NOS4A2 A Novel

The McQueen House


VIC WAS HEADED OUT OF THE HOUSE TWO DAYS LATER TO RIDE HER bike over to Willa’s—last chance to see her BFF before Vic and her parents took off for six weeks on Lake Winnipesaukee—when she heard her mother in the kitchen, saying something about Mr. Eugley. The sound of his name produced a sudden, almost crippling feeling of weakness, and Vic nearly had to sit down. She had spent the weekend not thinking about Mr. Eugley with a vengeance, something that hadn’t been hard to do; Vic had been down all Saturday night with a migraine headache so intense it made her want to throw up. The pain had been especially fierce behind her left eye. The eye had felt like it was going to pop.

She climbed back up the front steps and stood outside the kitchen, listening to her mother bullshit with one of her friends, Vic wasn’t sure which one. She stood there eavesdropping to her mother’s side of the phone conversation for close to five minutes, but Linda didn’t mention Mr. Eugley by name again. She said, Oh, that’s too bad, and Poor man, but she didn’t use the name.

At last Vic heard Linda drop the phone back into the cradle. This was followed by the clatter and slop of dishes in the sink.

Vic didn’t want to know. She dreaded knowing. At the same time: She couldn’t help herself. It was that simple.

“Mom?” she asked, putting her head around the corner. “Did you say something about Mr. Eugley?”

“Hm?” Linda asked. She bent over the sink, her back to Vic. Pots clashed. A single soap bubble quivered, popped. “Oh, yeah. He fell off the wagon. Got picked up last night, out in front of the school, shouting at it like a madman. He’s been sober thirty years. Ever since . . . well, ever since he decided he didn’t want to be a drunk anymore. Poor guy. Dottie Evans told me he was down at church this morning, sobbing like a little kid, saying he’s going to quit his job. Saying he can’t ever go back. Embarrassed, I guess.” Linda glanced at Vic, and her brow furrowed with concern. “You okay, Vicki? You still don’t look too good. Maybe you ought to stay in this morning.”

“No,” Vic said, her voice odd and hollow, as if coming from inside a box. “I want to get out. Get some fresh air.” She hesitated, then said, “I hope he doesn’t quit. He’s a really nice guy.”

“He is. And he loves all you kids. But people get old, Vic, and they need looking after. The parts wear out. Body and mind.”

Riding into the town woods was going out of her way—there was a far more direct route to Willa’s house through Bradbury Park—but no sooner had Vic climbed onto her bike than she decided she needed to ride around a bit, do a little thinking before seeing anyone.

A part of her felt that it was a bad idea to let herself think about what she had done, what she could do, the unlikely, bewildering gift that was hers alone. But that dog was loose now, and it would take a while to corner it and get it on the leash again. She had daydreamed a hole in the world and ridden her bike through it, and it was crazy. Only a crazy person would imagine that such a thing was possible—except Mr. Eugley had seen her. Mr. Eugley had seen, and it had broken something inside him. It had kicked the legs out from under his sobriety and made him afraid to return to school, to the place where he had worked for more than a decade. A place he had been happy. Mr. Eugley—poor old broken Mr. Eugley—was proof that the Shorter Way was real.

She didn’t want proof. She wanted not to know about it.

Failing that, she wished there were someone she could talk to who would tell her she was all right, that she was not a lunatic. She wanted to find someone who could explain, make sense of a bridge that only existed when she needed it and always took her where she needed to go.

She dropped over the side of the hill and into a pocket of cool, rushing air.

That was not all she wanted. She wanted to find the bridge itself, to see it again. She felt clear in her head and certain of herself, firmly placed in the moment. She was conscious of every jolt and shudder as the Raleigh banged over roots and stones. She knew the difference between fantasy and reality, and she kept this difference clear in her head, and she believed that when she reached the old dirt road, the Shorter Way Bridge would not be there—

Only it was.

“You aren’t real,” she said to the bridge, unconsciously echoing Mr. Eugley. “You fell in the river when I was eight.”

The bridge obstinately remained.

She braked to a stop and looked at it, a safe twenty feet away. The Merrimack churned beneath it.

“Help me find someone who can tell me I’m not crazy,” she said to it, and put her feet on the pedals and rode slowly toward it.

As she approached the entrance, she saw the old, familiar green spray paint on the wall to her left.

HERE

That was a funny place to point her toward, she thought. Wasn’t she already here?

All the other times she had gone across the Shorter Way, she had ridden in a kind of trance, turning the pedals automatically and thoughtlessly, just another working part of the machine, along with the gears and the chain.

This time she forced herself to go slow and to look around, even though everything in her wanted to get out of the bridge as soon as she was in it. She fought it, the overriding impulse to hurry, to ride as if the bridge were collapsing behind her. She wanted to fix the details of the place in her mind. She half believed that if she really looked at the Shorter Way Bridge, looked at it intently, it would melt away around her.

And then what? Where would she be if the bridge blinked out of existence? It didn’t matter. The bridge persisted, no matter how hard she stared at it. The wood was old and worn and splintery-looking. The nails in the walls were caked with rust. She felt the floorboards sink under the weight of the bike. The Shorter Way would not be willed into nothingness.

She was aware, as always, of the white noise. She could feel the thunderous roar of it in her teeth. She could see it, could see the storm of static through the cracks in the tilted walls.

Vic did not quite dare stop her bike, get off and touch the walls, walk around. She believed that if she got off her bike, she would never get back on. Some part of her felt that the existence of the bridge depended utterly on forward motion and not thinking too much.

The bridge buckled and stiffened and buckled again. Dust trickled from the rafters. Had she seen a pigeon fly up there once?

She lifted her head and looked and saw that the ceiling was carpeted in bats, their wings closed around the small, furry nubs of their bodies. They were in constant subtle movement, wiggling about, rearranging their wings. A few turned their faces to peer nearsightedly down upon her.

Each of these bats was identical, and each had Vic’s own face. All their faces were shrunken and shriveled and pink, but she knew herself. They were her except for the eyes, which glittered redly, like drops of blood. At the sight of them, she felt a fine silver needle of pain slide through her left eyeball and into her brain. She could hear their high, piping, nearly subsonic cries above the hiss and pop of the static flurry.

She couldn’t bear it. She wanted to scream, but she knew if she did, the bats would let go of the roof and swarm around her and that would be the end of her. She shut her eyes and threw her whole self into pedaling to the far end of the bridge. Something was shaking furiously. She could not tell if it was the bridge, the bike, or herself.

With her eyes closed, she did not know she had reached the other end of the bridge until she felt the front tire thump over the sill. She felt a blast of heat and light—she had not once looked to see where she was going—and heard a shout: Watch out! She opened her eyes just as the bike hit a low cement curb in