Читать книгу Betwixt and Between - Jessica Stilling - Страница 5

PROLOGUE

“I WON’t GO INSIDE, I won’t, I won’t,” Preston called across the lawn at Peyton and Eva as he ran one way and they the other. Mrs. List, his best friend Peyton’s mother, had called them in three times and Peyton and Eva had run one way, gliding toward the Newburgh’s house on the balls of their feet, as Preston headed toward the cul-de-sac.

The trees hid the houses, so they didn’t have to run far. The trees hid everything. They grew between Preston’s yard and Peyton’s, between the Hoffstra’s and Eva’s. There were lines of them, two, sometimes three across, but they did the trick and even though Preston’s house wasn’t that far from the neighbor’s it felt like its own world.

Preston ran past the stone statue of a man on a horse at the edge of the road, turning into the cul-de-sac at Pinetree. When he was younger his father had taken him out in the neighborhood and read every street sign to him, telling him to memorize each word just in case he got lost. Preston could see his father, a towering figure now, though he’d been even bigger to him then, pointing up at a sign and saying, “see, see, P and P means pretzels and Preston and Pinetree.”

There were three houses in the cul-de-sac, all surrounded by trees. He looked toward the back where a small stream bubbled, gurgling and galumphing through the backyards toward the heavier woods that touched the neighborhood. The first house was peach colored, and no children lived there, only two adults and three dogs that barked just after dinnertime every night. A couple and their two teenage boys lived in the blue house next to it, one of the boys drove a rusted car and the other was always playing basketball in the driveway.

The yellow house in the corner sat empty most of the time. It was a fairly large house with a bright white front door and neatly painted shutters, like you’d find on certain types of family TV shows. There was a garden at the side, made up of all white flowers planted in symmetrical solid lines, a circle of them going around the white and gold mailbox. The grass was always mowed in neat rows and there were never any clippings left behind. The blacktop up to the white garage door shone a perfect black, the sun settling there like a mirage of water when Preston ran to it. Off to the side stood a basketball hoop hanging from a concrete post. It wasn’t like the teenagers’ basketball hoop, the regulation red and white; this one, painted in neon colors, hung over a lopsided court that had been drawn with bright pink and green chalk lines.

Preston hardly ever came this way, he’d only been here once before with Peyton and they’d darted away quickly when Mr. Hawthorne came out of his house. Now with Eva and Peyton playing in the Newburgh’s yard, Preston wanted to explore this place on his own and so he stepped closer, crossing first the street and then the sidewalk toward the house.

He cringed as one sneakered foot hit the black driveway, worried it might open up a hole he’d sink into. Mr. Hawthorne lived alone, though his house had two floors, and he drove what his father called a “trying-to-compensate-for-something” car really fast down the short, empty streets of the neighborhood.

Preston slowly approached the bright yellow house, each step a new island to Mr. Hawthorne’s front door. He could see the tree branches above him, separating Mr. Hawthorne’s yard from his neighbor’s. There were two cars parked in the driveway, one looked brand new while the other was bright purple with lines of rust clinging to the sides. Preston stepped toward the sidewalk leading to the house. Flowers lined the walkway and he stopped to look down at them. They were not colorful like the flowers in the books at school, but all white, like a snow garden. Preston leaned in, his nose grazing the petals as the front door opened. He could hear the way the knob turned, the sound of the screen door sliding, and when he craned his neck, Mr. Hawthorne was standing on the stoop just outside his house.

He was tall, his face a blank stare, his dark hair cut close to his head like an army sergeant. He gazed out at his yard as if he hadn’t seen anything, but right away he caught Preston, who shot up straight when his eyes met Mr. Hawthorne’s. He might have run from his neighbor, but he was ten years old, old enough to know he was caught, but not old enough to do anything about it like think up a clever excuse for what he might be doing there. He closed his eyes, expecting Mr. Hawthorne to yell at him, to stick his arm in the air and demand that he leave his property. Maybe he’d take him by the hand and haul him back to his house as Mrs. Cooper had done after he and Peyton had tried to feed berries to the fish in her pond.

