“I mean you no harm,” I said softly. “I am in debt to you. You stopped that creature.”
Slowly his body unfolded, and he gawked at me like I was river-dancing. “You’re Blacklight,” he panted. “THE Blacklight.”
“That I am.” I helped him to his feet, and he glanced around the rooftop at the glittering skyline on all sides of us. His eyes stayed wide, nearly bulging out of his skull, his mouth hanging wetly open as he took in the view. I could imagine this was a shock for him, but honestly, I just wanted to get to the bottom of this damn mystery. “How do you know my name?”
“My God,” he murmured, “it used to look like this, didn’t it? New York. Manhattan. We’re in Manhattan, aren’t we?”
“Yes, of course. Answer my question.”
“Jesus, there’s the Chrysler Building…. Look at it, like a giant, steel Christmas tree. It’s just like I remem—”
I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face me. “I don’t have time for this,” I said, jabbing a blackened finger in his face. “Tell me who you are. Where you’re from. What the hell that creature that turned into you was.”
He stared into my eyes for a few seconds, dumbfounded, and then nodded slowly. “Who I am isn’t important,” he said with a sigh, “but when I’m from is.”
“I’m sorry—when?”
“I’m here from thirty years in the future, Locke. They sent me back to find you.”
The sound of my real name sent vipers through my blood. He really knew. This would not do. “Explain yourself. Immediately.”
“I came back in time to find you, to speak to you, to let you know about what horrible things will happen if you don’t do away with this little ‘gift’ of yours.”
“What are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, laughing humorlessly. “The swirling black tendrils, the dead, hateful eyes…It’s pretty simple.”
I knew the answer before he said it. I didn’t know
how
I knew, but I did. And as he affirmed it, the bottom of my stomach gave way to an endless pit of horror.
“I’m the new Blacklight,” he said. “I’m what you become.”
“You’re…you’re ME?”
“Not quite.” His eyes glazed over as he took in the city again and mumbled, “That’s the problem.”
T
HERE’S ONE PERSON
I can think of who I could borrow a tuxedo from (one that fits me, anyway) in time for the party. One problem: He’s my father.
Randall drives me, borrowing his mom’s car. He’s one of the few people I know who can actually drive (it’s New York, we have the subway). He’d acted like a suburban kid the day he turned sixteen, talking nonstop about
needing
his license. He drove to school the day he got it (all twelve blocks) just to show off how cool he was, blasting classic rock out of the windows at full volume (or, to quote Randall as he passed us that day, “BAHN! BaNAHN! BAHN-NAHN du nunnah-NUNNAH, getcher mota runnin’…!”). It was hilarious in kind of a dorky way, which, I suppose, is Randall’s MO.
On the ride up, he takes my silence for an invitation. Which it totally is. “So how
is
Rick? Haven’t seen him in a dog’s age.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Did you ever meet my dad? I don’t remember that.”
“It was at that birthday of yours, like, two years ago. Your dad showed up, remember? He gave you that journal, the really nice one with that weird sort of pea-soup-green cover that I could tell you hated. He was awkward and thought he was the shit. Like the really cool kid who’s graced the chess club party with his presence.”
“Huh, I guess you
were
there. He’s good, I guess. I dunno. He’s not on my mind much. Hey, why do you keep calling him Rick? Why not just call him, like, ‘your dad?’”
He stares ahead for a bit as if he’s trying to see his answer on the shoulder of the West Side Highway. “No offense, dude, but he doesn’t seem much like a dad. And you never really want to talk to or about him. So to me, he’s just this guy named Rick who happened to…
sire
you. A father is the man who raises you, not the one who supplies you with genetic material.”
For a second the world settles to a halt, and Randall and I are the most important friends in existence.
“And from what I’ve seen, Rick’s not much of a man, and you’ve been raised by”—he dons a retarded grin—“me.”
“Oh, wow, that’s one hell of a concept.”
“I’ll explain it when you’re older, son.”
We get to my father’s house, one of those big multistory suburban deals with a lawn bigger than my whole apartment if you include both the front and back. It looks like the
Addams Family
house designed by Donny and Marie. As Randall parks in the driveway next to two incredibly nice cars (an SUV and an Acura…his and hers, or hers and his, or whatever, I don’t fucking care), he looks over at me and says, “Hey, do you want me to come in with you? I could take out the wife while you get the tuxedo, tie up your pops, cut up some magazines, and make a note for the police—”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“Gotcha.”
