Chapter Text
i. there's rotten things left in me
Will Solace’s first word was Mama. The second was sorry.
He used that word quite frequently – like when he spilled juice on the coffee table and broke down into tears because it had stained the carpet; or when he accidentally knocked over a stuffed animal and caressed its crocheted head until he was certain it would no longer be upset with him. They were all little mistakes, ones that Naomi couldn’t fault him for, not really. He was only a toddler, after all.
Still, her son always felt the need to say he was sorry. Even for the smallest of things;, events that barely registered in the foggy thicket of her mind. He’d come up and tug at her dress while her mind sluggishly flittered between concert planning and song lyrics and a million other duties, always with that same guilty look on his face, mouth downturned, and his eyes sad in the way a three-year-old's should never be.
He’d stretch as far as his toes could take him and whisper his crime, stubby fingers smoothing out his shirt like a debutante anxiously pleating their skirt. Each time she would only laugh and ruffle his hair. It’s okay, she’d tell him. Nothin’ to apologize for, toots.
That small, silly smile would ooze across his cheeks, uncertain but beautiful. He’d hug her legs tight and mumble out a thank you , so soft and reverent that she couldn’t believe this was her son. Her son, who was too gentle for any child, too willing to help. She wondered if he’d glimpsed her arriving from yet another evening at the local diner, choked in the smell of coffee and carrying eyebags just as dark. She wondered if he’d watched her sag against the couch, wincing as she pulled her curls from their bun, the locks stringy and tangled from the humidity of the kitchen diner. Had he heard every tepid sigh? Had he followed her with those sad eyes as she prepared herself a saucer of tea, then fell asleep at the counter before it was ready?
Naomi could only hope that he hadn’t. He apologized, though, as if he had.
Will was good. Good in the way that angels were - but could the child of a god and a mortal even be an angel? There were days where she wondered...
One moment, her son would be laughing with other kids at the playground, cheering them on during their jungle-gym tournaments and drawing cryptic messages in the sandbox, as normal as any other child in a crowd of colorful coats and muddy boots. The next, his chin would pivot, and the crisp morning rays would hit him just so, spilling over his face like the hand of his father had descended to bless him. His curls shone like golden straw and his eyes cut through every other dull hue around him. Then, the sun would dip behind the clouds and he would blend in again, mortal amongst mortal, and she would start wondering all over again
In truth, the otherworldly parts of him rarely showed, if at all. He ate his applesauce and went to bed early instead of protesting. He collected shiny rocks from the yard and shaped dirt pies in tiny metal tins. He behaved in school. He rarely got in trouble, always said please and excuse me and sorry. He was a good kid. He was good.
So when Will’s entire second grade class fell ill with a stomach bug, and her own son skipped home every day without a hint of sickness, Naomi had to bite her tongue. She held his hand as they entered the house and listened patiently as he babbled on about his school day.
“Everyone was gone!” he exclaimed, worry and curiosity bleeding across his youthful face. “Do you think they’ll be okay, Mama?”
Naomi managed a laugh, hoping it would assure him. “Nobody ever died of a stomach bug, baby. They’ll be back before you know it.”
They were the same words his teacher had told her only a few hours earlier: His classmates will all be back before he knows it. It’s to be expected, since it’s that time of year and all, though it truly is a shame. Your son is a lucky one, hm?
She had only nodded, ignoring the tight feeling in her chest. Mm, yeah. Real lucky.
Will thought Mama’s boyfriend was a monster.
He knew if he told her so, she’d only grin and play along. But it was true, and he didn’t understand why she couldn’t see it. Every time the man came over, he’d flash a grin, and his teeth would glint with something too sharp to be human. His footsteps cracked like thunder against the floor. It was obnoxious, and Will hated how he wouldn’t take off his big, clunky loafers before stepping on carpet, even though it was a house rule. Did he think he was too good for house rules?
He didn’t listen to his Mama either. He’d pull her in for a hug, kiss her hard and for way too long, even though Will was only a few feet away, doodling at the table. He didn’t care that Mama would push at his chest and her smile would wobble like Will’s silly putty. He’s right there, John, she’d remind him, gently. Then, Tell ‘im to go upstairs, Naomi. He can draw upstairs, can’t he?
