THE INVISIBLE BOY by Ben Phillips chapter one. The boy Silence walked in step behind strolling shoppers through the automatic doors. He changed course to retrieve a distended basket which had been smashed up against the wall behind the shopping cart return, its framework cracked and its handles broken loose; all in all, it was in pretty good shape. Silence cradled the broken hand carton in his arms with the open end in front, his chin resting on the top as he wandered the isles. In the realm of the dead were many things which the living may well have appreciated if ever they could have seen them. In this store there were large painted letters affixed to some of the walls and (in smaller writing) tops of the shelves, often nearby the usual neon signs advertising "BAKERY", "PHARMACY", "PRODUCE". These signs seemed, in the eyes of the dead, to be dim all over and flickering in places, occasionally broken altogether if the lifespan of the sign was indeed to be short due to some mishap or another. The labels of the dead, on the other hand, were there courtesy perhaps of some wraithly pundit, or possibly even of the plasmic reality which formed the underworld, shaped always by the feelings and consciousness of the people moving through it living and dead. "In here... somewhere," murmured a pretty lady uncertainly as she pushed her cart into an isle. Silence meandered after her through an isle that had numerous little vanity devices hanging about: blushes and lipsticks and eyeliners and little silver tools to serve various epidermal hygiene functions. Little cardboard pictures stood out from the display here and there with women on them laughing or smiling or kissing thin air. They all looked impeccably beautiful, and some name brand or another would be featured prominently as though the companies were directly responsible for the women looking as though they were models. PERFECTION read the scrawled letters above the display in the black paint of the dead. The young lady Silence was following stopped in front of a hanging magnifying mirror, checked that no one else was in the aisle, and took a moment to fuss over her face and collarline. She continued down the isle and around the corner to put a few fashion magazines in her cart from the magazine rack. The black paint above the rack read IDENTITY. She passed by the shelves of pills and medications marked NUMBING and the greeting cards (FUNCTIONALITY) turned into the candy section where a young man was stocking chocolates. What was said next may have been reorganized a bit by Silence's wraithly ears; despite his apparent age, his fingers were inky from smoothing the souls of others, and sometimes the words of the living would come through to him in more honest renditions. "Excuse me," said the woman. "Do you know where I could find some happiness?" "Happiness," blinked the stock boy. "Um... I don't think we have that any more. Actually," he thought a moment as he bent over for more chocolate bars, "I don't know if we ever did." "Well damn," said the woman, looking the other way and not moving. "Somebody told me you had it here." "I think we used to have some kind of -- oh yeah, I remember. Sex. You're probably not short of that though," he said, tracing her figure while her head was still turned. Then he remembered something. "I used to know a guy -- well... no, never mind." "What?" "Well, I used to know a guy who sold some in these little plastic bags. Most people that tried it said it compared pretty well to the national brands, actually. I could give you directions to some if you want.." The lady seemed to be losing interest. "I tried that before. It was okay, but not really what I need. Thanks anyway." "Sure," he shrugged, returning to his chore. The lady's shopping cart squeek-squeeked away with Silence following it like an unwanted son. chapter two. "Jason, have you got your book report for Mr. Greene?" Simon's mother yelled. "Yeah," Simon's little brother called halfheartedly from down the hall. "And you stapled it?" "Yeah." "And you put your name on it?" "I got it, Mom." "Okay, Jason, I just don't want you to forget." In her voice a nagging reminder of past mistakes. Simon was behind his mother as she busily prepared lunches. "Hey, Mom..." "Jason, come here for a minute!" she yelled over him. She was dropping bagged sandwiches into paper sacks on the counter. "Hey, Mom, I wanted to ask you..." Simon said. "Jason, did you hear me?" "Yeah, I'm coming," Jason's voice screamed irritably from down the hall. "Don't get nasty with me, young man!" she called back. She glanced at Simon. "Yes? Speak." "Hey Mom, I was going to ask you if, uh, it would be okay if I stayed home