His father saw those blazing eyes and stepped away. The rage on his face was doused by something that looked like terror. That blaze was not metaphorical; Jake’s eyes actually seemed to be on fire. His mother gave voice to a strengthless little scream, clapped one hand to her mouth, took two large, stumbling steps backward, and dropped into her rocking chair with a small thud.
“Leave . . . me . . . alone,” Jake said.
“What’s happened to you?” his father asked, and now his tone was almost plaintive. “What in the hell’s happened to you? You bug out of school without a word to anyone on the first day of exams, you come back filthy from head to toe . . . and you act as if you’ve gone crazy.”
Well, there it was—you act as if you’ve gone crazy. What he’d been afraid of ever since the voices started three weeks ago. The Dread Accusation. Only now that it was out, Jake found it didn’t frighten him much at all, perhaps because he had finally put the issue to rest in his own mind. Yes, something had happened to him. Was still happening. But no—he had not gone crazy. At least, not yet.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he repeated. He walked across the dining room, and this time his father didn’t try to stop him. He had almost reached the hall when his mother’s voice, worried, stopped him: “Johnny . . . are you all right?”
And what should he answer? Yes? No? Both of the above? Neither of the above? But the voices had stopped, and that was something. That was, in fact, quite a lot.
“Better,” he said at last. He went down to his room and closed the door firmly behind him. The sound of the door snicking firmly shut between him and all the rest of the round world filled him with tremendous relief.
20
HE STOOD BY THE door for a little while, listening. His mother’s voice was only a murmur, his father’s voice a little louder.
His mother said something about blood, and a doctor.
His father said the kid was fine; the only thing wrong with the kid was the junk coming out of his mouth, and he would fix that.
His mother said something about calming down.
His father said he was calm.
His mother said—
He said, she said, blah, blah, blah. Jake still loved them—he was pretty sure he did, anyway—but other stuff had happened now, and these things had made it necessary that still other things must occur.
Why? Because something was wrong with the rose. And maybe because he wanted to run and play . . . and see his eyes again, as blue as the sky above the way station had been.
Jake walked slowly over to his desk, removing his blazer as he went. It was pretty wasted—one sleeve torn almost completely off, the lining hanging like a limp sail. He slung it over the back of his chair, then sat down and put the books on his desk. He had been sleeping very badly over the last week and a half, but he thought tonight he would sleep well. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. When he woke up in the morning, perhaps he would know what to do.
There was a light knock at the door, and Jake turned warily in that direction.
“It’s Mrs. Shaw, John. May I come in for a minute?”
He smiled. Mrs. Shaw—of course it was. His parents had drafted her as an intermediary. Or perhaps translator might be a better word.
You go see him, his mother would have said. He’ll tell you what’s wrong with him. I’m his mother and this man with the bloodshot eyes and the runny nose is his father and you’re only the housekeeper, but he’ll tell you what he wouldn’t tell us. Because you see more of him than either of us, and maybe you speak his language.
She’ll have a tray, Jake thought, and when he opened the door he was smiling.
Mrs. Shaw did indeed have a tray. There were two sandwiches on it, a wedge of apple pie, and a glass of chocolate milk. She was looking at Jake with mild anxiety, as if she thought he might lunge forward and try to bite her. Jake looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign of his parents. He imagined them sitting in the living room, listening anxiously.
“I thought you might like something to eat,” Mrs. Shaw