Mirror by Graham Masterton Page A

boy and Boofuls had been a boy. Maybe there was some kind of left-over vibe in the mirror that Emilio was tuning in to. Or something.
    He lifted up the cloth that covered the lasagne and inhaled the aroma of fresh tomatoes and thyme and fresh-grated Parmesan cheese. ‘Petey will probably eat all of this on his own,’ he remarked as casually as he could. ‘Petey’s a real pasta maven.’
    He saw Emilio’s eyes widen; as if the Hershey chocolate of his irises had melted into larger pools. But he winked at Emilio behind the upraised cloth, and he could see that Emilio understood.
    ‘He’s here now?’ asked Mrs Capelli, beaming. ‘I love boys! Always rough-and-tumble.’
    ‘Well, he – er – he’s running an errand for me – down at the supermarket.’
    ‘You send a little boy all on his own to the supermarket? Ralph’s, you mean?’
    ‘Oh, no, no, just to Hughes, on the corner.’
    ‘Still,’ said Mrs Capelli disapprovingly. ‘That’s a bad road to cross, Highland Avenue.’
    ‘Oh, he’s okay, he walks to school in New York City, crosses Fifty-seventh Street every morning, hasn’t been squished yet.’
    Mrs Capelli’s forehead furrowed. ‘I thought you said he lived in Indianapolis.’
    ‘Sure, yes, Indianapolis! But that was a couple of years ago. Now he lives in New York.’
    Slowly, Mrs Capelli turned to leave, her eyes still restlessly looking around the apartment as if she expected ‘Petey’ to come popping out from behind a chair. Martin knew that she kept a constant watch on the landing from her chair in the parlor downstairs, and since she hadn’t seen Petey go out, she was obviously suspicious that Martin was keeping him hidden. Maybe he had measles, this Petey, and Martin didn’t want her to know, because Emilio may catch them.
    ‘You do me a favor,’ she said at last as she went out through the door. ‘You bring your Petey down to see me when he gets back. I give him chocolate cake.’
    ‘Sure thing, Mrs Capelli,’ Martin told her, and opened the door for her. She eased herself down the stairs, one stair at a time, holding on to the banister. When she reached the door of her apartment, Martin gave her a little finger-wave, and said, ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll bring him down. He’ll feed your canary for you. If there’s anything he likes better than pasta, it’s chocolate cake.’
    Mrs Capelli paused, and then nodded, and then disappeared into her apartment, leaving the door slightly ajar.
    Martin came back to Emilio and stood in front of him with his arms folded.
    ‘You believe me,’ said Emilio. ‘You believe there’s a boy.’
    ‘Did I say that?’
    ‘But you said “Petey”.’
    ‘Emilio, there is no boy. I said that just to get you out of trouble. What do you think your grandmother would have said if I had totally denied it? She would have thought you were some kind of juvenile fruitcake. She would have had you locked up, or worse.’
    Emilio looked bewildered. ‘There
is
a boy,’ he insisted. ‘Come and see him.’
    ‘All right,’ said Martin, ‘let’s take a look at him; even if we can’t shake him by the hand.’
    Emilio ran into the sitting room and stood right in front of the mirror, impatient to prove that he was right. Martin followed him more slowly, checking the details of the real room against the reflected room. Two realities, side by side, but which one was real?
    He checked everything carefully, but there were no obvious discrepancies. The screenplay of
Boofuls
! lay on his desk at corresponding angles in each room; one of his shoes lay tilted over, under the chair. The Venetian blinds shivered in the sunlight.
    Emilio pressed the palms of his hands against the glass. ‘Boy!’ he called loudly. ‘Boy, are you there? Come out and play, boy! Come say hello to Martin!’
    Martin, in spite of himself, found his attention fixed on the doorway in the mirror. It didn’t move; not even a fraction; and no boy appeared.
    ‘Boy!’ Emilio demanded.