A Season Of Darkness
by Kristy Leigh
Chapter 3:
The Cloud On The Landscape
1.
I have this pet theory that adults and children come from different planes of existence. I mean, they occupy the same cartesian space and everything, but they seem to inhabit totally separate realities. You probably couldn't write a dissertation on the subject, but if you think back to your own childhood, you'll realize it has to be true. A child's world is huge and bright and wonderfully unpredictable; a place where the laws of physics are constantly rescinded as a matter of course. Time has a fluent, malleable quality unknown in the adult realm. A minute could last for an hour, an hour could stretch out to a year. A good summer could literally scroll away into eternity, sort of like those old-fashioned barber poles you used to see down in your main street. That's the thing I remember most from my childhood: the days seemed to go on forever.
I think it was because we were experiencing everything for the first time. There was so much to see and touch and know from one heart-beat to the next, we had to squeeze the life out every last meandering second. A simple walk to the park could take you to some crazy, Technicolor land where cats could fly and trees could dance and every rainbow led to a pot of gold. As you grow older, you lose touch with this world of gnomes and sprites and Puff the Magic Dragon. You're taken to a room where you forget the wondrous lessons of infancy and learn the insurmountable truths of life in the Real World. And finally, you descend into some lifeless gray limbo of loans and paychecks and mortgage repayments, where nobody lives happily ever after because all the fairytales are politically correct.
And the worst part is this: you go there of your own free will.
Well, most of us do, anyway.
For those of us who never quite abandon Alice or Pooh or Dorothy, there are the memories of an endless, golden season in the middle of the year. Looking back to those fine, still mornings I spent playing in the Reinhart's front yard, I realize that they were amongst the happiest in my life. There were shadows, needless to say (including the one I faced every afternoon around 4.30), but they seemed to take up only a tiny portion of each day, like the passage of a single cloud over a vast green landscape. If the cloud signaled the presence of an oncoming storm, it seemed too low on the horizon to pose any serious threat. The days were long, the days were warm, the days were beautiful. And whenever I recall the casual miracles of that everlasting June, I know that I'm seeing the world once more through the eyes of a child.
I'm seeing the world the way she did.
2.
I tiptoed down the stairs with a hand touching the banister, listening for sounds of movement down in the living room. Mom usually slept until about twelve, but she occasionally woke up early and staggered 'round the house in a rambling stupor. It didn't happen very often, but I knew better than to draw attention to myself when she was tanked to the gills. Last time she'd awoken in that state, she'd gone on a minor rampage, smashing glasses and screaming at the top of her lungs. I spent the next two days hiding in my room, listening to her cursing my father to hell.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I crept down the hallway towards the front door. I was dressed very simply; blue spandex bike shorts under a Hard Rock t-shirt four sizes too big. This was a radical departure for me, but there wasn't much else to choose from. Everything else was in the laundry, had been for the last fortnight.. Still, the new look suited me in some respects. I'd taken to wearing oversized t-shirts over the past week, ever since the night I played the spinning game. The one I had on now hung almost to my knees, so I'd hitched it up with a knot at the right hip.
I glanced back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn't standing at the top of the stairs. That was how these things always work; it was kind of like those Wes Craven movies where you think the hero's finally safe and then the monster appears out of nowhere to rip his face off with a rusting garden hoe or something. They always get you when you're not looking. Fortunately, there was nothing lurking on the first floor landing, so I continued down the corridor, glancing into the living room as I slipped past the doorway.
Mom was lying on the sofa.
No, that's not the right word. She wasn't lying; she had collapsed like a landslide, like an imploded skyscraper. The sofa was surrounded by the wreckage of her disintegration; a chaos of upturned furniture, broken bottles and cast-off pizza cartons. Shattered glass and scraps of refuse littered the floor; a trail of chicken bones and KFC boxes led out to the kitchen. The whole downstairs area was a wasteland stinking of garbage and cigarettes and three-day old vomit.
But worse than all this was my mother herself.
She was sprawled half off the sofa with her knuckles grazing the floor, her lank, matted hair pasted to the side of her face. A thin runner of drool hung from the corner of her mouth, threading its way tenuously to the floor. Her face was puffy and bloated, the skin tinged with a faint yellow cast. I studied her features, trying to see the woman she'd been only a few months before, the woman who used to cook me flap-jacks for lunch every weekend; flapjacks with sugar and maple syrup. There was no sign of her. She'd been submerged beneath a torrent of rancid, melting flesh. Her body had fared no better, she seemed to be overflowing around the midsection. Her loose-fitting jogging pants had worked their way down her hips, exposing a sweeping vista of pulpy cellulite.
