Baby Face Monster's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

The next morning Ellie came back to the cave with a paper bag of bread and a thermos. Baby Face Monster met her at the entrance this time. He had decided to stand in the light. He had decided to talk about her father like a man would talk, not from behind a hand, not from the dark. He wanted her to leave today sure of what he was. "I made a list," he said. "Places he mentioned. Trails he asked about." "Good," Ellie said. She sat on the flat rock and poured coffee into the thermos cup. "Tell me." He started to speak. His hands went up on their own. They chopped the air in front of his chest, palms open, fingers spread wide, the way a boy explains a bug he found. He heard his own voice rise at the end of every sentence like a question. He pointed at nothing. He rocked on his heels. He watched Ellie's eyes drop to his hands, then to his face, then to his hands again. She did not smile. She was working to keep her face still. That was worse than a smile. He stopped talking. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans. "Keep going," Ellie said gently. "I'm listening." "You're watching," he said. "You're watching me flap around like a kid." She did not deny it. She set the cup down. "Your voice was fine. It's just—your hands." He turned away from her. His face burned. He had spent a night rehearsing sentences and had forgotten his own arms. Every gesture he owned belonged to the boy his face had trapped him as. He had no adult movements to reach for. He had never stood next to grown men long enough to copy them. He walked back into the cave. Against the far wall, propped where he had left it years ago, was a carved wooden cane. Ellie's father had leaned on it the week he stayed at the ridge. He had forgotten it when he left. Baby Face Monster had kept it because it was the only thing the man had touched that stayed behind. He brought it out into the light. He set the tip on the stone and rested both hands on the curved handle, the way the older man used to when he listened. "Ask me again," he said. Ellie's eyes moved to the cane. Something in her face softened and steadied at the same time. He spoke. His hands stayed on the wood. The cane held them down. His voice came out lower, slower, because his body had nothing to flail with. He told her about the trail her father had walked, the questions he had asked, the notebook he had filled. He did not point. He did not rock. When he finished, Ellie was writing. "That," she said without looking up, "was a man talking to me." He kept his hands on the handle so she would not see them shake.