Darkfall

As they headed farther downtown, toward the office they talked about it, trying to figure out what the difference might be.

X

At Wellton School, the last classes of the day were over at three o'clock. By three-ten, a tide of laughing, jabbering children spilled through the front doors, down the steps, onto the sidewalk, into the driving snow that transformed the gray urban landscape of New York into a dazzling fantasyland. Warmly dressed in knitted caps, earmuffs, scarves, sweaters, heavy coats, gloves, jeans, and high boots, they walked with a slight toddle, arms out at their sides because of all the layers of insulation they were wearing; they looked furry and cuddly and well- padded and stumpy-legged, not unlike a bunch of magically animated teddy bears.

Some of them lived near enough and were old enough to be allowed to walk home, and ten of them piled into a minibus that their parents had bought. But most were met by a mother or father or grandparent in the family car or, because of the inclement weather, by one of those same relatives in a taxi.

Mrs. Shepherd, one of the teachers, had the Dismissal Watch duty this week. She moved back and forth along the sidewalk, keeping an eye on everyone, making sure none of the younger kids tried to walk home, seeing that none of them got into a car with a stranger. Today, she had the added chore of stopping snowball battles before they could get started.

Penny and Davey had been told that their Aunt Faye would pick them up, instead of their father, but they couldn't see her anywhere when they came down the steps, so they moved off to one side, out of the way. They stood in front of the emerald-green wooden gate that closed off the service passageway between Wellton School and the townhouse next door. The gate wasn't flush with the front walls of the two buildings, but recessed eight or ten inches. Trying to stay out of the sharp cold wind that cruelly pinched their cheeks and even penetrated their heavy coats, they pressed their backs to the gate, huddling in the shallow depression in front of it.

Davey said, “Why isn't Dad coming?”

“I guess he had to work.”

“Why?”

“I guess he's on an important case.”

“What case?”

“I don't know.”

“It isn't dangerous, is it?”

“Probably not.”

“He won't get shot, will he?”

“Of course not.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I'm sure,” she said, although she wasn't sure at all.

“Cops get shot all the time.”

“Not that often.”

“What'll we do if Dad gets shot?”

Immediately after their mother's death, Davey had handled the loss quite well. Better than anyone had expected. Better than Penny had handled it, in fact. He hadn't needed to see a psychiatrist. He had cried, sure; he had cried a lot, for a few days, but then he had bounced back. Lately, however, a year and a half after the funeral, he had begun to develop an unnatural fear of losing his father, too. As far as Penny knew, she was the only one who noticed how terribly obsessed Davey was with the dangers — both real and imagined — of his father's occupation. She hadn't mentioned her brother's state of mind to her father, or to anyone else, for that matter, because she thought she could straighten him out by herself. After all, she was his big sister; he was her responsibility; she had certain obligations to him. In the months right after their mother's death, Penny had failed Davey; at least that was how she felt. She had gone to pieces then. She hadn't been there when he'd needed her the most. Now, she intended to make it up to him.

“What'll we do if Dad gets shot?” he asked again.

“He isn't going to get shot.”

“But if he does get shot. What'll we do?”

“We'll be all right.”

“Will we have to go to an orphanage?”

“No, silly.”

“Where would we go then? Huh? Penny, where would we go? ”

“We'd probably go to live with Aunt Faye and Uncle Keith.”

“Yuch.”

“They're all right.”

“I'd rather go live in the sewers.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“It'd be neat living in the sewers.”

“Neat is the last thing it'd be.”

“We could come out at night and steal our food.”

“From who — the wings asleep in the gutters?”

“We could have an alligator for a pet!”

“There aren't any alligators in the sewers.”

“Of course there are,” he said.

“That's a myth.”

“A what?”

“A myth. A made-up story. A fairytale.”

“You're nuts. Alligators live in sewers.”

“Davey—”

“Sure they do! Where else would alligators live?”

“Florida for one place.”

“Florida? Boy, you're flake. Florida!”

“Yeah, Florida.”

“Only old retired coots and gold-digging bimbos live in Florida.”

Penny blinked. “Where'd you hear that?”

“Aunt Faye's friend. Mrs. Dumpy.”

“Dumphy.”

“Yeah. Mrs. Dumpy was talking to Aunt Faye, see. Mrs. Dumpy's husband wanted to retire to Florida, and he went down there by himself to scout around for a place to live, but he never came back 'cause what he did was he ran off with a gold-digging bimbo. Mrs. Dumpy said only old coots and a lot of gold-digging bimbos live down there. And that's another good reason not to live with Aunt Faye. Her friends. They're all like Mrs. Dumpy. Always whining, you know? Jeez. And Uncle Keith smokes.”

“A lot of people smoke.”

“His clothes stink from the smoke.”

“It's not that bad.”

“And his breath! Grody!”

“Your breath isn't always like flowers, you know.”

“Who'd want breath like flowers?”

“A bumblebee.”

“I'm no bumblebee.”

“You buzz a lot. You never shut up. Always buzzbuzz-buzz.”

“I do not.”

“Buzzzzzzzzzz.”