The Midnight Circus, стр. 36
“Nowis when we must take care,” Red Cap told him. “Be subtle. Act likeeveryday humankind. An ordinary father and his ordinary son on anouting. Not a hunter and his dog.” Though there was nothing ordinaryabout the pair.
DogBoy nodded; he could scarcely contain his excitement. His father hadspoken quietly, not in his usual sharp trainer’s voice, nor in hisdangerous growl. Dog Boy liked this new, quiet, unexpected sound. Itsoothed him. It calmed him down.
“Steady,steady now. Show me the way.” Red Cap took his son’s hand.
Thiswas so unusual. Dog Boy almost stopped to say something, then thoughtbetter of it and went on.
Theywalked along, almost companionably, and any onlooker would have noreason to think they were not a happy pair out for a Sunday stroll.When they reached the fork, the smell drew Dog Boy to the left. Andthen another left. And because his father still had hold of his hand,he was drawn along as well. They came into a small, hidden, grassyplace where dark trees bent nearly double.
Aboy, younger than Dog Boy, was standing, his back to them. By the wayhe stood, Dog Boy knew he’d come into this out-of-the-way place to pee.
“Lethim finish,” whispered his father. “We have time.” As an afterthought,almost as if laughing at the child, he added, “Though he does not.”
DogBoy wondered: Time for what? But deep inside he knew, hadalways known, had tried to keep himself from knowing. For him, it wasthe seeking, the finding that mattered. But not for his father. Neverfor his father. He shuddered.
Theymoved closer to the boy who, turning, looked a bit alarmed, thenrelieved, then frightened, then terrified.
Thensilent.
DogBoy couldn’t stop staring. There was blood everywhere. The sharp irontang got up his nose as if it had painted itself there. He wondered ifhe would ever smell anything else.
Watchinghis father dip the red cap in the boy’s blood, he tried to weep. Hetried to turn away. He could do neither.
Theywalked in silence back to the house. A tall black boy his age ran by,his legs scissoring. A smaller kid, maybe a brother, cried after him,“Chim, Chim, wait for me.”
Thebigger boy stopped, turned, caught the little one up in his arms, swunghim onto his shoulders. “Hold tight!” he said. “Don’t want you tofall.” Then off he trotted, the little one’s legs wrapped around hisarms, his small hands in his brother’s afro. Their gales of laughterfloated back to Dog Boy, who shrugged himself further into his ownshoulders, as if he might disappear there. Had he ever laughed thatway? Maybe with his mother, once or twice, certainly never with hisfather. He picturedhimself swinging a small child up on his shoulders, the weight of thechild, the laughter. He imagined trotting along the park path, thewind blowing the scent of lilac and azalea, the smell sweet, notcloying. Both child and laughter were light in his reverie.
Atthat moment, Dog Boy had forgotten what his father looked like dippinghis cap in the slaughtered boy’s blood. How his face had changed intosome sort of . . . creature: An orc, maybe. Or a troll,he’d thought at the time, pulling monsters from his reading. A smilingmonster. But in the wake of the two laughing boys, he couldn’t retainthe horror of the child’s blood. The memory of Chim and his brother—DogBoy was suddenly sure it was a brother—that memory was even strongerthan the memory of the dead child. He couldn’t think why.
Oncehome, the image of the murdered boy returned to him, as well as thesmell of it so he went immediately into the bathroom where he washedhis face and hands obsessively for what seemed like hours though infact it was just ten minutes. Then he took out the neti pot his fathermade him use whenever they were about to go out on a practice run. Thewarm water through his nose and nasal passages flushed away thelingering blood scent and the last of the memory of the dead boy. Hewould remember the day as the one where he saw the black boys and theirjoy with one another.
Whenhe joined his father in the living room, Red Cap wasstanding awkwardly, staring at the sofa where Dog Boy’s mothersprawled. Neither one of them was moving.
Something in the room wasstrange. It smelled off. Muted.Cold.
DogBoy ran over to the sofa and looked down at his mother’s face. All thelines in it had been oddly smoothed out. She looked almost happy. Shesmelled . . . For a moment, he had no name for it. And then he had it.
Peaceful.
Thenrealizing what that meant, he threw himself across her body and beganto weep.
Whenthe weeping was over and he had no more tears to cry, he picked her upin his arms as if she were a child, and the bottle of pills she’d beenclutching in one hand shook loose.
Heturned to look up at his father, to ask him what had happened. Why ithad happened.
RedCap was smiling. It was—Dog Boy thought—the same smile he’d stretchedacross his mouth when sopping up the murdered child’s blood.
“NowI can take you to the Greenwood,” Red Cap said. “Nothing holds you hereanymore.”
DogBoy opened his mouth. For a minute no sound came out. Finally, as if itwas a truth that needed telling, he said quietly, “She holds mehere.”
“Sheis dead,” Red Cap said as if the boy hadn’t the sense to realize iton his own. “And not even blood for the dipping.”
Thatwas when Dog Boy first understood how much he hated his father. Howmuch he hated being his father’s dog.He set his mother’s body down on the couch again, carefully, as ifafraid he might bring her back from her final escape. Taking the smallcrocheted quilt that hung on the sofa’s arm, he covered her with it.She looked tiny, small, and—suddenly—safe.
‘‘I’mstaying.”
“You cannot.”
DogBoy made his hands into fists. More tears began to roll down his face.He expected to be beaten. It would not be the first time. Probably notthe last. He was prepared for it.
Whathe was not prepared for, though,