“Because he doesn’t want anybody to know his story. He wants them to think he’s just like them.”
She paused, waiting for another question, and when none came, she went on. “The thing is, monsters like other monsters who look like them. They don’t always accept different-looking monsters.”
“Yeah,” Gabe whispered, his warm, little body curled up into George’s. “Sometimes monsters are alone. With no friends.”
“So, Bob came to Monsterton, looked around, and then found one monster who knew how to take the monster paint off.”
“The monster-toos.”
“Yes. And slowly, Bob’s monster paint starts to disappear, leaving him with perfect, clear-blue monster skin.”
“Do the other monsters like Bob now?”
George sighed, snuggled deeper into the bed, despite the heat, and wondered, Do they? Good, good question.
“I mean.” Gabe turned onto his side and looked up at her. “Does Bob have friends now?”
“No. No friends. Because they all saw him before, and they don’t trust Bob,” George said. But then her forehead wrinkled with worry. What kind of story was she telling this child? This wasn’t a lesson she should be teaching. “But then something happened.”
He sucked in a breath. “What?”
“One day, one of the monsters from Monsterton falls into the lake, and she can’t swim.”
“Monsters can’t swim?”
“Only some.”
“And Bob? Can Bob swim?”
“Yes. So he dives in after the monster and saves her.” George paused, waiting for Gabe to interject. Nothing. “And they throw him a party.”
“To thank him.”
“Yes.”
“Bob’s a hero.”
“Yes. He’s a hero.”
Gabe yawned, his mouth creaking. “Bob’s gonna be like a superhero now, isn’t he?”
With a smile, George reached out and turned off the lamp. “Pretty much.”
“Yeah, superheroes are always different from everyone else, like freaks. But they save people, and then everyone loves them.”
“Right.” She put a hand on Gabe’s soft hair, looked up, and saw Jessie silhouetted in the doorway. “Good night, Gabe.”
“Night, George. That was a pretty good story.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“Superheroes always look like bad guys first,” he said, turned over, and snuggled into his pillow, leaving George in a sort of dull shock. What on earth was she doing, telling a story like that? She’d had no idea where it was going, no idea that she was, in fact, giving her version of someone else’s true story.
And good Lord, what was wrong with her that she couldn’t, even for a minute, stop thinking about Andrew Blane?
* * *
Funny how Clay had assumed he was just randomly walking. He’d started off with the idea that he needed to clear the booze from his brain—especially after that run-in with the law. It had taken maybe two hundred feet of blind walking before he’d started noticing things like the night sky above, with its wide scattering of stars, interrupted by the craggy dark peaks to the west. It shouldn’t be so clear, this sky, not with the clogged feel of the air—it was hot, stiflingly heavy, although nothing like the motel walls. He had the urge to open his mouth the way you might in a rainstorm and drink it. A rainstorm. Fuck, that would be good. So good. It would clear the atmosphere, and maybe his brain too.
