Gossamer

Gossamer Page 7

"What else?"

"She spilled her tea, and it stained the button a little. And also—"

"Yes?"

"She was sad once, when she was wearing the sweater, and while she was feeling sad, she rubbed the button a little, back and forth. It comforted her. It's a good fragment, because of the comfort.

"And one other time? This is funny! She held her niece's baby on her lap, and the baby grabbed the button and wouldn't let go! Everybody was laughing!"

"And all of that is there for you to find when you touch the button," Thin Elderly pointed out.

"And lots more."

"That is the button's story. All the things that have been part of the life of that little button. They create a story. Everything has a story," Thin Elderly explained.

Littlest thought it over. "And when she said to the boy, 'I'll tell you a story,' and then she began, 'Once upon a time there was a little boy,' that was his story, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Part of his story. A very small part."

"Then he went to sleep again. That was nice. I was afraid he wouldn't." She fell silent for a moment. "You know what, Thin Elderly?"

"What?"

"I'm scared that it will come back and it will bring the whole—I forget the name."

"Horde."

"Yes. I'm afraid of the Horde."

"We'll strengthen him. We'll fight the Horde by strengthening him. That's our job."

"It's an important job," she said sleepily. "But scary."

"It is indeed." Thin Elderly stretched and settled himself into a comfortable position. "Curl up now and get a good day's sleep," he said. "Tonight we'll start the strengthening. We'll have some hard work to do." He glanced over at Littlest One and smiled. Her wide eyes had already closed.

He closed his as well, and now the whole Heap slept and was silent, refreshing their vigor and strength for the work of the next night.

17

"Don't get any stupid idea about keeping me," John said. "Just because I did that stuff for you, filling the dog's dish and sweeping the porch, don't think you can keep me and make me be your slave."

They stopped briefly on the path through the park, to let Toby sniff a bush and raise his leg.

"I appreciated that," the woman told him, "the sweeping. It's hard for me because my shoulders are stiff. It was lovely to have help."

"C'mon, dog." John tugged at the leash and Toby moved to his side obediently. "The police would come if you tried to kidnap me," he pointed out. "They'd have sharpshooters, with rifles. They'd be behind every tree, aiming at your house. A guy would say into a microphone, 'Let the boy go.'"

"Goodness. That would cause some excitement in our quiet little neighborhood, wouldn't it?" She pointed to a wooden bench. "Shall we sit down for a moment? I get a little tired."

She arranged herself on the park bench and Toby settled himself at her feet. John sat beside her, kicking his feet restlessly. "Anyway, you couldn't keep me because I already have a mom and a dad. They're coming to get me. Maybe this afternoon."

He curled his hand into a spyglass and looked through it toward a squirrel at the foot of a nearby tree. "My dad has a shotgun," he said. "He could kill that squirrel. He could blow its head off.

"He could blow your head off!" he added, and turned toward her, still looking through his own curled hand.

"Goodness. Why ever would he do that?"

"Well, maybe he wouldn't. But if he found out you were mean to me, or something. Then he'd come all the way from California with his gun.

"I'd call him," he added. "I know how. He told me, 'You just call me if you need me. Anytime.' That's what he said."

"So you know your father's number in California?"

The little boy shrugged. "I don't need to. I just call that guy on TV. The Verizon guy."

"Oh. I see."

"It would cost a whole lot. And you'd have to pay. If you don't pay your phone bill, they keep calling to remind you, and if you still don't pay? Then they turn your phone off. Then how are you supposed to get a job or anything?"

The woman chuckled. She gathered her purse and sweater and stood. "Come, Toby, time to go home," she said. "Actually," she said to the boy as he wound Toby's leash around his hand, "I don't think I'll be looking for a job. I had one, once. I was a teacher. But I've been retired for quite a while.

"Is your mother looking for a job?" she asked, as they walked toward the park entrance. "Is that why you're worried about the phone?"

He scowled. "My mom don't need a job," he said. "She's rich. She lives in a mansion. She has bodyguards.

"Right now she's on vacation," he added. "That's why I have to stay with you and be your slave."

At the street corner, she put her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Wait for the walk light," she reminded him.

He held tightly to the dog's leash. "If it wasn't for me," he announced loudly, "this here dog would be roadkill."

The woman glanced down at Toby, waiting patiently for the light to change. "You're probably right, John," she said.

"He's just a mutt, though." The walk light flickered on and they crossed the street. "Not worth anything. What did you pay for him? You probably got robbed."

The woman laughed. She looked down again at the scruffy mongrel, with his mottled fur and ragged ears. "Actually, I didn't pay anything for him," she explained. "I found him on my porch, freezing, one winter morning. He was just a puppy that someone had mistreated and then abandoned. But he's worth a lot to me, John. He's my closest friend."