The worst part were the flowers – bright, smelly, and with a name Will couldn’t possibly hope to ever spell. Every time he visited, he brought the cry-somethings (cry-san-the-mums? cri - san -thi - mums?) , and every time, Naomi would clasp her hands together, stifle a sigh, and whisper a faint thank you.
And maybe the flowers were pretty – but Mama was also deathly allergic to them. Not that she’d told Will explicitly, but he was well aware. And even without a gut feeling, it was obvious from the way she sniffled and cleared her throat, or excused herself to hack out a glob of mucus.
Those plants were dreadful, and Will knew John could tell, but he kept buying them anyway. Or more likely, he wasn’t buying them at all. Will could easily imagine him bending over some unsuspecting neighbor’s garden and plucking them out by the roots. Simple, fast, effortless. Nothing but the least for his mother.
Will clenched his fists. He didn’t really get angry all that often. Maybe mildly displeased, but red-hot fury was reserved for when soda sprayed all over him after he’d spent a good deal of time trying to pry open the tab. But even that was momentary. This sort of fury had been festering for a while, like a pit planted deep in his stomach, leeching at his patience.
Water, he thought quickly. I’ll get something to drink.
It was a bad idea. In the kitchen were both his favorite and least favorite people in the whole world, arguing over a boiling pot of mac and cheese.
“I’m telling you it’s a good idea,” John said, voice low. His mother merely stirred the cheese around, keeping her eyes focused on the wooden ladle. “I’ll pay, swear it. And you’ll get a break from this town and your kid.”
“William isn’t someone I need a break from,” she shot back, tone clipped. “He’s my son, and you’ll treat him as such.”
“You’re tellin’ me you’ve never wanted a day on your own?”
“You’re offering a week and a half, John.”
“A week and a half at a resort that I said I’d pay for.”
“How generous of you,” Naomi crooned. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to decline.”
John’s grip tightened on her waist. “What is your problem?”
She stilled. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he snapped. “I’m offerin’ you easy pickings. A fun time. This whole relationship, I’ve just been goin’ to your house, and we’ve been watching cheap-ass movies on the VCR instead of goin’ to the movies like regular folk. All because you can’t muster up the courage to get out on the town for once. I can’t do everything, Naomi.”
“Are you kidding me?” She spun around and jabbed him in the chest. “First off, those are some good cheap-ass movies, and you’d be a fool not to appreciate a good Star Wars re-run. Secondly, you knew when we started seein’ each other that I’ve got a kid to take care of and I’d rather not leave him alone. I don’t know why you’re acting so different now. You’re the one with the problem, John.”
“Just ‘cause you’ve got a kid doesn’t mean you have to coddle him-”
“When he’s a seven-year-old, yes, I damn do,” she spat. “And don’t you dare say a thing when the only things you’ve raised are a couple of bucks and your dick. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than running away to some resort with you. Namely, my family.”
“You,” he muttered, breathing heavily. His hand flew up. “You-”
Will’s lungs constricted as he watched from where he hid in the corridor. His Mama’s eyes widened, but she flinched instinctively out of the way as John’s hand collided with the hot rim of the pot she’d been making the mac and cheese in. He howled in pain, rubbing helplessly at the red-sore spot on his palm. Inflammation, Will’s brain supplied, even though such a word had never been present in his vocabulary before.
But he had little time to dwell on it, because his head had started to throb and his anger was pulsing louder than ever before. He could barely comprehend what John had just attempted, could barely comprehend that anyone would want to raise their hand against another, so quickly, over nothing at all. And in his head a hundred images of his mother sprawled over the ground hit him like shrapnel. What if. What if. What if.
Each possibility closed around his throat, guided him forward almost unthinkingly. His fingers twitched. Something unraveled within, and it pooled outward. His veins turned black, but he didn’t notice them. He was only looking at John, whose rage-filled eyes shook like rabid marbles in a pinball machine. He raised his arm again, and Will’s palm stretched out, a million inky spider-web strands of something about to ooze forward, then-
“Enough of this nonsense,” Naomi snarled, latching her fingers around John’s wrist. She squeezed, and John whimpered in pain. “You don’t have enough body mass to beat up a Dachshund. I trust you know where the door is?”
“Naomi,” he faltered. “I-”
“It’s Ms. Solace,” she corrected. “Now out of my house.”
There was a moment where he entertained a shameful expression, wondering if he could win her over, before he seemed to think better of it, dropping it with a hiss. He grumbled something under his breath and wrenched his hand away, dragging his obnoxious loafers across the carpet one final time. When the door slammed behind him, Will stepped out of the corridor, his rage fading into timidity.