Despite my fear of her drunken rages, I still felt some degree of compassion. At the age of nine, I understood that she was lonely and hurt and depressed, that she wasn't entirely responsible for her actions. There were things I didn't understand, of course. I didn't know that Dad had managed to drain most of her bank account all the way from Chicago. I didn't know about the unpaid bills, the repossession waivers or the eviction notices. I had no idea how desperate our position was about to become. No idea whatsoever.
I stood at the doorway staring down at her, wondering what I could do, how I could help my mother escape the gray, swollen mass bulking out the sofa. Even now, I ask myself if there was anything I could have done, any words I could have said; something that might have brought her back from her self-constructed purgatory. But I was a child, barely three months past my ninth birthday. What could I have done?
She stirred on the couch, grunting under her breath and fluttering her eyelids. I backed quietly down the hallway, holding my breath in case she heard me and woke up shrieking.
A moment later I was stepping out into the wide, cool morning, shutting the darkness behind me as I trotted down the porch steps. A green haze of dragon flies darted across the lawn, their multi-faceted eyes glinting like emeralds. I watched them swarm off towards the street, then walked over to the fence dividing the Reinhart's yard from ours. The sun had barely cleared the trees, the day was unfurling before me, and the cloud had passed over the landscape.
At least for now.
3.
The Old Stewart Place was a colonial-style homestead with a veranda running all the way 'round the outside. Easily the most picturesque house on Lakehurst Avenue, it had bay windows out front and attic sleepers in the roof. The front garden had erupted into full bloom almost the same day Chrissie arrived and appeared to be taking over the footpath as the season progressed. You had to follow a footpath through the rose bed to reach the veranda. Maybe that's why sprinting up the Reinhart's front steps always felt like coming home. By definition, a home should have a garden.
The front door was open (Eve didn't believe in air conditioners, said they caused insanity or something), but I paused to knock all the same. Even in a place like Fairmont, you don't just go waltzing into someone's house all unannounced, everyone knew that. I waited with my hand on the door frame for a few seconds, then I heard a clear, warm voice inviting me inside. It was Chrissie's Mom, calling out from the living room.
"Come in Billy."
Evelyn always knew when it was me, probably because I arrived around the same time every day. I walked into the long transept hall, figuring Chrissie must've been up in her bedroom (as she didn't come scampering out to answer the door like she usually did). Probably playing with the Whipper-Snapper I gave her a few weeks back; she never got tired of zocking it back and forth.
As I headed down the corridor, I noticed a trail of tiny footprints leading from the staircase to the living room. Tiny wet footprints. For some reason, this fact didn't quite register on my consciousness. I turned into the archway, raising a hand in greeting, oblivious of what I was walking into.
"Hi, Mrs. Reinhart, is Chrissie –"
That was as far as I got. Freezing in mid-sentence, I dropped my eyes to the floor, my cheeks igniting with sudden embarrassment. All at once, I realized what the little footprints had meant. Chrissie wasn't up in her bedroom at all. She was down in the living room with her mother, standing in front of the sofa. Her moist blond hair was dripping down the middle of her back, and there was a soft blue bath-towel lying at her feet.
And she had no clothes on.
4.
"I'll – I'll just wait . . . out here," I spluttered to no one in particular, half-stumbling into the corridor. What was I supposed to do? I knew I shouldn't be here right now; maybe I ought to go home. Or at least out on the veranda until it was OK to come back inside. I peered out the front door, thinking Chrissie would probably never speak to me again. Gnawing on my lower lip, I started inching towards the door, unable to believe what I'd just seen.
(chrissies got no clothes on)
"Billy." Eva's voice again.
"Y-yes, Mrs. Reinhart?" I stammered, still averting my gaze.
"It's all right," she told me reassuringly, "you can come in if you want."
"Really?" I asked in some surprise. My eyes started to wander through the archway, but I yanked them back on a short leash.
"Yes, its fine, honey," she replied in coffee-cream tones, "we'll be finished in a minute."
