Something Wicked This Way Comes (Green Town 2)

"I'll believe."

"Will you?" Will searched the shadows on his father's face, saw whiteness of skin, eyeball, and hair.

"Dad, the other night, at three o'clock in the morning--"

"Three in the morning--"

He saw Dad flinch as from a cold wind, as if he smelled and knew the whole thing and simply could not move, reach out, touch and pat Will.

And he knew he could not say it. Tomorrow, yes, some other day, yes, for perhaps with the sun coming up, the tents would be gone, the freaks off over the world, leaving them alone, knowing they were scared enough not to push it, say anything, just to keep their mouths shut. Maybe it would all blow over, maybe ... maybe....

"Yes, Will?" said his father, with difficulty, the pipe in his hand going dead. "Go on."

No, thought Will, let Jim and me be cannibalized, but no one else. Anyone that knows gets hurt. So no one else must know. Aloud he said:

"In a couple days. Dad, I'll tell you everything. I swear. Mom's honor."

"Mom's honor," said Dad, at last

, "is good enough for me."

Chapter 28

THE NIGHT was sweet with the dust of autumn leaves that smelled as if the fine sands of ancient Egypt were drifting to dunes beyond the town. How come, thought Will, at a time like this, I can even think of four thousand years of dust of ancient people sliding around the world, and me sad because no one notices except me and Dad here maybe, and even us not telling each other.

It was indeed a time between, one second their thoughts all brambled airedale, the next all silken slumbering cat. It was a time to go to bed, yet still they lingered reluctant as boys to give over and wander in wide circles to pillow and night thoughts. It was a time to say much but not all. It was a time after first discoveries but not last ones. It was wanting to know everything and wanting to know nothing. It was the new sweetness of men starting to talk as they must talk. It was the possible bitterness of revelation.

So while they should have gone upstairs, they could not depart this moment that promised others on not so distant nights when man and boy-becoming-man might almost sing. So Will at last said, carefully:

"Dad? Am I a good person?"

"I think so. I know so, yes."

"Will--will that help when things get really rough?"

"It'll help."

"Will it save me if I need saving? I mean, if I'm around bad people and there's no one else good around for miles, what then?"

"It'll help."

"That's not good enough, Dad!"

"Good is no guarantee for your body. It's mainly for peace of mind--"

"But sometimes, Dad, aren't you so scared that even--"

"--the mind isn't peaceful?" His father nodded, his face uneasy.

"Dad," said Will, his voice very faint. "Are you a good person?"

"To you and your mother, yes, I try. But no man's a hero to himself. I've lived with me a lifetime. Will. I know everything worth knowing about myself--"

"And, adding it all up ...?"

"The sum? As they come and go, and I mostly sit very still and tight, yes, I'm all right."

"Then, Dad," asked Will, "why aren't you happy?"