Authors: Michael Louis Calvillo
The car’s LED flashes 3:15 a.m. Normally, I am asleep by now. When I was a teen, I used to stay up till two, maybe even three a.m., staring at the ceiling, praying for good things to happen, but once I hit my twenties I could never make it past midnight. The past few years I’ve been going to bed earlier and earlier, usually by nine thirty. There’s no point in staying up any later, except of course for special occasions like my food-poisoning attempt or maybe my birthday. Amazingly enough I don’t feel the least bit tired. Maybe being dead means you never have to sleep again. Maybe it means no more dreams.
So I drive and I drive and I head east and I wait expectantly for Annabelle to return and give me direction.
After a while, driving aimlessly gets really boring, the novelty wears quickly, and I decide it might be best to find a quiet place to park and think and relax while I wait. I exit the freeway, navigate the car through a residential neighborhood and park in front of a dark house overtaken by lush weeping willows. The LED flashes 5:15 a.m. and the neighborhood street is deserted. Satisfied I am safe, alone and unseen, I shut off the car and kill the lights.
Okay, assessment: I am still a filthy mess.
My pants and my shoes are spattered with blood and encrusted with dirt.
My shirt shifts and swings, nearly gone, burned, torn to shreds and hanging like rags beneath my sweater.
The hole in my stomach is still moist. I lift up my pullover to find it gaping crimson, crusty and wet, leaking a blackish fluid into the fabric of the sweater, soiling it, weighing it down, and expanding an ever-growing damp spot.
My other bullet wounds are somewhat dry, but they still look pretty foul, cracked around the edges and caked with gobs of whitish yellow crud. I think they have stopped hurting, but then again the pain may have simply crested, reaching a level of consistent throbbing so consistent it has become a part of me—an invariable, a component of the steadily humming decay, part of death’s still dance. I center and try to focus. Yes, the pain, per se, is definitely gone, but there is still a feeling, something in its place, a dreadful sensation that feels wrong and empty and, well, dead. I suppose it’s to be expected. I mean I’ve been shot. I am technically dead. Dead to you anyway. Dead to doctors and bullets and disease. Dead to microbes and water and earth. Dead to the dream.
I suppose it’s best for me not to think about it too much.
I run my left hand—gimp hand, ruiner—along the base of the seat, pull the lever and lower it back. The seat stops short, dead-ending against the mountain of laundry strewn about the backseat. I lean forward, re-pull the lever, and throw my weight into it, hoping to force an indentation and gain a little leeway in the laundry pile. The seat builds plenty of momentum and presses on a little deeper, but it ceases on something solid.
Out-of-nowhere sound: I hear a little grunt followed by a sleepy, drawn-out, “Mommy?”
Oh shit.
Leaning forward fast and re-re-pulling the lever, the seat flies up and the headrest whacks me in the back of the skull. Hard. Starbursts and dull pains and streaks of opaque white-silver trail across the undersides of my eyelids.
“Mommy?”
I watch in the rearview as the pile of laundry sits up. Clothes roll this way and that, revealing a blanket wrapped around a little person. In silhouette I can see a tight crown of curls covering its little head. The darkness obscures almost all features, rendering the two of us little more than dimensional shadows, but what little light there is—star-shine glinting perhaps—reflects and alights our eyes. Mine glisten with worry in the rearview mirror. Two glassy, diminutive orbs shine out curiously and confused from the shape in the backseat. Blotted movement, dark into dark, the little eyes blink and then move forward as the shape cranes its little neck toward me.
“Mommy?” A whisper.
How did I miss this? I replay the whole situation in my head. I remember peering in the car. I remember jumping in the car and peeling away. I remember checking my rearview mirror continually. I remember a pile of laundry scattered about the backseat. Never once did it dawn on me that there could be a sleeping child buried away underneath the clothing. Who the hell lets their kid sleep in freaking laundry anyway? Never once did the pile of clothing remotely resemble the shape of a child. Never once.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
The earth or the dreamer or the grand design or whatever, really fucked up when they championed me as a savior. This is only one of many blunders to come. Mark my words: it can only get worse from here.
What am I supposed to do with a little kid? Kill it? Abandon it in the middle of nowhere? I hate humanity, loathe it, despise it, but there’s no way. I mean, it’s not even really a part of humanity yet. It’s still innocent.