(but chrissies got no CLOTHES on)
Despite my mounting agitation, I turned and looked into living room once more, mainly to confirm that it was all right for me to enter. I thought maybe Chrissie had climbed into her panties or was wearing the towel around her shoulders. Either option would have been okay, but it turned out that I was wrong on both counts.
Eva was sitting on the chaise-long in her jeans and t-shirt, hair tied back in a bushy black ponytail. Chrissie was standing before her with her arms by her sides, as white and naked as a winter sunrise. My gaze was instantly drawn down her sleek, young figure; taking in her relaxed posture, her faultless complexion, her deeply dimpled bottom. A spray of silver droplets filmed her hips and thighs, glistening in the hazy sunshine. I looked hesitantly up at her Mother, unsure as to what to do next.
"Come and sit here," Eve told me, patting the space next to her. There were some clothes laid over the end of the couch, along with an old fashioned hairbrush. A bottle Johnson's baby oil stood guard over the coffee table. Evidently, Eve had just finished bathing her daughter, and had brought her out to the living room to get dressed. It was a big, airy space with light spilling in through the windows, painting the floor with long golden rectangles. Pushing myself forward through a supreme act of will, I walked across the room and sat down beside Mrs Reinhart – and saw what little girls are made of.
5.
This was the very first time I'd ever seen a girl undressed.
I stared at my little playmate in childish wonder. She was so different to me, so totally different. Having no point of reference, I'd always assumed that we looked pretty much the same under our clothes, except that Chrissie was smaller and prettier and had longer hair. I'd come to understand that girls didn't have a real pee-pee (that's what all the kids at school told me, anyway), but I had no idea what to expect. Truth be told, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw that morning.
Chrissie stood before us, slim and lithe and achingly beautiful. Her hair was a tangled blond avalanche falling almost as far as her waist. And she had no clothes on. I frisked my vision over her pristine nudity, silently comparing her body to mine. Her nipples were tiny, red pin-pricks against her snowy flesh, darker than maraschino cherries. Further down, her tummy curved out in a gentle arabesque, punctuated by her protruding belly button. I'd seen it many times, winking at me whenever she turned a cartwheel, and it always made me smile.
Below this, her belly gave way to a small, pudgy mound; soft and pink and completely smooth. I stared at this bump in mute fascination, amazed by what I saw. This was her kitty, her pee-pee: the thing that made her so different from me. There was a small, pink opening at the bottom of her girl-spot; it seemed to fold away into itself, vanishing between her plump thighs. I studied it with narrowed eyelids, straining to see inside that pursed cleft. What was it? How did she –
"Billy," Eva said in gently amused tones. She glanced down at me with a vaguely indulgent look, the same one she'd worn the day they'd moved in. "Hand me the baby oil, please."
"Yes'm," I replied, biting my lip once more. What had I been doing?! I knew it was rude to stare. Picking the bottle up off the coffee-table, I offered it to her with two trembling hands.
"Thank you," Eve nodded. She opened the cap and sprinkled a few drops over her daughter's bare shoulders. Chrissie giggled in pleasure as the oil trickled down her ivory torso. I watched it stream in miniature rivulets, trying to conceal my furtive gaze. Eve squeezed some more oil into her palms, then reached out and began massaging Chrissie's naked body.
"Over here, Sweety," Eva said, drawing the girl to within breathing distance. Her fingers followed every curve, every hollow, every contour they encountered. Chrissie danced and shimmied between her Mother's hands, chortling with breathless laughter as those teasing fingertips found her ribs and waist ("Mommy, that tickles!"). Glistening palms slid round her figure, slicking up her back and thighs and bottom with long, looping whorls. Rising to the tips of her toes, Chrissie laced her arms around Eva's neck, launching into a veritable orgy of warm, snuggling kisses.
And somewhere, amongst all the touching and stroking and fondling and kissing, I lost my sense of shame and recognized this for what it truly was: a moment of simple intimacy between a Mother and a Daughter. Some years later, I'd come realize how privileged I was to witness this universal affirmation of maternal love, perhaps older than civilization itself. Even then, I understood that they shared a bond of trust I'd never experienced with my own mother.
"Okay, let's do your hair," Evelyn said, picking up the brush.
