Bringing Chad Home
by Kay Gordon-Shapiro
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Flora was not quite as happy with his news.
“I found him,” George told his sister.
“Why hasn’t he called? When are you bringing him home?”
“He’s fine,” said George. “Just being a kid, that’s all.” He pushed down his thoughts, his hopes, about Chad and, maybe, Celeste. But he had not even met her. Wishful thinking, he scolded himself. But a tingle of hope persisted.
“I want him to come home,” insisted Flora. “That’s why you went out there, remember? I haven’t seen him in over a year. There’s something wrong. I know there is.”
“He’s gotten involved in some projects, that’s all. He’s trying to start a business.” George shifted his weight in a sagging armchair. “With a friend,” he added.
“Does that mean he can’t visit? Does that mean he can’t return my calls?”
“Of course not,” said George.
“You tell him I want to see him.”
“I’ll let him know what you said,” said George.
* * *
The aged, discolored brick walls of the incubator workshop Chad was renting had been painted a glum institutional green. The narrow sash windows near the ceiling had been tilted in, and spiderwebs dangled from the corners, festooned with sticky bundles. Boxes of electrical cords, soldering guns, screwdrivers, drafting computers, motherboards, and printers crammed the shelves and workbenches and spilled from the corners. Clear oblong plastic buckets, stuffed under the workbenches, held swatches of fur, eyeballs, and claws, bald mouthless heads, and deftly articulated skeletons.
Something skittered across the ceiling.
“Rodents, probably,” said Chad. “We can’t get rid of them. Celeste puts out those have-a-heart traps.” A metal cage glinted from under the bench. “She releases them into the woods.”
If she does that, thought George, they’re probably just coming right back. He knew how vermin behaved.
Chad waved toward a shelf. “That’s one of the prototypes,” he said. “Celeste thinks it will be very popular.”
He lifted it off the shelf and set it on the workbench. Its head lowered, it stood about ten inches tall, its massive muscular body covered in rough blue fur. George looked closer and saw that the fur comprised tiny tentacles, twisting and reaching.
“Celeste did the rough sketches. And she built the prototype and did the programming.”
The thing on the workbench twisted its strange head. Writhing tentacles festooned its long sad face; its bulbous eyes, sunk deep in baggy layers, shifted uneasily from side to side.
Chad leaned over the thing. “Creature,” he said.
The thing stretched up to view him. “Hello, Chad.”
“Creature, this is George.”
Again the creature moved, and its strange eyes swivelled, surveying George, taking him in, as if it was measuring and recording him. “Hello, George,” it said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
It sounded amazingly aware, intelligently aware.
“Celeste designed this?” said George.
“And me,” reminded Chad.
“Of course,” said George.
* * *
Celeste was not what George had expected. She was a slim, poised person, with copper curls tucked under a dark gray knit cloche. Her hands were deft, and strong. Her muscles moved with much control under her smooth, perfect skin. Her obsidian eyes, hiding under long lids, observed everything.
Chad engulfed her in his arms, and she smiled slightly, and patted his cheek. But it was not the embrace of a woman in love, George realized. Flora would be relieved.
And then, unexpectedly, she looked up. Her obsidian eyes met his. He froze. She considered him speculatively, calmly and thoroughly. A fog oozed inside his mind. Sluggishly, George realized that he was bound to her; he loved her, they belonged together, his destiny was to do whatever she wanted.
Her shape shifted and, briefly, she seemed different. And then the moment vanished, and there she was, just a slim, attractive woman standing before him, with his nephew’s arm around her shoulder.
Chad gave her a loving look. “Honey, this is my Uncle George. George, this is Celeste.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” said Celeste.
“Likewise,” said George. He still felt a little stunned.
Chad gave Celeste’s shoulder another squeeze. “George, we just have a few things to finish up here, and then how about Mummer’s for dinner? Celeste, is that okay with you?”
“Of course.” Celeste moved toward the workbench. She leaned over the strange toy, murmuring commands and watching how it moved, glancing at the shifting displays on the three screens lined up at the back of the bench.
“I think it’s good,” said Chad.
“Not quite yet.” Celeste flipped the creature over, touched a spot low on its stomach. Its hide splayed open. Bright mechanicals blinked inside. She pulled something out and hooked it to one of the screens. A row of numbers suddenly appeared, blinking and coolly populating the rest of the screen.
“Oh,” said Chad.
Celeste’s hands reached into the glinting mass of motherboards and wires. She made a small adjustment and glanced back at the screen. She hesitated.
“Not quite?” inquired Chad.
