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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第9章|Chapter 9

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[20161]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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“听听这个。”我的朋友奥斯卡把一张唱片放在转盘上，小心地放下指针。45转的唱片发出“砰砰”和“嘶嘶”的声音，接着主旋律开始了。是四段式的嘟哇音乐，有企鹅乐队的《大地天使》和乌鸦乐队的《唧》，他坐到床沿上，闭上眼，把这些有难度的和声区分开来，先唱高音，然后唱低音。或者他会放一曲迈尔斯的新爵士乐连复段，也可能是戴夫·布鲁克的，找出其中的对位旋律，竖起耳朵听喇叭下几不可闻的钢琴声。整个高中时代，我们常常如此在他房间里花上几个小时，懒洋洋地听着他大量收藏的那些古怪唱片，分析、争论曲子的微妙之处。奥斯卡·拉甫对音乐的热情让我惭愧自己的志向。他在高中时的外号是“白色的黑鬼”，因为他非常地不合群，冷若冰霜，整天若有所思。奥斯卡就是这样一个局外人，与他相比，我倒自觉正常。

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他比我高一级，但他欢迎我进入他的生活。我父亲认为奥斯卡比布兰多还粗野，但我母亲透过现象看本质，把他当儿子一样疼爱。我在组建乐队时，第一个找的就是他。

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自从“亨利·戴五人组”成立，奥斯卡就和我共进退，后来还经历了几个版本：“亨利·戴四人组”、“四马夫”、“亨利和白日光”、“幻想乐队”，最后干脆变成“亨利·戴”。不幸的是，我们没能一起将这个乐队维持几个月：我们的第一个击鼓手退了学，参加了海军陆战队，我们最好的吉他手也搬走了，因为他父亲调去了爱荷华州的达文波特。大多数人都退出了，因为他们没法像音乐师那样来对待乐队。

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只有奥斯卡和他的单簧管坚持下来。我们在一起有两个原因：其一是他能把任何一支喇叭都吹得很棒，尤其是他喜欢的那支；其二是他已经到了能开车的年龄，也有自己的汽车——一辆朴实的红白色贝尔艾尔54。我们什么都演奏，从高中舞会到婚礼到偶尔夜总会的晚间演出。我们的优点是带来听觉享受，而非任何预想之中的酷劲，我们能给任何听众演奏任何音乐。

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在一场迷死听众的爵士表演之后，奥斯卡开车载我们回家，收音机开得震天响，小伙子们兴致高昂。那个夏日的深夜，他把其他人放下车后，我们停在了我父母家门口。飞蛾在前灯的照明中疯狂跳舞，蟋蟀富有节奏的歌声使周围越发寂静。星星和弦月点缀在无精打采的天空中。我们下车坐在贝尔艾尔的车篷上，望着黑暗，不愿这夜晚结束。

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“伙计，我们是毒气，”他说，“我们毙了他们。我们演奏《现在嗨》的时候，你有没有看到那个家伙? 好像他从来没有听过这种声音。”

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“老兄，我快累死了。”

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“哦，你太酷，太酷了。”

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“你自己也不差。”我往车上挪了挪，以免从车篷上滑下来。我的脚还没有够到地面，于是我在心里哼着调子甩起腿来。奥斯卡取下夹在耳后的香烟，用打火机“噗”的一下点燃，把烟圈向夜空中吹去，后一个烟圈打破了前一个。

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“你是从哪里学的钢琴，戴? 我是说，你还是个孩子呢。只有十五岁，对吗? ”

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“练习，老兄，练习。”

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他不再眺望星星，转过脸来看我：“你能够演奏出任何你想要的东西。练习不会给你灵魂。”

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“这几年我都在上课。在城里。跟一个叫马丁的家伙，他曾和爱乐乐团同台演奏过。清一色的古典音乐。学了古典音乐，理解低档次的音乐就更容易了。”

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“这我明白。”他递给我一支香烟，我深深吸了一口，知道他在里面加了大麻。

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“但有时候我觉得自己被撕成了两半。我爸妈想要我继续跟马丁先生上课。你知道，学交响乐或独奏曲。”

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“就像列勃拉斯。”奥斯卡嘻嘻笑道。

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“住嘴。”

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“搞同性恋。”

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“住嘴。”我在他肩上捶了一拳。

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“别急，伙计，”他抚摸着胳膊，“你能办到的，想要怎样就能怎样。

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我水平很好，但你却好得简直没治了。好像你一辈子都在搞音乐似的，要么天生是个音乐家。”

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也许是麻醉品让我吐露真言，也许是夏夜的感觉、演出后的兴奋，或是因为奥斯卡是我第一位真正的朋友，更或许是我渴望告诉某个人，任何一个。