today." Simon's mother reached into a box of single-serving potato chip bags to drop one in each lunch sack. "What for?" "Um..." Simon trailed off. His preconcocted excuse had suddenly evaporated. Because I can't stand to go back to that hellish place with the nasty vindictive monsters who use me for their little whipping boy because they know I'm too scared to fight and so they can push me around any way they please... "Jason, come here for a minute!" Simon's mother called again. ...and the only thing I can do about it is go beg the teachers for help and more and more even they don't care. Because I hate middle school and all the things they make us do and because they're going to give me another math test before long and you're going to get mad at me again when I fail it... "Jason, let me see your assignment." Jason had finally arrived. "Why?" he whined. "I want to see it." "Okay," Jason moped as he stomped off. ...and anyway I can't stand to sit through another class with stupid fucking Marty Grodweiser who keeps putting pencil dust down my underwear and poking me -HARD- in the back with his pencil and damn it god damn it all the people "Why do you want to stay home from school?" hate me and I hate them right back too so why the hell can't I just change schools or something, only I know they'll only hate me at the new school too Simon's mother was watching him. because everybody hates me, it can't just be a coincidence. All the people I want to like me just ignore me and all the teachers ignore me too and "Simon, why do you want to stay home?" dammit even you and Dad ignore me half the time and i hate you and i hate Her fingernails began tapping on the counter. you and ihateyouihateyouihateyouihateyouihatey"I just don't feel like it." His mother stared. "You don't feel like it?" She repeated the phrase a second time in a whisper, nodding her head on the last three words for emphasis. She looked away and shook her head. So disappointed in her boy. "Well, I don't know what to tell you, son." She pushed a lunch sack into his chest. "Go tell your brother he's going to be late if he doesn't hurry up." On the school bus, Simon tried to look out the window away from everybody else for the tedious fifty minutes it would take them to get there, and wipe away the falling tears before anyone noticed them. Because on the bus seeing you cry was a great excuse to make you the target of the morning's harassment. "Are you crying? Hey! Are you crying?" "How come you're crying?" "Are you just a crybaby?" "Hey, crybaby! How's it going?" "Hey, look at me. Hey, look over here, I wanna see you cry." chapter three. Silence's father sat in the living room armchair and peeled peanuts in front of the football game. He dropped a shell into the paper bag near his feet and then looked up quickly to see what the announcers were excited about. He glanced down only a split second more to grab another peanut and hold it poised between his fingers, distracted by the TV. "Did you ever get around to washing the car?" his wife called from the kitchen. His attention remained fixated on the screen another couple of seconds, then when his master gave him leave to think again, her statement registered and his eyes cut toward the kitchen doorway in annoyance. "No, dear, I haven't," he said humbly. "Well, whenever you get around to it." Spoken very kindly. Probably meaning she was getting irritated at him. He sighed and decided he'd do it after the game. A quarter went by. The gobbledygooks were leading the wubbledydoos by two touchdowns and an extra point. The man sat enraptured. During a beer commercial she came back out of the kitchen where she had been mixing a casserole. She sat down beside him quietly until he looked up. "Did you finish going through Simon's things?" she said in a near whisper. The television really drowned her out, but he didn't really need to hear the question to know what it was. He nodded slightly, looking back at the peanuts in the bowl in his lap and then at the TV. "How many boxes are going out?" she said. The man really didn't want to give Simon's things to charity any more. He felt guilty, actually, because he was getting the distinct feeling he had overlooked his son's life the entire time he had been alive, and somehow giving away the boy's things seemed like a final, irrevocable insult. They didn't need his room for extra space. The things could stay there. He had half a mind to insist that they keep the boy's things despite his wife's wishes. "Five," he told her finally. Half a mind does not a whole decision make. She nodded. "Just put them in my trunk. I'll take them when I go out for groceries tomorrow." He nodded. Put them in