“Where’s my mommy?” This time a little louder, a little assertive.
Those little shiny eyeballs stare into the rearview mirror and meet my gaze. I look down.
“She’ll be back real soon.”
“Where is she?” More assertion.
Strange. It’s a little-kid voice—high-pitched, unisex, cuter than a puppy dog—but it sounds, I don’t know, kind of dangerous?
“She had some things to do.” I tighten my inflection and counter the odd little voice with some assertion of my own.
“Kidnapping will get you prison time?” Coldly.
“What?”
“When you get caught, they’ll put you in jail.” Even colder.
Is this a child or a midget? The voice and the silhouette are pure kid, but something is amiss. Something about the tone and the content are wrong. What kid would talk like this? What kid wouldn’t be scared or crying or maybe even dumb as rocks and happy?
Unnerved, I shout, “I haven’t kidnapped you!” Focus. Keep cool.
“Where’s my mommy then? Why are you so nervous?” Calm and collected.
“I told you, she had some things to do. She’ll be back soon!” Frustrated, I start the car and take off. Focus.
“Where are we going?”
I ignore the creepy kid and make for the freeway. Every burst of light, be it a street lamp or an oncoming car, I strain and try to get a better look at the shape in the backseat. Contrary to mounting opinion, it’s definitely a child. Five, six, seven years old tops. Cute little button nose, medium-length Afro, intense eyes, strongly resembles Arnold during the first couple of seasons of
Different Strokes
.
There is silence between us for a few minutes. Those piercing little eyes bore into the back of my head the whole time. I wanna shout: STOP LOOKING AT ME, YOU LITTLE FREAK, I HAVE TO FOCUS, but I bite my lip and press on. What is up with this kid? He doesn’t seem the least bit scared. He seems…
And then, before I can finish my thought:
“I’m a genius.”
Say what? So I ask him, “What?”
“I said I’m a genius. I am of great mental power. I also have a mild form of ESP.”
“What?”
“Extrasensory perception. I can read some of your thoughts. You were wondering why I am not frightened and if I’m a freak.”
“I…” I am speechless.
“Everybody thinks I’m a freak.”
Still speechless.
“People are afraid of what they don’t understand. That’s why you are afraid of me. You believe with regret.”
At a loss, I stupidly stick to my story. “Your mom will be back real soon.”
“No she won’t.” The little boy sighs loudly, slumps down and stares at his feet. Suddenly he looks the way I expect him to: small, frightened and lost.
“Look, you’ll be seeing your mommy before you know it. I promise.”
He smiles weakly and continues to stare at his feet.
More silence.
The sun is starting to rise and the land glows softly. I drive for some time trying to think of what to say, trying not to think things he might be able to read or catch or whatever. The saddest child in the world sits still and continues to stare at his feet. It’s a miserable sight. It is apparent that this little boy understands way too much.
“What’s your name?” I ask in an effort to bring him out.
“Eddie Lee Wiggins.”
“Mine’s…”
“Charles J. Baxter.”
“How did you?”
“ESP, remember?”
“So you can see the future?”
“No, I’m not prescient. I have extraordinarily strong senses and feelings. Sometimes they are too strong and they can pick up what others feel and think in a muddled way.”
“Right, you can read thoughts.”
“Vaguely.”
“I’m not gonna hurt you. I only did what I did because I needed the car.”
“I know.”
“As soon as we see a phone we’ll stop and call your mom. She’ll come pick you up. You know your phone number right?”
Eddie rolls his eyes and smirks. It’s infectious and I smirk back.
“I know everybody’s phone number. I probably know yours if you live in the area. I’ve memorized the phone book.”
“Like Rain Man or something.”
“Who’s Rain Man?”
“I thought you were a genius.”
“I am, but I’m only five.”
“
Rain Man
is a movie about an autistic savant type. Smart, but senseless.”
