His hair. With a shiver of horror, he suddenly understood that he would have to cut his own hair.
In the surrounding county, in this kingdom of rubes and hicks, barbers could no doubt be found, but he suspected that they learned to cut hair by shearing sheep and would do him up in full redneck style. Anyway, when anarchy swept the nation, venturing out to a barber would be as foolhardy as walking barefoot through a snakepit.
The water was foul, lukewarm. He had cleaned four fingernails to his satisfaction. He drained the sink and filled it again.
He scrubbed, scrubbed. He drained the sink once more and filled it a third time.
When his hands were clean, he felt that he had washed away not only the filth but also every stubborn vestige of superstition. He believed that he would suffer no further from paranoid fantasies of the resurrected dead. Good-bye, Jim.
With the shotgun in hand, Henry toured the house one more time.
In the kitchen, he stared at the glow leaking under the braced cellar door. He was disturbed by the light pooling below, down there where only darkness ought to be – pooling, rising, insinuating.
He stood there for so long, gripping the shotgun so fiercely, that eventually he became aware that his hands ached.
He returned to the bedroom and stood staring at the faux sleeper under the bedclothes, the make-believe Henry composed of pillows and rolled blankets. The simulacrum was convincing.
As his flashlight brightened in his hand, he doused the overhead light with the switch by the door. He left the door open. The hallway light was too dim to relieve the deep gloom in the bedroom.
He retrieved his shotgun and took it into the empty half of the closet, from which he earlier removed Nora’s clothing. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, leaving the riddled door open. He clicked off the flashlight.
Outside, the tormentor would see the glow of the living-room lamp, the other rooms dark. He would most likely sense a trap and wait for Henry to step out of the house before making his move. If the sonofabitch dared to use his key to come inside, Henry would be ready for him.
The simulacrum under the bedclothes looked like someone sleeping.
If the tormentor stepped into the room, switched on the lights, and opened fire on the fake Henry, the real Henry would return fire from the closet, killing him.
Sitting in the dark, Henry recalled the shape on the bed, under the covers. He could see it clearly in memory.
A real man lying on the bed would present exactly the same form as the pillow-and-rolled-blanket dummy. Exactly.
He knew the sleeper was nothing but pillows and blankets because earlier he arranged them under the covers. He knew. Just pillows and blankets.
Henry listened for a distant door to open. He listened for the stealthy footsteps of an intruder. He listened intently for the sound of the bedsprings adjusting to a shifting weight.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Yet.
For Cammy Rivers, the sudden recognition of the nature of the creatures’ hands was a wardrobe-to-Narnia, tornado-and-Toto moment, when the well-known land of a lifetime suddenly proved to be – to have always been – one door away, one wind away, from another reality.
The creature with the plush yellow duck found the pressure point that made the toy speak: Quack, quack.
At once, its companion answered with the purple bunny: Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Panting in anticipation of play, Merlin stood poised to move whichever way the action might go, looking from one to the other of his new friends.
Quack. Squeak, squeak. Quack, quack. Squeak.
Throughout most of her childhood, Cammy had wished desperately for a magic moment, for a wave of change to wash away the way things were, for all that seemed impossible to become possible in a wink. Having given up long ago, having been old and without dreams even before her brutal childhood ended, she now found herself on the brink of an event potentially so momentous that it seemed to have the power to put her past in a new perspective, to diminish the memory of her suffering, and to open a door through which she could step and be transformed.
Squeak. Quack. Squeak. Quack, quack, quack.
The word wonder was inadequate to describe the feeling – both emotion and sensation – that flowered in her more fully by the minute, and the right word no longer eluded her. But she feared that speaking it even to herself would jinx her, would ensure that what seemed to be momentous would turn out to be mundane.
Squeak, squeak. Quack. Squeak, squeak. Quack.
Sitting on the footstool again, Cammy remained riveted by the animals’ hands as they squeezed the toys. “No, not like monkeys. There’s over a hundred species of monkeys, some with hands instead of paws, but not all. Those with hands don’t always have thumbs.”
Grady rose from the arm of the chair behind Cammy and knelt beside the footstool on which she sat. “These guys have thumbs.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, they sure do. And some monkeys have thumbs that help them hold things. But only capuchins and one or maybe two other species can pick up things between their thumb and forefinger.”
Squeak. Quack. Squeak, squeak. Quack, quack.
One of the animals made soft chortling noises that seemed to express delight, and the two appeared to grin at each other.
Making a timpani of the floor, Merlin galloped out of the room.
“Of monkeys, only capuchins and – I think maybe – guenons can move the thumb around to touch a couple of the other fingers.”
Grady counted, “One, two, three, four,” as he moved his right thumb to each finger on his hand.
“I don’t know of any monkeys that have fully opposable and extendable thumbs, capable of such dexterity,” Cammy said. “A lot of monkeys can’t hold things with their thumb, they just press the object between their fingers and palm.”
“Anyway,” Grady said, “these guys aren’t monkeys. They don’t look anything like monkeys.”
“Definitely not monkeys,” she agreed. “Some lemurs have pretty flexible hands, but these hands aren’t like the hands of any lemur.”
“What has hands like theirs?”
“We do.”
“Besides us.”
“Nothing.”
“There must be something.”
“Yeah. There’s them.”
Having made a selection from his toy box in the kitchen, the wolfhound thundered into the living room with a plush raccoon in his mouth.
The animals on the sofa reacted to that ring-tailed treasure with interest.
Hoping to tease them into a chase, Merlin bit the raccoon, and it produced a squeak identical to that made by the purple bunny.
As if disappointed that the raccoon lacked a unique voice, the creatures returned to the examination of their toys.
“Look at the way they handle those things,” Cammy said.
“What way?”
“The way they stroke the fabric.”
“So?”