Revolt of the Rats - Reed Blitzerman (early readers txt) 📗

KAHLE WATCHED, UNNOTICED, as Mom tottered into the kitchen. Her eyes were still unfocused. She glanced at him sidelong, the way she looked at stray dogs or snakes; things that were dangerous to look at directly, things that bit. Do you still love me, Mommy? Do you love me?

She filled her mug at the coffee maker, face frowning a puffy full moon. She realized he was watching and came over and hugged him, making the muscles in his back and neck relax. Her robe exuded the usual sweet smell of fabric softener, but today it was mixed with the flat onion scent of stale sweat, like his footy pajamas after an evening of horror movies.

“How are you?” She asked. “Did you sleep okay?” Her hand warmed him from the center of his back, protective.

He nodded though he’d seen the birds again last night. Feathers painted grey as slate, eyes floating motionless, they crawled closer across the bed sheets until their black beaks tore wet strips of flesh from his stomach. He felt cold and disoriented. Winter’s frozen fingers had invaded his bedroom and wrapped a fist around his beating heart. He shivered involuntarily and his mother let go, perhaps mistaking it for a shrug.

He went into the living room alone. Noyce was still asleep. Probably growing again mom said. He had the cartoons on in moments. Space Ghost fought an alien that looked like a large praying mantis. It glowered convincingly and bared its mandibles. By the first commercial their conflict absorbed him and the birds were forgotten. Then the episode ended with the mantis’s crushing defeat and Kahle searched the television guide for the next show.

Mom emerged from her bedroom with her hair wet and the Stratocaster under her arm. The guitar hung from her shoulder, giving her a shot of badass coolness. “Do you have any requests?”

Kahle thought for a minute. Usually, Noyce chose “I’m Your Boogie Man” by KC and The Sunshine Band and Kahle followed with “Eight Days a Week” he’d heard on Scooby Doo during a wonderful episode that guest starred Speed Buggy. But he wasn’t in that kind of mood.

His nightmare was forgotten but the residue remained, bitter dustings amongst his thoughts. Then the song came to him he’d heard in the car with Dad, on the way home from school. “How about ‘Gimme Shelter’ by the Rolling Stones? You know the Stones, Mom.”

“I know the Stones.” But she didn’t move. She just watched him the way she did when he was roaring with fever or the inhaler failed to stop the coughing and she’d had to bring him to the hospital for a breathing treatment.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, honey.” She held the guitar by the neck, and searched his face with her eyes.

“Is everything okay?” Kahle asked.

“Everything’s fine. It’s all in order. That’s right. Just how we like it.” And then she started to play. Slowly at first, holding each note to vibrate the air in a gentle stutter. After a few chords she warmed to it, and her play accelerated.  Her fingers crawled along the strings with an exactness, a rightness that made him feel they were a spider, spinning the strings instead of playing them.

“How do the lyrics go, Mom?”

“I'm not going to teach you the lyrics, honey.”

Even without words, the song felt good. He could feel the pulse as it picked up the pace and power in the middle chords where the chorus would be. It crackled in his ears where it was absorbed into his flesh. She stopped playing. “It's enough of that for now.”

“Why did you stop, Mom?”

“Her baby...never mind, honey.”

He wanted more of it, that feeling. It was like only eating half a chocolate bar and having to save the rest for after dinner. He looked at the clock. “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” wouldn’t be on television until three o’clock. It wasn’t fair. There were comic books in his bedroom, but he wasn’t in the mood for them. They were cool. They were blue.

He wandered the kitchen, looking for a distraction. Sun streamed in the bay window over the sink, where it was mashed flat across the linoleum floor. It was yellow. It was warmer. It was better. He could see Mom in the living room, just a few steps away.

The cutlery drawer was just to his left. His hand moved on its own, and without turning his head he reached inside and took out a fork, encouraged by a small but confident voice.

It wasn’t Mother. She was restringing her guitar as it lay on her lap, her lips moving silently, regaling a crowd of phantoms with an acapella version of “Shooting Star” by Bad Company. It wasn’t Father. He was working overtime at the factory. Kahle scanned subway tile backsplashes and wood veneer cabinets to no avail.

The electrical socket beckoned him. Its outline was so crisp, the edges of the plastic surreal, the slots inside inviting. The tines of the fork belonged in those slots. Inside was good. Inside was yellow. Maybe he could fly if he were yellow. Maybe he could find the birds and bring them back.

There was a jolt when the fork made contact and a bit of smoke, the tines discolored a cerulean blue. It was as good as he’d hoped. Something tasty and metallic rose in the back of his throat  traveled up his spine and thumped into his brain. The spark was sweet and sharp. It was yellow. It was yellow and black like the sea snake on that TV special. And for a moment he was flying.

His mother heard the pop of the electrical arc, looked up in surprise. She’d realized what he'd done, bounded from her chair and knocked the fork out of his hands, breaking the circuit. She swept him up, inspecting his hands and mouth, looking in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do that, Kahle? That’s not safe. I’ve told you that’s not safe.” Drops of her saliva pattered his face. Her hands wrapped around his arms, thumbs and forefingers hooked under his armpits. He thought for a moment she would start shaking him.

“What’s wrong with  you?” Her eyes searched his for some unspoken explanation.

Her concern echoed from the far end of a culvert. It took all of his will not to slump to the floor, empty at a wordless loss, as if she had taken away his Scooby Doo lunchbox.

He stored the memory deep down, a crow hiding a button or a shiny bit of wire. For years, he would bring it out periodically and examine it in the privacy between his ears. As a teenager, awash in the emotion that came with the times, he would find a name for it: longing.

When he didn’t reply, she held him to her chest, overwhelming him with heat. She threw the fork in the trash, strapped him into the car, and carried his still sleeping brother outside in his pajamas. Kahle was silent for the entire ride to the hospital.

He didn’t say anything as her outline used the phone in the lobby, her hands wild branches waving in the air. Noyce sat behind him, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Before the nurse pulled back the curtain, Kahle watched mom’s head dip and then turn and stare intently, the way she did when she and Dad made an important decision that filled her with unease.