There was an old RCA radio console in one corner that he worked on for weeks until he coaxed voices from the airwaves. From what he heard on the radio and read in his books, he formed ideas of the outside world. Although he loved the dark of his basement, he longed to see more. He sensed that his life was odd and that he must be odd to be living it. Yet, there were people in the world stranger even than he, people with lips like dinner plates and necks stretched like giraffes and green tattoos over every inch of their faces. In such a world, one more freak would hardly be noticed. Locked in the basement, Nocturne dreamed of those places and people. On the nights his mother released him and they walked outside in the dark, he imagined they were in Africa, and in the trees gorillas slept, and somewhere out of sight a village of big-lipped, long-necked, tattooed people were waiting to welcome him. He loved the night and the walks, and he hated waiting to be released. So he began to plan his escape.
There was a laundry chute, no longer used, that dropped from the second-floor bathroom to the basement. Although he’d often stared up into the black of the shaft, he was nine years old before he thought of it seriously as a way out. One night he piled crates and boxes high enough beneath the opening so that when he stood on the top box, his torso fit inside the chute. It was a square, fifteen inches on each side, lined with smooth tin. He tried to pull himself up, but there was nothing to grasp. He pressed against the tin sides and only felt himself slip. He realized his clothing allowed him no traction. He climbed down, stripped naked, then mounted once again. This time when he pressed against the sides of the chute, his body held. He inched upward, pushing with his palms, holding with the press of his legs. He made progress, but it was hard work, and he soon gave up, exhausted after moving only a few feet.
He began to exercise, to strengthen his body and keep it supple. The pipes that hung from the basement ceiling and that carried water to the sinks and radiators above him served as an obstacle course. He climbed over them and around them, slipping between the metal and the beams and the floorboards. He made a game of it, timing himself with a clock he’d found broken in one of the boxes and had repaired. At first, he was covered with splinters from the ragged beams, but as he progressed he could move swiftly and safely. Within a few weeks, he was strong enough to inch his way up the chute all the way to the second-floor bathroom. The first time he eased out of the opening upstairs, he wanted to shout in triumph. It was the middle of the night, however, and not far from where Nocturne stood, the old man was sleeping. He discovered immediately that with every step the old floorboards creaked, crying out his presence. That first night, all he did was stand at the bathroom window, staring out at the night and the stars, listening to the crickets and breathing the air of freedom. The next night, he made it through the window, across the roof, and down the porch supports to the ground. After that, any time he wanted, he could be free. Over the years, as his body grew, he practiced a discipline of concentration and patience and learned how to fold his body into that small chute and move upward by expanding and contracting the appropriate muscles, much like a snake.
He never told his mother. He understood that unlocking the basement door for him was the only gift she had to offer. Because he learned to move as silently as a breath of air, his grandfather never knew.
But his grandfather did discover eventually that Nocturne had other talents.
The old man seldom visited the basement except to check on the ancient furnace that sometimes faltered. Nocturne kept to the far corners whenever his grandfather came down. In addition to trying to hide himself, he tried to keep secret all the tinkering he did. To that end, he was careful never to turn the volume on the old radio console much above a whisper. One night as he was attempting an adjustment, his fingers slipped, and the sound of the Beatles belting out “Twist and Shout” seemed to shake the walls. It scared the hell out of Nocturne, and he panicked, fumbling desperately with the knob. It was too late. He heard the boom of his grandfather’s boots across the floor above him. The padlock rattled, and the basement door flew open. The steps shook as the old man stomped down. He grabbed the string on the light and yanked. Nocturne stood exposed, quaking beside the old radio.
“What the hell, boy?” He glared at Nocturne and the console.
Nocturne expected his grandfather to hit him. Instead, the old man seemed to notice for the first time all the accomplishments hidden in the dark of Nocturne’s world, all the electrical appliances pulled from the boxes and restored to life. He said nothing, no word of praise or encouragement for a boy who, from books and his own imagination, had unraveled the mystery of the old machines and much more. He simply grunted, turned, and returned to the world above. The next day, Nocturne received another visit. This time his grandfather brought with him a book. In the light of the basement’s twenty-five-watt bulb, the old man opened the book to a page and stabbed a yellow fingernail at a picture. “Can you build this?” he asked.
Nocturne looked at the picture. It was a diagram, a blueprint labeled with words such asdetonator, fuse, andtimer. He recognized it immediately for what it was, a fairly simple device. He gave his grandfather a nod. The old man turned away without another word and left.
That night, the basement door opened and the old man called him up. He handed Nocturne a jacket, and he started outside. Nocturne’s mother cowered in a chair in the kitchen, looking at her son as if she were terribly afraid for him, but she said nothing to stop the old man. Nocturne followed his grandfather across the yard to the barn. They went inside to a room that held a workbench and tools and the book lying open on a stool. The old man pulled a cord and the light came on-a hundred-watt bulb that made Nocturne blink.
“You got everything you need here,” his grandfather said. “Let me know when you’re done.” The old man left him.
Nocturne constructed the device in little more than an hour. He left it in the room and stepped into the barn. He’d been there many times since he’d conquered the laundry chute. To a boy whose only physical recreation had been pipes in a basement, the barn was a great playground. Although it was a dilapidated structure with gaps between the wallboards and in the ceiling, it had beams and rafters and posts and great height, and Nocturne often spent hours climbing and swinging there throughout the night. He knew he was supposed to tell his grandfather he was done with the bomb, but the temptation of the barn was tremendous, and Nocturne gave in, telling himself he would climb once to the roof, then go see his grandfather.
He was on a beam twenty-five feet above the floor when the old man walked in. Nocturne froze. He watched his grandfather cross to the room, open the door, and step inside. The old man came out holding the bomb.