her trunk. Like they were disposing of some garbage. Or some old skeletons they'd found in the closet. She sat a moment longer, patted his knee, and went back in the kitchen. *** Silence went down to the basement where the boxes were sitting. He had watched his father pack them and knew where to look. He peered through a rectangular hole in the lid of one of the boxes at the papers inside -- all things Simon had written. He touched one that was sticking out a bit from between two books and squeezed the paper until he could feel its texture between his fingertips. Carefully, concentrating, he pulled until he could feel it coming out of its place. He brought it out of the hole in the box lid and laid it on the workbench, still folded into the little square Simon had folded it into when he'd written it. They would have to notice that. Simon's father came downstairs after the football game and turned on the lights. He checked the corner of the ceiling that had been leaking before, saw that it still looked okay. He pulled the garbage sack out of the trash can and twirled it until the top was closed. Tied a knot and took it outside. The shadows fell back over Silence's face when the light went out. For the next few minutes Silence heard a bucket being filled, a hose running now and again, then the bucket being washed out. Then Simon's father returned for the boxes. He turned on the light and carried out one box, then two. The third. The fourth. He picked up the box on the workbench and left with it. The paper was sitting out by itself on the wooden slab. Unmistakably. Unmissably. Screaming for attention, its whiteness contrasting sharply with the dull, oily wood around it. The light went out. A car door opened. An engine started and drove away, and Silence stared at the paper like it had said it didn't love him anymore. chapter four. The lady in the supermarket was shopping for chips and soda beneath the black letters scrawling out MEDIOCRITY when Silence sat down on her foot and held on to her ankle behind his back. She carried him along through the rest of her shopping trip, weightless as he was, and he went home with her when she got to her car. At her apartment the babysitter was watching a soap opera on TV. "Hi," the lady said as she came in. "How was the day?" "It was boring and I almost killed your child," the girl said conversationally. "How was yours?" "It was tedious, and on top of that I wish to God I didn't have to deal with you every time I came home. Is Roberta asleep?" "Yeah, she's in her room." "Great, great. Here you go." She handed the girl a check. "Thanks," she said, gathering her things to leave. The lady dialed her phone as the girl was leaving and ordered Chinese takeout. She read her scrawled memo on the calendar, then began changing the fish water. She netted the fish into a smaller bowl, then poured the old water into her sink. The bowl slipped out of her grasp as she did and clanged in the sink, the marbles flying out and clattering on the metal. She swore. She picked the bowl back up, and finished rinsing it and filling it, throwing the marbles back in afterward. As she was putting the bowl back on the stand, her four-year-old wandered into the living room. "Mommy." "Oh. What's the matter honey?" "I heard a loud sound." She didn't look at her daughter as she stirred water purifier into the bowl. "Mommy just dropped the fish bowl while she was cleaning it. Everything's okay." "Oh." Roberta rubbed her little eyes. "Mommy, will you read me a story later on?" Her mom swished the water around with the fish net. "No, honey. Mommy is tired of you and doesn't feel like it. Maybe tomorrow night we'll read a story." "You haven't read a story in a long time, Mommy." "I read one just a month ago. Mommy's got to take care of some things, okay? Go to your room and play." "I wanna read a story." Her mother's voice grew more irritable. "Well, I refuse to make time to play with you right now, sweetie. Don't give Mommy a hard time. Just go to your room." Roberta's little voice whined "Mommeee.." as it reluctantly dwindled down the hallway. Her mother rolled her eyes and went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of fake grape juice cocktail simulation from concentrate. She sat down in the armchair and rubbed her eyes. Sipping with one hand, rubbing with the other. A little hand tugged on the sleeve of the hand holding the glass. She sighed. "Roberta, no." Her words caught in her throat. Standing by her chair was a little boy with a bullet hole in his right temple. His skin was pale, his eyes were sunken, and the left half of his head was encrusted in blackish dried blood. He stepped back from her chair and