Craving's Creek

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

When my parents bought our house here on Chambery Street, our backyard was just a field. Alistair and I used to ride our bikes up and down gravel roads and hide out in the woods around here. Now everything is a construction site, a new development. But all they ever develop is more houses that look the same.

The construction boys never lock anything up, so Alistair and I like to walk around those big, new houses. I like the smell of them, plywood and dust.

Alistair likes it because it makes him feel like he’s Jonas inside the whale.

“We haven’t done this one,” I say, showing him a gigantic house with the roof not quite done. It’s just the way we love them: big, insulting and a little out of sight. I nod my head to the towering thing. Alistair agrees and we look around at house windows and parked cars.

The street is deserted. Everyone’s out playing golf or shopping wholesale. After we’ve made sure the coast is clear, we sneak up the dirt driveway and check the door. It’s unlocked, as I expected it would be. Seconds later, we’re in.

In some places, the roof is just a wooden skeleton, and the light pours it through like water, cascading down into the lobby, over a large, romantic-looking staircase like the ones they used to have in plantation homes. “s**t,” I say, really impressed.

Alistair takes a step into the well of light and looks back at me. “I wanna go up there.”

My heart is pounding again. I want to go up there too. We file up the marble steps and I wish I were barefoot. I bet the marble would feel smooth and cool against my naked soles.

Upstairs, we gaze down at the broad entrance, careful not to lean too close to the edge; there isn’t a railing yet. “They don’t have a chandelier,” Alistair says, almost to himself.

“So, where do you wanna write?” I usually write my somewhat political messages in the bathroom or in the closets. Things like, While this house was being built, there was a g******e in a country no one cares about. Enjoy your first night here. Or maybe, In twenty years, your house won’t be worth enough to pay for your kids’ education.

Alistair prefers to draw the face of Jesus, using existing patterns in the dust. Under the saintly face, he’ll write something like, If you see this, don’t worry. You’re saved.

It’s uncanny how good he is at drawing Jesus. Not that I know what Jesus looks like.

“Let’s not write anything here,” he finally says, still staring at the ledge.

“Don’t stand so close.” I pull him back. “It makes me nervous.”

Alistair looks at me. There’s something in his eyes now. I’ve seen it before: something huge and ravenous, like a black beast waiting to be unleashed. “Remember when we used to play hide-and-seek?” When he says this, his voice is very low, nothing like his usual voice.

Sometimes I don’t recognize him. He’s not himself these days. He has these violent mood swings that scare me a little. Almost like he switches personalities.

I remember how I never used to find him whenever we played. But I want to try again. “You wanna play here?” I ask, coolly enough. “Could be kinda fun, I guess. Lots of places to hide.” I like the idea and I get excited. “I’ll count to a hundred. Go.”

He glances around and quickly strikes off for the hallway. His steps are light and fast.

“Hey, be careful,” I yell out to him. “Don’t bolt through open doors when you don’t know what’s on the other side!”

I don’t want him to get hurt. Maybe this is a bad idea. He can be so reckless sometimes. I wring my hands. Well, it’s too late. He’s gone.

I lean my forehead on the wall and close my eyes. I count. When I get to eighty-nine, the house is quiet and all I hear is my own breathing. Where is he? I start with the first room at my right. In there, I check the walk-in closet. I spot some plastic sheets and piles of rubbish in the corner, but Alistair isn’t under there. I take my time, exploring the second floor, going from room to room, door to door, and the seconds swell into minutes, the heat making me sweat, or maybe it’s the anticipation.

I creep down the hall, into more rooms, lifting things, pulling doors open, knowing he isn’t up here anymore. I want to make it last. But I’m ready to blow. Finally, when I’ve covered the second floor, I make my way down the stairs, trying to keep my footsteps light. On the landing, I stop. Listen. The light isn’t as bright down here anymore. I look up to catch a gray sky leaning heavily on the roof. I smell rain in the air. A storm maybe.

And the scent of Alistair’s soap.

With my heart drumming, I lean back and peer into the dark and vast room at my left. The windows there are still boarded up, but light rips through the cracks like long fingers scratching into the room. I stand in the middle of the room and call out his name. I know he’s here, and I know he knows that I know. I spot a door in the right corner of the room. A pantry maybe. I can’t hold back a second longer, and in two long strides, I’m standing at that door, with my hand pressed hard against it.

How long are we going to play this game? I’m always chasing him.

“Alistair,” I whisper. “You’re busted. Get out.” I smile because I can feel him smiling behind the door. “I’m opening the door in three, two, one—”

But the handle turns and he whips past me before I can put my hands on him. “My turn!” he shouts, his voice already far off.

“Where are you going?” I turn but he’s gone.

Upstairs, I hear him counting. One, two, three, four…

I look around for a place to hide, but all I need is for him to find me.

* * * *

As we’re walking back home, I sense Alistair’s mood darken with every step. I want to ask him what’s on his mind, but I already know, and I don’t want to talk about it.

So he wasn’t invited to Sheryl’s tonight?

Big deal. Not my fault. I can’t make people understand him. I’m not staying home another Friday night to make him feel better about himself. People think he’s weird and they might have a point. But they don’t know him the way I do. There’s nothing strange about him. He’s just so shy, and his parents keep him cloistered like he’s made out of porcelain.

As we’re coming up on my house, my mom rolls by in our Dodge minivan. Summer and Winter are sitting in the back and waving at me. “Dinner’s on,” Mom yells, slowing down but not stopping. “Turn the burner down to medium-low in ten minutes.” She smiles at Alistair. “We’re having chicken curry,” she tells him and drives away.

“She wants you to stay for supper,” I say, daring a quick glance over at his sullen face. Alistair never stays for supper anywhere. His parents don’t allow it. So my mom doesn’t really ask him anymore, just tells him what we’re having. “Cheers is on in ten minutes,” I add, checking my watch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shaking his head. No, he’s not staying for light comedy television and curry chicken.

We pass my house but don’t even look at it, because whatever the weather or time, I’ve always walked him home. When we reach his house, I feel like someone is squeezing my windpipe. I want to say something to him about the idiotic party and how trivial it is to me, but instead, I stuff my hands down my pockets and step back into the street. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

He nods and looks back at his house. I know he’s going to sit at that table and say his prayers and ask to be forgiven for something we haven’t even done yet.

At the door, he gives me one last look and I can’t stand it. “What?” I snap at him.

“Nothing.” He slams the door in my face.