The Book of Masks (Abridged)

Fathers and Sons

YOU LAY ON YOUR BACK and stare at the ceiling. You're in your dad's boxers (and nothing else) because you're in his body, and you're also in his bed. From behind the bathroom door come the sounds of your mom getting ready to join you.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, then return to staring at the ceiling.

Boxers. Your dad sleeps in his boxers. No pajamas. So there will be nothing but them between you and your mom when she joins you.

You force the thought away. That's why you're staring at the featureless ceiling. To turn your mind into the kind of blank that won't have thoughts like that drifting through it.

But it's hard to avoid them, given where you are and, yes, what you're wearing. You remember, when you were a kid, your dad coming out in boxers on Saturday mornings, back when you were awake early enough on Saturday mornings, and back (now that you think of it, with both your brain and your dad's, for he's in here with you) when you were young enough that he thought nothing of parading around in his boxers in front of his kid and the kid's baby brother. It made sense to you at the time that your dad would sleep in his underwear, for you did too.

Since turning twelve (or thereabouts), to the extent that you do think of your parents' sleeping arrangements, you imagine them both swaddled like mummies and sleeping in separate beds with an iron door, of the kind that falls from the ceiling in the title sequence of the old Get Smart sitcom, dropping between them with a thunderous clang when it's time to go to bed. Well, that's not literally what you imagine, but ...

A smile twitches at the corners of your lips.

You fantasized about having a door like that for your room, back when you were a twelve. With an electronic eye that would recognize you so it would lift when you approached it, and would drop once you were on the other side. Let the old man try to get in with that between me and him, you chortled, and you even drew up blueprints—not childish drawings, but actual blueprints taking weight and tension into account—and clambered into the attic to study the layout to see if such a door would fit—

Your smile drops into a frown. No, wait, it was your dad who did that. It was your dad who was always trying to avoid his father, to avoid the chores and the questions and expressions of pinched incomprehension, by dropping an iron door between them.

An electric arc, a spark of fellow feeling, leaps between Harris and Will Prescott, who are cohabiting the same skull, as they recognize what fathers and sons so often have in common. Your dad couldn't build that Get Smart-style door for his bedroom, so he had to be content with hanging up a sign that said "DANGER: LIVE FIRE EXERCISES" and installing an electronic eye—yes, he did fashion one of those—that triggered a spray bottle aimed to hit the cat when it tried wandering in. Well, the cat and your father's—grandfather's—ankles. The cat learned quicker than the old man did ...

You jump as your mom hits the bed, and it's not just the action of the springs that lifts you. You tense all over, and she notices when she throws her arm over your chest and kisses you deeply on the neck. "You are stiff all over, hon. Just not where I want."

You stiffen even more—but not where she wants—as she plunges her hand down the front of your boxers and cradles your junk. Sweat breaks out on your brow. "I'm preoccupied," you mumble.

"With what?" she croons softly, and kisses you again.

"Will."

"Mm. That experiment you made him stop?"

"Yes. No. In general. It's got me thinking." Distract her, yes, distract her!

"About what?"

Ummmmm ... "I don't know. Which is part of what's bothering me." You are very much aware that you're gabbling. "It's like it lit a fuse somewhere inside my brain, and there's going to be an explosion, and I don't know what's going to explode."

She raises up. "You're not worried you're having a stroke, are you?"

"No, I don't mean physically. I mean, uh, emotionally." Yeah, that's it! Get her talking about feelings! Women love that! (According to the magazines you—your dad—has noticed her reading.) "You know, he's going to graduate this year. And next year Robert's going to start high school."

She sighs. "You're worried about what Will's going to do after he graduates."

"Yes." You grit your teeth.

Your dad is in absolute agonies about your academics and what they portend for you. Is Will going to be one of those kids who won't figure out what he wants to do or what he's good at until after he's left college with a useless degree?

