THE LAST BOY (49 page)

The other volumes dealt with humanistic issues, about how and why people behaved as they did when gathered in groups. There was a model proposed for “a just society,” a democratic structure in which each individual's unique talents were to be identified and recognized. Under the plan, no adult was to be underutilized or mismatched in vocation; the promise of each child was to be given the full opportunity to develop and flourish.

Tripoli's reading kept him leaping back and forth both temporally and across the span of books scattered on his table. In the late afternoon, as the sun was throwing long shadows across his kitchen, he discovered a huge collection of stories about the encounters its
authors had had with other people, living creatures, and cosmic phenomena. Taken together, these stories seemed almost like a handbook for living with the
real
rules of life given by example—not the sort of thing, he mused, that he had been taught in school.

Tripoli was so engrossed that he rarely left the table. He forgot to eat, hardly slept. Coffee became his constant companion, and the only times he got up were when his bladder was so painfully full he could no longer concentrate.

The books, taken together, were interconnected, linked almost like a complex piece of software. There were branches and bifurcations that led Tripoli from one volume to the next, then looped back again through a third, as if the numerous writers had been holding a dialogue among themselves stretching across a wide span of time. In one of the later tomes, Tripoli was particularly fascinated to discover that the authors had developed indices that could be employed to measure the state of a civilization, to determine if society was healthy, in decline, or perhaps even dead. The indicators keyed in on everything from the accumulation of refuse to declines in everyday civility. They looked at how a society treated its most vulnerable citizens; examined a culture's architecture, gauging its scale in relation to humans and the surrounding natural world. One of the primary indicators, however, was a measure of the ability of a society's citizens to listen to each other and truly hear what was being said. It evaluated by gradation the ability of individuals to stand motionless for prolonged periods, receptive to their surroundings.

When Tripoli finally took a long-needed break, he stepped out into his yard, then made his way toward the barn. The night was cool and overcast; a heavy fog had settled around his house obscuring every vestige of light. He stood perfectly still and stared blankly out into the night until, suddenly, he was struck by something he had never noticed before. Even here in Newfield, in the country miles from the city, there was a constant, almost subsonic rumble. He
could feel it through the soles of his feet. It was the massive weight of trucks on the move, machines drumming, billions of people shod in hard shoes rushing about, their feet pounding the earth.

When the phone rang in the morning, Tripoli ignored it. He turned from the book he was reading and stood at the kitchen window, watching the lambs as they frolicked around the enclosure, their tails twiddling contentedly. He was still thinking about his discussion with the old priest. The man, who seemed as much a philosopher as a cleric, had found through his own studies that most holy men became enlightened through a series of traumatic events, the experiences culminating in a state of extreme tension that ultimately transformed them.

“Some people go insane,” the priest had explained,“some people become prophets…and some people can’t tell the difference.” Many of them, when called, were reluctant to go forth. Many were of ordinary lineage, born into the most modest of circumstances.

Tripoli's phone kept ringing. He shifted his gaze back into the kitchen, his eyes falling on the books interleaved with slips of paper serving as bookmarks. The table was littered with crumbs, pieces of dried toast, and piles of hand-scribbled notes. He had gone as far as he could, he realized, absorbed as much as he could, but now he had hit the wall of incomprehension. Although with his limited powers he had barely scratched the surface, nevertheless, the message within these works was, now abundantly clear: when humanity's deafness to simple common sense is allowed to reign, the implications for the world can only be catastrophic.

The telephone rang on incessantly.

“All right, all right already,” he said picking it up.

“Is this Lou Tripoli?” inquired a woman's voice.

It took him but an instant to recognize it.

“Rosie?”Tripoli's voice registered his surprise.

“Look, I’m sorry to call you at home like this…”

As with most of the cops at IPD, Tripoli's number was unlisted and he was surprised that Rosie had found it.

