This chapter is named for the Oscar Wilde poem that Parker reads in the cemetery.
In Parker's dream he rode a luck dragon over Fantasia. He sailed past the Rock Biter and Morla The Ancient, past the Sea Of Possibilities and the Childlike Empress's tower. He felt the wind in his hair and nestled close into the luck dragon's downy-warm skin. For a while, he was free. He didn't remember.
And in those moments, it was wonderful. It was just like the dreams that Parker used to have when he was little, before he knew loss and hospitals, whiskey and ammonia, bullets and guns. Before his body grew jagged and hard-the effortless mini six-pack muscles of his abdomen jutting and no good for cuddles, his elbows pointed and dangerous at the bends of their lengthened limbs. Before the hard breast plate of armor grew over his heart, so that words and images that used to make him cry now made only a paltry phew-phew sound, like toy guns, as they bounced, deflecting off.
When he landed at the Swamp Of Sadness he saw Tate. He was waist-deep in it, eyes big and scared. Parker turned. His luck dragon was gone.
Tate reached a hand out, causing his friend to jump. "Parker," he whispered, "come see me..."
"I'm so glad you came to see me," Mrs. Termine clucked, looking the boy opposite her up and down with the quintessential concern-eyes of a mental health professional.
"Thanks," Parker muttered. It was the first day back at school since the shooting. The counseling session had not been his idea.
He was silent for a long moment, staring at the wall with his arms crossed. All things considered, he looked remarkably together: his outfit was clean and not rumpled or slept-in. It was stylish, even, a feat Parker usually didn't care about: newer jeans and a light-blue collared shirt underneath a black sweater. It had even garnered him a compliment or two. His hair was clean and no messier than usual, and his eyes were not red-rimmed or bloodshot or tired.
"You know, Parker," said the counselor, breaking the silence, "this is a safe space to talk about what happened. Your grief, even. It's okay. I know what it's like to lose someone..."
"-You don't!" he cried, cutting her off, the forcefulness of his own voice surprising him almost as much as the anger that welled up from nowhere. "I mean, I'm sure you've lost people, but unless you've lost a mass fucking murderer, then no, you don't know what it's like!"
He pushed his hands up into his hair, tears coming to his eyes for the first time since Tate died. "When you lose someone like... he was, you don't just lose the person. You lose every single memory of them that might have possibly comforted you. The person in all those memories is gone, and there's a monster in their place!"
He gasped, sharp and involuntary, before letting the quivering breath out again. His eyes, blurry with unshed grief, eyed the Kleenex box, just fucking daring the old bitch. The box was still held together with masking tape, the formally escaped tissues shoved back in at lumpy angles. Parker almost smiled. He was still glad he did that.
Mrs. Termine made no move towards it. Despite Parker's sweet face and smallish size, she'd always found him slightly scary. Seeing him so close to tears, even now, was jarring.
He blinked until his eyes weren't in danger of spilling anymore, fanning at them for a second to hurry things along. He sniffled delicately, rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and looked up at the counselor with a pitiful expression.
"Can I please have a note to go home?" he begged shakily, deciding he might as well take advantage of the humiliating, pathetic state he was in now. "Please. I just really, really can't be here right now."
Excused from class for the rest of the day, Parker headed for Oddfellows. The graveyard was the one place in the world that still felt safe to him. He took comfort, even now, in the antiquated ceremony of it.
He seated himself against a large tree near the oldest row of children's graves. In the warmer months Parker liked to pick flowers to lay upon the stones of forgotten babies, a sentimental quirk he'd never dared tell anyone about. Wild violets were his favorite, little and humble and bright.
But now it was late in the autumn. Nothing lived. He reached into his bag and pulled out the library book he'd been able to swipe from Tate's locker before it was cleaned out: An old hard-bound volume of the works of Oscar Wilde. Tate, like Parker, had always loved poetry.
"Tread lightly," he read in a whisper, "she is here. Under the snow." He noticed his hands shaking and wished dearly for a cigarette. But he couldn't bring himself to smoke around dead babies any more than he could around living ones. Their little lungs were fragile. He blinked, their stone tablets growing blurry in his sight. "Speak softly, she c-can hear. The d-daisies grow..."
"...Ugh, fuck me..." he muttered, putting the book down and silently berating himself for swearing. He dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. He couldn't read that one right now; he was too goddamn emotional. Maybe one of the plays or something instead.
Or maybe, he thought, he should just go home.