You rub your forehead. "I mean, I already knew I was going to be an engineer before I was even a junior in high school, and my dad used to actually complain—he'd complain!—about the college catalogs I kept sending away for. But Will ... "

"He doesn't respond well to pressure."

"I know. I try not to put any on him." Something like a heavy weight settles onto your chest. "I think I do anyway. Or he thinks I do. God!" You rub your face again. "If he only knew just how hard I could come down on him."

The funny thing is, as you imagine what your dad could do to you, and imagine how you'd respond, you realize you would hardly feel worse than you actually do. Your dad doesn't have to say or do anything. Even just in his eyes, long before you made this mess that left you crawling into his brain, you could see the disappointment he feels.

No, not disappointment. Fear. Fear that you will wind up lost and unhappy.

"Well, we can't worry about the things that have already happened or what we did or didn't do," your mom says, and she returns to stroking you. "We just carry on the best we can from now on."

Which means doing what? you almost ask.

Then you realize that her words apply just as much to you and what you've done to your dad.

There's no point in obsessing over how you got here. The best thing to do is to use all your wits (which are little enough) and all of your dad's to fix this problem.

Your mom kisses you again on the neck. "Harris, honey," she says, "you shouldn't" —she kisses you again— "go to bed with it."

You sigh and turn your head to kiss her forehead. "I know. But it's kind of ruined me for, uh—" You feel her freeze. You turn onto your side and pull her back. "Can I just hold onto you? To remind me you've always been the best thing to ever happen to me?"

You feel rather than see her smile, and it's not long after she's fallen asleep that you do too.

* * * * *

You're up and showered and shaved long before Will and Robert are up, though one of them—Robert probably—is running the water in their bathroom as you button up your dress shirt. Harris Prescott is forty-eight years old, and he's your dad, so there's lots of horror in looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing him looking back at you with hardened eyes.

But other than that there's nothing much wrong with him. He eats right and spends an hour a day at the Salopek gym exercising, and that has kept the inexorable paunch to a minimum. He has all his hair still—it's a sandy color, and he keeps it in a short but not severe trim. He looks at the world with a direct stare out of cool hazel eyes, and his grin is broad and confident when he's of a mind to deploy it. As you expertly knot a silvery silk tie around your neck, you remember a couple of business trips to Houston and to Seattle, and the women at the hotel bars after hours who flirted hard with ... with your dad. He didn't do anything with them—he's been faithful since his bachelor party, at least—but he was flattered and didn't resist the temptation to flirt hard with them.

Downstairs, you fix yourself some coffee—an upscale brand carried by the Milagro Beanfield Warehouse; your dad is a real coffee snob—while your ... wife ... puts the finishing touches on your breakfast: scrambled Eggbeaters and lean ham on a sprouted whole grain English muffin. (Your dad went on a paleo diet last spring, but has since relaxed it a little.) You bring in the Wall Street Journal from the porch and give it a quick read while eating. Your mouth purses as you read one of the guest editorials, but you say nothing. Your dad has some very strong political opinions, but he keeps them to himself because he hates "blowhards" even more than he hates the current Administration and congressional leadership. (Not that he has much respect for the opposition, either; "When I think of one I prefer the other" is his attitude toward both parties.) Your ... wife ... settles in with her own coffee and the Saratoga Falls Morning-Journal; she saves her breakfasts for after you leave.

From upstairs comes the sound of male teenage voices, low at first, then rising. You look up at the ceiling. You're about to open your mouth when you catch your ... wife's ... expression, and lower your head. Feet sound on the stairs, and Robert runs through the dining room into the kitchen. A few minutes later, Will, very red in the face and with his eyes bugging out, thunders in after him. He stops short, though, when he catches you out of the corner of his eye.

With his hair sticking out all which way, and his shirt crooked, he looks like a scarecrow washed and thrown wet into a tumble dryer without fabric softener.

And this is who you're going to work with to restore your dad? Maybe you'd better get Caleb's help after all.