Crying Wolf

4

The next time Nat looked at his bedside clock, it read 10:23. He got out of bed, feeling stiff and sore, as though he’d played some contact sport the previous day, and went to the outer room. Through the window, he saw a morning that could have been painted in a few dull colors: dark gray for the sky and trees, brownish red for the bricks, light gray for the snow, for Emerson, for everything else. One more detail: the footprints. Hard packed, they caught what little light there was, and shone white. Footprints coming and going at the Plessey entrance, crisscrossing between the dorms, meandering over the quad; footprints everywhere. There were even some ski and snowshoe tracks, also white. Had the quad really been unmarred hours before? Nat went into Wags’s bedroom and found the TV still gone. Daytime made it conclusive.

Nat dressed and went outside, headed for the campus security office. A silent campus: as beautiful as in the brochure, but there was more-a sense of gravity, importance, even power-that the brochure, perhaps trying to be friendly, hadn’t conveyed. Nat told himself he was glad to have this time alone. He needed to catch up with himself, if that made sense. The workload, the assignments, the expectations of the teachers: all so demanding, but the real pressure came from the kids. So smart; and so cool, some of them, which was very different from home, where smart and cool were almost always opposites. And here the others, the not so cool, could be strange and fascinating-like Wags, for example, with the little shrine he’d built to Alfred Hitchcock, and the way Nat would sometimes hear him late at night, lying in bed and muttering whole scenes of movie dialogue from memory. So even as the sky darkened still more while he crossed the quad, draining what little color there was and lowering the temperature in seconds, Nat told himself this solitary Christmas would be good.

That thought was still in his mind when he saw he wasn’t quite alone. Across the quad, the main door to Lanark Hall-the residence opposite Plessey, the nicest, by reputation, although Nat had never been inside-opened. Two girls came out-women’s studies majors spoke of women and men, but everyone else on campus said girls and guys-sidestepped down the broad snowy stairs facing each other, carrying something. Nat thought TV at once, because of the mission he was on, and from the way they carried it. The problem was its invisibility. There was nothing to see. Were they pretending to carry something? Was it some sort of pantomime? Nat was about to look around for the film crew when one of the girls lost her footing. He heard a little cry; then the girls were tumbling down the steps, one after the other, a flurry of kicking legs, waving arms, flapping scarves, airborne hats. The object they carried, now free, spun in the air, became visible: an aquarium. It spilled its water in one perfectly shaped wave, a wave topped by a bar of gold.

Everything came crashing down. But no. That was what Nat, moving unconsciously closer as though responding to something gravitational, expected. In fact, only the aquarium crashed. Somehow the two girls landed on their feet, like gymnasts, but without the posturing. He lost sight of the gold object.

The next moment the girls were both on their knees, digging through the snow. Nat reached them in time to hear one say, “Here’s the little bastard.”

“Gentle,” said the other one.

The first girl held up the object in both hands, and Nat saw what it was: a fish. A fish, but unlike any fish, or any living thing, he’d ever seen: a dazzling creature, fat and gold with a wide yellow-lipped mouth, now opening and closing desperately, round yellow eyes, indigo fins, and white polka dots from head to its blue-and-gold tail. A dazzling creature that seemed to contain in its little form all the color lacking in the day.

“Whatever we do better be quick,” said the one holding the fish.

The aquarium lay shattered, the water it had contained now a melting depression in the snow.

“Bathtub?” said the second girl.

“Fresh water,” said the first girl. “Might as well be poison.”

“Then think of something.”

“That’s my role.”

“Not now, Grace, for Christ’s sake.”

They glanced around, as though seeking help, but didn’t seem to see Nat. The fish chose that moment to make a violent flipping motion, flying free. Nat was ready. He caught it in his cupped hands and said: “The bio lab.”

Now they saw him. “Where’s that?” They said it in unison. Nat didn’t reply, partly because the route was complicated, mostly because of how stunned he was by their appearance: one-Grace-light blond, the other darker-haired, both-he couldn’t find the right word, something as absolute as amazing, astonishing, beautiful, but more precise.