The five-second walk between the car and the massive front door takes approximately twelve forevers. I feel myself begin to sweat nervously, and cocoon my coat around me, which only makes me sweat more.
This will be fine,
I say in my head.
You called ahead. They know you’re coming. Just get in, get the tux, and get out. No problem.
Yeah. Just go in there, smile, and let that son of a bitch believe that he’s a good fucking father. Let him know that he can still provide you with something, although it may not be, I dunno, compassion, or kindness, or the time of fucking day. No big deal. Here’s a suit, kid.
“Shut up, shut up, now’s not the time, please, for five fucking minutes, shut up.”
I finally look up to face the door, reaching my hand out steadily for the big gold-plated knocker screwed to the front of it.
Before I even touch it, the door opens, and any remaining stoicism in me becomes sweat. There stands a girl with long blonde hair, dressed in a school-girl uniform, presumably Bethany, my—gyah—
half-sister
. She looks to be about five, clinging to the strap of her backpack like I’m about to steal it. My instinct is to bend down and smile innocently, but something in her eyes creeps me out way too much, so I just say, “Hi, I’m Locke.”
Her eyes light up, and she rushes down the hallway, squealing, “MOM!” With nothing else to do, I reluctantly follow her inside.
Millie, my dad’s silver medal, is sitting at a small table surrounded by huge front windows, glowing in the afternoon sun. Once she catches sight of me, all other sound is drowned out by a deafening “HIIII!”
“Hey.”
“God, good to
see
you!” she says, rushing over and pulling me into a huge hug. I’m not sure how to respond to this whole thing. Something in the back of my head suggests I knock her out, get Randall to go ahead with the kidnapping plan, and maybe snatch a few twenties from her pocket. Venom talking. So I just pat her back lightly with my hand. A nice, neutral gesture. She smells nice, I guess.
Okay…OKAY. Fuck. The dinosaurs could’ve ruled the Earth and died during this hug. Let go of me.
Let go of me, you plastic-ass little—
She pulls back, and the venom eyes blunt objects throughout the room. After doing the arm’s-length “good look at you” routine, she pulls me toward the kitchen table. I was afraid of this. If this were Dad, there’d be a handshake, maybe he’d even offer me a drink if it had been a good day. There’d be guy stuff—sports and school and the future—and we’d leave feeling a little better about ourselves. But no, no drink, no football, just this woman pretending I’m family.
“Wow! I haven’t seen you in ages! What are you, a senior now?”
“Junior.”
“Wow, a junior, gosh! And so handsome in that coat, too. So many people can’t pull off the long coat, but you, you do it well!”
“Thanks.”
“Wow. Sorry I didn’t get the door, the baby was having a moment and I had to get her binky.” The baby. I can’t even find the words. “Would you like some tea? Coffee? Soda?”
“Got any chocolate milk?”
She gives me a sly smile and says, “A sweet tooth. Just like your father.”
I didn’t think hell would be this well decorated.
Next thing I know, I’m sipping Nesquik next to Millie around the glass table I’d found her at, wishing she wasn’t so fucking
nice
. If she were cold and uncaring, I could at least walk away from this experience feeling vindicated. Since this isn’t the case, I’m answering her questions about high school and New York City life. My ego is melting and turning into a pool of boiling bitterness. The venom is like a heartbeat, persistent, grinding into my mind at high speeds. I can’t drink the chocolate milk fast enough; every sip cancels out a pulse of unfiltered hate.
After a while, I can’t take the suspense any longer, so I finally decide to ask. “Is, um, my dad around?”
She gets an almost hurt look in her eyes. “No, I’m sorry, honey. He’s at work. He wanted to be here, but it was one of those days.” I let her think that this is a big bummer for me and look at my shoes. “But he did leave what you needed out for you after you called this afternoon. Hold on….” She gets up and exits the room, leaving me to finish my chocolate milk and look around. It’s nice. I remember them having a nice home, but nothing like this. The more I stare, the more comes back to me, and the more disgusted and outraged I feel. Christmases in itchy sweaters. Helping Lon with his tie the day of our great-aunt’s funeral.
How much do you think this place set him back?
Please not now.
You can “not do this.” Me, I’m pissed.
I’m begging you.
The room closes in, and my head swims in contempt.
Please, not now.
You never wonder why your family had to be the test run?
