The Venging by Greg Bear Page B

workbench, practicing my pouts. He stood in the shaft of light falling from the unpatched chink in the roof. Dust motes maypoled around his legs. "Son," he said. "Mom wants to know where you got that story." Now, this was a peculiar thing to be asked. The question I'd expected had been, "Why did you scare Michael?" or maybe, "What made you think of such a thing?" But no. Somehow she had plumbed the problem, planted the words in Dad's mouth, and impressed upon him that father-son relationships were temporarily suspended. "I made it up," I said. "You've never made up that kind of story before." "I just started." He took a deep breath. "Son, we get along real good, except when you lie to me. We know better. Who told you that story?" This was uncanny. There was more going on than I could understandthere was a mysterious adult thing happening. I had no way around the truth. "An old woman," I said. Dad sighed even deeper. "What was she wearing?" "Green dress," I said. "Was there an old man?" (34 of 197) I nodded. "Christ," he said softly. He turned and walked out of the shed. From outside he called me to come into the house. I dusted off my overalls and followed him. Michael sneered at me. "'Locked them in coffins with old dead bodies,'" he mimicked. "Phhht! You're going to get it." The folks closed the folding door to the kitchen with both of us outside. This disturbed Michael, who'd expected instant vengeance. I was too curious and worried to take my revenge on him, so he sulked out the screen door and chased the cat around the house. "Lock you in a coffin!" he screamed. Mom's voice drifted from behind the louvered doors. "Do you hear that? The poor child's going to have nightmares. It'll warp him." "Don't exaggerate," Dad said. "Exaggerate what? That those filthy people are back? Ben, they must be a hundred years old now! They're trying to do the same thing to your son that they did to your brother and just look athim! Living in sin, writing for those hell-spawned girlie magazines." "He ain't living in sin, he's living alone in an apartment in New York City. And he writes for all kinds of places." "They tried to do it to you, too! Just thank God your aunt saved you." "Margie, I hope you don't intend" "Certainly do. She knows all about them kind of people. She chased them off once, she can sure do it again!" All hell had broken loose. I didn't understand half of it, but I could feel the presence of Great Aunt Sybil Danser. I could almost hear her crackling voice and the shustle of her satchel of Billy Grahams and Zondervans and little tiny pamphlets with shining light in blue offset on their covers. I knew there was no way to get the full story from the folks short of listening in, but they'd stopped talking and were sitting in that stony kind of silence that indicated Dad's disgust and Mom's determination. I was mad that nobody was blaming me, as if I were some idiot child not capable of being bad on my own. I was mad at Michael for precipitating the whole mess. And I was curious. Were the man and the woman more than a hundred years old? Why hadn't I seen them before, in town, or heard about them from other kids? Surely I wasn't the only one they'd seen on the road (35 of 197) and told stories to. I decided to get to the source. I walked up to the louvered doors and leaned my cheek against them. "Can I go play at George's?" "Yes," Mom said. "Be back for evening chores." George lived on the next farm, a mile and a half east. I took my bike and rode down the old dirt road going south.
    They were both under the tree, eating a picnic lunch from a wicker basket. I pulled my bike over and leaned it against the grey rock, shading my eyes to see them more clearly. "Hello, boy," the old man said. "Ain't seen you in a while." I couldn't think of anything to say. The woman offered me a cookie, and I refused with a muttered, "No, thank you, ma'am."
    "Well then, perhaps you'd like to tell us your story." "No, ma'am."
    "No story to tell us?