Chapter 66: Red

Chapter 66: Red

A cardboard box was wedged at the post office entrance. Red yarn poked out from the seams, looking like a small pool of blood. Kyle bent down and picked it up. The woman behind the counter glanced at him.

"Someone at your place knitting?"

"Yes."

"That's a lot."

"Yes."

He carried the box home and pushed open the door. Dorothy sat at the dining table, no knitting needles in her hands. She saw the box and stood up.

"It's here?"

"It's here."

She took the box and put it on the table, opening it. Red yarn rolled out in balls, piling up on the table. She picked up one ball and felt it.

"Good yarn."

"Yes."

She sat down, picked up her knitting needles, and cast on. The yarn looped around the needles once, twice, three times. Her movements were slow but steady. Amy ran down from upstairs, her hair tied up with a blue ribbon. She saw the red yarn on the table and ran over.

"Grandma, it's red."

"Yes."

"For me?"

"Yes."

She reached out and touched the yarn—soft, smooth—then pulled her hand back.

"When will it be done?"

"Soon."

She nodded and ran to Kyle, grabbing his hand.

"Kyle, it's red."

"I see."

"Does it look good?"

"Yes."

She smiled, let go, and ran to the stairs. "I'm going up to draw."

Kyle sat down across from Dorothy. She had finished casting on and started the first row, knit stitch. The needles moved in her hands, red yarn threading through her fingers. Irene came out of the kitchen holding a teacup, glanced at the red yarn on the table, then at Dorothy.

"Mom, take a break."

"I'm not tired."

She said nothing, sat down next to Kyle. The three of them sat there in silence. Light from outside leaked through the curtain gaps, a small patch of warm yellow. The red yarn piled on the table glowed in the light.

His phone lit up. A message from Seer: "Klaus is asking what color your daughter likes?"

Kyle looked at the screen and typed, "Red."

"He says—got it."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene looked at him.

"Klaus?"

"Yes. Asking what color Amy likes."

She said nothing. Dorothy's needles paused, then continued.

"Kyle, why is he asking that?"

"Don't know."

She didn't ask again.

In the afternoon, Kyle went to pick up Amy. The school bus turned the corner, brakes screeching. The door opened and kids jumped out one by one. The last one—blonde hair, blue backpack—she wore a sweater with sleeves rolled up three times. She jumped down, saw him, and ran over.

"Kyle!" She squeezed his hand into her palm.

They walked back. She walked fast, didn't talk. At the front door, she stopped.

"Kyle, is anyone coming today?"

"No."

She nodded, pushed open the door and ran in. "Mom! Kyle says no one's coming today!"

Irene stood at the stove, spatula in hand. "Got it."

Amy climbed onto a chair and sat down. Kyle sat next to her. Irene brought out the food—potatoes, carrots, beef. Amy picked up her utensils and put a piece of beef in Kyle's bowl.

"Kyle, you eat."

He picked it up and put it in his mouth. Hot.

"How is it?"

"Not too salty."

She smiled and ate. After one bite, she stopped.

"Kyle, what else did that person ask?"

"Asked what color you like."

"You told him?"

"Red."

She nodded and kept eating. When she finished her bowl, she jumped down from the chair and ran to the mantelpiece. The crayon box was still there, next to the key and birth certificate. She looked for a while, opened the crayon box, took out the yellow one, looked at it, put it back, and closed the lid. She ran over and grabbed Kyle's hand.

"Kyle, why did he ask what color I like?"

Kyle said nothing. She looked at him, waited a bit, didn't get an answer, looked down, let go, and ran to the stairs. "I'm going up to draw." She stopped, looked back at the red yarn on the table, stared for a while, then turned and went up.

Irene collected the bowls and put them in the sink. The faucet ran. Dorothy kept knitting. Kyle stood up, walked to the door and pushed it open, stood on the steps. The corner was empty. The streetlight was on, shining on the empty asphalt. He stood there a while, turned and went in, left the door open. Walked back and sat down, reached into his pocket, felt the key—hard, cold—he pulled his hand out.

His phone lit up. Message from Seer: "He sent something. From Washington, D.C. Arrives tomorrow."

Kyle looked at the screen. "What is it?"

"Don't know. He says—your daughter likes red."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, dried her hands, sat across from him.

"Kyle, he sent something."

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Don't know."

She said nothing. Dorothy's needles moved in her hands.

When it got light, Kyle stood up and walked to the window, lifted the curtain. The corner was empty. He dropped the curtain and went upstairs. Amy was still sleeping. He stood at her bedroom door and looked for a while: she slept on her side, hand out from under the covers resting on the pillow, that book "Knights and Dragons" showing a corner from under the pillow. He quietly closed the door and went downstairs. Irene stood at the kitchen door, holding coffee.

"Kyle, are you taking her today?"

"Yes."

She nodded and handed him the coffee. He took it and drank a sip. Footsteps upstairs, Amy ran down, hair tied up, blue ribbon.

"Kyle, are we having bread today?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Ask your mom."

Irene came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of cereal and put it in front of Amy. Amy picked up the spoon and took a bite.

"Kyle, you're wearing short sleeves today."

"Yes."

"Aren't you cold?"

"No."

She nodded, finished the cereal, jumped down from the chair. "Let's go."

Kyle stood up. Irene looked at him. He pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight with Amy. She walked fast, didn't hold his hand. At the school entrance, she stopped.

"Kyle, see you this afternoon."

"See you this afternoon."

She ran in. When she got to the building entrance, she stopped and looked back at him, looked for two seconds, then pushed open the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Kyle stood there, looking at that closed door, then turned and walked back. At the corner, he stopped—there was a package on the ground, wrapped in brown paper, with his name on it. He bent down and picked it up. The package wasn't big, could hold it in one hand. He opened it. Inside was a box of crayons, twenty-four colors, the red one on top. A note was stuck to the crayon box, handwritten, the writing very tight: For your daughter.

Kyle stood at the corner, looking at that note, looked for a while, then stuffed the crayon box in his pocket, next to the key. He walked home quickly and pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window, curtain lifted a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, knitting needles in her hands.

"Kyle, what did he send?"

Kyle took the crayon box out of his pocket and put it on the table. Irene picked it up and looked at it for a while.

"Crayons. Red ones."

"Good."

She put the crayon box down. Kyle picked it up and walked to the mantelpiece—the key and birth certificate sat side by side. He put the crayon box next to them, didn't touch them, walked back and sat down. Irene looked at him.

"Kyle, why did he send crayons?"

"Because he asked what color she likes. I said red."

She said nothing. Kyle looked at the doorway—the door was open, the corner empty. Klaus sent crayons, red ones. He said for your daughter. He's not her father. Klaus knows that. Klaus told him to give them to her. He's keeping them, will give them to Amy when she gets out of school. She'll ask who gave them. He'll say don't know. She won't ask.