Specimen Days

He faltered. He looked at her pleadingly. He let the flame go out.

"You have to do it so it isn't murder," he said. "You have to do it with love."

"You have a lot of love in you, I think. Am I right?"

"I don't know," he said.

"And you're alone now. Is that right?"

He nodded. "We moved out," he said. "We're not home anymore."

"It's just you now."

"Well. Me and Walt."

"Walt left you on your own?"

"It's my time."

"Are you afraid of Walt?"

"No."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not sure."

"I think maybe you're afraid of getting hurt. I think you're afraid of hurting other people, too. Is that right?"

"It isn't murder if you do it with love." "Are you afraid you don't feel enough love?" "I guess."

"I think you have a lot of love in you. I think you're loving, and I think you're brave. It's brave of you to want to talk to me."

"That's nice. But it's not true. You don't know." "What don't I know?"

He paused. His little puckered mouth curled in on itself.

She said, "Listen to me. You're confused. You know what Walt is telling you to do is wrong. I want you to take that thing off your chest and give it to me. Then everything will be all right. I promise."

He stood. He was barely three feet tall. It was impossible to tell, in the big jacket, how deformed he might or might not be. The eyes were slightly too big, the mouth too small. His round head was big for his frail body. It stood on the shoulders of the coat like a pumpkin. Like a picture of the moon in a children's book.

"I can't tell what to do," he said.

"Yes, you can. Take that thing off and give it to me. I'll make sure you're all right. Everything will be all right."

"I didn't want to move. We always lived there."

"It's hard, moving. I can understand why you're upset."

He nodded gravely. Cat was seized by a spasm of dreadful compassion. Here was a monster; here was a frightened child. Here was a tortured little boy who could at any moment blow them both away. Her ears buzzed. She was surprised to know that she was not afraid, not exactly afraid.

"I am upset," he said.

She hesitated. What was going to work? Too much kindness, and he could decide he loved her enough to kill her. Too little kindness, and he might do it out of rage.

She moved a step closer. Why not? It wouldn't make any difference, if he detonated. And if she got closer to him she might be able to knock him down, pin his arms, get the bomb. He'd have to strike a flame and light the fuse. She'd probably have time to stop him. But she couldn't be sure.

"I'm sorry," he said. His nose had started to run.

"Don't be sorry. You've got nothing to feel sorry about."

Whoever put him up to this had abandoned him. No child responds well to abandonment, not even a deranged one. She decided. Her best chance was to take him in, try to gain his trust. Wait until he let his guard down, and make her move.

She said, "Are you hungry?" "A little."

"Why don't you come upstairs with me? I could make you something to eat."

"Really?" he said. "Yes. Come on, it's fine."

She went up the last two stairs and stood beside him. She took the keys out of her bag. Her hand was shaking (funny, she didn't think she was afraid), but she managed to unlock the door.

"Come in," she said.

She held the door open for him. He waited. He wanted her to enter first, didn't he? He must know that if she got behind him, she could grab his arms.

She went in ahead. He followed.

"It's upstairs," she said.

She mounted the stairs, with the kid right behind her, and opened the door to her apartment. He refused to go in ahead of her. He remained two paces behind.

"This is nice," he said.

It wasn't nice. It was a dump. It was dirty. There were shoes and clothes strewn around.

A broom to sweep it all away
No more parties to plan
We're in the family

"Thank you," she said. "Why don't you take your coat off?"

"That's okay."

She went into the kitchen. He followed close behind. She opened the minifridge. Not much there. There were a couple of eggs, though, that were probably still all right. No bread. She thought she might have some crackers somewhere.

"How about scrambled eggs?" she said. "Okay."

She washed out the skillet, which had been soaking in the sink for a few days, and passed through a moment of surreal embarrassment about her housekeeping. The boy stood a few feet away, watching her. In the light, she could better appreciate how compromised he was. His shoulders, frail as the bones of a bird, canted to the right. His ears were mere nubs, bright pink, like wads of chewing gum stuck on either side of his big round skull.

"Where are your children?" he asked.

"I don't have any."

"You don't have any at all?"

"No."

He was getting agitated. He was looking around the apartment and fingering the lighter. Apparently he thought every woman had to have children.

"Okay, yes," she said. "I have a little boy named Luke. But he's not here now. He's far away."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No. He's not coming back soon."

"Luke is a nice name."