This had been a day of firsts for me. I'd never seen Chrissie naked, and I'd never seen her with her hair down either. She usually wore it tied back in pig tails (or occasionally plaits), so the site of her thick, sumptuous tresses was something of a revelation. It gave her a radiant, almost angelic appearance, like something out of a Botticelli painting. Eve set about straightening the tangles, nodding along to Chrissie's happy, warbling chatter. That was another thing I'd never noticed until now: the Reinharts never argued. In all the weeks I'd known them, I'd never heard a cross word exchanged – not so much as a minor disagreement. Chrissie was almost supernaturally patient, barely moving a muscle while her Mommy finished de-clawing her hair.
"Billy, could you pass me those ribbons, please?" Eve asked without taking her eyes off the brush. I glanced around and saw two yellow ribbons on the edge of the chaise-long, next to the clothes she'd laid out before the bath. A few seconds later, Chrissie's hair was tied back with two huge satin bows, as big as sunflowers. Eve patted her fondly on her pert, ripe bottom.
"All right, turn around, baby. Let's have a look at you."
She turned and I looked. The Botticelli angel was gone, replaced by my cheeky next door neighbor. She regarded me with an impishly demure smile, her cheeks glowing with a delicate rose hue. She was Chrissie again, the funny little girl I met tight-roping along the fence eight weeks ago. Her magical, purple eyes beamed down at me, glittering with joy. Eve reached out and tickled her belly-button, making her suck in her tummy.
"Mommy, don't!" she giggled, stepping back, "that tickles."
"And you're as naked as a jay-bird, Missy-girl," Eve replied, encircling Chrissie's waist and bringing her forward, "I think it's time we got you dressed." Another kiss, another cuddle, then Mother looked into Daughter's eyes.
"Want to hear a secret?" Eve whispered conspiratorially.
"Yessss," Chrissie answered, with her I-promise-I-won't-tell-anybody face.
"I bought you something yesterday."
"What?"
"Something really pretty."
"Really pretty?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you," Eva teased, "it's a secret."
"Mommyyyyy!" Chrissie protested in girlish outrage, "you have to tell me. I have to know!" She was bouncing up and down in her Mother's arms, her face a mask of expectation.
"Well, I suppose you'll just have to guess," Mommy replied, unwavering. Chrissie touched a finger to her mouth, considering the possibilities, and I saw that this was an old and much beloved game. One they played incessantly, I later found out.
"Mmmm – new Barbie?"
"Nope. Not a toy"
"Um – new shoes?"
"Nope. Guess again."
"New socks?"
"Nope. Getting closer."
"New … dress?" Chrissie demanded. Eve shook her head again, and her eyes glittered a swift, brilliant purple – brighter than I'd ever seen if before. And abruptly, for no apparent reason, I knew exactly what it was. Chrissie knew too, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. I could see it in the gaping of her lips, the delighted flush of her cheeks. I leaned forward on the sofa, waiting for her next answer, and knowing precisely what it would be.
"Panties!" Chrissie cried, romping about like an excited four year-old, "you bought me some new panties!!"
And I was right. Perhaps I should have been surprised – stunned, in fact – but her words had come as no shock, no shock whatsoever. The image had appeared in the back of my mind, as clear as a fresh memory. Eva had bought Chrissie some new panties: a whole set of them, in fact. She'd bought them at the J.C. Penny's downtown, paid twelve fifty for them. I could even see what they looked like – dainty, silken underpants, shimmering like a gossamer rainbow; a different color for every day of the week. Exactly the kind of thing Chrissie would wear under her dress, sleek and smooth and whisper-sheer.
How could I possibly know all this? Short answer: I couldn't, it wasn't possible. But it was all there, every microscopic detail, right down to the price tag on the plastic cover. It was as though all three of us had been there when Eve had handed her card over to a stout, chatty shop assistant named Beryl. Not that any of that mattered to me at the time: somehow, it all felt completely normal; same as the spinning game, same as the elf-lights glittering in Chrissie's eyes. It was merely another part of the magic that had crept into my life that summer, something I'd grown used to over the past eight weeks. Yes, I was excited; thrilled to the point of arousal, but it had nothing to do with winning the great Reinhart guessing-game. Pretty much the only thing that mattered at that moment was that Eve had bought her little girl a brand new pair of panties.
And Chrissie was about to try them on.
6.