watched her, his eyes growing wider to match her own expression. The lady's glass slipped from her fingertips and the juice splashed out onto the floor. She barely noticed it. She was covering her mouth with one hand, then two, to keep from screaming. When he was sure he had her attention, he pointed down the hallway to where Roberta's bedroom was. Her eyes flickered to where he was pointing, but her face registered nothing remotely resembling comprehension. He stood pointing another moment before he faded from view, and the lady was left alone. After perhaps a minute of sweat and hyperventilation punctuated by deep, measured breathing, when she was positive the apparition was gone, she sprang from her chair and ran down the hall. "Roberta! Roberta?" She burst through the door to her daughter's room, nearly hitting Roberta with it as it flew open. Roberta gasped, wide-eyed. Roberta's mother fell silent. "Mommy, what's the matter?" She swallowed. She put her hand on her chest. She heaved, then swallowed again and caught her breath. "Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing's the matter." She kneeled down and put an arm around Roberta. "Are you okay? How are you?" She was looking around Roberta's room half-expecting the horrible little boy to pop up again from behind Roberta's bed. "I'm fine, Mommy. What's gotten into you?" Her eyes were wide. Her mother looked into the wonder in Roberta's face. She wiped the hair from the girl's eyes, and the expression on Roberta's face started to strike her funny. Abruptly she laughed, and a hysterical tear fell from her eye. She gathered her wits and said, "Nothing. Nothing, sweetie." She collected herself. "Honey, you didn't... see anything, did you?" Roberta stared blankly. "Like -- like a little boy, maybe?" the lady said. Roberta shook her head. Her mom laughed again, and sniffed. She looked into Roberta's face and laughed again. "Mommy's been working waaaay too hard." She picked Roberta up. "Tell you what," she said as her daughter's tiny arms wrapped around her. "I'm going to go clean up a spill, and then you know what we'll do? I'm going to read you a story. Do you still want to hear a story?" "Yes, please!" Her mother smiled. "Okay," she said. "You pick out the one you want to hear and I'll be right back in just a minute. Okay?" "Okay, Mommy!" She put Roberta down and went into the kitchen to grab a wad of paper towels. She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. She had to quit one of her jobs. She had to quit drinking that brand of juice. She went into the living room, picked up her glass, and pressed the paper towels into the ugly puddle on her nice white carpet. Silence leaned into her ear while she cleaned, and whispered in his inaudible ghost voice, "You just need to learn to shop in the right places." And he climbed through the window to wander somewhere else. chapter five. Simon's mother was trying to watch a movie she'd rented when she realized that the VCR wasn't hooked up to the TV. It was an old TV, and she needed a screwdriver to fasten the antenna screws. She turned on the light at the bottom of the stairs and went into her husband's shop. Tools hung along the back wall. She took a screwdriver and began to head out of the room when she noticed a note sitting folded up on her husband's workbench. She puzzled at it a second. Did her husband leave that there? She set the screwdriver down on the bench and unfolded the note. It was written in pencil on a piece of notebook paper. The handwriting looked like her son's. Passing on the road Our vehicles going strong as always We approach each other, A fellow traveller and I You do see me, don't you mister? You do see me here? I know I'm a little quiet I must not seem too important But if you see me Then do me the honor of going around me Just so I know Just so I see And prove to myself You saw She read it through a second time, her eyebrows furrowed. Her lips murmured the words as she read them through again. Then she shook her head. There was nothing she hadn't provided her son with. Nothing. She crumpled the note up. It had to have been influences on him from school, or some other place. Maybe even something her husband had done to him that she'd never found out about. Who knew. She wasn't going to beat herself up over this. There was absolutely nothing she could do. What had gotten into him? She threw the note in the garbage can in the corner and looked at it sitting there. No son of hers worth a damn would do this to her. No son of hers could ever be so ingrateful to her. She picked up the screwdriver, glared at the note in the trash can again, turned out the light, and climbed the stairs.