“Will?” His mother’s eyes blew wide, and she scampered over to him, pressing kisses to his forehead. He leaned into her touch, warm and familiar. “Oh, honey. Did you see all of that? I’m so sorry.” Her eyes looked a little wet. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mama,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to say sorry.”
“That’s my line.” He could feel her smile. “But thank you, anyhow.”
He’d never heard an adult tell him thank you besides his mother, and the appreciative grin on her face delighted him in ways few other things could. What delighted him more was that things were back to normal. He’d no longer have to deal with John, and neither would his mother. They could go back to sleepy cereal breakfasts and nighttime movie marathons without the obvious elephant in the room squished between them.
That alone made him beam, and forget all about the itch in his fingertips.
“That’s odd,” Will’s mother mused.
“What’s odd?” His voice was quiet. He was looking at the same thing she was.
“John bought these flowers only a day or two ago.” She flicked a stem, and a rain shower of petals sprinkled into the open trash bag Will was holding. “But they’ve already wilted?”
“Oh,” said Will. “Can we use it for compost?”
Naomi frowned, caressing a wrinkled leaf. “I don’t think so, honey. They haven’t just wilted. See these blemishes here?” Will saw them. He’d known what they were before he’d seen them. “This flower isn’t just wilting. It’s sick.”
On Will’s eighth birthday, he stood in the back of a club, nursing a cup of juice and a foul mood.
This wasn’t the first time he’d tagged along on one of his mother’s shows - though usually, he lingered in the back by the left exit, where he’d stay under the watchful eye of the bartender and away from the thick, inebriated crowds. His mama liked to joke that his head of bright hair was like a lightbulb, and thus impossible to miss even from a distance. He only hoped that she couldn’t make out his facial expressions from all the way upstage, because despite the cheerful smiles he always gave her as encouragement before a grand show, he was miserable.
He spent most nights in a state of tepid discomfort. He’d perch in his chair and get free refills on orange juice whenever he wanted - which had been fun at first, but tasted more tart and sickly with each sip. It was also loud, and though sometimes he’d retreat into the bathroom, the smell of vomit and beer usually made him far too nauseous to stay. So he’d end up back in the stiff seat again, head lolling from minutes of fitful sleep, interrupted by raucous shrieks and the clinking of glasses; toast after toast for an endless, terrible night.
Will never told his mother about any of it. She looked so radiant performing that he didn’t want to dishearten her. It was only a few evenings per month, anyway. He could handle that, even if this particular concert lay directly on his birthday.
Birthdays in the Solace house were quiet, deeply personal affairs. There were traditions – waking up to hash browns and quiche; going for a walk by the creek that hugged their neighborhood; saving the cake for when the sun fell and they were in the dark, except for the flicker of candles illuminating their faces, sneaking dollops of frosting onto the other’s clothes when they weren’t watching.
We’ll do all of that, I promise, his mother had told him as they piled into the band van earlier that evening. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow sounded less important than today.
Still, it was an olive branch, and he was reluctantly but diligently dragging it around the entire length of the concert, downing cup after cup of juice the way some patrons took shots (he still wasn’t sure what that word meant) in the hopes of drowning out the taste of bitterness. The bartender, a rail-thin man with tattooed arms, arched an eyebrow when Will grumbled that he wanted a fifth refill.
That alone made him feel absurd. It was stupid to be this upset about a compromise, wasn’t it? The feelings were ugly and made him feel even worse, especially when his eyes chanced a glance at the stage and he saw his mother, cradling a microphone to her lips, singing her heart out.
For a moment, he imagined that she was singing for him, like she always did on his birthday, softly murmuring the lyrics as she lit the candles. Just the two of them, her voice as gentle as a kiss on his forehead.
The crowd screamed again and the vision shattered. It was never bound to last in an atmosphere like this. He watched as club-goers waved their hands in the air, towards his mother’s outstretched fingers, as though wishing to catch that lyrical kiss for themselves.
Will curled up on the chair, trying to get warm. The blanket he always carried with him did nothing; even with it wrapped around his shoulders, the cold still brushed against his ankles, and made him angry...Which made him even more angry for being angry over something as insignificant as that. Unable to deal with the layer upon layer of emotional cake his heart was baking, he screwed his eyes shut and let it burn, instead.
