slightly, as if he were about to speak, but he said nothing, just stared at the glaring malignancy of the grayish-white light.
The light disappeared and left them in darkness.
Al pressed his lips together and took in a long deep breath, then let it out slowly.
"See what I mean?" Michael whispered.
Al didn't speak for a while. He knew his voice would give him away. He hoped Michael had not looked at his face when he'd first come into the room.
"See what?" he barked.
"The light. It was just—"
"It's pitch black in here, dammit, what light?"
The soft moonlight from the window glistened in Michael's wide, disbelieving eyes. He said nothing.
"What the hell is the matter with you? You wake me up in the middle of the night to...juh-just-just go to bed, goddammit, go to bed right now."
Al spun away from Michael and hurried back up the stairs, clenching his fists so his hands would not tremble.
In the bedroom, he removed his robe and sat on the edge of the bed and then shot back to his feet immediately, turning to look down at the bed.
It was vibrating.
Without realizing it, Al began to make small noises in his throat. He looked at Carmen and hoped, prayed, that she would not wake up as he backed away from the bed, leaned down for his robe and hurried out of the room.
In the kitchen, he turned on the light and opened a beer. He was halfway through it before he realized there were tears on his cheeks and he was sobbing quietly.
"You were right, you know," the voice whispered.
Stephen lay in the dark, alone in his room, wide awake.
"He is not your father. Is he?"
Stephen shook his head slowly on his pillow.
"He believes nothing you say. He has no faith in you. No respect for you. Does he, Stephen?"
He shook his head once again.
"Does he?"
"No," Stephen breathed.
"He will never do you any good. Will he?"
"No."
"He will only prevent you from growing. Isn't that right?"
"Yes."
"He will only prevent you from becoming what I have promised you can become. Correct?"
"You do not want that, do you?"
"No."
"And why is that?"
"Because...you've said so."
"And who am I, Stephen? Who am I that I should say so?"
"My father. You are my father."
"Who am I, Stephen?"
"You...are God."
"That is right, Stephen, my son. That is right. . . ."