“You like the flowers?” Mr. Hawthorne asked, chuckling. “They’re called bellflowers, I planted them earlier this spring. Do you like them? Are they pretty?”

Preston watched his neighbor, relief flooding the inside of his stomach. “I like them,” he said cautiously, hoping that his liking Mr. Hawthorne’s flowers meant he wouldn’t tell his mother he’d been trespassing.

“Why thank you,” he replied with false importance, coming closer to Preston he knelt next to the flowers, touching one of the soft petals and bending to sniff. “They smell like a garden all by themselves. You know, I have a really nice garden in back if you ever want to take a look. A gardener comes every week, he planted that one, but this little garden up here I did myself.”

“That’s okay, I should go,” Preston replied, aware that it was not all right to just go into the backyard of a stranger, even if the front was a no-man’s land it would be hard to punish him for entering.

“I’m Mr. Hawthorne, by the way, Gregory Hawthorne,” his neighbor properly introduced himself, holding out his hand in a way that might have been professional if it weren’t so forced.

“I’m Preston,” he replied cautiously. He took the man’s hand, it was cold and thin, swallowing Preston’s palm whole.

“You know my housekeeper just made some cookies, they’re chocolate chip. She made a whole batch, even though I told her to just make a few, a man like myself can’t be eating all those cookies. Would you like to come in for one? It would really help me out, you know, they’re not good for my figure and all.”

“That’s okay,” Preston replied, remembering Peyton and Eva, who were probably looking for him. “I need to find my friends.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Hawthorne asked. “They’re just cookies. I won’t tell your mother you were here,” he went on, winking.

Preston considered for a second. He’d heard stories of child abductions, his mother had told him not to talk to strangers, but a stranger was a man in a black coat, a gruff voice in the dark and this was just a guy who liked flowers. Sharing a few cookies with his neighbor did not seem like a part of a sinister plan. “Okay,” he said, taking one whiff of the air, hoping he’d catch the scent of the flowers as Mr. Hawthorne stood to let him inside.

“You know my mother used to make cookies for me when I was a little boy. I guess I never got over it. When you grow up you’re supposed to outgrow stuff like sweets, but why would you ever want to do that? Why forget things you love just because you get old?” Mr. Hawthorne laughed at himself, though Preston hadn’t found him particularly funny.

It smelled a sugary pink in the living room, like a gingerbread house in a fairy tale. There was a big TV in the front room and a video game system lying on an end table next to a bunch of game cartridges. A framed poster of Larry Bird was hung up next to the system, and as Preston walked further into the house he noted that there were taped up pictures of people from television, of basketball and football players, all over the house, which reminded him of a larger version of his own bedroom.

“Here, the cookies are in the kitchen, we don’t have to eat in the dining room, too formal,” Mr. Hawthorne said and Preston did not understand how a dining room with posters of sports stars hung up in it could be too formal for anything. “I’ll get you some milk. Do you want milk, kiddo?” He said the last part, calling him kiddo, a little falsely.

“Sure,” Preston replied, holding his hands in front of him, sticky, sweaty fingers knotting together. “Thank you,” he added as he entered Mr. Hawthorne’s kitchen. It was a heightened version of his own kitchen, almost the same, but more like it had come out of one of those magazines his mother sometimes left out on the counter. No taped up posters here, just the cooking necessities or niceties. It was painted white with an island in the middle; there was a large, silver refrigerator with a water dispenser that had a bunch of blue lit-up buttons around it. Silver pots dangled from a rack hanging from the ceiling and there were a bunch of metal appliances on the granite counter. Despite the kitchen’s neatness, someone had been working in there, spoons and measuring cups littered a flour-covered cutting board and the sink was filled with dishes, just the way he left the kitchen half the time after his mother asked him to help her clean it.