He did know where the bio lab was; he was taking a biology course to keep his pre-med option open. Sticking to the beaten footprint tracks and then the plowed paths, he took off as fast as he could with the fish in his hands-around Lanark, up the hill to the chapel, down the other side past the new science complex, across the old quad to the bio lab building. Nat was a good runner, but one girl passed him on the stairs in time to hold the door open, and the other was right beside him.

Nat ran down the dark-paneled first-floor hall. The bio labs were in the oldest building on campus, originally the entire college, later the science building, now closed off except for the first floor. The labs themselves, lining the hall, had thick wooden doors with windows in them, and he’d peered through them all in the first weeks of the semester.

“Here,” he said at the end of the hall, and one of the girls banged the door open. The fish was no longer wriggling in his hands, not moving at all; it was coated in some sort of invisible slime, but Nat could feel the rough scales underneath. He went straight to the dozen numbered tanks on the counter at the back wall, began lowering the fish into the nearest one.

“He can’t be with other fish,” said one of the girls; the darker-haired one.

“He can’t be with other fish?”

“Not ones he doesn’t know. They might hurt him.”

Nat glanced in the tank, saw three brown fish, half the size of the gaudy one, checked the other tanks, all occupied. “Is that something scientific, or just a feeling?”

“Blah, blah, blah,” said the lighter-haired girl, Grace. She leaned over the aquarium, scooped out the three brown fish with her hand, flipped them into the next tank. “Dump him in,” she said to Nat. He had never seen eyes like hers in his life.

“Not so fast,” said the darker-haired girl, dipping her finger in the water, tasting. She nodded to him, finger still between her lips. Nat saw eyes unlike any he had ever seen until moments ago. The fish slipped from his hands, fell into the tank.

“For God’s sake,” said Grace.

“Sorry.”

“He’s sensitive, that’s all,” said the darker-haired one.

The fish sank down in the water, floated there, but upside down.

“Swim,” said the darker-haired one.

But the fish just hung upside-down in the tank. Grace reached in, turned him over, swam him vigorously back and forth.

“You’re hurting him,” said the darker-haired girl.

“Zip it, Izzie,” said Grace.

Izzie bit her lip. Grace gave the fish a big push and let go. He drifted forward for a moment, listed to one side, almost capsized. Then one indigo fin began making tentative fanning movements, the blue-and-gold tail flicked to one side, back again, and the fish stabilized itself and swam with increasing strength to the middle of the tank, sending a hazy jet of fecal matter to the bottom.

“You stud, Lorenzo,” said Grace.

“The Magnificent,” Nat said.

They both turned to him, their eyes somewhat similar in color to Lorenzo’s, but toned down.

“How did you know that?” said Izzie.

“It fits.”

“I meant how do you know about Lorenzo the Magnificent?”

Nat shrugged; it was just one of those things he knew. Their eyes narrowed on him. “What’s your name?” They spoke together, didn’t appear to notice the overlap.

Nat told them.

“Well, Nat,” said Grace. “I guess we-”

“Thanks,” said Izzie.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “Thanks.”

“He means a lot to us,” said Izzie. “We caught him.”

“You caught him?”

“Grace did,” Izzie said.

“But Izzie kept the sharks at bay.”

“The sharks?”

“With her bangstick.”

“You’re making this up,” said Nat.

“Why do you say that?” said Grace. “Sharks are wicked off Bora Bora, common knowledge.”

“But thanks, is the point,” said Izzie.

“Right,” said Grace. “You saved the goddamn day.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a wad of bills, removed some without counting or even looking, held them out.

“What’s this?” said Nat. He felt his face reddening.

Grace turned to Izzie. “Not enough?” she said in a stage whisper.

Her eyes on Nat, Izzie said: “I think we’ve made a-”

“-mistake?” said Grace. She turned to Nat. “You’re not maintenance or something?”

