The Caterpillar King (20 page)

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Authors: Noah Pearlstone

BOOK: The Caterpillar King
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“What we do, it’s not for the money,” he
says to Galla. “I could’ve happily quit years ago. But I wanted to
do the absolute best I could with these earplugs. It may not amount
to much, but it’s mine. I focused on one thing, and this only. Dug
to the very core of myself. Put in the hard work. I’ve carved out
this space. All you have to do is follow.”

Galla shakes her head no, a moment of
silence follows. Pangs of recognition stab at my chest. Realize I
might have a bit more in with the old man than I’d believed. His
obsession, while admittedly absurd, perhaps isn’t so very different
from my own. Is this what I’ll become in thirty years? A clown? A
madman?

“I’ve always felt fortunate to work with my
daughter, but if your mind’s made…”

And then there’s a noise that even the old
man can’t ignore: a horrific banshee-like screech. It’s a sound
I’ve come to know very well these past few weeks. It’s the sound of
Tate waking up.

The old man’s attention is drawn to the
bedroom for a half-second, but then he’s back with us. I’m
completely frozen. Can’t really see how Galla’s taking this.

“Should I do something?” I whisper.

“Ignore it,” she says. “And hope father does
the same.”

Baby shrieks again, father winces.

“How can he possibly pretend not to hear
that
?” I say.

“Please,” he says. “If you’ve got something
to say, write it down.”

Another cacophonous shriek from the bedroom.
Have to consider the possibility that the child is in fact being
murdered as we sit here.

The old bird smiles, gestures to me.
“Please.” I ward him off with graceful deference. Swear he looks
disappointed that I didn’t use the pen. Bet it’s a nice ego boost
for him.

“You know,” he says. “It’s a funny thing
about children.”

Glance at Galla, assume the worst. He’s
going to out the both of us. Sorry Tate. Was bound to happen sooner
or later.

“Kids used to
return
,” he says.
“They’d go about their apprenticeship or what have you, but then
they’d come back, work with their family. But times have changed so
much. They always do, don’t they?” Pauses for effect, as if he’s
said something truly profound. Sadly, not long before he starts up
again.

“Yes, I remember the ‘30s vividly. Now
those
were dark times. That mysterious illness…and the
children, all sick, dying…and then almost magically, this wondrous
alternative materializes from thin air. The clinics sprung up
overnight, and it was so much
safer
, so much better. Only
reason you two are here today. But nobody remembers the past
anymore. I imagine it’s considered grotesque.” The old bird grins
and scratches the top of his balding dome. “I’m not making much
sense, am I?”

“Course not,” I say.

He nods thoughtfully.

“Yes, I suppose that’s all academic, now.
The real question—the vital question—is much simpler: How many of
your children have come back?”

Blood-curdling scream from Tate.

“Exactly,” says father. “None. And why is
that? It’s because they’re all in caves somewhere, searching for
bugs! Suicide missions, the lot of them. For every thousand we send
out, one comes back successful. The rest disappear, can’t find
their way back. But if one gets one of those little buggers, it’s
all worth it. We’re driving them to extinction, you know. Why do we
do it? Because
our
species is dying. Can’t survive without
them. That’s the truth.”

The whole thing’s absurd, and easily
dismissed…at first. But the longer we sit there, the more it
rattles around in my thoughts. Knew I’d been sending my kids off to
apprenticeships, but never really bothered to find out where.
Always figured they’d found work or love wherever they were and had
no need for us. But maybe, just maybe…Mind flickers back to an
earlier painting, that haunting underground scene at the clinic. Is
that where my children are? In some awful cave? It couldn’t be…

Tate gives yet another shriek. The old bird
stands. Figure this is the one that’ll cause him to drop the
charade and take the last of my offspring.

“Been nice seeing you, but I’ve got to get
going,” he says. “Lovely house, delicious tea. Cheers.”

The fool makes his way to the door,
leaves.

“But we didn’t even serve tea,” I say.

Galla sits beside me, silent.

“Galla?” I say.

“Let’s have a talk,” she says.

Galla stands, leads me to the bedroom.
Inside, find Tate curled into a slobbering blue ball. He looks
frail, so frail. Galla lifts him, pets him. The screaming doesn’t
stop. Snot pours from his nose, eyes bulge from his head. Sand is
everywhere. Looks like his skin is cracking and falling through
Galla’s fingers.