“Will,” came his mother’s voice. Was it over? It was still obnoxiously loud. “Time to go home, honey.”
His head hurt. He blinked the sleep from his lashes and saw his mother, guitar slung around her back, gesturing towards the door. “It’s late. We gotta get you to bed.” She reached for his fingers, locking them in hers, but they felt tight and restraining. Too drained to pull away, he let her guide them to the van, where he sat in the front, blearily rubbing a hand down his face.
“Sorry, honey,” his mother said quietly, turning on the ignition.
“’S fine,” he assured her. There were other things he wanted to say, too, but he couldn’t put them into words. He couldn’t describe them with words. “Was it good? The show?”
“It was wonderful. So many lovely people in the audience.” He wondered what his mother saw. Under the lights, everything below flashed and glittered like gold. In the back, quivering within the dim orange and blue colors that brushed on all their dancing backs, he saw only nameless, uncut, stone-faced people. That thought carved a hole in his heart, a gaping, leering maw descending into nothing.
He didn’t feel nothing, though. He wished he did, because the thing growing in him now was worse than nothing. In wake of his slumber, his emotions felt hot and sluggish, with barely defined lines. The street lights wavered outside the window as they drove by - glass rolled down because the AC was broken and hot hair buffeting against his hair. It was irritating – as irritating as the bug bite on his thigh and the sound of junk rattling in the back of the van. He felt a little like that right now: junk being tossed around; an afterthought.
He wanted to fall asleep and forget.
The rest of the drive came in pieces. His mother parked and walked them up the gloomy stairs to their apartment. She tucked him in bed and kissed him on the cheek. Whispered happy birthday, just for him, and he brought the blanket closer, dreaming of hash browns and quiche and homemade frosting atop a birthday cake.
Waking up was a different story, though. Before the smell of food or dulled sensation of birthday-morning thrill, there was the sound of coughing.
“Mama?” He tip-toed, tentative, down the hall. There wasn’t anything on the table, but there was bacon sizzling on the stovetop. His mother stood just a few tiles away, still dressed in her robe, which was strange for her. She loved mornings more than anything – considered it the best time to scribble down lyrics inspired by her dreams. She always had herself up and ready before seven, hair combed and curled, face washed and clothes prim.
Now she appeared a ghost of her former self. Her face was pale and hair messy, held up in a loose bun that would undoubtedly collapse if a single pin were pulled out. She shuffled about in slippers and had a mask tugged over her lips. And, of course, there was the glaringly obvious development – the red blisters dotting her skin.
They were everywhere. On her face, her neck, her arms, her fingers. He knew what they were, innately, but also recognized them from the children’s books at school.
Varicella, his brain supplied. Out loud, he whispered, “Chicken pox.”
“Good mornin’, toots.” Wrinkles formed around her eyes, the only sign that she was smiling at him. “The hash browns are almost done, and I’m about to -” She paused, rubbing at her throat. “God, I oughta put some tea on the stove...anywho, breakfast’ll be ready in a minute, and when you’re done we can go out to the creek.”
“Mama...” his voice wavered. The red blisters on her face looked like pinpricks of blood. “Mama, no. You can’t. You’re sick.”
“It’s only chicken pox.” She waved a flippant hand. “It’s a little unusual to get it again-”
His eyes bulged. “You’ve already had it?”
“When I was a kid, yes,” she elaborated. “Thought you weren’t able to get it twice – that's what my momma always told me, anyway – but apparently you can. Just my lucky day, ain’t it?” She filled a pot with water and flicked the gas on. Blue flames licked at the glass bottom, and the liquid began to simmer. “Woke up this morning with some spots, but it’ll be fine. So long as I wear the mask and we keep a distance, we can still celebrate.”
“No. You’re sick. What if you get sicker when you leave?”
“Oh, honey, I won’t-”
“What if it gets worse?” His hands shook. His head was overrun with images of the blisters popping, one by one. They covered him like a heavy blanket, taking away his breath. “You can’t leave. Please stay inside. I’m okay if – if we don’t celebrate!” Guilt came and hugged his knees like a child returning to their lone father. “Please, Mama.”
“Will-” She set her spatula down and came forward, then stopped abruptly, realizing their predicament. She settled for a comforting smile. “Don’t cry, baby. It’ll be alright. Nobody ever died from chicken pox.”