“I’m a student, actually.” That sounded so stiff, but was how he felt.

“Yikes. What year?”

“Freshman.”

“Oh, God,” said Izzie. “We almost tipped a classmate.”

“Not PC,” said Grace; and then to Nat: “Well, do you want it?”

They all laughed, Nat as hard as the girls, although he was aware of, and despising, the little part of him that did want the money. He reddened some more. Izzie stopped laughing; then Grace.

“Sorry,” Grace said, putting the money back in her pocket.

“Very,” said Izzie.

“Hey,” said Nat.

An awkward moment. Their gazes all went to Lorenzo, the path of least resistance. He fluttered his fins.

“Will anyone mind if we borrow this one little tank?” Izzie said. “We’ve got to get Lorenzo home for Christmas.”

“I guess not,” said Nat, turning to the adjacent tank in time to see the remains of the three brown fish spiraling slowly to the bottom, milky gobbets trailing black nerves and threads of blood. A single pink fish, smaller than what any of the brown ones had been in life, was swimming lazily around the tank. There was a silence.

“Maybe we should leave a note,” Nat said.

“Saying what?” said Grace.

Izzie patted his arm. Her hand felt neither warm nor cool, meaning they were at exactly the same temperature, a thought he probably would have had nowhere else but in the bio lab. “We’ll bring back some brown ones after vacation,” she said.

Nat carried Lorenzo’s tank out of the bio lab by himself. “Sure you don’t want help?” Izzie said.

“It’s not heavy.” But it got heavier, and Nat was glad they were walking ahead of him, unaware that although he was carrying it, and would do so for as long as he had to, he wasn’t doing it with ease. Glancing down, he caught Lorenzo shitting again.

Grace and Izzie led Nat over the hill, back to the freshman quad, around to the parking lot behind Lanark. There were two cars in the lot; the nearest was one of those second-generation Volkswagen Beetles, a very cool car in Nat’s estimation, and he could easily picture them buzzing around in it. He moved toward it, but they kept going.

The second car was something Nat had seen only in movies, the kind of movies with big stars and holes in the plot. Huge and creamy-the color of farmer’s cream his mom sometimes brought back from the stand on the edge of town-with the top down, despite the cold, and inside soft red leather and dark gleaming wood.

Grace held open the rear door. Nat started to set the tank on the floor, but she said, “Seat’s okay,” and so he put it there. The leather didn’t feel like any leather he’d ever come in contact with. It was a perfect car for Lorenzo. That was what Nat thought.

But what he said was: “I thought freshmen couldn’t have cars on campus.” A dumb remark that came out all by itself.

“We don’t,” Izzie said, tearing off a length of plastic wrap and covering the tank. “We’d been home for two days before we realized we’d forgotten him.”

“You had fish for supper?” Nat said.

A pause. They laughed, first Izzie, then Grace.

“Dinner,” Grace said.

“But yes, that’s exactly what happened,” Izzie said.

They looked at him. He looked at them, saw what he probably would have seen right away if it hadn’t been for the differing color of their hair: they were twins, identical even to the gold flecks in their blue-green irises, gold flecks that gave their eyes that yellow hue similar to Lorenzo’s. He didn’t say, You’re twins, because he knew they must hear it all the time. A silent moment or two went by, as though to allow for the phrase to be said; Nat got the feeling they were waiting for it.

“We’d better get going,” Grace said.

“You’ve been great,” Izzie said.

“The hero du jour,” Grace said, sliding in behind the wheel. Izzie sat beside her. Nat stepped away from the car, saw the RR on the grille. Grace started the car; it made a wonderful sound.

“Where’re you headed?” said Izzie.

“Headed?”

“Where do you live? Maybe we could give you a lift.”

“Plessey.”

“I mean where are you going for Christmas?”

“Nowhere.”

“You’re a faculty kid?” Grace said.

“No,” Nat said, and told them where he was from.

“Yeah?” said Grace. “Do you know Billy Duckworth? He’s from around there somewhere.”

“No.”

