The Narrows(56)

Matthew’s bike still slouched against the garage. It troubled her to look at it so she decided to stow it away in the garage until Matthew returned. Kicking on her mother’s sandals that still sat by the door, she went down into the yard and was making a beeline for the bike when she paused in midstride. Bats, like little black pods covered in bristly hair and pointy devilish ears, hung from the eaves of the garage. As she stared at them they seemed to vibrate as if alive with electrical current. Some of them opened and closed their wings with mechanical rigidity. There was even one hanging upside down from the clothesline that stretched from the garage to the back porch.

Like most everyone in this part of the country, she was no stranger to the creatures. Customarily, they came out around dusk and zipped through the sky in erratic, confused patterns that could not be confused with those of birds. Once, she had spied a tiny one nesting in the latticework around the raised back porch. It had looked like a leaf until it cranked open its fragile little wings in a manner that reminded Brandy of the hydraulic doors on the school bus.

She had never seen this many before, all in one place. And they were usually gone before the first shimmer of daylight painted the eastern sky.

After standing there in a mixture of fear and deliberation, she decided to forego moving the bike into the garage and went back into the house.



2



Her mother awoke around three in the afternoon, shambling out of the living room and into the kitchen to fill up a mug of coffee that had already gone lukewarm. Brandy was at the kitchen table, one of her school textbooks before her, a partially eaten apple browning beside an untouched glass of milk.

“I don’t suppose anyone called?” her mother asked, drinking her coffee while looking out the window over the kitchen sink.

“No.”

“What time is it?”

“About three.”

“Why’d you let me sleep so late?”

“You looked tired. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Her mother said nothing.

“Do you…” Brandy faltered. “Mom?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think we should call Dad?”

Just by staring at the matted hair at the back of her mother’s head, Brandy could tell that a wave of emotions coursed through her. The hand holding the coffee cup shook.

“He might want to know, is all,” she added quietly, turning back to her textbook. True, her father might want to know that the son he’d left behind had now similarly disappeared…but that wasn’t the only reason for Brandy’s suggestion. Her reasons were deeper than that, but they were so pitiful that she did not want to even acknowledge them herself. Before he’d left, Hugh Crawly had been the family protector, the strength and the decision-maker. To the extent of Brandy’s knowledge, he had never been broken or weakened or brought to his knees a single day in his life. To have him back home now would be—

Stop it, she chastised herself, feeling a hot flush spread across her face. He walked out on all of us two years ago. Remember what it did to everyone? Remember how it felt? Brandy Crawly remembered. She hated feeling a childish need for him now.

Her mother dumped the rest of her coffee into the sink then went out onto the back porch. A minute later, Brandy heard her sobbing. She contemplated going to her and attempting to comfort her, but the simple prospect of doing so seemed to weaken her spirit. Instead, she went up to her bedroom and switched on the stereo. From one window she could see Dwight Dandridge seated on the curb across the street. He had something tucked under one arm and was looking at something else on the pavement between his sneakers.

Unable to help it, she thought about the boy who had washed up along the shores of Wills Creek two weeks ago. When news of the boy’s discovery had hit the town, Brandy had simply assumed that the boy, who had not been identified as a resident of Stillwater or any neighboring towns, had been careless, fallen into the swollen waters of the Narrows, and drowned. Now, she was not so sure. What if his death were the work of something more sinister? What if something had attacked and killed that boy? She found she could not recall if the newspapers had spoken of a cause of death. Rumors were that he had been hairless and pale and naked, but had there also been…injuries?

Feeling sweaty and unclean, she showered quickly, changed her clothes, and went out the front door without saying a word to her mother. Across the street, Dwight was still perched on the curb looking at whatever it was on the ground between his feet.

He looked up at Brandy just as her shadow fell across him. “Hey,” he said. The thing between his feet was a tiny turtle.

“What are you doing?”

Dwight shrugged and looked back down at the turtle. “Just hanging around, I guess.”

She sat down beside him on the curb.

“Is that your turtle?”

“Nah,” said the boy. “It was just here. I ain’t messin’ with him. Just watching where he goes.”

She glanced at the thing tucked beneath Dwight’s arm. It was a plastic bag, though she could not make out its contents. “What’s in there?”

Dwight pulled the bag between his knees and opened it. He took out a rubber vampire mask from which the price tag still hung and seemed to appraise it longingly. Something about the boy’s sullenness resonated with Brandy.

“Picked it up for him this morning, before school,” Dwight said. “You know, before anyone else could grab it. Figure I’ll hold on to it until he comes home.”