Earlier on, I'd noticed a small pile of clothing neatly folded over the edge of the chaise-long, although I hadn't paid much attention at the time. There was a sky blue mini with a big silver zip down the side, along with a short-sleeved blouse splashed with strawberries. Next to this were some frilly white underthings laid out side-by-side; a matching set of vest and pants. There were no socks on this occasion, but a pair of spangled yellow sandals had been placed on the floor, ankle straps lying open.
"I think it's time we got you dressed," Eve remarked, reaching over to pick up the first item.
"Panties first, Mommy!" Chrissie exclaimed, bobbing about like a jack-in-the-box, "I wanna try on my new panties!" Eve nodded her agreement (as if there's been any question in the first place).
The panties were gauzy nylon hip-huggers with a rather naughty red trim. Like most of Chrissie's underwear, they were classic full briefs (she wouldn't graduate to bikinis for another four years), but these were like nothing she'd ever worn before. There were lace insets along the hips and a tag in the middle of the waist band. I guess some people might've thought they were way too mature for a little girl of eight, but Chrissie's face lit up like the Macy's Christmas Tree the instant she saw them.
"Mommy, they're big girl panties!" She twittered excitedly, pigtails brushing against her naked bottom-cheeks.
"Yes, well, you're growing into a big girl now," Eva replied in vaguely amused tones, "can't have you running 'round in Mary-Janes for the rest of your life, can we?" Chrissie was all but dancing around the living room, unable to contain her growing exuberance. Evelyn leaned forward, holding the pants open at the waist, stretching the band between her finger tips.
"Okay, sweetheart," she said, motioning Chrissie forward with a nod of her head, "let's get you into these."
An unexpected chill passed through my spine as I watched Chrissie step into her Big Girl Panties. Strange to admit, but this was far more thrilling seeing than seeing her naked. I know how unlikely that sounds, but it was absolutely true. I honestly have no way of explaining this paradox. Maybe it was because of the games we'd played together: the handstands, the step-overs, the cartwheels. But it was more than that, of course. Watching Eve slide those shiny nylon briefs up Chrissie's legs, I would have given anything to trade places with her: she was so happy, so vibrant, so beautiful.
And her Mommy loved her so much.
"There you go," Eve said, pulling the pants up to Chrissie's waist and releasing the band with an audible snap, "that's a nice snug fit, isn't it?"
It certainly was. The material was so thin it might have been sprayed onto her skin. My stomach began turning somersaults; I suppressed an impulse to moisten my lips. Chrissie stepped away from the sofa, running her fingers over her Brand New Mondays, reveling in their glossy texture. She adjusted the waistline several times, tugging gently at the scarlet trim, then looked over at us, grinning from ear to ear.
"Mommy, they feel lovely!" she declared, striking what she thought was a catwalk pose, "how do they look?"
"Well, turn around and let me see," Eva replied, making a whisking gesture with her right hand. Chrissie arched her spine and performed one of her free-form pirouettes, showing off her panties from all sides. My heart started turning somersaults again: the light played around her in a swirl of golden motes, giving her an ethereal, waiflike quality. I silently inhaled some of her magical essence, imagining how I would pose and whirl in front of the mirror tonight.
"They look very pretty, Honey-girl," Eve told her, holding out her hands towards her panty-clad daughter. Chrissie glanced over at me, as if seeking confirmation that her Mother wasn't flattering her unduly. I nodded most enthusiastically, agreeing that her Brand New Panties were very pretty indeed. Chrissie ran back to her Mother, still wreathed in that insubstantial morning radiance. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she was trailing an aura.
"Mommy, I don't wanna get dressed today," she blurted irrepressibly, grabbing both of Eva's hands, "can't I just wear these?"
"Aren't you and Billy were going down to the park this morning?"
"Um – yeah … I guess."
"Well, you can't go out in your panties all day, can you?" Mommy asked, reasonably enough.
"I'll wear my vest too."
"No," Eve laughed good-naturedly, "you have to wear your blouse and skirt, or you'll get sunburnt."
"But then nobody'll see my new panties," Chrissie pouted in obvious disappointment.
At this last exchange, an image suddenly popped into my head, huge and vivid like a bolt of inspiration. It was something I'd seen dozens of times down at Wentworth Park, every time Chrissie and I mounted the Jungle Gym. We usually spent at least twenty minutes hanging upside down from the bars, talking cartoons and paddle pops until the cows came home. They were amongst the most interesting conversations of my youth, mainly because Chrissie conducted them with her dress hanging over her head.
