The Nightlight

            A child’s nightlight is a curious thing.  A guardian, you think?  Living deep in the dead of night, when no one’s watching, it waits.  It watches.

            … It watches.

            Little things, theses nightlights are, for little things, the children of dirt and dust.  Of miracles, of processes, of love affairs, of bumps in the night – yes, of bumps in the night.  Of the night.  These children of the night crawl into corners and gaze out with big eyes.  Swirling lights and big voices and fists, and rage, and glowering eyes: these are the secrets that plague the mind of the child, the child of the night.

             The nightlight waits, and it watches.  In fact, the child is sleeping right now under the covers, and the nightlight is his special friend, his voyeur.  A guardian, you may think, and yet you ponder.

            … It watches.

*****

            “Timothy, buddy.  Wake up little man.  Breakfast is ready!” These words from the boy’s father, though shouted by him, were nothing but tumbles of mumbles slowly clearing themselves from the smoke as he left behind his dreams in the back spaces of his conscience.

The boy sat up and yawned with half-opened eyes.  He crossed his room, past his teddy bear lying on the floor, and to the wall socket to turn off his nightlight, which shines all night, every night, without fail or flinch.

            “Timothy!”

            “I’m coming!”

            One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Four steps, the boy counted, to get from his nightlight to the door of his room.  Thirty-seven to his seat at the kitchen table.  He yawned again and his father asked, “How was your sleep, son?”

            “It was ok, I guess.”

            “No boogie man this time?”

            The boy took a deep breath, then puffed his cheeks and let out a big blow.  “Gone with the wind!” 

His father chuckled and kissed Timothy’s forehead.  “That’s a good boy. See, Timmy, some things that may seem scary to us – like the boogie man – were actually things we made up in our heads.  And since we made them up, we can destroy them, with all our might.”  His father posed as a body builder would, flexing his arms.  “Now, hurry up and get dressed.  The bus will be here any minute.”  Timothy finished his breakfast, jumped out of his chair and commenced his thirty-seven step journey back to his room.  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  He stopped at the doorway and looked at his father.

“When is Mommy coming home?”

His father sighed.  “You always ask me that, Timothy.  My answer is no different from the many times you’ve asked me that before.  Now, get dressed.”  Stubborn Timothy held his step with his innocent, persistent face.  “Go on, now.”

            Timothy sighed, turning around.  He slumped his head.  Six.  Seven.  Eight.  Nine. . . .

*****

            In the classroom, Timothy’s seat was by the window.  Often times he would tune out.  There was much to see.  He looked at the trees, the sky, the clouds, the wind.  The road, the cars, the grass.  Stray cats, squirrels and birds.  The sunshine, rain, people.  Their shadows.  That’s what he had a knack for, seeing people’s shadows, disfiguring in length and shape as the people walked on the sidewalk.  Shadows, shadows, everywhere, especially when the sun was out and there were no clouds.

            “Timothy, are you listening?”  He found himself tuning out again.

            “Yes, Ms. Jensen.”  But he continued to turn his gaze toward the windows.

****

            Timothy had told his father that after school, he was going to hang out with James at the park a few blocks away from the school. 

            “I bet I can swing higher than you did last time, Timmy.”

            “Just try.”

            James sat on the swing and started swaying his legs to gain momentum.  Higher and higher he swung, up and down, up and down like a pendulum.  He was gaining some air and as this happened, the smile on his face was widening and widening.  From the ground, Timothy yelled, “Bet you’re too scared to jump from so high.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            James swung a couple more times, and then a couple more times after that.  Finally, he decided not to.  “Nah, forget it.”

            “What’s the matter?  Too scared?”

            “No!  At least I’m not scared of no boogie man ha-ha!”  Timothy grew silent and red as a ripe tomato.  “What’s wrong, Timmy?  I’m only playin’.”  But Timothy already got his backpack from off the ground and was about to leave.  “Hold on, Timmy, hold on, will ya?”  James finally got off the swings, ran to his backpack, then caught up with Timothy.  He put his arm around his shoulders.  “I’m sorry, friend.”

            “I didn’t see the boogie man last night.  But I did see him the other nights, don’t you believe me?”

            “My mom tells me that they aren’t real—”

            “Same with my dad –”

            “That they’re just things from our imagination.”

            “Yeah.  But honest to goodness, I swear the Cub Scout’s honor that I saw something.  It comes out of the closet a few times a week and always at night when I’m sleeping, or trying to sleep.  Sometimes it stands over my bed and watches me, but I’m too scared to look.  James, I’m too scared.”  James patted Timothy on the shoulders.  “I’m too scared.”

****

That night as Timothy slept, he dreamed of his mother.  She was a tall and slender woman.  She had nice teeth and short brown hair and eyes of comfort.  Her voice was an alto, a sweet alto that sang rather than talked.  With her voice, so melodic and ever smooth, she encouraged Timothy to read and to use his imagination and to be creative, because creativity meant that you had a mind of your own, and having a mind of your own meant that you were strong and strong-willed, and not in the least unoriginal, a copy-cat of some sort.  A mind of your own meant that you created your own fears and controlled them from the start, the very beginning, like the Big Bang where you were the first mover.  Yet aren't fears but a selfish thing?  A weird thing, like an autoimmune disease?  What is the cure when the source of the problem, the red scare, lay within?