She shook her head. She considered the disemboweled creature thoughtfully.
Chad stepped back. “This is going to take a while,” he whispered. “I don’t want to disturb her.” He glanced at the shifting displays. “How about I show you the rest of the factory? Or maybe we can walk through the town?”
“Either suits me,” agreed George.
Chad led him through a maze of poorly lit and grimy brick hallways. Scrapes and scratches marred the wooden floors. Feet skittered overhead.
“Are they really making this into a tourist attraction?”
“They’re trying.”
They emerged onto a cobblestone street, and here it did look more like the tourist town that was its marketing objective. Shops lined the sidewalk, bedecked with green and maroon awnings: creameries and penny candy, bakeries piled with pastries and, in front of most of them, carts packed with the usual tourist temptations of t-shirts, caps, and mugs that people didn’t want and didn’t need but would likely buy anyway. And toys. There were lots of toys.
It was a great gimmick, reflected George, especially since it was attached to the town’s history. Every tourist needed gifts: trinkets for their kids, souvenirs for their neighbors who were watering their plants while they were away, presents for birthdays, for teachers. These little toys were perfect: appealing, but not too expensive, and they wouldn’t take up too much space.
He wondered who had thought of it. Chad? Celeste? This was the kind of mind that might rejuvenate the family business. Don’t get too excited, he warned himself once again.
Chad was absorbed in sorting through a cart piled with pastel teddy bears. I should take a picture of this for Flora, he thought. He patted his pocket, and it was empty. “I must have left my phone in the workshop,” he said to Chad. He patted the pocket on the other side, just to be sure. “I have to run back and get it.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“No, no, it’s fine. I know where it is. I’ll be back in a sec.”
He reached the factory quickly and made his way through the halls. Quietly, he pushed the workshop door the first few inches. It opened without a sound.
Celeste was still bent over her bench, frowning slightly. Guiltily, he watched. Uneasily, he remembered that inexplicable sense of connection, that fog washing over him, pulling him under.
Celeste reached into the glinting pile on the workbench, lifted something from the splayed carcass of the toy. With a wire, she poked at it. Something was stuck, he assumed. She turned the metal in her hand and poked at it again, And glanced up at the screen. No result, he realized.
Something chirped and clawed in the Have-a-Heart under the bench. Absently, she reached under the bench. The door clicked as she opened it. She grabbed the struggling thing inside. But — not with a hand? Her hand seemed to have shifted. It seemed covered with blue tentacles. They frothed and bubbled, and the mouse vanished. Her hand smoothed back to skin. She slid the empty trap back under the workbench.
George froze. Had he seen that? Silently, he backed out of the room into the dank corridor. Who was she? What was she?
When his heart had stopped pounding, he slowly and quietly opened the door again. “Celeste?” he called. To him, his voice sounded surprisingly normal.
She looked over, her smile was welcoming and calm. “George? I thought you were exploring the town.”
“I forgot my phone here,” he said. “I just came back to get it.”
She nodded.
“And here it is.” He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
He glanced at her hand. It was a normal human hand. It was her hand: slim and deft and subtly muscled. Her face was smooth, as it had always been.
“Did you finish your work?” he asked.
“I believe I did,” she said, easily. “Where’s Chad?”
“I left him in town,” said George. “He was looking at toys in one of the stores.”
“Well, let’s go find him,” said Celeste lightly. She pulled a dust cover over the mechanicals on her bench, and then laid her hand lightly on his arm. Instinctively he drew back, but then he made himself look down. There was no hint of writhing tentacle. It was a hand. Deliberately, he laid his own on top of it. Yes, just a hand. Just a normal human hand.
* * *
They caught up with Chad in front of the same store where George had left him, and after he had shown Celeste a few unique and interesting things about the teddy bear design, the three of them headed over to Mummer’s. It was a lovely evening, as if New England’s indecisive spring had finally settled in. Warm damp breezes flittered about, and the pale green leaves had begun to poke tentatively from red buds clustered on the branches.
The tavern was already getting crowded by the time they got there.
“Hey, Chad!” called someone. “You’re back!”
“I am!” agreed Chad. “And in time for drinks, I see!”
Laughter answered him, and a few raised their mugs in salute.
He grinned back and put his hand in the small of Celeste’s back, guiding her to the jovial cluster at the bar.
“The usual?” said the bartender.
“Yup.”
The bartender brought them all foamy mugs. George looked at the crowd. To his surprise, he found that he already recognized a few faces. Some, he saw, were the kids he had met on the street, the ones that had guided him to the hotel.