Precisely at that second, she turned and stared at me, eyebrows raised.
"Oh, yeah," she said, as if recalling some all-important detail she'd failed to consider. And as with the guessing game, I barely noticed what we were doing. It didn't occur to me 'til much later how close Chrissie and I had become, how many thoughts we shared in common from one minute to the next. There seemed nothing unusual in our casual synchronicity; we'd been completing each other's sentences for weeks now. Knowing what the other was thinking had become a way of life for us.
"Ready to climb into these?" Eve asked, indicating the rest of her clothing with a sweep of her hand. Needless to say, Chrissie concurred without further complaint.
As I mentioned before, there was a sense of deepest intimacy between Mother and Child as I watched Evelyn Reinhart dress her daughter. It was a ritual which had been repeated a billion times throughout history, a ceremony so commonplace as to be considered insignificant by most observers, yet which was also a foundation of all human relationships. I suppose that sounds pretentious as all hell, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Writing these words, I'm forced to confess that I felt something else as well, something far less noble than I care to admit. Watching Eve pull the vest over Chrissie's head, I experienced a brief stab of envy. I couldn't help but contrast her life to mine. When was the last time my mother had bathed and dressed me? When was the last time she'd brushed my hair, stroked my cheek, told me how special I was? Four years ago, five? I couldn't remember.
Five minutes later, Chrissie was standing before her Mommy in her blouse and mini-skirt, her sparkly yellow sandals strapped lightly around her ankles. She was every bit as beautiful as I'd ever seen her – moreso, in fact, than on the day we'd first met. It's hard to say how – it was like she was blossoming as the season climbed into mid-summer. Eve looked her over once or twice, fiddled with her hair, then checked under her hem to make sure her panties weren't creeping down her waist (as I would later discover, Evelyn was always reaching under Chrissie's skirt and adjusting her underwear. You ever seen women doing that with their little girls? Doesn't matter where they are; they might be walking through a crowded mall in the middle of December, five zillion spectators in every direction, then without any warning whatsoever, the dress comes up and the panties go on display to everyone in the immediate vicinity. It's something of a universal constant, like speed of light or Things Going Better With Coke).
"Pretty as a picture," Eve concluded, kissing the girl on the tip of her button nose.
"Can we go down to the park now, Mommy?" Chrissie asked, kneeding her hemline.
"Not 'til you've had something to eat, Missy," Eva said, rising to her feet, "can't go out with an empty tummy, can we?" She glanced over in my direction, placing her hands on her hips. "Have you had breakfast yet, Billy?"
The question caught me off guard (I'd been contemplating the saucy red trim on Chrissie's underpants), and I hesitated several seconds, not sure how to answer. I hadn't eaten anything substantial for nearly two days – the fridge was empty and Mom had destroyed every plate in the kitchen during her last howling binge. I'd been surviving on a diet of potato chips and cheese-curls lately, and I'd left home without eating anything at all that morning. To say I was hungry would have been an understatement, but I was reluctant to let Eve know there was anything wrong.
"I …uh, Iyah um – " I began, lapsing into the stream of gibberish I normally employ when my brain clicks into shutdown mode. Chrissie put a hand over her mouth and giggled, eyes rolling up to meet her Mother's.
(billys really funny mommy)
(no darling billys very hungry don't laugh)
"Already eaten?" Eve asked, reading my expression as much as my mind, "well, why don't you come out to the kitchen for a snack? You ever tried French Toast?"
"Well, no I haven't," I replied, intrigued by the name, "what is it?"
"Real yummy is what it is, Billy," Chrissie announced, scampering over to grab me by the arm, "c'mon, you'll love it!" She started yanking me off the sofa, regaling me with epic descriptions of her Mommy's culinary skills (all of which were totally indisputable, I should add).
In a span of minutes, we were seated at the kitchen table, chattering away in fluent childspeak while Eva tied on an apron and wove her motherly enchantments. Switching on the radio, she bustled about the breakfast bar, humming under her breath and filling the air with a floury haze. Call me old-fashioned, but the sound of a woman singing in the kitchen never fails to swell my heart with contentment. I think most people forget what a mysterious, magical place a kitchen is for a young child, with its jars and spices and secret, hidden spaces.
It virtually goes without saying that Eva Reinhart's French Toast was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted up to that point. I like to believe it had nothing to my being on the brink of starvation.