The boy’s mother encouraged him to use his imagination as if it were his own two hands.  She was a good mother, and she loved Timothy so very much, and Timothy loved her equally as much.

In his dream, Timothy was four years old again.  The house, now emptied of guests who’ve come from different towns to celebrate Timothy’s fourth birthday, was left with only Timothy and his parents, who began cleaning the house, sweeping it of plastic cups, plates, utensils, napkins.  His parents wrapped up leftovers and put them in the fridge.  His mother tucked Timothy into bed, then continued to clean the house with her husband.  Mildly they were talking, Timothy heard, and laughing here and there about Auntie Clair’s comment about this or that, or Uncle Jeffrey’s freak accident with the rake and leaves. 

Then suddenly, Timothy heard the front door break open, and there was a third voice – a strange, aggressive and unfriendly voice.  Timothy climbed out of bed and quickly, quietly ran to the top of the stairs, hiding behind the railing, imprisoned by fear.  His eyes were wide open at the scene.  Timothy’s mother screamed. 

Then, BANG!

Timothy woke up in a jolt and his eyes flashed open. His gaze was stationed at the wall on which his nightlight displayed its light, not unlike a spotlight.  On center stage there was a shadow of a figure.  Timothy gasped and thought, “The boogie man!”  He trembled under the covers, closed his eyes tight and whispered to himself repeatedly, “It’s all in my head… it’s all in my head… it’s all in my head… it’s all in my head… .”  When he opened his eyes, this time with hesitance and hope of the boogie man’s magical disappearance, he saw with a skip in his heart beat that the shadow was still there, and it was standing over his bed.  He felt a cold chill run through his body.  He held his breath and tensed his muscles as he froze in terror.  He couldn’t scream.  Even a small cry couldn’t escape the depths of his lungs where even the fear of the boogie man lurked around, haunting him from the inside-out, scratching at the walls of his organs.

In two hours, the boy’s body finally gave up, and he fell asleep.  His dream continued, and he was four years old again.  BANG!  There was a thud on the ground that shook the glasses in the china.  Timothy’s father ran over to the body, screaming, “NORA!”

            The boy woke up, again with a jolt, and when his eyes opened, he saw no boogie man.  But a strange feeling arrested him.  He felt as if that shadow of a figure, that boogie man, were inside of him.

*****

            For the next five days, Timothy couldn’t get much sleep.  His paranoia of the boogie man intensified, and he soon found it difficult to keep awake during the day.  School was a drag.  Going to the park with James took too much energy, and Timothy’s father grew concerned, as they sat at the kitchen table, eating dinner one night.

            “All right, little man, tell me: how do you feel?  What’s going on?”

            “Very sleepy, Daddy.”

            “You still seeing the boogie man, every night?”

            At the sound of the word, boogie man, Timothy cried and wailed like a storm.  His face turned a shiny pink with tears streaming down, so his father hugged him, carried him to his chest, and walked him up to his room, all thirty-seven steps, this time together, father and son.

            He walked toward Timothy’s closet.  “Does the boogie man come out from here?”  Timothy continued to cry and wail and when he saw his father about to open the closet door, he squirmed in his father’s arms.

            “Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, DON’T!”

            “Calm down, calm down.  Timothy, you have to face your fears.  Being afraid of the boogie man only makes you even more afraid.  You will see: it’s all in your head, son.”  Timothy continued to wail and when his father’s hand lay on the door knob of the closet, Timothy closed his eyes.  His father opened the door.

            Nothing.  No boogie man.  Just clothes, a basketball, some board games, an old fish tank.  Timothy opened his eyes.  He was astonished, speechless.

            “But, but, but, but.”

            “But what?  See Timothy, it’s all in your head.  You’ve got quite an imagination, taking after your mother.”  Timothy wiped his eyes, swallowed the apple in his throat and hugged his father.

*****

            That night Timothy kept a watchful eye on the closet, but the previous sleepless nights were catching up to the young boy that his eyes unwillingly closed and he slipped into deep slumber as one slips on a bar of soap.  He didn’t dream.  So exhausted was Timothy that even in his passive and passed out state his dreams themselves seemed to be taking a hiatus for one night.  Timothy was so heavily sedated by the deprivation of energy which he had spent – all of which he had spent – in his endless cycle of fear of the boogie man.  But it was not until something touched him that he awoke from his dreamless trance.

            His eyes slowly opened and he saw a dark figure, silhouetted by … by… the nightlight, the ever consistent nightlight which has proved to be there from everlasting to everlasting, watching everything that goes on.  Quickly, Timothy became aware of what was happening and his mouth grew dry just as quickly and he found himself, as before when his father opened the closet door, speechless.  His eyes wide-open, he began to recognize the figure.  It was the figure of a woman, a slender woman who now began to pick Timothy up from beneath the covers and hold him to her bosom.  She said with a lilting tune: Timothy, my baby.  Timothy responded, “Mommy, mommy, you’ve come home,” and he allowed her to carry him away, away into the night with the nightlight still shining, watching without a peep. 

Timothy allowed himself to be carried away by his imagination.