They approached the little house and the woman took out her key to the back door. "Here we are, Toby. In you go." Opening the door, she unhooked his leash and the dog dashed inside to check his bowl.

The little boy followed, his untied sneaker laces flapping on the hall floor. "I might kidnap him," he announced. "You'd have to pay a thousand dollars to get him back, or else I'd kill him and mail you his ears."

"You hear that, Toby? You're in danger!" the woman said, looking down at the dog, who was lying on the kitchen floor beside his bowl. He looked up with his moist brown eyes, then yawned. His tail thumped once on the wooden floor.

"Why don't you give him a biscuit, John? He behaved so nicely on our walk. I like to give him a little reward from time to time." She pointed to the ceramic container with a molded bulldog on its lid. "They're in that jar."

The little boy took out a bone-shaped biscuit, felt its shape with his fingers, considered briefly, and then gave it to the dog, who accepted it with an eager gulp.

"Don't get used to this," John said to Toby, "because I'm out of here tomorrow."

18

"I have an idea," Littlest suggested to Thin Elderly. They were huddled together in the hallway again. It was the third night that the Sinisteed had roared through the wall and with his hissing breath inflicted a cruel nightmare on the little boy. For three nights they had watched helplessly during the infliction and then with concern as the woman had come in the night to comfort the boy when he cried out.

"And what would that be?" he asked her.

"I think I must touch the dog," she whispered solemnly.

Thin Elderly looked startled. "Surely you know that we do not touch living creatures," he said to her.

"Only for fear of waking them," she pointed out. "But the dog sleeps so very soundly. He even snores. And remember how light my touch is? Even when Fastidious was mad at me, she still said I had a wonderful touch." She reached out and fluttered her fingers very lightly against him. "And you told me once that my touch was like gossamer.

"I don't know what that means, exactly," she added with a giggle.

"Gossamer is something very fragile and delicate," Thin Elderly explained. "Sometimes it means a cobweb."

"Oh. How sweet. I do love cobwebs. There was one in a corner of the woman's parlor once, behind the piano, and I danced in it. There was a moon that night, and it just seemed the thing to do, dancing in a moonbeam and a cobweb. Fastidious scolded me, though."

Thin Elderly smiled.

"My dancing touch was so delicate that I didn't even break the strands of the cobweb. I am quite, quite certain I could touch the dog."

Thin Elderly nodded. "Your touch is exquisitely dainty, Littlest One. I don't believe I've ever known a daintier one. And perhaps you would be able to touch the dog without waking him. But what good would it do?"

Littlest explained carefully, in a whisper. "The boy is so weak! And the nightmares come again and again."

Thin Elderly nodded sadly. "That's true," he agreed. "Each time they destroy more and more of the memories and fragments he has: the ones we've given him and the ones he brought with him."

"And he has so little for me to touch and give back to him in dreams, Thin Elderly. He has a chrysalis now, that he found out in the garden, and the woman let him keep it in a jar in his room. He's very gentle with it because she explained how a butterfly was being made inside. So it's a nice thing for me to touch—I can give him that fragment of gentleness and taking-care-of. But it's a very small thing. And there aren't many others.

"There's the pink seashell that he keeps on the table. And it's the most valuable thing, I think, because it has so many memories—I can feel them there—and it's part of his own story. Remember he wanted shells when she told him that story that began 'Once upon a time there was a little boy'?"

He nodded.

"But it's also very small," she sighed.

Thin Elderly smiled at her as she spoke so earnestly. She was barely larger than the seashell herself.

"There's a photograph, too, that he keeps in an inside pocket of his suitcase," she went on. "It's of a woman. There are a lot of fragments coming from that picture, but they're mixed. The feelings of them are all mixed up. I try to sift through and collect the good parts.

"And that's really all. His clothes don't give me much of anything. The social work lady bought his clothes. So really all I have—all that's worth touching—are the chrysalis and the seashell and the picture.

"But, Thin Elderly?" She looked up at him. "Guess what?"

He looked at her quizzically. "What?"

"He's starting to love the dog! I can feel it!"

"And so..." Thin Elderly, hesitating, considered what she had said.

"I need to touch the dog. Lightly, of course. In a very gossamer way. And I can give the boy that: the love feelings. Along with the gentle chrysalis feelings, and the warm happiness seashell feelings, and the good part of the photograph feelings.

"It will make it work better, adding in the dog! I'm sure of it. Make him much, much stronger against the nightmares."

She looked up at Thin Elderly. "Could I try, at least?" she pleaded.

Thin Elderly eased himself up from the huddling place. Three nights in a row they had had to hide this way, hunched over. He was achy.