7.
Perhaps I was asking for trouble. I was old enough to understand that my mother wouldn't take this desertion lightly. At best, she'd see it as a criticism of her parental abilities (such as they were); at worst, a defection to the enemy camp. But as I said before, what else could I do? I was nine years old, I was hungry, and there was no food in the house. Eve's generosity was a godsend. Unfortunately, none of this would make any difference to Mom. The moment she discovered I was eating my meals next door – and this was inevitable – she would give in to a fury that could melt lead.
Mom had come to loath Evelyn Reinhart with a passion that bordered on the irrational. There was no logical reason for her hatred; she hardly knew Eva, had traded maybe a hundred words with her, and most of those had been at their introduction. But Mom despised her all the same. During her less lucid moments, she held, long, rambling monologues with herself, attacking first Eve and then my father with equal venom. Sometimes, she seemed to imagine that Dad had run off with Eve, or at least someone like her. Times like that, I either got out of the house or hid in my room, as her delusions often signaled the onset one of her frenzies.
Most evenings, however, she spent comatose in the living room, and I frequently prayed she'd stay that way. Much as it pains me to say this, Mom had grown so unpredictable that I was avoiding her as much as possible. Fortunately, she was usually unconscious when I sneaked in through the back door at four-thirty. This afternoon I'd found her half-submerged into the couch, clutching a bottle of cheap wine in a death-grip. Evidently, Johnny Walker had been slashed from the budget, along with the pizzas, the corn-chips and the Colonel Sanders. Staring around the room at the fall-out of our lives, I fancied we'd sunk about as low as we could go. I couldn't have known how far we had left to fall. How very, very far.
But all of that lay in the future. For now, the oncoming storm was an insignificant blur, betraying not a hint of the havoc it would eventually wreak in our lives. As the temperatures climbed, I played in the sun with the girl next door; oblivious of the Darkness gathering on the horizon. How long did we have together? How long before the the dogs began to howl around the streets of Fairmont? Three months, I realize now; little more than ninety days to run and shout and revel in the joy of her company. It seems impossibly short, a fleeting interval in the passage of years, but as I noted earlier, time moves differently for children.
And a lot can happen in three months.
8.
My bedroom offered some small measure of protection from the encroaching shadows – not much admittedly, but better than nothing at all. It was eight o'clock, the sun was setting, and I had the evening to myself. It was time to slough off my daytime identity and free my Otherself. I'd come to see myself in two different roles – the boy I played during daylight hours and the girl I became every evening. She had no name, no existence beyond the frame of my three-quarter mirror; yet, like any other child, she lived in a realm of dreams and fantasies. And – like any other child – she inhabited more than one plane of reality.
I kicked off my clothes and walked over to the dresser, every inch as nude as Chrissie had been the morning her Mom cooked breakfast for us. The image had been replaying itself through my head like a video set to short loop and I'd acted it out every evening for the past week. It was one of a number of games I played while my mother was asleep and the house was on silent running. All of them were highly arousing, a few of them left me breathless with excitement (the "Dressing Up" scenario was probably the most exhilarating – the scene at the end where Eve raised my skirt to check my panties always left me quivering in near-ecstasy).
Sliding open the dresser drawer, I reached in to find my costume. The underwear situation was becoming desperate, but I always kept a pair of white cotton hipsters in reserve. They weren't as pretty as Chrissie's underthings (particularly her Days of The Week selection), but they smelled clean and served their purpose in every other respect. I kept them hidden under a stack of t-shirts, the most priceless item in my top-shelf collection (where were they anyhow? Must've pushed them to the back for safe keeping).
Leaning over the drawer, I glanced absently at my reflection – and stopped.
There was a girl looking back at me.
Straightening up to my full height, I studied myself in the mirror: my hair, my face, my pre-pubescent figure. Lifting my fingers to the glass, I shook my head in slow disbelief, still doubting the evidence of my eyes.
Was it possible?
I'd been denying it for weeks now, telling myself that it was just my imagination. Dreams never came true in the real world, wishes were never granted, I knew that for a fact. If they did, Prince Charming would never have run off with his secretary and Cinderella wouldn't be lying paralytic down in the living room. Life was no fairy tale, no matter how desperately I wanted otherwise; ducks didn't turn into swans, straw didn't turn into gold, and boys couldn't turn into girls. Yet here I was, staring into a face that only barely resembled mine.
