I went to the sink amp; looked out the window into the back yard. Seth was sitting in the sandbox, playing with his other Power Wagons. Only if anyone but me had seen how he was playing, I’m sure he would have been in some sort of special installation by nightfall, some place where the government studies exceptional children.

The P.W.’s have pop-out wings, but they don’t really fly, of course. Except sometimes Seth’s do. He was sitting in the sand with his hands in his lap, and around and around his head they went, Tracker Arrow and Rooty-Toot and the Meatwagon and the rest, dipping and diving under each other, swooping and doing rolls, coming in for touch-and-go’s on a landing-strip Seth has made for them in the sandbox, sometimes doing formation flights down the yard to his swing, going under the seat like stunt pilots in a movie, then banking around and coming back. Kids” toys, all bright colors, flying missions in the back yard. I know I must sound like a raving madwoman, but I swear in the name of God that it’s true. Sometimes he dive-bombs Hannibal, the neighbors” dog, with them amp; H. runs away with his tail between his legs. Herb has seen this, too.

Any other kid seeing the MotoKops” Power Wagons doing tricks like that would be laughing amp; clapping amp; cheering, but not the Stalky Little Boy. He just sits there in the sand with his lip shoved out amp; glares.

Seth watching the wagons and me watching him, feeling whatever is inside him coming out in waves, filling the air with a hum that’s mostly in a person’s head. I felt ready to come out of my skin, ready to flip out right there in front of the sink, amp; then, all at once, the daydream came. It is the most wonderful thing, and although I call it a daydream, that isn’t how it feels; it feels real. In it I am reliving a weekend afternoon I spent at Mohonk Mountain House with my friend Jan. Back in 1982, this was, before either of us was married. We sat and talked for I don’t know how long-her mostly about this goofy, greasy guy she was so crazy about back then, me about how I’d love to take three months off after graduation and see some of the country.

It’s so beautiful there at Mohonk, so peaceful. We have a picnic lunch. The air is warm. Jan looks as gorgeous as I feel. I know it’s not real, amp; that I’ve got all this mess to come back to, but for the time I’m there, none of that matters. Jan amp; I talk, I feel the sun on my face, I smell the flowers. It’s wonderful. I don’t know what it is or why it happens, but as an antidote to the SLB’s rages, it beats rubbing off in the bathroom eight ways to Sunday. Does Seth have anything to do with it, I wonder?

I wish Herbie had a place to go, but I don’t think he does. His silly jokes are as close as he can come, poor man. I wish I could tell him about my place, maybe even take him there, but it wouldn’t be wise. I think the SLB can find things out from Herb that he can’t from me, amp; Herb looks so tired. It’s unfair to both of us that this should be happening, but it’s horribly unfair to Herbie.

June 13, 1995

“Dweem Fwoatah” is back. Just now. I don’t know whether to feel scared or relieved.

I mean of course I’m relieved, anyone would be, this place has been like a concentration camp since Saturday, but what happens next? How will the SLB react? Thank God he was napping when the doorbell rang, amp; thank God Herb’s at work, because the SLB eavesdrops on Herb’s mind sometimes, I know he does. I don’t think he can do it to me unless I let him in, or unless I’m unprepared.

Boy. I just read this over and it’s absolutely crazed. Let me take a deep breath and start from the beginning. I should have time. Seth hasn’t slept well since Friday night, and if I’m lucky he might nap until 4:30. That gives me at least an hour.

Around 3:00, while I was vacuuming, there was a knock on the kitchen door. I opened it amp; there stood Mr Hobart from down the street, and his son, who is a pudgy red-haired boy with thick glasses and pasty skin. Sort of repulsive-looking, if you want to know the truth. The kid had a Dream Floater van in his arms. There was no question it was Seth’s. I didn’t have to see the broken tail-light and the scratch up the driver’s side to know that, but as a matter of fact I could see both. You could have knocked me over with a broom-straw. I tried to say something amp; couldn’t, my throat was locked up. I don’t know what would have come out if I had been able to talk!

It’s hot today, mid 80s, but Wm. Hobart was dressed like a church deacon (which I’m sure he is) in a black suit amp; shoes. His kid was wearing the junior version of the same getup, amp; was snivelling. Had a pretty good bruise on one cheek, too. I’d bet my bank account his old man put it there.

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t talk, because Hobart had the whole thing scripted. “My son has something to say to you, Mrs Wyler,” he said, then looked down at the boy as if to say you’re on, don’t fuck it up. “Hugh?”

Snivelling harder than ever, Hugh said he’d given in to the Tempting Voice of Satan (I guess that’s the TVS, just like the Stalky Little Boy is the SLB) amp; stolen Seth’s toy. He talked real fast, crying harder amp; harder as he went along. The kid finished by saying, “You can go to the police and I will make a full confession. You can spank me, or my Dad will spank me.” Listening to that pan was like when you call the weather amp; the recording says, “For current conditions, press one. For the current forecast, press two. For road conditions, press three.” I guess it was a blessing I was so stunned. If I hadn’t been, I might’ve laughed, and there was nothing funny about the two of them, standing there so holy amp; ashamed. I was more scared of them-of the father, especially-than I am on most days of Seth.

Scared for them, too.

“I am very sorry,” the kid says, still rapping it out as if it was on cue-cards in front of him. “I have asked my Dad for forgiveness, I have asked Lord Jesus for forgiveness, and now I am asking you for forgiveness.”

I got my act together enough then to take the wagon from him-I was so wrought-up I almost dropped it on my toes-and told him that no spankings would be required.

“The boy also has to apologize to your son,” Mr Hobart said. He looks like Moses with a clean-shaven face and a good haircut, if you can imagine Moses in a double-vented three-piece from Sears. After the things that have been going around here for the last few months, I have no problem imagining anything. That’s part of my trouble. “If you’ll just lead us to him, Mrs Wyler-”

I’ll be damned if the self-righteous SOB didn’t start trying to push his way right in! I pushed him right back, I can tell you. (Almost dropped Dream Floater again in the process, too.) The last thing I wanted was that fat little thief standing in front of the Stalky Little Boy.

What I wanted was for them to be out of my house, and quick. Before either their voices or their emotional vibes (and tho he wasn’t crying, Hob art was at least as upset as his kid, maybe more) could wake him up.

“Seth’s not my son, he’s my nephew,” I said, “and he’s taking a nap right now.”

“Very good,” Hobart says, giving a stiff little nod. “We will come back later. Is tonight convenient? If not, I can bring Hugh back tomorrow afternoon. I can ill afford to take off a second afternoon-I work at the stamping mill in Ten Mile, you know-but God’s business must always take precedence over man’s.”

His voice kept getting louder while he was talking, the way the voices of guys like him always seem to, it’s like they can’t tell you they’ve got to take a shit without turning it into a sermon. I started to feel really scared about Seth waking up, amp; all this time, I swear it’s true, the kid’s looking around like he wants to see if there’s anything else worth hawking. I’d say the day is going to come when Hughie winds up on some shrinky-dink’s couch, except that people like the Hobarts don’t believe in shrinks, do they?