He remembered her telling him something of the same sort, when everyone in his class last year had gotten a particularly bad stomach bug. Nobody ever died from a stomach bug. She’d laughed and he’d laughed and that had been the end of it. But this – there was something so absolutely off about this, a feeling that made his gut churn, that he couldn’t let it go. The guilt squeezed him hard, popping his blood vessels like balloons.
“Just because you don’t die doesn’t mean it won’t hurt ,” he protested. Then, swallowing down his doubts and ignoring the chastising voices of every adult he’d ever known telling him that he would get sick too - he reached for her hand and tried to drag her towards the bedroom. She fell forward in surprise, stumbling over a hinge in the floor and landing onto her rumbled, unmade bed.
“Will-”
“I’ll go watch the tea,” he insisted, not leaving room for her to argue. “So it doesn’t blow over.” As it had done multiple times when they were watching movies and had forgotten about the boiling water. “Just stay there, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
He caught a wry and where would I go? before rushing back to the kitchen. The water was bubbling now. He poured it into a mug with a tea bag, grabbed the plate of bacon and hash browns that had been set out for him, and returned to her room.
Naomi frowned when she saw the plate. “That’s for you, Will.”
“I can eat cereal.” He set it on the nightstand. “You should eat something, that way you’ll feel better.”
“I can eat cereal, then,” she said, echoing his previous words.
“Cereal isn’t even that good for you!” he cried.
“Oh? So it wasn’t my son picking out -” she squinted for a second - “Lucky Charms in the cereal aisle last week?”
He blushed. “I like Lucky Charms.”
“That you do.”
“But… hash browns are better. And bacon.” He pushed the dish towards her. “Please eat, Mama.”
She sighed. “I suppose I can’t say no to my son, huh?”
He managed a small smile. Her voice was weaker than normal, not one belonging to a boisterous, loud vocal performer. She was too quiet and it felt wrong. “Not today. I promise I’ll eat some fruit.”
She ruffled his hair. “You go and do that, then, toots. I need to take my mask off to eat anyway, and we don’t want you catching pox, ‘kay?” There was an unspoken ‘ not that you will’ tacked at the end of the sentence – because he never got sick. Rarely was the word they used in front of the doctor. “And, honey?”
He glanced at her from the doorway. “Yeah?”
“There’s birthday cake in the fridge,” she told him. “Lemon cake. You should get yourself a slice.”
“I’m not eating it without you,” he said, tone final. “We can eat it when you feel better.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Her eyes swam with emotions. He left her with them, unsure of what else to say, and retreated to the kitchen. The pot was cold and empty, and grease singed the pan. He wasn’t hungry, but reached for a bag of grapes left in the fridge. Every one of them was sour. The taste managed to, somewhat, distract him from the repeated sight of his mother’s state, and the tingling in his hands.
He’d once read about pox in a book, one of the ratty hardcovers from his school library with a bent spine and well-worn pages. Chicken pox was caused by a virus. It was unusual to contract twice, but not impossible. The rashes...the rashes took time to show up. Incubation period, his brain offered, though he didn’t remember reading about that part.
He couldn’t dwell on it, though – because the rashes were supposed to appear in clusters, weren’t they? And they certainly weren’t supposed to happen overnight. The symptoms (no, signs, his brain corrected) started out as a cold, but his mother had been fine the past few days. No runny nose, no fever, no nothing. She had woken him up just a day ago with a ninety-seven degree temperature and a radiant smile, the only spots on her skin, freckles.
Will idly crumpled the bag in his hands, squishing the remaining grapes. Their thin, rubbery skin split and green flesh oozed out, translucent in his hands. He threw it away and returned uneasily to his mother’s bedside. She’d eaten everything on her plate, and had fallen asleep. Swallowing down his fear, his heart heavy, he lay his head in her lap and shut his eyes.
The next morning, Naomi’s pox was gone. That wasn’t possible either, but he was so happy that he didn’t let himself think about it. They cut up the cake and sang songs through bites of fluff; waded through the creek with their pants rolled up. She was so upbeat, like she hadn’t been weak as a ragdoll the day before, that Will could easily ignore his own exhaustion.
It was easy. He just didn’t let himself think about it.
“Damn,” Naomi muttered. “It’s a bad one.”
Will peeked over the counter, blue eyes darting towards the cutting board. “What’s bad?”