I was changing.
A transformation had been taking place, just as I'd suspected; one so gradual as to seem virtually non-existent. What had been the first signs? A rounding of the limbs, a faint swelling of the tummy? That could have been anything – a change in weight, a trick of the light. Blond streaks in the hair? Had to be the sun; I spent most of my time outside. Nothing dramatic, nothing inexplicable. No Hollywood CGI, no Terminator-style morphing. Just a slow, plodding transition from one state to another, as imperceptible as the growth of a child.
When had it begun? Back in June, the night of the spinning game? No, it had started weeks before that, right after school let out, not long after Dad had hopped an Airbus to Chicago. End of spring, around the same time the season turned and the flowers burst forth along the sidewalk. The day I sat listening to the radio on the front porch, idly tapping away at a paddle-ball while a huge blue moving van rolled up before the Old Stewart Place.
The morning Chrissie moved in, to be precise.
How long ago was that? Eight, nine weeks? The whole length of summer so far. As the days grew longer and the streets pulsed with vibrant green life, some bizarre metamorphosis had occurred; was still occurring right now. There was no other explanation; the signals were all there, and they were far too obvious to ignore.
My hair had lightened by visible degrees. At first I'd thought it was common sun-bleaching, but it had also changed color somehow, going from a dark reddish-brown to a rich honey-blond. It had thickened and grown at an impossible rate, taking on a sumptuous wavy curl. How long before it was down to my waist? Three weeks, a month? By the beginning of fall, it would be longer than Chrissie's, perhaps even as blond.
The changes extended to my face as well. The features had softened, growing steadily more feminine. My lips had folded into a sensuous pout, dimples appearing either side of my mouth, and my nose was melting into a clipped, round bump. The very structure of my face had altered; the cheeks padding up with puppy-fat, the jaw shrinking away to doll-like proportions. And while I hadn't lost any height, I had the open, blameless expression of a very young child – a girl of maybe five or six.
I moved my hands down the front of my body, examining the differences with my fingertips. My nipples were as large and dark as plums, the ends jutting from my chest in hard red points. My figure, lithe and rather girlish to begin with, was overflowing with lush, ripe curves, especially around the thighs and bottom. Even my belly button had changed. Back in May, it had been a shallow dip in the middle of my tummy. Now it was poking out like the tip of an impudent pink tongue.
Scanning myself closely in the mirror, I slid my fingers down to the junction of my legs. A few days before, I'd seen how different girls were from boys, how different she was from me. But that difference had been evaporating off my body for over two months. I hadn't noticed it until quite recently (perhaps because this was the slowest of all the transformations I was undergoing), but there could be no question now as to what was happening.
I touched it gingerly with the cusp of my index finger. Three months ago, it had been the normal length for a boy my age; today it was the size of a pea – and roughly the same shape as well. It had receded, withdrawn into itself by some inscrutable alchemy, leaving nothing more than this token nub. I prodded it again, careful not to slice it with an errant fingernail. It was unbelievably delicate, as if every nerve ending in my body was concentrated down there. It was sort of like stroking one of my nipples, except about a thousand times more sensitive.
Strangely enough, this particular modification hadn't frightened me in the least. Most other boys would have run screaming through the house ("What's happened to my pee-pee?!!"), but I found myself accepting it with the same puzzled confusion I'd felt all along. In a way, it was no different to anything else that had happened that summer. It was almost as if I'd been . . . well, expecting it, I s'pose. That's not exactly the right word, but it's close enough.
However, that wasn't the full extent of the changes. There was still one more, perhaps the most significant, something I hadn't noticed until a few days ago. It was the most perplexing – and maybe the most alarming – of all the enigmas I'd encountered so far. In a way, it was the key to everything that had happened to me, although I wouldn't understand that for quite some time yet.
Bracing one hand against the wall, I leaned in towards the mirror, close enough for my breath to fog the glass. Gazing into that innocent, elfish face, I sought an answer to this mystery, a clue to this paradox. And there it was, the final proof I was seeking. There could be no doubt, no mistake. Somehow, it was all true. Against all logic, all commonsense, I was evolving into a girl. And not just any girl, either.
My eyes had turned purple.
Purple, rimmed with turquoise.
NEXT: THE GHOST ON THE HIGHWAY
Let me know if I should continue.
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