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“奥斯卡，我承认，我根本不是亨利·戴，而是一个在森林生活了很久很久的妖怪。”

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他猛笑起来，一缕烟气从他鼻孔中冒出来。

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“我是说真的，伙计，我们偷了真正的亨利·戴，绑架了他，我变成了他。我们交换了身份，但没人知道。我过着他的生活，我猜想他也过着我的生活。在变成换生灵之前，我是另外一个人，是一个德国男孩，或在别的什么讲德语的地方。我都不记得了，不过能点点滴滴地回想起来，我在那里弹了很久的钢琴，后来换生灵偷走了我，现在我回到了人类中间，几乎不记得过去了，但好像我一部分是亨利·戴，一部分又是曾经的我。当时我肯定是个很酷的音乐家，因为这是惟一的解释。”

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“这可太妙了，伙计。那么真正的亨利在哪里? ”

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“在森林里的某个地方。也可能死了。他可能会死，这种事时有发生，但更可能的是藏在森林里。”

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“比方说他现在正在看着我们? ”他跳下车，对着黑暗轻声说道：“亨利? 那是你吗? ”

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“闭嘴，老兄。有这可能的。但他们害怕人类，这我知道。”

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“他们是谁? ”

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“换生灵。这就是为什么你看不到他们。”

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“他们为什么怕我们? 好像我们应该怕他们才是。”

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“曾经是那样，老兄，但大家已经不再相信神话和仙灵传说了。”

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“但如果亨利在那里，正在看着我们，想把他的身体要回来，而他现在爬了过来，伙计，爬过来抓住了你? ”他飞快地伸出手，抓住我的脚踝。

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我尖叫起来，被这种简单的玩笑捉弄了，觉得不好意思。奥斯卡趴在车篷上，冲我大笑，“伙计，你是恐怖电影看多了。”

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“不，事实是……”我在他胳膊上打了一下。

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“你的地窖里有豆荚，对吗? ”

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我还想再打他，但很快意识到我的故事听起来有多么荒谬，于是我也开始大笑。

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无论奥斯卡是否还记得那个晚上，他再也没有提起此事，他可能觉得我是在幻想。

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他开车走了，咯咯笑个不停，而我说出真相后，觉得心里空荡荡的。我将亨利·戴扮演得如此成功，乃至无人怀疑这个真实的故事。甚至我的父亲，那个天生疑神疑鬼的人，也相信了我，或至少他把疑虑藏到了灵魂深处。

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我家的底楼像洞穴一般又黑又静。楼上，每个人都睡熟了。我打开厨房的灯，倒了一杯水。被亮光引来的蛾子飞来撞去，在窗子上拍打着翅膀。它们上下扑腾，发出一种带有威胁和预兆的声音。我关了灯，它们飞走了。在再度降临的黑暗中，我搜寻着移动的身影，倾听树木间的脚步声，但什么动静都没有。我轻轻上楼去看我的小妹妹们。

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当玛丽和伊丽莎白还小时，我常常担心她们会被妖怪抓走，再换两个换生灵回来。我知道他们的伎俩、本事和骗术，也知道他们会两次，甚至三次，光顾同一个家庭。距此不远流传着这样一个故事，早在18世纪70年代，丘齐家中有七个孩子被偷换成了换生灵，一个接一个，每个都在七岁那年，后来再也没有丘齐的骨肉了，只有假货，可怜那对父母和一群异族生活在一起。我的妹妹很可能被相中，我观察着她们行为和外貌上能说明问题的变化——突然变得迷人了，或者某种脱离生活的表现——那就表明可能被替换了。

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我告诫双胞胎要离树林和任何阴影处远远的。“危险的蛇啊，熊啊，野猫啊会等在我们这里附近。不要跟陌生人说话。为什么要出去玩呢? ”我问道，“电视里有绝对好看有趣的东西。”

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“但我喜欢探险。”伊丽莎白说。

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“如果我们从不离家，我们怎么能找到回家的路呢? ”玛丽补充说。

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“你们见过响尾蛇吗? 嗯，我可见过，还有铜头蛇和水蝮蛇。被咬一口，你们就麻痹了，肢体发黑，接着就死了。你们觉得你们能比一头熊跑得更快或爬得更快吗? 它们爬树比猫还厉害，它们会抓住你们的腿，把你们一口吞下去。你们有没有看到过一头嘴边吐白沫的浣熊? ”

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“我什么都不要看了。”伊丽莎白哭着说。

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“如果我们不知道什么是危险，又怎能避开危险呢? ”玛丽问道。