Very calmly, Galla says: “What do you
see?”

“A voice like that? Must be his mother’s
son.”

She forces a smile. “Arboss,” she says. “I
need you to call Sabonne.”


What
?” I say. Wonder if this is
about my gallery show. Supposed to be tomorrow, and haven’t thought
of a way out of it yet. Can feel the walls closing in. She’s found
out. She knows.

“Will you do that for me?” asks Galla.

“She’s a very busy lady,” I say. “So many
artists to represent. In fact…”

“Arboss,” she says. “I’ve made a decision.
Not an easy one, either.”

Look in her eyes. Brace for impact.

“I’m rehanging Tate.”

“Oh,” I say.
That’s
what this is all
about. Half sigh of relief, just from the unexpected reprieve. Not
sure I’m in favor of it, though. Perhaps it’s for the best…but I
would miss the boy. I really would.

“I think…well, let’s think about it.”

“But there’s one other thing,” she says.

Nod for her to go on.

“Tate won’t be alone,” she says. “I want to
be rehung, too.”

 

24.

 

In the backyard with Galla, looking up at
the tree. Sun’s already down and Tate’s passed out in his litter
box. Hasn’t stopped Galla, though. She’s still going on about the
logistics of a rehanging, the physics of getting the two of them up
there together.

“Set a table right underneath that branch,
it’d all be very simple,” she says. “We get in the bag, you cinch
it, fling the tail around the tree. Once it’s settled, pull the
table out from under us. Would take a bit of strength, but I’m sure
you can manage.”

Naturally, she’s ignoring the most important
part: the
why
. Been trying to turn the subject, but to no
avail. Instead, taken to poking holes in her argument.

“Who’s to say the bag won’t rip again?” I
ask. “It fell apart with a newborn, adding a fully-grown adult
certainly won’t help. Of course, this is all strictly hypothetical,
because we don’t even
have
a bag.”

“Actually,” she says. “We do.”

Pulls a piece of white cloth out of thin
air. Must’ve been a magician in another life. Recognize the fabric
in an instant. That dandy of a nurse, the haunting underground
scene…yes, I remember it all. The day of Tate’s birth, I’d gone
back to the clinic.
I’d
gotten her the bag. She’d probably
been hiding it in our bedroom, perhaps under a pile of refuse.
Until now.

“Good for up to 400 pounds,” she says. “At
least according to Sabonne.”

“Wait…” I say. “You’ve been planning this?
For weeks? Months?” Feel like a chess player who’s three moves
behind his opponent. Only now see the inevitable checkmate, far too
late.

“She said it’d be fine,” says Galla.

“You talked to
Sabonne
?!” I say.

“You left her card on the table. Tate got
sick and…figured I might as well phone her.”

Manage just an, “Oh.” Starting to become
clear that she knows quite a bit more than she let on. Has she
unraveled my non-affair? Probably. The non-gallery, too? Almost
certainly. My insides are screaming,
Confess! Confess!
And
perhaps it would all be salvaged if I did. But no, I won’t. Much
easier to attack than to reveal one’s weakness.

“What about your father?” I say. “Think he’d
notice if you up and vanished.”

Galla laughs. “Not like he comes around
often. Besides, I’m merely an “asset” to him. Our relationship
ended the moment I quit. You won’t hear from him again.”

Harsh breeze blows through. Can almost hear
the voice of judgment in its chill.
Any further objections?
No, none that I can think of. Not in time to stop her from heading
for the door. “We’ll get on with the rehanging tomorrow,” she says.
“But I’m off to bed. You’re welcome to join.”

I nod, she goes inside. Door shuts behind
her and the breeze stops. So it’s settled. Starting to think there
was never any doubt.

 

***

 

Can’t sleep at all. Floors creaking, Galla
wheezing, god-knows-what rattling. Sounds are all amplified.
Anxiety’ll do that to you. Don’t really believe Galla will go
through with it tomorrow, but late at night pessimism becomes a
certainty. No idea how to proceed. Tell her the truth? Ha. Think
about calling Sabonne, but to what end? Could take matters into my
own hands, rush Tate to the hospital. Too many possible courses of
action cause a state of paralysis. Only one thing I can tend to
now: my art.