“When she wasn’t looking this morning, I went through Molly's address book,” Rosie confessed.“I mean I wouldn’t do this normally, but—well, I’m getting kind of desperate. If she puts Daniel in school, he’ll be gone again. But this time it’ll be for good. I can just feel it.” She told him about the walk they had taken along the old railroad beds. “Daniel knows his way around and could be miles away before anybody knows it. I tried to tell Molly but she won’t listen to me. But if Daniel takes off into the woods…this time he has nowhere to go. He's just a little boy. And he’ll starve!”

“Okay, what do you propose?” he asked.

“Yeah! That's the word.” Rosie gave a high, nervous laugh.

“Huh?”

“Propose.”

Tired as he was, Tripoli had to laugh, too.

“I’m serious,” Rosie went on.“You live out in the country. You love each other. And Daniel's really crazy about you—he keeps telling me about you. And your farm. He loves you. I mean, what more do you need?”

“And you think I haven’t tried?”

“So try again,” she urged. “If Daniel runs off…I keep thinking of what it’ll do to Molly. What it might do to all of us.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure things out. You’ve got those books.”

“
What?
” he asked astounded.“How did you know?”

“Curly Donahue's sister is married to Ed's first cousin. Small town, huh?” Rosie laughed.

Tripoli was speechless. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Small town, busy tongues. So, what else do you know?”

“I’ve known Daniel since the day he was born. I’ve been spending time with him. Just the two of us alone. And I can tell you he's been changed. Spiritually changed.”

“But Molly doesn’t see it.”

“Of course she sees it! It's just that she's in complete denial. If we can protect Daniel, keep him here safe, with us, one day that boy is going to change the world.”

Rosie seemed to have gained an insight that he had reached only by studying the books. Reluctantly, Tripoli finally told her about all he had discovered. Everything. About the young Matthew. His teacher in Florida. About the ancient books and their implications of an impending calamity.

“My God, of course. The weather
is
going crazy. I keep seeing things on television. There are these terrible fires. And today I heard how people's crops in South Africa are being devoured by these clouds of insects. I keep thinking, well it's far away and it doesn’t really affect me. But it does and it will. And not just me but my kids. Things may be getting out of control, but at least we can do
something
here.”

“Like what? Kidnap the boy?”

“I was thinking. You’re a cop.”

“Oh, am I supposed to arrest Molly?”

“No, no! Listen to me. You post a guard. Somebody sits there. Right in the class with him. Doesn’t take his eyes off Daniel—you know that he's going to take off the first minute somebody turns their back.”

“But—”

“You’ve got cops, don’t you? A whole station house full of them. You could rotate. Everybody takes a turn. Once every two weeks.”

Tripoli imagined the Chief going for the idea.“Rosie, dear,” he sighed indulgently.“Rosie—”

“I’m just talking about buying a little time. Till we can talk some
sense into Molly. Look, this weekend is Labor Day. Then on Tuesday he starts school. Three days. That's not much time. We’ve got to take some action. And do it now!”

“Look, I gotta do something,” said Rosie early Sunday morning as she bolted out the door, her hair flying in the wind. Outside it was so hot and dry, it felt as if she were in the desert.

“Hey, you can’t just march up there!” Ed cried after her. But Rosie was already out of earshot.

She caught Mary Tilley, the South Hill principal, just as she was heading off to church. Mrs. Tilley was backing her big Lincoln out of the driveway when she spotted Rosie rushing toward her car.

“I’m sorry to bother you like this,” said Rosie.“But if you could just give me a minute…” She hung onto to the edge of Mrs. Tilley's car and caught her breath.“It's about one of your new first graders.”

Mrs. Tilley turned off the motor.

“It's Daniel. Daniel Driscoll.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Tilley smiled. She immediately knew who the boy was. She had, of course, heard about the kidnapping and his subsequent return and a bit about the fuss people in town were making over the child. But it was quickly obvious to Rosie that she hadn’t the faintest notion about how extraordinary Daniel really was. Leaning in through the open window, Rosie hurriedly tried to explain. “…and he's tuned in—in touch with life like no other human being. And he needs to be out in nature. He's not the kind of boy that you could keep confined in a classroom.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Tilley, cutting her off and smiling indulgently, “that's certainly very interesting.”

“
Interesting?
” echoed Rosie.