At home he smoked all of his cigarettes and slept away the rest of the afternoon. He dreamt again, this time that he was at school, sitting outside on the deserted bleachers. From far off he could see Tate, running on the empty track. He was dressed in the standard Oly high PE garb, the crinkly rayon shorts and worn-out logo tee-shirt. Olympia Bears. Now the faded puff-paint creature looked fierce and grotesque, ready to pounce. Or perhaps he had just never noticed before.
Tate turned the corner, veering closer to the bleachers, before he looked up and noticed his friend. "Parker," he said, looking right into his eyes, "come see me."
He woke with a start and immediately set to putting his shoes on.
An autumn rain fell, torrential and heavy like tears. In the dark now, backlit by cracks of lightening and thunder, it really did look like a haunted house. Parker shuddered. At least the crime scene tape was gone.
But that wasn't his first stop. Before he did anything stupid or illegal he needed to know that he wasn't just crazy. He needed confirmation. He needed to hear the truth spoken out loud by someone other than Tate.
It was Addie who answered the door first. Parker's heart sank. He'd more than half-hoped that the smaller home next door was the wrong one, that strangers would greet him and send him on his way. But he smiled wanly.
"Hey, Addie," he said softly, before taking the shell-shocked girl in his arms. "I am so sorry, hun," he whispered as she began to cry. It took everything in him not to sob, too, but he stood with her and rocked her a while. Eventually Constance heard the interaction and came after her daughter.
"That's enough, Adelaide, honey," she muttered hoarsely, pushing Addie gently on the shoulder to hurry her away from Parker. "You go on and play with your ponies. Parker needs to see me."
Addie did as she was told, clearing space for Parker to fully take in Constance. He may have hid the physical effects of grief well, but she certainly wasn't. Her usually perfectly-coiffed hair was messy and dull, and her face, devoid of makeup, was pale and hallowed with tears. Maybe booze, too, or lack of sleep. Parker couldn't tell. But the usually beautiful, intimidating woman looked broken and vulnerable now.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," she said, leading him to the small table at the center of the old-fashioned kitchen. Parker remembered the house. It was the one the Langdons had lived in during his and Tate's freshman year, before Constance met Larry. She took a cigarette from the pack on the table and held it out to him. "Here."
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," said Parker, lighting up. He felt suddenly awkward. Tate's mother had always regarded him coolly at best. She tolerated him, but she was hardly warm or welcoming. Maybe because he was poor. Maybe because he was gay. Tate hadn't told her-he wasn't that stupid-but Parker knew she could tell. It didn't take a rocket scientist.
"No matter," she said, exhaling smoke. "The last thing we would have needed was any more attention drawn to this place... or that one. It's best that you lie low."
Parker nodded, looking down at the weathered tabletop. "Have you been to see him?" he asked quietly. "I mean, since... since it happened." He swallowed and dared to look up at her. "I know you know about that place, Mrs. Langdon. I know you've gotta have seen them all, too. Do you... do you know if he's... there?"
Constance shook her head, tears forming in her hazel eyes. It made Parker sad. He hated to see mothers cry-even mean ones. "I'm sure he is," she said roughly, wiping at the corner of her eye. "That God-forsaken place won't let anyone go on, let alone a fragile soul like him. So full of... pain, and wonder. So unlike you, Parker, or me." She smiled sadly, locking eyes with him. "We're two of a kind, you know. Perhaps that's why he was so taken with you. You and I have the privilege of being able to build walls around our hearts; walls that keep people out, walls that shield us from enough of the hurt that we don't lose our minds." She blinked, shedding tears. "But not him..."
Parker reached his free hand across the table to put it over hers. He noticed his shaking in a way he couldn't control. Nor could he control the tear that ran down his cheek or the way that his voice broke when he spoke: "Mrs... Constance... I am so sorry..."
Constance turned her face from him and stifled a small sob. For a long moment neither spoke. Parker just gripped her hand and avoided eye contact until they were both able to compose themselves. It might actually have been funny, he thought, if it wasn't so sad: Him and Constance Langdon, holding hands and smoking and crying together. It was so absurd he hardly could bear it.
Finally she drew a sigh and pulled her hand away. Parker glanced around for a napkin or something to wipe his wet face with, but seeing nothing, he just used his sleeves again. "I'm going over there," he said.
He expected protest, but Tate's mother only nodded. "You're strong," she said. "That means you'll be able to resist the house's... pull... better than most. But Parker... be careful."
He stubbed out his cigarette. "Why?"
"Because it also means that whatever is in there craves you more than anything."
Parker nodded, standing. "Thank you," he said. "For everything, I mean." Then he turned and saw himself out, into the downpour and over to Murder House.