“Look -” She showed him the bit of an apple she was slicing. The skin was glossy and red, light bouncing off the edges like delicate paint. The inside was crisp-white and glistening with sweetness - except for the mottled brown rot spreading out from the core. “Rotten,” she sighed.
Will jumped up to look, and his mother gathered him in her arms. He perched on her hip and glanced down at the apple peel scraps and pie crust on the counter. “Can we not tell if it’s rotten on the outside?” he asked.
Naomi shrugged. “Depends. Sometimes it’s on the skin, and you know not to get those. But others have rot in ‘em, hidden away. Makes it hard to pick. They’re all so unassuming.” She rubbed a finger on the smooth, scarlet skin of the rotten apple, then picked it up in one swift move and chucked it in the trash. “Either way, they’re better off thrown out. Can’t use them for compost, and rot makes everyone sick.” She bopped his nose. “Even you.”
Will tried to smile as his mother offered him an apple to peel. He picked away at them, waiting to see if he’d find darkness and decay beneath perfect, innocent skin.
God, Will loved tours.
It had gotten to a point in life where his mother couldn’t be seen in public anymore without a shawl tied around her face and a gaudy pair of sunglasses. Sometimes, when attendance was called in class, teachers would now even pause, squint at the paper, and enunciate his last name – Solace – thinking maybe it was a coincidence. Once, he’d almost dropped groceries at the store because he’d heard his mother’s crooning voice over the speakers; the lyrics to a song he’d first heard her piecing together over a series of frustrated nights now seamlessly rushing through the aisles like sweet run-off.
Famous. His mother was famous, and it was the oddest thing.
Beyond seeing her face plastered on posters or having excitable fans hesitantly ask for her autograph when she dropped him off at school (he walked now), there were the tours. Together they’d drive through the states, getting lost in a maze of twisted highways and ever-changing landscapes, yelling out ABBA songs in the van with the windows rolled down and the music blasting high.
The van itself was a relic – peeling seats, a smell that was the culmination of every air freshener that Naomi had bought, and a jacked stereo that tended to garble up a song at the fifty-second mark. By that point, they could’ve afforded a nicer car, but there was something uniquely sentimental about their van. It, like them, had seen everything, and was one of the few constants in their newly dynamic lives.
Today, though, they were leaving her in a parking garage, like they always did when they visited New York. Naomi’s last performance of her tour would be later that night, but until then, they had the whole morning to themselves, which meant-
“Subways!” his mother said with glee.
“Subways.” Will tried to find that same sense of glee in the subway map they were both standing in front of, but all he saw were the color-coded, intersecting routes that tangled themselves up like a sadistic version of Snake and made his head hurt.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to look at them for much longer. The train came to a screeching halt in front of the platform, and he and his mother became nothing more than two more squished bodies in the crowd.
Sardines in a tin can – that was the subway experience. And although Naomi’s enthusiasm was infectious, he felt relieved when they finally stepped out onto the station. As much as he loved indulging his mother, being underground so long… no, he was glad to be back outside, even if that meant enduring New York’s cacophony.
He and his mother bought themselves pretzels from a nearby vendor, then strolled under the stone arch of Washington Square Park, another gem of nature hidden like a trinket in the city’s many secret pockets. People milled around, posing by dormant lampposts, tossing shiny coins into the gurgling fountain, and talking in low voices, a hush that was carried away by the wind.
One thing stuck out to Will, though. “Hey, Ma?”
She tossed away her pretzel napkin, wiping oily hands on her jeans. At his admonishing, slightly horrified look, she shrugged. “Hey, these pockets oughta be useful for something. What were you sayin’, hon?”
He craned his neck towards the trees. “There are a lot of pigeons, aren’t there?”
“No other US city has more of ‘em than the Big Apple,” she informed him, lips curving into a smug smile.
“Awfully proud of yourself for that one?” he teased. During the long rides, when they were out of Oreos, and the stereo couldn’t crank out another warbled tune, and traffic was murder, she’d whip out a pamphlet and read up on all the nonsensical facts she could. She took a certain amount of joy in learning about different places, but more joy in surprising Will with the most random, out-of-context sentences – like that morning, when she’d told him that he was ten times more likely to be bitten by a New Yorker than a shark (which cemented his personal belief that New Yorkers were their own species.)
