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"You're not mad at me, are you?"
Finally, he turned back to me.
"No," lie said. He forced a softer smile. "No, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself. I'm an idiot."
"No, you're not. You're one of the brightest, most accomplished boys I've met."
"I thought you haven't met many," he retorted instantly.
I smiled. "I haven't. Not the way you're suggesting, but I'm not a lump of coal, Duncan. I listen, see, understand who's around me. You're special," I told him.
He seemed to relax. "Okay," he said. "But I gotta go."
I walked him to the front door.
"Where's your scooter?"
"Just down the road. Not far," he said. We stepped out together.
"You're absolutely sure you don't want anything to eat?"
"I'm fine. I'll try to see you later," he said.
"Good."
He hesitated, and then he kissed me. We held each other for a moment, but suddenly he pulled back and turned sharply, as if he had indeed heard something I looked in the direction he was looking.
There, parked across the road from my uncle and aunt's home, was a woman in an older blue sedan. She was looking at us. I saw she wore a shawl. I could barely make out her features because she was parked in the shade of a sprawling oak tree. I did see her cross herself and then start the car and drive away.
He didn't have to tell me who it was.
17 Inheriting Evil
.
He started down the driveway.
I called to him.
He lifted his hand but didn't look back. I stood
there and watched him turn at the bottom of the driveway, glance in the direction his mother had gone, and then turn and walk ,down the road to where he had parked his scooter.
"Call me later!" I shouted after him. "Duncan, did you hear me? Call!"
He didn't respond. I watched him walk until he disappeared around a bend in the road, never lifting his head, never looking back.
It was difficult for me to concentrate on anything
the remainder of the day. I continually returned to the house to see if Duncan would call. I even moved one of the telephones as close to a window as I could and kept an ear out for the sound of it ringing.
I could only imagine what he was going through at home now. Was I once again the source of someone else's troubles, someone I cared about, got too close to? I couldn't help but wonder if all this did was prove I was the pariah I had always believed I was.
Memories of how the mothers of other girls and even boys my age would tighten their grip on the hands of their children whenever I was nearby returned to me. I could see the fear in their faces. It was almost medieval to see such abject terror, such a belief in evil looming in one as small and helpless as I was. Why shouldn't I have grown up thinking I could contaminate other children if adults believed it so intently? Why shouldn't that feeling linger under my heart? Repeatedly, I replayed the sight of Duncan's mother crossing herself, as if to protect herself from whatever darkness I could send her way and perhaps had already sent into her son.
When I stepped back and looked at the doe I was now fleshing out on my canvas, I did see myself. Duncan had been right. This was not a helpless, frightened doe. It was an angry little creature stepping out of the shadowy forest to challenge the world outside. There was actually a sneer on its lips and fire in its eyes. Its body was tight, poised, more the body of a small leopard than the body of an innocent little deer.
Disgusted, I shoved the painting off the easel. It bounced on the cement floor, a corner of it smashing as it fell over. I kicked it once, driving a hole into the center of it. I threw down my paintbrushes and left the studio. For a while I just hobbled about over the grounds, mumbling to myself. I was sure if anyone saw me, he or she would think I was some lunatic gone wild. I was waving my arms about as 1 limped along, but that was mainly to keep the gnats and mosquitos away from my neck and face.