The stairs from the basement started creaking and Preston almost jumped when he saw a woman come up them. She looked like the kind of person who might live in a basement with a raw-looking face and ratty too-red hair that was obviously dyed. A large wart was stuck to her cheek as if it came from a Halloween costume, and there were lines near her eyes and mouth. She smiled when she saw Preston, though it seemed that her face almost cracked. “Hello,” she said with an accent he could not place. She sounded like the villains in his father’s old James Bond movies. “How are you today young man?” she looked down at Preston as if she were scrutinizing him. “I just made cookies, please, you should have some. A growing boy like you, you will not spoil your dinner.” Preston found it funny that she knew what time his dinner was, about an hour from now, as long as his father got home on time.

“All right,” was all Preston could say, stepping backwards and nearly walking into a life-size cut out of The Cage King, the villain in a video game Preston used to play with Peyton a few years ago.

“Sorry about that,” Mr. Hawthorne said, righting the cutout as Preston stepped away from it. “I’m a collector. I should put it upstairs.”

“I am going to head home,” the lady said, turning around on her heels. “I just wanted to make sure someone was home. Gregory, I will see you tomorrow, OK? Feed the child my cookies, you will make sure, please?”

“Sure, see you,” Mr. Hawthorne replied casually, waving as she turned down the steps, leaving through the basement. “That was Mary Clark,” he explained. “She made the cookies, she cooks for me. A very nice lady that one. She reminds me of Hilda Handblast, I watch that show all the time,” he went on, laughing at himself. Hilda Handblast, Preston knew, was a character in Autowarriors, a cartoon about toy cars that save their owner’s house from the evil band of toy trucks that live next door. He’d watched that cartoon when he was eight, but now that he was ten he had outgrown it.

“OK,” was all Preston could say as he followed Mr. Hawthorne into the kitchen.

“This place is not kid proofed,” he explained as he glanced toward the knife-set sitting a few feet from the stools lining one side of the counter. “I don’t get many visitors. It’s almost five o’clock; I don’t want to spoil your dinner so why don’t I just give you a couple cookies? They just came out of the oven, that’s when they’re the best,” Mr. Hawthorne offered, picking a cookie up off a metal cooling rack.

Mr. Hawthorne set the cookie on a blue porcelain plate with delicate white etchings. It did not look like it belonged in a house with cutouts of video game villains in it. This kitchen seemed to be an island of adulthood in this house that had never grown up. The plate was almost too nice to eat off of and Preston nearly said so, but Mr. Hawthorne was being so kind, he didn’t want to offend him. “You can’t have cookies without milk,” he said, taking a quart from his fridge. “Unless you have any allergies?” he asked last second.

“No I don’t, thank you,” Preston replied, taking a sip of the milk once it had been set before him. Mr. Hawthorne took a cookie off the rack as well, eating it from his hand and not bothering with a plate. This was how Preston ate cookies at home. Even if his mother put a plate out for him he was always carrying his food around, “constantly dragging crumbs from one corner of the house to another,” his mother always said.

“Do you like them?” Mr. Hawthorne asked, taking another bite.

“I do,” Preston replied, not wanting to make a face as he chewed. The cookies tasted off, not bad, just off. He finished one cookie and took another out of politeness.

“Tastes kinda funny,” he commented after a second, looking as if he might spit the cookie out. “No, I don’t think I like these,” he concluded, finishing the last of his bite and taking the rest to the garbage bin near the backdoor. “But you should finish.”

“It’s okay,” Preston said, gulping down his final bite. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I guess Mary must have forgotten the vanilla or something,” Mr. Hawthorne speculated. “Oh well, they’re not good for my figure anyway,” he commented, politely chipper. “But hopefully the milk is all right.”

The milk, Preston had forgotten the milk. He wanted to go, he was sure by now Eva and Peyton had gone to his house looking for him, and his mother would start to worry. Once he got home she’d be in the front yard with a frown on her face as she lectured him on how anxious she’d been. He could just picture it as he swallowed the milk, wanting to take every last drop in one final swig. The milk was cold in his mouth, yet felt as if it was burning his teeth, but he dutifully gulped until it was finished. “There,” Preston announced.