“Maybe,” she quipped, tucking a curl behind her ear. They were skirting the fountain, people-watching, but Will’s gaze continued to stray towards the pigeons.
God, there were so many of them, all huddled together like a massive fur boa lining the fountain’s edge. He’d only seen a few back in Texas, watching pedestrians from the power lines with curious, beady eyes.
These pigeons didn’t look curious. They hardly moved, and when they did, it was only to scrape a talon over the metal rim of the fountain they perched on. The wind didn’t bother them, and people tossed coins into the water as though they couldn’t even see them.
Will wanted to pass it off as another weird New York thing. Still, he flinched when one pigeon left the flock to land by his feet. Up close, he noticed that its eyes were pitch black, and its beak glinted unnaturally in the evening light. His insides curled in on themselves like tissue paper.
Part of him wasn’t surprised when they attacked. He’d felt them looming over like specters, drinking in the reflections of the fountain water, moving like rusting gears in a timepiece. What did surprise him was how sharp their beaks were, each hot as iron baked in the sun, piercing into him. They dug into his flesh, searing, and the pain was unlike any he had ever known before. One was agony enough, but with all of them pecking at him – pulling at stray curls, nipping the meat of his cheeks, flaying the hill of his sneaker – he could find no words to describe the sensation.
He screamed. Passersby turned to look at him, but their gazes shifted from concern into mild annoyance. Oh, their twisted mouths seemed to whisper, it’s just another whiny kid. Where’s his mom?
Will frantically searched for her. They’d been side-by-side just moments ago, hadn’t they? His eyes passed over a redhead smoking a cigarette, two guys with their poodles, and – there, his mother, eyes frantic as she reached for something in her purse. She knelt beside him and propped open an umbrella, coal-black and absurd beneath the shining sun.
“Will?” She breathed. Her fingers brushed the burns on his arms, pulsing red. “You’re hurt. Oh, God – I don’t have anything on me-” There was a sound like bullets and their shoulders hitched in unison. The birds had surrounded them, stabbing the umbrella fabric with their beaks, the sound of their beating wings scraping against his ears.
His mother scoped the area, but there was nowhere to go. Will noticed even more birds eying them from evergreen boughs, waiting for their meager defenses to fall so they could join their fowl brethren. All around them, people milled about the park, laughter and aimless chatter choking the air like perfume. Could they not see the pair crouching in fear? Were their screams so easily dismissed?
“Mama,” he whispered, as though to assure himself she was still there, that he had not been left to cower under the umbrella alone. “Mama-”
“Ssh. I love you, Will.” His mother was not a woman with regrets, so why did she sound like that? “We’re gonna be okay.”
Will held onto those words like an anchor as they sunk. He shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to hear the umbrella tear, or see the contortions of his mother’s face. Had they really been dallying about earlier, eating greasy pretzels and sightseeing? He wished he’d smiled more when she told him about the subways. He wished they’d woken up earlier. Now things would end here – this much he could realize, his mind deep in the pits of panic, unable to grasp death in his hands and scream at it for time.
Time was the one thing they didn’t have. Instead, they got the chiming of bells, cutting through the discord.
Church bells? Will thought warily. Was this heaven? He opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man dressed in obnoxiously bright suspenders, birds fluttering away in every direction. He carried a pair of bells and a hammer, striking them with fervor.
The man turned around and knelt, gently taking the umbrella from Naomi’s iron grip. Will stared up at him, half delirious.
“Are you an angel?”
“No, kid,” the man said. His smile was sardonic, almost sad. “I’m afraid it’s much worse than that.”
Will supposed he should have been shocked when he saw the hooves, but all he felt was dread.
His head swam as Maron continued to talk. They had all safely retreated to their hotel room, where the man – or rather, the half man, half goat who had revealed himself to be something called a satyr – trickled a warm, sweet-smelling nectar on Will’s burns, healing them instantly. In all the horror that had transpired, the awe he felt watching the process was a welcome moment of wonder in a world gone suddenly bleak.
It didn’t last. He sat on their unmade bed, crumpling like a paper napkin. It was hard to believe that they’d been eating breakfast only a few hours earlier, clad in wrinkled pajamas and fantasizing through bites of omelet about their plans for the day. As Maron spoke, his words seemed to tear through each of those picturesque hopes, one by one, slowly and agonizingly, with no chance of ever recovering them. Haven’t you ever felt anything strange about the world around you? He’d asked. About yourself?