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“危险就在那里。你们走在外面，在一根老木头上绊一跤，摔伤了腿，没人会找到你们。你们还会被困在暴风雪中，到处都刮着风，你们连自家大门都找不到，第二天早晨他们会发现你们冻得像根冰棍似的，就在离家门十步不到的地方。”

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“够了。”她们齐声叫起来，走开去看《好迪嘟迪》或《连衫裤房间》了。但我知道，我在学校或和乐队排练的时候，她们会无视我的警告。她们回家的时候，膝盖和屁股上沾着草汁，裸露的皮肤上有扁虱，鬈发上有小树枝，连衫裤里有青蛙，呼吸里有股危险的味道。

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但那一晚，她们是沉睡的羊羔，我父母房间边上的两扇门在打鼾。父亲在睡梦中唤了我的名字，但时间太晚了，我没敢应声。屋子变得异常沉寂。我说出了自己最黑暗的秘密，但没有结果，于是我去睡觉了，睡得和往常一样安稳。

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他们说，一个人永不忘怀他的初恋，但我懊悔地承认，我不记得她的名字，也不记得她的其他什么——除了记得她是我第一个看到的裸身女孩。因为要讲故事，我就把她叫做莎莉吧，也许这本来就是她的名字。向奥斯卡坦白的那个夏天过后，我继续随马丁先生上课，她也在那里。学年末期她走了，再回来时，已经脱胎换骨，成为一个令人艳羡、崇拜和迷恋的对象。我也和其他人一样怀有无名的欲火，但却是她选择了我。她的感情，我感激地照单全收。冬季独奏会上，她鼓起勇气和我说话，而之前我留意她的曲线已有数月之久。我们穿着正装一起站在后台，忍受着我们个人钢琴表演前的等待。最小的孩子最先出场，因为痛苦的折磨最好当作开胃品呈上。

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“你是在哪里学的钢琴? ”她低声问道，当时正演奏着一支烦人而缓慢的小步舞曲。

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“就在这里。我是说跟马丁先生学的。”

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“你棒得不像话。”她笑了。在她评价的鼓舞下，我弹出了我最激动人心的独奏曲。此后几个月，我们慢慢认识了。她会待在乐室里，听我将同一支曲子弹了一遍又一遍，听马丁先生暴躁地低声说：“柔板，柔板。”周六，我们会共进午餐，在蜡纸上铺上三明治，聊当天的课程。通常我口袋里总有演奏得来的几个美元，因此我们能去看场演出，或买个冰激凌或汽水。我们的交谈集中在十五岁孩子的话题上：学校、朋友、让人受不了的父母，还有就我们自己的情况——钢琴。我谈论得更多的是音乐：作曲家、马丁先生、唱片、爵士乐和古典乐的密切关系，以及我自己那一派瞎扯的学说。这不是对话，倒更像是独自。我不知道该如何倾听，如何把她摒除在外，又如何安静地享受她的陪伴。她或许本是个可爱的人。

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但太阳开始蒸热春天的空气，我们到公园中散步，通常我会避免去那儿，因为它很像森林。但黄水仙开花了，看起来浪漫无边。城市里的喷泉打开了，这是春天的另一个象征，我们坐在水边，久久地看着瀑布。我不知道该怎么去做我想做的事，怎么问，怎么说，甚至不知道该怎么提起这个话题。莎莉救了我。

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“亨利? ”她问道，声音提高了八度，“亨利，我们已经在一块散步、吃饭、看电影有三个多月了。这段时间里，我在想：你是否喜欢我? ”

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“我当然喜欢。”

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“如果你像你说的那样喜欢我，为什么从不来牵我的手? ”

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我握住她的手，惊讶她手指的热度，掌心的汗水。

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“你为什么从来不吻我? ”

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第一次，我直直地瞪着她的眼睛。她看起来好像正在表达一个哲学问题。我不知道该怎么接吻，就匆匆忙忙地做了，如今后悔没有多吻一会儿，即便只是为了记住这种感觉。她的手指插入我涂了发油的头发，这引起了意料之外的反应，我学了她的动作，但一个谜在我心中蔓延开来。我不知道下一步该做什么。如果不是她突然发现应该去赶电车，我们可能还是坐在那里，傻平乎地看着彼此的脸。在去和我父亲碰头的路上，我谴责了自己的感情。在我这一回人类的生活中，我正“爱”着我的家人，但我从未“爱”过一个外人。我情不自禁，但这太危险。感情因为欲望而更加迷惑。我数着时间等待下一个周六，迫不及待地想见她。

