The Imaginary Lives of Mechanical Men by Randy F. Nelson Page A

Rex! Come on, fella. Come here, boy. Rex! There, good boy. Take us on down to that creek, big fella. Take us on home.”
    Rex leads them downward through an arbor of winter jasmine as thick as vine-woven baskets. The sudden familiarity of the place, its quilt of curling leaves and its high canopy, conjure memories in Roger, leaving him momentarily confused, tilting and twirling with his thoughts. Looking up, he sees breaking buds of bright yellow that remind him of fireflies and summer evenings in the backyard of a house that was neither vast nor imposing. He smells hamburgers, hears his father and uncles laughing through crude stories, doing different voices and acting out the parts without even standing up. Remembers and returns to the present, where they hurry on, swishing through the leaves, following the dog in elaborate circles.
    It is Wesley who notices the temperature dropping, the gathering darkness. Wesley who finds himself wishing for a trail of bread crumbs or a string to mark the way. Who notices Roger glancing furtively at his watch, and who thinks again of fairy tales.
    They help each other over a fallen tree, then climb a small incline to get their bearings once more, and then, shrugging, follow Rex.
    But it is Roger who realizes where they have arrived at last, who smells the jasmine and recognizes the dark-woven bower. And who understands that there will be no fireflies, no warm summer breeze. This time they drop down into the humus exhausted. And a familiar feeling, from all those years ago, washes over Roger’s face and gathers in the corners of his eyes. He can’t think of what to do, and perhaps for lack of a better thing he unbuttons the flannel shirt with shakinghands and wraps the boy in its warmth. “Jesus,” he mutters to no one in particular, “what are we going to do now?”
    “Dig,” says Rex. “Dig.”
    In the dark of early morning Amy stands in a stinging spray that cannot wash away her fear. Even after she’s wrapped herself in the silk robe, tied the knot with harsh jerks, she cannot stop shivering, like a diver anticipating not the cold plunge itself but the rocks just beneath the surface. So she goes walking, delicately, like a ghost, or like someone afraid of ghosts, to the round portal, where she brushes her hair and looks out upon a thousand shades of black. Afraid that any sudden movement might make her disappear.
    A breezy ripple running through the grass reminds her of one summer spent in Scotland. Of Roger, ridiculous, staring out over Loch Ness at late evening, every day for a week, fully expecting something to emerge. And then, of course, losing faith. Thinking then and again now in the dim present, how like him. How like a man. So she brushes with the stiff strong brush, drawing it through her tangles with slow determination, almost welcoming pain. And in the entire house there is only the one light burning.
    Until gradually she realizes what has happened.
    Always a coward, just strong enough to steal, he’s taken the boy and left.
    Downstairs there’ll be a note. The papers will come by Federal Express. Then he’ll make an issue of everything in court, though he doesn’t really want custody. He simply wants the power to bargain. He wants a clean break, a red sports convertible, a blonde girlfriend, an amicable divorce. Anything to make me hurt.
    But by God I will keep this house, this one window where I can see with telescopic sight past the fraudulent lights below and the pathetic patterns of all their little lives. So that when she begins to cry, the tears are indistinguishable from droplets trickling off the handle ofa brush held in her shaking hand. And at first she does not hear the sound at all.
    There is a faint clicking of toenails across the tile floor below, a phantom movement in the kitchen, shuffling perhaps, which draws her down the stairs like someone already dead. Not even frightened anymore. Not even curious about what form the horror will take this