No, Will wanted to shout. He hated the way Maron made him sound like he was some jilted puzzle piece, trying to fit where he shouldn’t. Perhaps there had been the occasional anomaly – like when he'd once seen a golden stag at the creek, or the time he’d had a substitute teacher in kindergarten with a single eye – but these things passed like silt. They meant nothing if he decided they didn’t, and he kept each secret tucked within the folds of his heart, where they would wither away and become obsolete, and he could feel normal again.
The most difficult part of listening to Maron speak, however, was the confirmation of things Will had denied to himself, over and over, ever since he had been a child.
"We need to get him to Camp Half-Blood as soon as possible,” the satyr informed them, solemnly. “The Stymphalian birds won’t be the last attack you’ll experience. He’ll be safe there.”
Naomi nodded, jaw set. She had said little throughout the entire conversation. Will had initially thought she would be more shocked – she'd never taken anything at face value, a skeptic at heart - but instead her eyes were desolate as she moved to pack their things. He wondered if she was thinking about his father.
(Will didn’t. It had always just been him and his Mama, him and his best friend and nothing else. When he thought of his father, it was only at night, when he needed an excuse – any excuse at all – to explain the sickness growing in his gut like wicked flora.)
It was when they were ushered into a cab that Will’s voice began to work, though it came out as nothing more than a fragile whisper. “Do I have to go to the camp?”
“Camp is the only place you’ll be safe, kid, at least ‘till we figure out who your godly father is.” Maron offered a sympathetic smile, his first real attempt at comfort. “It’s a fun place, promise.”
I don’t care about that, Will wanted to snap. Ordinarily, his mother would’ve had a long talk with him about manners if he’d dared to say as much aloud, but now, she only stared out the window, watching as the cityscape faded into green hills and dirt road. He got the sense that he could’ve cursed and she wouldn’t have said a word. He certainly considered it when he saw the hill, a marble arch, and beyond that, a tree with branches carrying something that made everything glitter gold.
It was beautiful. He hated it – he wanted home, with their winding apartment stairs that went scalding hot during the summer (he and his mother would race up to the top, avoiding the sting in their toes), the rickety table that was propped up with one of Naomi’s old high school textbooks, the hand painted walls, and the whine of the doors.
“Mama,” he called, tugging gently at her limp hand. “Mama, we’re here. Let’s go.”
Her face, so motionless until then, broke. Maron gave him an increasingly sorrowful look. “Mortals can’t cross the protective barriers around camp.” I’m a mortal , Will thought. He couldn’t convince himself he was half-god. He was ten and bled when he fell. He cried when he scuffed his knees, and he couldn’t sleep in the dark. “You’ll have to go alone.”
“No,” he said. Then, more fervently, shaking his head: “No. I won’t.”
“Will,” his mother murmured. “You have to. It’s for your own safety.”
“No!” He screamed. Naomi flinched. “I won’t go! You can’t make me!” He’d never been one to throw tantrums, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that he was acting like a child. That was what he was , deep down, behind all the mortal and godly nonsense Maron had told them about.
“Baby,” she whispered, pleadingly. “I don’t want this, either. But it won’t be forever. Just for a little bit. You’ll come visit during the winter.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, like a seal on an envelope before it got carried away, lost in a sea of messages. “I have to put you first.”
“I don’t want to go,” he whispered, tears clouding his vision. “Please.”
“I know, honey.” Maron clicked the door open, dragging Will’s case out of the trunk. Will wanted to crawl in there and drive all the way back to the city. “Be good, okay?”
“Mama-”
“I know you will be. You always are.” She placed something in his palm, closing his fingers around it. “I love you, Will.”
“Mama!”
A hand gently pulled him out of the cab. He strained against it, but could do nothing as the yellow car drove off, leaving dust in its wake. “Come on, kid,” said Maron, voice soft. “Let’s get you settled in.”
Will stood there, watching the cab until it was no longer visible. He glanced at the object in his hand – a coin stamped with an image of Lady Liberty. They’d gotten it their second day there, and his mother had been ecstatic. She loved collecting coins from each state they visited. I used to hold them during concerts, she once told him. They made me feel less nervous. You could conquer worlds with these.
But there was nothing to conquer here. His world had already driven away.
(If Maron noticed the ring of sick plants around Will’s feet, he said nothing of it.)