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好在是她采取了主动。当我们在佩恩剧院黑黢黢的包厢里搂脖子亲嘴时，她抓住我的手放在她胸口，在我的触碰下她浑身颤动。她提示一切，她想到要啃耳朵，她第一个摸大腿。我们后来在一起时都不怎么说话了，而我也不知道莎莉究竟计划着什么，或者就那种事情而言，她到底有没有想过。难怪我喜欢这个女孩，不管她叫什么名字，当她提出要我假装生病逃马丁先生的课时，我欣然答应。

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我们搭电车去南边她父母家。在明媚的阳光下爬山上她家，我汗流浃背，但莎莉习惯了走远路，在人行道上两步并一步跳着，还取笑我跟不上。她家坐落在高处，占地不大，紧挨着岩石一侧。她向我保证说，她父母不在家，他们一整天都开车去了乡下。

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“我们有自己的地盘了。你想来杯柠檬汁吗? ”

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倒不如她穿条围裙，而我抽一个烟斗。她端来饮料，坐在长沙发上。我一口喝完饮料，坐在她父亲的安乐椅上。我们坐着，我们等着。我听到自己心里传来铙钹的铿锵声。

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“亨利，你为什么不过来和我坐在一块? ”

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我就像一只顺从的巴儿狗，摇着尾巴，拖着舌头奔过去。我们的十指交握。我笑了。她笑了。一个长吻——你能吻多久? 我的手摸到她衬衫底下的肚子，这激发了被压抑的原始冲动。我翻过身压在她身上。她抓住我的腰。

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“亨利，亨利，这太过分了。”莎莉喘着气，摇着手给自己打扇。我滚开去，撅起嘴嘘气。我怎会误解了她的表示? 莎莉飞快地脱衣，我几乎没有看清这变化。

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像是按了一下按钮，她的衬衫、胸罩、裙子、衬裙、袜子、内裤都纷纷脱落。她一边脱，一边厚颜看着我，笑得很美。我真爱她。当然，我在博物馆里见过图画，贝蒂．佩吉的写真画和法国明信片，但图像缺少广度和深度，且艺术并非生活。我身体的一半被拉上前去，竭力想去抚摸她的肌肤，但微乎其微的可能性让我停下来。

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我朝她跨出一步。

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“别，别，别。我已经让你看了我的，现在你要让我看你的。”

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自从小时候在游泳池中当着他人面脱衣之后，我再也没有做过这种事，这回可不是个陌生人，想到这光景，我就觉得尴尬。但很难就此拒绝一个裸体女孩的请求。

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于是我脱衣服了，整个过程中都看见她看着我。我脱到内裤时，注意到她的峡谷中有一小片三角形的毛，而我那里寸毛不生。我希望这种状况是女性独有的，我脱下内裤，她脸上闪过惊骇和沮丧的神情。她倒抽口气，手按在嘴上。我低头看了看，又抬头看她，感到十分困惑。

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“我的天呐，亨利，”她说，“你看起来像个小男孩。”

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我遮住自己。

76
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“这是我见到过的最小的家伙。”

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我恼怒地从地上拿起衣服。

78
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“对不起，但你看起来和我八岁的表弟一样。”莎莉开始从地上捡起她的衣服，“亨利，别生气。”

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但我气坏了，不是气她，而是气我自己。从她开口说话那刻起，我意识到自己忘了什么。在所有方面，我都是十五岁的模样，但我忽视了最重要的部位之一。我穿衣服时脸面尽丧，想起过去几年中自己所受的痛苦和折磨。我从嘴里拔掉乳牙，舒展、拉伸骨骼、肌肉和皮肤，长成一个少年，但却忘了青春期发育。她恳求我留下来，道歉说不该取笑我，甚至还说了大小不成问题，这其实是那种可爱型的，但无论她说什么做什么，都不能减轻我的羞耻。我再也没有和她说话，除了最基本的打招呼。她从我生活中消失了，好似被偷走了一样，我现在想，她是否原谅了我，是否忘记了那个下午。

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拉伸挽救了我的情形，但这种运动给我造成痛苦，也造成意料之外的后果。首先是那种好奇的感觉，以典型的方式弄得一塌糊涂，但更为有趣的是，我发现只要想像着莎莉或其他尤物，结果就会在意料之中。但如果想着讨厌的东西——森林，棒球，琶音——我就能推迟或者避免那种结果。第二个后果说起来更不安，也许是因为弹簧床面吱呀作响惹恼了父亲，一天晚上他闯进我房间，抓了个现行，虽然我身上盖着被子。他抬眼看天花板。

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“亨利，你在干什么? ”

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我停下手。有个表示清白的解释，但我不能说。

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“别以为我不知道。”

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知道什么? 我想问。

85
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“如果你再做，眼睛会瞎掉的。”

