said.
DeWitt stroked the side of her wet face.
“The cartoons went off. It made me mad.”
Down the darkened, hushed hall came the sound of a flush.
“So in my dream the sirens start and you and Mommy come and we all run out into the street.”
DeWitt’s soothing palm stroked as though anointing her mind with forgetfulness.
Linda came back, lay down, and pulled the bedclothes around her.
“Then we go down into Mrs. Stanley’s storm cellar, only there’s a bog monster there.” In his cradled arms Tammy had become four again, calling the name of the bogeyman she’d known when she was younger, a more innocent form of nightmare. Something to do with dogs, DeWitt remembered, and the four-year-old Tammy had not been able to pronounce the word.
“So we scream and run away, only there’s a bog monster outside, too.”
DeWitt’s hand paused. “What does the monster look like, honey?”
She took a breath punctuated by a shiver. “I don’t know. I can’t see it.”
His hand continued its interrupted stroke. “That’s a scary dream.”
“Degenerate, Daddy. It’s just a degenerate dream.” In his embrace she had somehow aged ten years. Time flies, he thought, picturing her as she had been before Bomb Day, before the discovery of boys, before the discovery of favorite new words.
“Well, it sort of happened like that,” he said. “Except there wasn’t a real monster in Mrs. Stanley’s cellar.” Only the Stanleys, DeWitt’s family, and Foster.
DeWitt had ended up in the elementary school basement with about seventy others. When he tried to leave, Bo, who DeWitt had hired despite a troubling record, forced him back at gunpoint, saving the others from the radiation they thought lurked outside.
DeWitt spent twenty-four hours wondering where his family was, listening to the frightened silence around him, and the hiss of a radio tuned to dead air. It was nice that Tammy had included him in her dream. When bog monsters come, fathers should be there.
“When we came out, we saw the Torku,” DeWitt said. “They aren’t monsters, are they?”
Tammy laughed, but fear clung to her. “No, Daddy. They’re sort of funny.”
“It’s a scary dream because what happened was scary. So when you dream about it, you make up monsters.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. Then yawned.
He helped her lie back on the bed. She pushed her face into the pillow, and he rubbed her back the way he had when she was very small. “I love you, punkin.”
“Love you too,” she replied drowsily.
“Are you all right now?”
But she was already asleep.
He got up, turned off the light, and went to the front door. Opening it, he caught the cold breeze on his face. As if in protest to his act, the central heat came on with a click and a low rumble of air.
The yard was iced with moonlight. Down the street the lights were on at the Fergusons’. Maybe they, too, were afraid of the dark.
For there had been a monster in the elementary school basement. DeWitt supposed it had been in the Stanleys’ cellar as well. A monster of terror, fed by darkness. Its smell was the smell of vomit, and its voice was the utter silence of seventy people.
He’d been so afraid.
There were some things about that basement he would never forget. How he ran from one huddled group to another, calling Janet’s name. The disbelief he felt seeing the gun in Bo’s hand, muzzle aimed at his chest. How Granger kept thumbing the black dial on the transistor radio, like a Buddhist twirling a prayer wheel. Granger searched all night for a station, as if something were wrong with the radio and not with the world.
And when they could no longer endure their own fear, they crawled out into the normal sunlight, expecting death from radiation. The Torku were waiting.
DeWitt closed the door and walked down the hall to the bedroom. He lay down and passed his palm over the covered form of his wife.
Not her fault. Not anyone’s, really. He should have been beside her
DeWitt stroked the side of her wet face.
“The cartoons went off. It made me mad.”
Down the darkened, hushed hall came the sound of a flush.
“So in my dream the sirens start and you and Mommy come and we all run out into the street.”
DeWitt’s soothing palm stroked as though anointing her mind with forgetfulness.
Linda came back, lay down, and pulled the bedclothes around her.
“Then we go down into Mrs. Stanley’s storm cellar, only there’s a bog monster there.” In his cradled arms Tammy had become four again, calling the name of the bogeyman she’d known when she was younger, a more innocent form of nightmare. Something to do with dogs, DeWitt remembered, and the four-year-old Tammy had not been able to pronounce the word.
“So we scream and run away, only there’s a bog monster outside, too.”
DeWitt’s hand paused. “What does the monster look like, honey?”
She took a breath punctuated by a shiver. “I don’t know. I can’t see it.”
His hand continued its interrupted stroke. “That’s a scary dream.”
“Degenerate, Daddy. It’s just a degenerate dream.” In his embrace she had somehow aged ten years. Time flies, he thought, picturing her as she had been before Bomb Day, before the discovery of boys, before the discovery of favorite new words.
“Well, it sort of happened like that,” he said. “Except there wasn’t a real monster in Mrs. Stanley’s cellar.” Only the Stanleys, DeWitt’s family, and Foster.
DeWitt had ended up in the elementary school basement with about seventy others. When he tried to leave, Bo, who DeWitt had hired despite a troubling record, forced him back at gunpoint, saving the others from the radiation they thought lurked outside.
DeWitt spent twenty-four hours wondering where his family was, listening to the frightened silence around him, and the hiss of a radio tuned to dead air. It was nice that Tammy had included him in her dream. When bog monsters come, fathers should be there.
“When we came out, we saw the Torku,” DeWitt said. “They aren’t monsters, are they?”
Tammy laughed, but fear clung to her. “No, Daddy. They’re sort of funny.”
“It’s a scary dream because what happened was scary. So when you dream about it, you make up monsters.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. Then yawned.
He helped her lie back on the bed. She pushed her face into the pillow, and he rubbed her back the way he had when she was very small. “I love you, punkin.”
“Love you too,” she replied drowsily.
“Are you all right now?”
But she was already asleep.
He got up, turned off the light, and went to the front door. Opening it, he caught the cold breeze on his face. As if in protest to his act, the central heat came on with a click and a low rumble of air.
The yard was iced with moonlight. Down the street the lights were on at the Fergusons’. Maybe they, too, were afraid of the dark.
For there had been a monster in the elementary school basement. DeWitt supposed it had been in the Stanleys’ cellar as well. A monster of terror, fed by darkness. Its smell was the smell of vomit, and its voice was the utter silence of seventy people.
He’d been so afraid.
There were some things about that basement he would never forget. How he ran from one huddled group to another, calling Janet’s name. The disbelief he felt seeing the gun in Bo’s hand, muzzle aimed at his chest. How Granger kept thumbing the black dial on the transistor radio, like a Buddhist twirling a prayer wheel. Granger searched all night for a station, as if something were wrong with the radio and not with the world.
And when they could no longer endure their own fear, they crawled out into the normal sunlight, expecting death from radiation. The Torku were waiting.
DeWitt closed the door and walked down the hall to the bedroom. He lay down and passed his palm over the covered form of his wife.
Not her fault. Not anyone’s, really. He should have been beside her
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