The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

skill with the impression he had held so long of his friend as simple, slow to talk or respond in regular ways, a boy who seemed much younger, more childish on the surface, yet there was a darkness to the drawing’s depth.
    “Do you like it, Nicholas?” Mrs. Keenan called from her place. “Jack drew that. Completely out of the blue.”
    Nick twisted his neck to look back at them over his shoulder. The boy in the picture kept watching.
    Scraping his chair along the floor, Jack Peter inched around to face him, an intense expression in his eyes, flashing with a creator’s ardor. “Do you ever go swim in the ocean?”
    “Of course I do. Don’t you remember? You and me used to go swimming all the time every summer. Not in the winter, but I still go swimming in the summer. When it gets hot.”
    “People drown in the ocean. Ships crash on the rocks in a storm. The people get lost and confused in the dark, and they breathe in the water, and everybody drowns. Shipwrecks. Your mommy and daddy are going on a boat.”
    Mr. Keenan laid his crust of bread over the top of his bowl of stew. “In the olden days, Jip, but not anymore. No more shipwrecks. The lighthouse on Mercy Point helps them steer clear. Now turn around and finish your dinner.”
    Dutiful son, he scooched his chair back into position with his bottom, inch by inch. Nick took it as a signal to return to his place. “Who is that picture supposed to be?”
    Jack Peter did not speak but instead tapped a finger insistently against his temple. He would not stop the jabbing attack, and it alarmed everyone at the table. He poked his skull so hard that Mrs. Keenan was forced to grab her son’s wrist to stop the compulsion. She strained against his strength, the veins and sinews piping along her forearm, her face colored deep red.

 
    iv.
    He had gone outside to warm up the Jeep in the driveway, leaving the motor idling in the bitter cold. In the clutter of the mudroom, Tim stomped his feet and clapped his gloved hands to get the blood flowing. The cross-country skis in the corner rattled, his breath exploded in white clouds, and the windows were laced with frost. He made a mental note to go round in the next few days to the rest of the summer houses to make sure the heat had been turned on low for the season. Nothing worse than frozen pipes bursting in the thaw. Winter was a-coming. Hell, it was already here. A single step separated the mudroom from the kitchen, and out of habit, he kicked the riser to knock the sand and dirt from the treads of his shoes before entering the house proper. The boy was already waiting for him, mittens and hat and boots, wrapped like a mummy in his overcoat and scarf.
    “All bundled up and ready to go? All we need do is put a few stamps on your forehead, and we could mail you home.”
    Nick waddled forward a few paces and was nearly to the door when he was stopped by a tug on his sleeve. “Will you be back?” Jip asked.
    “Of course. I’ll come by one day after school same as always, and then we’ll have the whole week after Christmas. I’ll stay over.”
    “How many nights?”
    “From the day after Christmas to New Year’s Day.”
    “Would you stay, Nick? Would you stay if your parents shipwrecked?”
    Mrs. Keenan stepped between the boys. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Jack.” She turned her back on her son. “Now, don’t you go worrying about that. Your parents will be fine.”
    “They can swim,” said Jack. “But not in the cold. Don’t go swimming in the cold water, Nick.”
    The flat order seemed to bother him, and Nick hesitated before answering. “I won’t. It’s too cold. Feel the window.”
    Laying the flat of his palm against a windowpane, Jip smiled at the sensation. Tim put his hand next to his son’s. “What do you think, Jip? Below freezing?”
    “Cold enough to snow. Cold enough to ice. Be careful driving, Daddy.” He studied their translucent reflections in the glass and traced the shape of