I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it. Fuck off.
It’s
because I’m
right,
huh?
Maybe.
“Hi.”
I turn around to face the little voice and see a girl who let me in. She stands half-hidden by a decorative umbrella stand, her eyes fixated on me with rapt fascination. This time I summon the stones to smile at her and be at least somewhat welcoming and brotherlike.
“Hi,” I coo. “Bethany, right? I’m Locke.”
“Oh.”
There’s a moment of staring at each other, the awkwardness obviously not exclusive to me.
“How’s having a baby brother?”
She stares for a second and then whispers, “Okay. Brian’s nice. Sorta.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Brian. Bethany and Brian. Brian and Bethany. I always forget about it until it slaps me back in the face. Ten dollars says the next one’s name is Bridgette or Bonnie or Blake or something. Dad with his stupid fucking letter hang-ups. If he’d had another kid with Mom, their name would definitely start with an
L
. Is there some process to choosing what letter? Why’d we get
L
and they get
B
? Is there a woman out there, waiting for my dad to stuff her womb full of
A
children? I wonder whether he’ll keep leaving wives and taking new ones till he has an entire alphabet, but then I tell myself to shut up, because that’s venom talking; talking and talking and kicking and screaming—
“Is he?” is the only thing I can think of.
“You’re one of Dad’s other kids, right?”
I snap back to reality and try being polite. “Right. We’ve met before, you’re just too young to remember. I came for Easter.”
Bethany squirms a bit and finally says, “Why’re you here?”
“I’m borrowing a suit from my—from Dad.”
“Oh.”
“Yup. For a party.”
“A fancy party?”
“Sssssort of.”
“Does Dad know?”
“Yup.”
“Okay.” She cocks her head to the side and frowns a bit. “I like your hair.”
“Uh…thanks.”
“My mom says you’re in therapy.”
Oh, DOES she?
“Yup.”
“Me too.”
“Really?”
She nods a bit, smiling. “I talk to myself a lot, and sometimes I talk about things that aren’t nice. Mom heard me.”
Just as the venom can’t take it anymore and is about to suggest that my half sister is one of the Children of the Damned, Millie comes striding back into the room with a complete coat and tails, all wrapped up and ready to go. She sees Bethany and smiles. “Hey, sweetie. Did you say hello to Locke?”
Bethany nods her head slightly. “I like his hair.”
“Isn’t that nice?” Looking back to me, she hands me the tux. “There you go. It should fit you well enough. Rick wore it to a costume party once or something, I mean, no one really has a coat and tails anymore. Well. Anyway. All yours.”
I smile and take it and, making the excuse that my friend is waiting for me, slowly back toward the door. Millie keeps smiling and says a good-bye and that she hopes to see more of me soon, while Bethany trots over to her and hugs her around the waist as if her mother is a life preserver in the ocean. The whole place seems irritating, jagged. I feel dizzy. The venom sends shocks and strains down the cords of my neck, through my shoulders, down into my fingers. I’m somewhere between enraged and ashamed.
Fucking bitch, with her big, stupid smile and her long hug, fucking athletic blond-haired rugrat, fucking McMansion—
As I’m almost out of the kitchen, Millie says, “I’ll tell your dad you said hi.”
I nod, and then wave to Bethany. “Later, kid,” I say, a little too desperate to get out the door.
Have a good one, kid. Hope you don’t grow up to be Ophelia.
I exit the front door, and the fresh air hits me, washing away rage, nerves, and the nonstop buzzing in my head. I let it wash through my coat, my T-shirt, under my armpits and into my hair. Thank God I got out of there when I did; I was beginning to sweat and shake a bit between Millie’s niceness and Bethany’s therapy talk. Whatever you want to call it. I just felt like I walked onto the set of some weird TV show about the darkness that lives within the typical American family. Or something. God, it’s nice out.
Wonder if Dad knows crazy comes from his side. Wonder how it’d make him feel to know that you—and thus I—were spawned from his genes.
As I get into the car, Randall hands me a cigarette, and I spark up. He glances at the suit and smiles. “Shit, a full coat and tails. You’ll be the life of the party. Go, Rick.”
“Yeah, lucky me.”
“The visit wasn’t a memory you want to cherish, I take it?”
I shrug. “Millie was too nice, their little girl is in therapy, and both the kids have names that begin with
B
.”
Randall raises a hand to cover his smile. “Sorry.”