“But you’re not the mother.”

“No. Of course not. But I’ve taken care of Daniel since he was born. And I know him as well as his mother. Maybe even better
right now.”

“We certainly would gladly talk with Danny's mother and discuss…”

Rosie refused to give up.

“Just listen,
please
,” she pleaded. “This has all happened once before. There was another boy just like him in Watertown and…”

As best she could, Rosie tried to relate all she had learned from Tripoli—about the boy called Matthew, the old books that had been discovered in his hut, the chain of the legacy that had been broken but might still be reparable.

“I’m sorry,” said the woman, now eyeing Rosie warily. “I really have to go.” She started her engine and, with a fixed smile, continued out of her driveway and hurried off to church.

When Molly awoke on Labor Day morning, the sky was black with oppressive low clouds and the air felt pregnant with a storm. Daniel was already up. He had put on his T-shirt and shorts from the day before and he was sitting listlessly in the kitchen with his head resting on the table.

“Maybe you want to work in your garden while I make us breakfast?” She stretched and yawned.“I think you need to water it again too,” she said, hoping to spark him into activity.“It looks kind of dry.”

Daniel didn’t even bother to raise his head.

Ignoring his mood, Molly toasted some bagels and set out juice. She buttered a bagel and placed it in front of him. “Go on, take a nibble. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’ve got a stomachache,” he complained.

Finally he took a couple of bites.

But a few minutes later he was assaulted by a sudden case of diarrhea. As he sat perched on the toilet, she felt his forehead. He didn’t have a fever. He wasn’t particularly pale, either. Molly was sure
she knew what it was: nerves. Sometimes when she was under stress it happened to her. The best strategy, she decided, was none. Don’t make any fuss. The less said about school the better. When she thought about his starting on Tuesday, Molly found herself vacillating. She wanted to do the right thing for Danny, but what was right? Give up her job and find themselves back where they started? Penniless and on the edge? Or dependent on the whims and wiles of another person? There was no one she really could talk to, no one she could trust to have
only
Danny's interests at heart. Not Tripoli, nor Rosie, nor Larry. Everybody had their own agenda, and Tripoli had gone off the deep end.

Daniel went to his bed and lay there on his back, hands clasped over his abdomen and staring up at the ceiling.

“I was thinking we could go out to Little Tree Orchards.” Molly sat on the edge of his bed and engulfed his hands in hers. Despite the heat they were icy cold.“They’ve got early apples, and we could pick a basket. Maybe make a nice pie. As long as the rain holds off.” She shot a glance out the window at the leaden sky. “It looks a little grim out there, but we can give it a try.”

Daniel sat up and stared out. “It won’t rain,” he said in a little voice while chewing on a corner of his thumb.

“Oh Honey, don’t do that. You’ll nibble off your finger,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. Into her mind popped the image of a fox caught in a trap, trying to gnaw off its own foot.

So she dressed him in fresh clothes, piled him into the car, and they took off.

When Daniel saw the apple trees in the acres of orchard, he completely forgot his stomachache.

“Look how nice they are!”

In a minute he was high up in a tree, scampering from branch to branch selecting the best apples and carefully handing them down to Molly, who stood on a ladder.

“Be careful up there,” she warned. “I don’t want you falling down. Remember what happened on those monkey bars.”

“I was little then,” he piped. “How's this one?” He held out a large, well-formed apple flushed with red.

“Oooh, it's perfect. And get that giant one over there—you see it?”

The orchard was full of other families, children and their parents picking. A lot of the people kept roaming around, looking for better trees with bigger apples.

“Don’t bruise them,” warned Daniel as he climbed down into Molly's arms. “Then they won’t keep. But if you’re careful with them, you can make a hole in the ground and store them there all winter,” he explained with earnest wide eyes.

Later, they took a hike around the outskirts of the orchard. Though the sun was obscured, the heat and mugginess of the day kept building. They cut through a cool pine forest that then opened into a large meadow. Grazing cows looked up, their heads turning to track them as they moved across the field. In the distance, Molly could still hear the high voices of children playing in the orchard.