“You were thirsty, do you want some more?”

“No, that’s all right, I really have to go,” Preston replied, getting up. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, any time,” Mr. Hawthorne offered. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I have a game system upstairs, we could play something. Four Corners Seven just came out, I have an advanced copy. I know a guy who owns a video game shop. We could play that? Or Fantasy Basketball, I have that as well. Or just old fashioned Monopoly?” He looked so desperate for Preston to want to play just one game. But video games took forever to play, they were the game that never ended, and so Preston shook his head no, deciding to consider the time of day it was, and his mother, and that dinner would probably be on the table soon.

“That’s all right, my friends don’t know where I am, my Mom’ll be worried,” Preston explained. Mr. Hawthorne had been nice to him, it might not even be wrong to say he liked him, but at that moment Preston really wanted to be out of his house. He didn’t know why but his stomach was starting to hurt and he just needed get back to his own yard, his own room, where things didn’t feel so off and unfamiliar.

“Well, if your Mom will be looking for you, please, you can go out the back, take the path near the stream, it’ll get you home more quickly,” Mr. Hawthorne explained and Preston wondered how this man knew exactly where he lived.

“All right, thank you. I like your garden,” he offered as an olive branch.

“Next time you come over we’ll look at the garden again, maybe check out that new Four Corners,” Mr. Hawthorne suggested and Preston shook his head yes, the waning sun in his eyes as he walked through the back screen door and across the yard full of grass and flowers, by a pristine, empty white bird bath and a couple of trees. It felt like the grown up world out here, wholly different from the video games and posters of sports stars in the bulk of the house. Preston felt bad for going, for leaving Mr. Hawthorne to sit alone all night, but his stomach was really bothering him and had to be home for dinner.

“Bye,” Preston called as he walked away.

Mr. Hawthorne remained in his house, one foot on the concrete stoop and another in his kitchen as he watched Preston cross his lawn. Preston started to feel sleepy and a more sick as he walked away. Something churned inside his stomach, something purple and red like a bruise. He felt sick, but not sick as he had ever been before, not the flu or a cold, not even the 104-degree fever he’d had last year that sent his mother racing with him to the doctor. He gulped hard to try and keep himself from throwing up, tasting the sour bile at the four corners of his mouth. He looked back at Mr. Hawthorne, who was still watching him as he marched past another flower garden and toward the stream. He knew the way across it, he knew that if he crossed the water and took the path he’d be nearer to Eva’s and once he was there he could make his way through the trees toward Peyton’s house and then his own.

His stomach was burning as he hit the trees that separated the cul-de-sac from the rest of the neighborhood and Preston stopped, doubling over as he tried to breathe deeply. “Owww,” he said, clutching his insides. He sat down, leaning against the side of a tree, right in the dirt. “If I can just walk a few more feet,” he thought, but it felt like a few feet could only be measured in miles. He knew his house was close by, but the trees blocked everything. His father had said that this was what made the neighborhood so nice, the illusion of privacy without actually being in the middle of nowhere. But now he wished someone could see him through these trees as he sat in the dirt, a twig digging into the thin skin of his palm. “Ow, ow, ow,” he cried as if his stomach were on fire.

Preston lay down for a second. It felt better when he lay down. He closed his eyes; he was tired now and the pain, it wasn’t just uncomfortable anymore, it was a bright, stabbing pain and even when he cried no one could hear him. He hadn’t ever felt this sleepy before, it wasn’t a going-to-bed kind of sleepy, this kind of tired settled in his bones, he sensed it under his skin as he lay down on the cold, damp ground. He could feel the dirt pulsing under him, as if he could hear bugs moving beneath the earth, the way the trees’ roots grew, flowers sunning themselves. Peyton and Eva called out a few feet away, Preston could see them playing in his mind, the sun on their faces. He pictured his mother looking for him, one hand on the front door as she called his name. It was all there, just a few feet away; he’d be there in a second, he thought, just a second and he’d get up. A bird cawed, it got darker and Preston closed his eyes.