The curly-haired girl was among them, and she waved, clearly remembering him. He waved back, oddly relieved to see her. She made her way over to him.
“Hi, I remember you,” she said cheerily, “I’m Felicity.” The noise of the bar rose and fell in waves around them. She was holding a coffee cup, he saw.
“What, no beer?” he teased.
Her grin widened. “I’m a coffee girl. Especially because I have a performance later and, in today’s rehearsal, the director changed a lot of the lines, and I’m not quite sure of them yet.”
“You’re an actress?” George said.
“Maybe someday.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he chided comfortably, as if they were old friends. “If you go up on stage, you’re an actress! It’s more than I would do, that’s for sure.”
She sipped her coffee, wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “Cold,” she explained. She set the cup down on the bar. “So how do you like the hotel?” she asked.
“It’s fine. The whole town is. The Victorian vibe, the cobbled streets, the friendliness.”
She nodded, pleased.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re the mayor, aren’t you?”
“I am. You remembered! It was sort of an accident that I was elected, but I’m starting to like it.”
He could see she was the sort of person who would. For an effortless extrovert like her, that political thing was something she’d be a natural at.
“And you found Chad, I see. We did tell him you were here.”
“Yes,” he said, “thanks.”
“We all like Chad,” she said generously. “He does a few things with the theatre group, that’s how we know him. We’re most of us studying acting, over at the community college.”
“Is Chad an actor, too?”
She giggled. “He probably wouldn’t be bad at it,” she admitted. “And he has taken a few classes. But mostly he does backstage stuff: sets, lighting, costumes. It’s more of a hobby for him, but he’s good at it. He’s got a great eye.” She sipped her drink. “Have you seen his toys? The ones he and Celeste are making?”
“I was over at their workshop,” he admitted. “Chad showed me around.”
She nodded. “He’s quite talented, in so many ways.”
George wondered if this girl perhaps had a bit of a crush on him.
“And Celeste?” he said cautiously.
“We all like her, too,” said the girl. But there had been a moment’s hesitation.
George considered. “Tell me about her,” he invited.
The girl shrugged uneasily. “There’s not much to say.”
“There’s always something,” said George. He waited.
The girl looked toward the students clustered around Chad. He held their attention, he was telling a story perhaps, his face animated, his gestures large, compelling. George could not hear the words, but when Chad stopped, the group all burst into delighted chortles.
“I don’t know exactly,” said the girl again. But it seemed that she wanted to talk. She took another sip of her cold coffee. “I guess maybe Chad has changed a bit since she got here? I mean, he was taking classes at the college; we all are. I had talked to him a bit. He had taken a few theater classes with us, but that was just because he liked hanging out with us, I think. His real plan was to get a degree in business, an MBA. I guess that his family had invented or was manufacturing something: ‘a small but useful item.’ He never told us what it was, but I know he was excited about it. He thought he could make something big of it.”
George felt the sharp shame of opportunities lost. We should not have shielded him. We should have brought him in, let him know what was going on. Despite himself, he glanced over at Chad and Celeste. What was she? He wondered what Chad knew.
<George nodded in reply. “So he was excited,” George said to her. “And then?”
Felicity shrugged. “Well, we think he was doing fine with it. But when Celeste showed up — and, really, she hasn’t been here all that long, maybe just a few months — he dropped all interest in it and got all involved in this toy thing. And I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. But it was such a change. And he seems so absorbed in her. In Celeste, I mean. It’s odd. And, you know that little workshop that they have? In the old factory?”
George nodded.
“Well, the town has taken over that factory. We’re trying to develop it as an incubator, to encourage more local entrepreneurship, especially in the younger demographics. So we’ve been prioritizing renting it to business students at the college. We’re giving them a really good rent. A much better deal than they could get anywhere else.”
He looked at her skeptically, surprised that she had all this knowledge at her fingertips. “I thought you were a student. And an actress?”
“I’m also the mayor,” she reminded. “So, of course, I know this stuff. I didn’t develop the program, but I am involved in it. And when Chad came to me, I helped him get that workshop space. But the thing is, I think that was Celeste’s idea, too. And she couldn’t have gotten it on her own. She’s not eligible.”
“And so?” he prompted.
She traced the rim of her coffee cup with her finger. “A few people don’t trust her.” she said. “She makes them uneasy. They say that when she’s around, they see strange things. They feel strange things.” She looked at him unhappily. “But it’s so bizarre. what they say. Who can believe it?”
George nodded. Yes, he thought.
Copyright © 2025 by Kay Gordon-Shapiro