“Right, a movie.” Eddie stares at the roof and mumbles incoherently. After a few seconds he stops and readdresses my eyes in the rearview. “
Rain Man
, theatrical release: December 16, 1988. Filmed on location in Cincinnati, Ohio; Oklahoma City, Hinto, El Reno, Guthrie, and Cogar, Oklahoma; Las Vegas, Nevada; Chicago, Illinois; Los Angeles, California; and Southgate, Kentucky. Estimated budget: twenty-five million. Starring Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman. Directed by Barry Levinson. Screenplay by Ronald Bass. Richard Price, David Rayfiel and Kurt Luedtke were uncredited authors on the screenplay. Martin Brest was originally to direct, but he resigned over creative differences. Barry Levinson took over and shot the film in nine weeks. Began shooting May 2, 1988; completed shooting July 28, 1988.
MPAA Rating
:
R
,
Running Time
:
two hours and nineteen minutes.
Shown in competition at the 1989 Berlin Film Festival, February 19–20 and the 1989 Panorama of World Cinema in Sofia, Bulgaria, November 20–30. The film won four Academy Awards: Best Actor, Best Director, Best Picture, Best Writing-Original Screenplay. Won four additional Academy Award nominations for Best Art Direction-Set Decoration, Best Cinematography, Best Film Editing, Best Music-Original Score.”
“You are just like Rain Man.”
“I don’t have a disease. I’m just sharp. I have a photographic memory. I remember everything.”
This has to be the weirdest conversation I have ever had in my life. This is a five-year-old. He looks like he’s five, he sounds like he’s five, but he is far from five. How does he associate with other kids? Can he even?
“No.” Eddie shakes his head. “Other children don’t understand me and I can’t understand them.”
I really wish he’d stop doing that.
“Sorry. I can’t help it.”
“You can’t help reading my thoughts?’
“Sometimes.”
“What am I thinking right now?” (I am here to destroy the world).
“It’s too dark. I can’t see the thoughts, but they feel wrong. They feel…aimless.”
“Aimless? Strange.”
“You’re pretty strange yourself. Charles.”
We smirk at each other and then go quiet. I spend a long time thinking about not thinking. Twenty miles of silence pass before I see a sign advertising a Denny’s another fifteen miles up the road.”
“You hungry?”
Eddie has been staring out the window this entire time. He turns his head and meets me in the rearview mirror. “I’m starving.”
“Good, there’ll be a phone there too.”
Eddie goes back to staring out the window. After a minute or two his eyes return to the rearview. I feel him staring at me so I bite. “What?”
“Where are you going?”
“To Denny’s.”
“No. In life.”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I know things, I know lots of things and I have things to tell you, but they are hard to explain and I have to work into it.”
“Are you okay, man?” I ask because all of a sudden his face looks very serious and very old.
“Just listen. You’re different than anybody I’ve ever met. You don’t care about the same things in the same way that people in my life care about them. I’m too smart and almost alien and your cursed hand isolates you. We are similar in lots of ways.”
“My hand? How do you… I wasn’t thinking about my hand.”
“Not consciously, but subconsciously it’s there. It’s always there, just like my everlasting brain. Whatever you have scares people. What I have scares people. Being this small and young my parents keep me close, they feed me their ideals and I occasionally get close to somebody beyond my family, a friend or something, but nobody like you.”
Eddie stops and he scrunches his face and tears roll out of the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t sob or hitch— instead he calmly wipes and continues on.
“I feel unloved. I feel unloved just like you. Just like the sorrow I am reading in your heart. I feel that same way. My mom feels cheated that I am not the cuddly, childlike imp she has always wanted. Once this set in and she got used to the idea that I will never really possess the mentality of a child or exhibit general immaturities, she gave up on trying to mother and nurture me—instead she started focusing on the future, what I can bring to the table in the future as this marketable, bankable genius. My teachers feel the same, my stepdad feels the same.”
“It’s best to not to worry so much. Let go and relax. Just be a kid.” What else can I say? Remember earlier, that bit about the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my life? Forget it,
this
is by far the weirdest conversation I have ever had in my life.
“But I’m not a kid. I know better. That’s like me telling you to just be one of them, just fit in, just enjoy all the life that you can’t experience. I may only be five, but I know that there is no Santa Claus and that God is a fairy tale for weak adults. I don’t like toys or cartoons or acting goofy. I wish I were a little no-brained innocent, but I’m not. Anyway about what I am trying to tell you, when I woke up and it dawned on me that I had been kidnapped…”