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我眨着眼。

87
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他走出房间。我翻过身，把脸压在冷冰冰的枕头上。我的本领一直在减退。千里眼，顺风耳，飞毛腿——都没有了，而我操纵自己外表的能力也在退化。我越来越像我一直想成为的人类，但我并没有为此高兴。我陷在床垫里，缩在被子下面，捶打枕头，扭着被子，徒劳无功地想舒服一下。一切寻欢的盼望都随着我的勃起渐渐平息，代之而起的是一阵阵的粗粝的孤独感。我觉得陷在了永无尽头的童年里，命中注定在他们掌控下生活，假父母一天十几次皱着怀疑的眉头。在森林里，我得数着时间等待自己换生，多年如一日地过着。在青春期的焦虑中，我度日如年。夜晚漫无止境。

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几个小时后我冒着汗醒来，扔开被子，走到窗边，开窗放入新鲜空气，却发现在草地上，深夜中，有一点红色的烟头，接着我辨认出父亲黑色的身影。他望着幽黑的树林，好似在等待什么从树木间的阴影里跳出来。爸爸回身进来时，抬头朝我房间看了一眼，看到我在窗框里望着他，但他什么也没说。

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"Listen to this." My friend Oscar put a record on the turntable and set down the needle with care. The 45 popped and hissed; then the melody line rose, followed by the four-part doo-wop, "Earth Angel" by The Penguins or "Gee" by The Crows, and he’d sit back on the edge of the bed, close his eyes, and pull apart those different harmonies, first singing tenor and so on through the bass. Or he’d put on a new jazz riff by Miles or maybe Dave Brubeck and pick out the counterpoint, cocking his ear to the nearly inaudible piano underneath the horns. All through high school we’d spend hours in his room, idly listening to his vast eclectic record collection, analyzing and arguing over the more subtle points of the compositions. Oscar Love’s passion for music put my ambitions to shame. In high school, he was nicknamed "The White Negro," as he was so alien from the rest of the crowd, so cool, so in his head all the time. Oscar was such an outsider, he made me feel normal by comparison. And even though he was a year ahead of me, he welcomed me into his life. My father thought Oscar wilder than Brando, but my mother saw beneath the facade and loved him like a son. He was the first person I approached about forming a band.

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Oscar stuck with me from its beginning as The Henry Day Five through every version: The Henry Day Four, The Four Horsemen, Henry and the Daylights, The Daydreamers, and lastly, simply Henry Day. Unfortunately, we could not keep the same group together for more than a few months at a time: Our first drummer dropped out of high school and enlisted in the MarineCorps; our best guitarist moved away when his father was transferred to Davenport, Iowa. Most of the guys quit because they couldn’t cut it as musicians. Only Oscar and his clarinet persisted. We stayed together for two reasons: one, he could play a mean lick on any horn, particularly his beloved stick; two, he was old enough to drive and had his own car—a pristine ’54 red and white Bel Air. We played everything from high school dances to weddings and the occasional night at a club. Discriminating by ear and not by any preconceived notion of cool, we could play any kind of music for any crowd.

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After a jazz performance where we particularly killed the crowd, Oscar drove us home, radio blaring, the boys in a great mood. He dropped off the others, and late that summer night we parked in front of my parents’ house. Moths danced crazily in the headlights, and the rhythmic cricket song underscored the silence. The stars and a half-moon dotted the languid sky. We got out and sat on the hood of the Bel Air, looking out into the darkness, not wanting the night to end.

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"Man, we were gas," he said. "We slayed them. Did you see that guy when we did ’Hey Now,’ like he never heard a sound like that before?"

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"I’m ’bout worn-out, man."

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"Oh, you were so cool, so cool."

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"You’re not bad yourself." I hitched myself farther up on the car to stop skidding off the hood. My feet did not quite reach the ground, so I swung them in time to a tune in my head. Oscar removed the cigarette he had stashed behind his ear, and with a snap from his lighter he lit it, and into the night sky he blew smoke rings, each one breaking its predecessor.

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"Where’d you learn to play, Day? I mean, you’re still a kid. Only fifteen, right?"

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"Practice, man, practice."

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He quit looking at the stars and turned to face me. "You can practice all you want. Practice don’t give you soul."

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"I’ve been taking lessons for the past few years. In the city. With a guy named Martin who used to play with the Phil. The classics and all. It makes it easier to understand the music beneath it all."

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"I can dig that." He handed me the cigarette, and I took a deep drag, knowing he had laced it with marijuana.

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"But sometimes I feel like I’m being torn in two. My mom and dad want me to keep going to lessons with Mr. Martin. You know, the symphony or a soloist."

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"Like Liberace." Oscar giggled.

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"Shut up."

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"Fairy."

