Billy by Whitley Strieber Page A

Billy had gone down early to supervise the bread maker. Mary rubbed her long legs with Jergen's lotion. It made a soft sound that he loved.
    All the clocks in the house ticked on, passing through eight-oh-eight, eight-oh-nine, then eight-ten. Deep in Billy's computer a microchip silently marked the seconds, and in the living room the reproduction Regulator slowly retightened its spring after sounding eight chimes.
    Eight-fifteen. In Billy's bedroom his digital watch beeped. His sister heard it and entered the room. She picked it up from the floor beside the bed and put it on his table. His ridiculous Garfie, which was in the middle of the floor, she threw onto the unmade bed.
    A breeze blew through his open window, billowing the curtains.
    Dressed in robe and slippers, Mark Neary hurried down stairs. "Smells like bread heaven," he called as he entered the kitchen. He raised the top of the machine and beheld a magnificent loaf. In a moment it was on the kitchen counter, steaming hot and wonderful. He pulled open the basement door and called Billy. "Come on up and get some absolutely fresh, absolutely hot oatmeal whole-wheat bread, complete with toasty crust."
    He cut himself a big piece and spread it with strawberry jam. "It's heaven," he shouted.
    Mary came in, her face glowing with the light of morning. Objectively Mark knew that his wife was no special beauty, but his heart did not know that, and it beat harder on behalf of the brightness of her skin, and his sex raised itself a little when she came up and kissed him. "You taste like strawberries," she said. He felt the laughter in her, and realized that he had dreamed again about her. They had gone to New Zealand in his dream. They had sailed a sunny bay. He remembered the water slapping the sides of the boat, the green hull, the white sails. Her dream body had been smooth and cool and her skin had tasted of the sea.
    Mary turned away from him, absently tossing her hair, her eyes sparkling. On this day, he thought, we will be happy. "The bread's dynamite," he said as he cut her a slice.
    "Let me do that. Those are defined as hunks, not slices."
    "We need a bread knife."
    "It's all in the wrist."
    "Fresh bread! William! Appear!"
    "You ought to set more limits, Mark. He's become part of his computer."
    "You don't limit bright kids unless you absolutely must."
    "Everybody needs boundaries." She went to the basement door. "William Neary, the computing window is now closed. You have thirty seconds to get up here."
    When no young voice replied, "Hold on!" she looked down the stairs. "Billy?" She descended a few steps. It was dark. She was confused, perhaps even a trifle concerned. "Billy?" She went quickly down, turning on the basement light as she descended.
    Sunday breakfast together was a rule. His father was just too lenient. Billy had to learn that rules defined a family and made  it work. They were the foundation of relationships, and so of love.
    She stood in the middle of the basement, struck suddenly by the way its present silence clashed with her usual impression. It was full of boys' things—an abandoned model airplane, the whole elaborate, painfully costly computer system, tape recorders, a Casio keyboard, the splayed open remains of a number of old appliances, things he'd found in people's trash, Mets and Lions Club caps from New Jersey days, toy cars. She picked up one of the cars, a Rolls-Royce with a missing door. So recently it had been a prize, so quickly abandoned for better things. Abandoned, lost, like boyhood itself. Such was the poetry of the matter: this twelfth was the last summer of her son's childhood. From now on there would be that touch of autumn.
    In all its simplicity and perfection, the quiet moment among her son's beloved junk captured her heart. 'How rich I am,' she thought.
    Then her thoughts went to Mark, her dear failure of a high school history teacher. They'd shared grand ambitions: he was going to be the next Walter Lippmann, a fine