Painting’s in its final stage. Been keeping
it right here in the bedroom closet. Extract it, take it to the
bathroom. Trip over half the tables and chairs in the house, but
nobody stirs. How can anyone rest easily in times of crisis?
Boggles the mind. Flick on the bathroom light, get a kettle going
for ambiance. Light fog in the room, almost like mist. Time to
work.

The end’s brutally close, just need one last
push. Decide to lay the glass on the floor and take it in from
above. Girl’s face dominates the image, and rightfully so. She’s
stunning. Seems to be comprised of subtle contradictions. Eyes that
plead set above a defiant mouth. Hair of a woman surrounds the face
of a girl. Caught in the precipice between…oh, no need to get
carried away. Leave that to the critics. A spot of shading in the
brow does nicely. Background landscape looks smoothly blurred. Stop
thinking entirely, let my fingers do the work. Intuition’s gotten
me this far, can’t abandon it now.

Move the painting again, this time to the
wall. Onward. More I paint, the more it reveals itself. Like
uncovering someone buried. One final touch in the background- a
tiny bump. Have to squint to see it. Almost looks like a man. Adds
a subtle sense of menace. Wonder if I just painted myself into my
own work. Can’t really be sure. But when I step back, I know
without a doubt: it’s finished. The one worthwhile piece I’ve ever
produced. Thought I’d feel elation or supreme joy. Would’ve even
settled for moderate happiness. Instead, only emotion is relief.
Thank God it’s over
, I think. One less thing I have to
bother with.

Take my work to the living room, set it on
the table. Figure I’ll at least be able to get a decent night’s
sleep, knowing that I was productive. Before long, change my mind,
and decide to put the painting in an empty kitchen cabinet. Seems
like a good place for it in my hazy mind. Lie down on the couch,
aimless thoughts pushing against my skull. Feels like my head’ll
burst at any moment. By the time I settle down, sunlight has filled
the room.

 

***

 

At the kitchen table, waiting for a serious
talk that might never come. Lunch was three bowls of oats. Feel
like a horse. Only one who touched ‘em was Galla. She seems in good
spirits. And Tate’s not puking up, which I suppose is good spirits
for him. Five hours to go till the rehanging.

“You didn’t have to sleep out here, you
know,” says Galla. “You look awful.”

“How kind,” I say.

“Didn’t mean it as an insult,” she says.
“I’m going out to check things over. Take a nap, why don’t
you?”

She gets up, heads for the backyard.

“There’ll be plenty of time for naps the
next twelve years,” I say.

A little pathetic, I’ll admit. But it gets
her to come back.

“Are you worried? Scared? What?” she
asks.

“Obviously, there are health risks I don’t
think you’ve considered…”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not
asking if you’re scared for me. I’m asking if
you
are
scared.”

Pause for a second before I laugh, but it
comes out forced.

“Managed to survive without you or children
around for quite some time. Imagine I can do it again.”

“Good,” she says. “That matters to me. It
does.”

I nod, she heads to the backyard again.

Someday I’ll say what I really mean, but no
one will be around to hear it.

 

***

 

Sun’s sinking, time’s short. Look up, notice
a vast cloud, milky and flat. Imagine the sun falling onto it and
trampolining back up. All fantasy, though. Sun drops right through
the cloud in a matter of minutes. The window for a hanging’s almost
open. I can feel it.

Galla’s at the tree, finishing her
preparations. Decided on the table/bag arrangement, meaning I’ll
have some work to do- if she goes through with it. Still can’t
imagine she will. She’s taken herself to the edge, but now’s the
logical time for a retreat. More difficult to say what’ll happen
with Tate. Go over to check on him again. He’s near the patio,
resting in his original box. Had him hidden in an obstructed
corner, but even that isn’t really necessary. The boy’s so small
that the box dominates him. Wouldn’t even know he’s there unless
you’re right on top of him. Been checking every few minutes to
ensure the boy is sleeping and not dead. Appears he’s still
alive.

Fingertips slide along my back. Turn and see
Galla, a half smile on her face.

“Think I’ll go for a pee,” she says.
“Wouldn’t want to be stuck in there holding it.”

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