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"Shut up." I punched him on the shoulder.

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"Easy, man." He rubbed his arm. "You could do it, though, whatever you want. I’m good, but you’re out of this world. Like you’ve been at it all your life or you were born that way."

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Maybe the dope made me say it, or maybe it was the combination of the summer night, the post-performance high, or the fact that Oscar was my first true friend. Or maybe I was dying to tell someone, anyone.

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"I’ve got a confession, Oscar. I’m not Henry Day at all, but a hobgoblin that lived in the woods for a long, long time."

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He giggled so hard, a stream of smoke poured out of his nostrils.

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"Seriously, man, we stole the real Henry Day, kidnapped him, and I changed into him. We switched places, but nobody knows. I’m living his life, and I guess he’s living mine. And once upon a time, I was somebody else, before I became a changeling. I was a boy in Germany or somewhere where they spoke German. I don’t remember, but it comes back to me in bits and pieces. And I played piano there a long time ago, until the changelings came and stole me. And now I’m back among the humans, and I hardly remember anything about the past, but it’s like I’m part Henry Day and part who I used to be. And I must have been one cool musician way back when, because that’s the only explanation."

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"That’s pretty good, man. So where’s the real Henry?"

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"Out in the woods somewhere. Or dead maybe. He could be dead; it happens sometimes. But probably hiding out in the woods."

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"Like he could be watchin’ us right now?" He jumped off the car and whispered into the darkness. "Henry? Is that you?"

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"Shut up, man. It’s possible. But they’re afraid of people, that much I know."

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"The whosits?"

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"The changelings. That’s why you never see them."

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"Why they so afraid of us? Seems like we should be afraid of them."

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"Used to be that way, man, but people stopped believing in myths and fairy tales."

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"But what if Henry’s out there, watching us right now, wanting to get his body back, and he’s creeping up, man, to get you?" And he reached out quickly and snatched my ankle.

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I screamed, embarrassed to be fooled by such a simple joke. Oscar sprawled on the hood of the car, laughing at me. "You’ve been watching too many horror movies, man."

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"No, the truth is ..." I socked him on the arm.

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"And there’s pods in your cellar, right?"

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I wanted to punch him again, but then I realized how ridiculous my story sounded, and I started laughing, too. If he remembered that night at all, Oscar never again brought up the matter, and maybe he thought I was hallucinating. He drove off, cackling to himself, and I felt empty after the truth had been told. My impersonation of Henry Day had succeeded so well that no one suspected the real story. Even my father, a natural skeptic, believed in me, or at least kept his doubts hidden deep in his soul.

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The ground floor of our house was as dark and silent as a cave. Upstairs everyone slept soundly. I turned on the kitchen light and poured a drink of water. Attracted to the brightness, moths crashed and flapped up against the window screen. They scritched up and down, a sound menacing and foreboding. I turned off the lights, and they flew away. In the new darkness, I searched for a moving shadow, listened for footsteps among the trees, but nothing stirred. I crept upstairs to check on my sisters.

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When the girls were young children, I often feared that Mary and Elizabeth would be snatched away by the hobgoblins and two changelings would be left in their place. I knew their ways, their tricks and deceptions, and also knew they could strike the same family twice, or, indeed, three times. Not far from here, the story goes, back in the 1770s, the Church family had seven children stolen and replaced by changelings, one by one, each at age seven, until there were no Churches at all, only simulacra, and pity those poor parents with an alien brood. My sisters were as susceptible, and I watched for the telltale changes in behavior or appearance—a sudden winsomeness, a certain detachment from life—that would reveal a possible switch.

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I warned the twins to stay out of the woods or any shadowy places. "Dangerous snakes and bears and wildcats wait near our patch of land. Do not talk to strangers. Why go out to play," I’d ask, "when there is something perfectly good and interesting on television?"

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"But I like exploring," Elizabeth said.

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"How will we ever find our way back home if we never leave home?" Mary added.

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"Did you ever see a timber rattler? Well, I have, and copperheads and water moccasins. One bite and you’re paralyzed, your limbs go black, then you’re dead. Do you think you can outrun or outclimb a bear? They climb trees better than cats, and they would grab your leg and gobble you up. Have you ever seen a raccoon foaming at the mouth?"

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"I never get to see anything," Elizabeth cried.

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"How can we ever avoid danger if we don’t know what danger is?" Mary asked.

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"It’s out there. You could trip and fall over an old log and break your leg and nobody would ever find you. Or you could be caught in a blizzard with the wind blowing every which way until you can’t find your own front door, and then they’d find you the next morning, frozen like a Popsicle, not ten feet from home."