“Wait a minute,” Izzie said. “Are you saying you’re not going home for Christmas?”

Nat nodded.

“How come?”

“It’s kind of far.”

The girls glanced at each other. “You’re not going anywhere?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You’re staying here?” Grace said.

Nat nodded again.

“But that’s insane,” Izzie said.

The girls glanced at each other again. “Tell you what,” Grace said.

“Yeah,” said Izzie.

Why not? Nat couldn’t think of a reason. True, he hardly knew them, but he hardly knew anyone at Inverness, and what better way to start? He did ask, “Shouldn’t you check with your parents?”

And was told: “No problem.”

He hurried back to his room-how dreary it seemed now, how much he wanted to get out-to throw a few things in his backpack, collect Young Goodman Brown and a few other books, get the money he kept in a shoe in his closet: $70. The list on the wall- clean room, laundry, write home, work out, get to know town and surroundings,› on next semester — seemed yellowed with age, but that had to be the effect of the weak light coming through the window.

“Who’s this?” Izzie called from the outer room; Grace was driving the car around to the lot behind Plessey.

“My mom.” Her picture was on his desk. Patti’s picture was in the bedroom. In the bedroom, out of Izzie’s sight: he smothered that thought at birth.

“You look like her,” Izzie was saying. “In a Y chromosome kind of way.”

He found himself staring at Patti’s picture. Was her smile a little forced? He’d never noticed.

“What’s this thing?” Izzie called.

“A shrine to Alfred Hitchcock.”

“Yeah?”

Something in her tone made him add, “It’s my roommate’s.”

“Who’s your roommate?”

Nat told her.

“Is he from Sewickley?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my God what?” he said, leaving his bedroom.

“Nothing.”

But when they got to the car that was the first thing she told Grace.

“How did he get in here?” said Grace.

“He’s brilliant,” Nat said. “What are you talking about?”

Izzie got in the front, Nat in the back, beside Lorenzo. Grace drove out of the lot, onto Spring Street, which soon became Route 2. She stepped on the gas. Red-wrapped gifts spilled out from under the front seats.

They floated out of town, or soared, or simply zoomed, but whatever it was had nothing to do with any car ride in Nat’s experience.

“How’s Lorenzo?” Izzie called back.

Nat checked. Lorenzo was doing what he did, the water in his tank almost motionless. “The same.”

“Quel relief.”

Except for Thanksgiving, Nat hadn’t been out of Inverness since his arrival, had seen little of the countryside. Now it scrolled quickly by, dark and austere, but at the same time there was something he liked about it, maybe just that it seemed so ancient. Snow began falling, tiny flakes that never landed, melted in midair by the silent blast from the many vents of the car’s heating system; no one even suggested putting the top up. Nat thought of Mr. Beaman’s snow globe collection; then remembered that his mom would be calling on Christmas Day.

He leaned forward into the space between the girls. Tendrils of their hair-Grace’s light blond, almost silver, Izzie’s darker, almost brown-blown by the wind, brushed his face from both sides. “Could we stop at the next phone booth?” he said. “I forgot to make a call.”

Izzie tossed him a cell phone. He’d never used one, but of course there was nothing to it. He checked the time, dialed Mr. Beaman’s office. His mom answered. Nat wanted to say, “Guess where I’m calling from?” and almost did. Instead he told her he was going to New York with friends, would call from there.

“New York City?” she said. “That’s so exciting. Is it all right with the parents?”

“Yes.”

“Be sure to bring them a present. And write a thank-you note after.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“And Nat?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

He heard Mr. Beaman calling her in the background. A very clear connection-Nat could even pick up the impatience in his tone.

The hero du jour. It was like one of those fairy tales where the young adventurer performs a bold deed-in this case, the rescue of Lorenzo the Magnificent-and is brought to the castle. They were crossing the George Washington Bridge, towers by the score rising before them, when Nat thought of the perfect present: a bottle of that pink wine, zinfandel, preferably a big one. Thank God he’d memorized the label.