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"Enough!" They shouted in unison and went off to watch Howdy Doody or Romper Room. I knew, however, that while I was at school or rehearsing with the band, they would ignore my cautions. They’d come home with grass stains on their knees and bottoms, ticks on their bare skin, twigs in their curls, frogs in their overalls, and the smell of danger on their breath.

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But that night they were sleeping lambs, and two doors down my parents snored. My father called out my name in his sleep, but I dared not answer at such a late hour. The house grew preternaturally still. I had told my darkest secret with no consequences, so I went to bed, safe as ever.

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They say that one never forgets one’s first love, but I am chagrined to admit that I do not remember her name or much else about her—other than the fact that she was the first girl I saw naked. For the sake of the story, I’ll call her Sally. Maybe that actually was her name. After the summer of my confession to Oscar, I resumed my lessons with Mr. Martin, and there she was. She had departed at the end of the school year and returned a different creature— someone to be desired, a fetish, an obsession. I am as guilty of anonymous lust as anyone, but it was she who chose me. Her affections I gratefully accepted without pause. I had been noticing her curves for months, before she gathered the courage to speak to me at the winter recital. We stood together backstage in our formal wear, enduring the wait for our individual turns at the piano. The youngest kids went first, for agony is best served as an appetizer.

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"Where did you learn to play?" Sally whispered over an achingly slow minuet.

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"Right here. I mean with Mr. Martin."

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"You play out of this world." She smiled, and, buoyed by her remarks, I gave my most inspired recital. In the weeks and months that followed, we slowly got to know each other. She would hang around the studio listening to me play the same piece over and over, Mr. Martin whispering gruffly, "adagio, adagio." We arranged to have lunch together on Saturdays. Over sandwiches spread out on waxed paper, we’d chat about that day’s lessons. I usually had a few dollars in my pocket from performances, so we could go to a show or stop for an ice cream or a soda. Our conversations centered around the kinds of subjects fifteen-year-olds talk about: school, friends, unbelievable parents, and, in our case, the piano. Or rather, I talked about music: composers, Mr. Martin, records, the affinities of jazz with the classics, and all sorts of nattering theories of mine. It was not a conversation, more like a monologue. I did not know how to listen, how to draw her out, or how to be quiet and enjoy her company. She may well have been a lovely person.

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When the sun began to heat up the spring air, we took a stroll to the park, a place I normally avoided because of its resemblance to the forest. But the daffodils were in flower, and it seemed perfectly romantic. The city had turned on the fountain, another sign of spring, and we sat by the water’s edge, watching the cascade for a long time. I did not know how to do what I wanted to do, how to ask, what to say, in what manner even to broach the subject. Sally saved me.

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"Henry?" she asked, her voice rising an octave. "Henry, we’ve been taking walks and having lunch together and going to the movies for over three months, and in all that time, I’ve wondered: Do you like me?"

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"Of course I do."

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"If you like me, like you say, how come you never try to hold my hand?"

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I took her hand in mine, surprised by the heat in her fingers, the perspiration in her palm.

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"And how come you’ve never tried to kiss me?"

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For the first time, I stared her straight in the eyes. She looked as if she were trying to express some metaphysical question. Not knowing how to kiss, I did so in haste, and regret now not having lingered awhile, if only to remember the sensation. She ran her fingers through my brilliantined hair, which produced an unexpected reaction, and I copied her, but a riddle percolated through my mind. I had no idea what to do next. Without her sudden discovery of a need to catch a streetcar, we might still be sitting there, stupidly staring into each other’s faces. On the way back to meet my father, I took apart my emotions. While I "loved" my family by this point in my human life, I had never "loved" a stranger. It’s voluntary and a tremendous risk. The emotion is further confused by the matter of lust. I counted the hours between Saturdays, anxious to see her.

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Thank goodness she took the initiative. While we were necking in the dark balcony of the Penn Theater, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her breast, and her whole body fluttered at my touch. She was the one who suggested everything, who thought to nibble ears, who rubbed the first thigh. We rarely spoke when we were together anymore, and I did not know what Sally was scheming or, for that matter, if she was thinking at all. No wonder I loved the girl, whatever her name was, and when she suggested that I feign an illness to get out of Mr. Martin’s class, I gladly complied.

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We rode the streetcar to her parents’ home on the South Side. Climbing the hill to her house in the bright sunshine, I started to sweat, but Sally, who was used to the hike, skipped up the sidewalk, teasing that I could not keep up. Her home was a tiny perch, clinging to the side of a rock. Her parents were gone, she assured me, for the whole day on a drive out to the country.

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"We have the place to ourselves. Would you like a lemonade?"

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She might as well have been wearing an apron, and I smoking a pipe. She brought the drinks and sat on the couch. I drank mine in a single swig and sat on her father’s easy chair. We sat; we waited. I heard a crash of cymbals in my mind’s ear.

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"Why don’t you come sit beside me, Henry?"

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Obedient pup, I trotted over with a wagging tail and lolling tongue. Our fingers interlocked. I smiled. She smiled. A long kiss—how long can you kiss? My hand on her bare stomach beneath her blouse triggered a pent-up primal urge. I circled my way north. She grabbed my wrist.

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"Henry, Henry. This is all too much." Sally panted and fanned herself with her fluttering hands. I rolled away, pursed my lips, and blew. How could I have misinterpreted her signals?

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Sally undressed so quickly that I almost failed to notice the transition. As if pushing a button, off came her blouse and bra, her skirt, slip, socks, and underwear. Through the whole act, she brazenly faced me, smiling beatifically. I did love her. Of course, I had seen pictures in the museum, Bettie Page pinups and French postcards, but images lack breadth and depth, and art isn’t life. Part of me pulled forward, desperate to lay my hands upon her skin, but the mere possibility held me back. I took a step in her direction.

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"No, no, no. I’ve showed you mine; now you have to show me yours."

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Not since a young boy at the swimming hole had I taken off my clothes in front of anyone else, much less a stranger, and I was embarrassed at the prospect. But it is hard to refuse when a naked girl makes the request. So I stripped, the whole time watching her watching me. I had progressed as far as my boxers when I noticed that she had a small triangle of hair at the notch of her, and I was completely bare. Hoping that this condition was peculiar to the female species, I pulled down my shorts, and a look of horror and dismay crossed her face. She gasped and put her hand in front of her mouth. I looked down and then looked back up at her, deeply perplexed.

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"Oh my God, Henry," she said, "you look like a little boy."

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I covered up.

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"That’s the smallest one I’ve ever seen."

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I angrily retrieved my clothes from the floor.

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"I’m sorry but you look like my eight-year-old cousin." Sally began to pick up her clothes off the floor. "Henry, don’t be mad."

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But I was mad, not so much at her as at myself. I knew from the moment she spoke what I had forgotten. In most respects, I appeared all of fifteen, but I had neglected one of the more important parts. As I dressed, humiliated, I thought of all the pain and suffering of the past few years. The baby teeth I wrenched out of my mouth, the stretching and pulling and pushing of bones and muscle and skin to grow into adolescence. But I had forgotten about puberty. She pleaded with me to stay, apologized for laughing at me, even saying at one point that size didn’t matter, that it was actually kind of cute, but nothing she could have said or done would have relieved my shame. I never spoke to her again, except for the most basic greetings. She disappeared from my life, as if stolen away, and I wonder now if she ever forgave me or forgot that afternoon.

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Stretching remedied my situation, but the exercise pained me and caused unexpected consequences. The first was the curious sensation that typically ended in the same messy way, but, more interestingly, I found that by imagining Sally or any other alluring thing, the results were a foregone conclusion. But thinking on unpleasant things—the forest, baseball, arpeggios—I could postpone, or avoid altogether, the denouement. The second outcome is somewhat more disconcerting to report. Maybe because the squeaking bedsprings were beginning to annoy him, my father burst into my room and caught me one night, red-handed so to speak, although I was completely under cover. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

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"Henry, what are you doing?"

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I stopped. There was an innocent explanation, which I could not reveal.

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"Don’t think I don’t know."

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Know what? I wanted to ask.

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"You will go blind if you keep at it."

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I blinked my eyes.

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He left the room and I rolled over, pressing my face against the cool pillow. My powers were diminishing over time. Farsightedness, distance hearing, speed of foot—all had virtually disappeared, and my ability to manipulate my appearance had deteriorated. More and more, I was becoming the human I had wanted to be, but instead of rejoicing in the situation, I sagged into the mattress, hid beneath the sheets. I punched my pillow and tortured the coven in a vain effort to get comfortable. Any hopes for pleasure subsided along with my erection. In pleasure’s place, a ragged loneliness ebbed. I felt stuck in a never-ending childhood, doomed to living under their control, a dozen suspicious scowls each day from my false parents. In the forest, I had to mark time and take my turn as a changeling, but the years had seemed like days. In the anxiety of adolescence, the days were like years. And nights could be endless.

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Several hours later, I woke in a sweat and threw off the covers. Going to the window to let in the fresh air, I spotted out on the lawn, in the dead of night, the red ash of a cigarette, and picked out the dark figure of my father, staring into the dark wood, as if waiting for something to spring out from the shadows between trees. When he turned to come back inside, Dad looked up at my room and saw me framed in the windowpanes, watching him, but he never said a word about it.

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