Roger wasn’t like most kids, who had grown up knowing that they had both a mother and a father. No. Instead, he had had one aunt, who had seemed more like a traveling salesman, appearing even more sporadically than even he would have liked.
But what he remembered most about her was the treats. Trinkets that seemed to always appear from inside her slender pocketbook. Or sometimes a slim lilac purse. One time she had given him a baseball glove that she had sworn had once belonged to his father. And another time, she had shown him a picture of his smart cousin, T. A girl who she said, would one day become a great witch. But Roger was only good at sports. In fact, he had grown accustomed to things like academics, being boring, until she had carried him to the local library and introduced him to a book with a convict and a boy called Pip.
Things had happened more swiftly after that. Then whenever she visited, they would go to the park on weekends, and some days she would even take him to the beach. There she would tell him stories of his people. Their people, whom she had said were descendants of gypsies.
Knowing that, had always filled him with pride. Like they could go anywhere. Do, anything. That was until she had taken him back to the city, to that old house on Cauldron Road, and shown him the little lane, street where she said his father now slept. But the man was a thin broken figure. A specter of a man, whom he could not look straight in the eye. A man with a red cap, who even refused to let him enter his new home.
Roger shook his head now, distrusting the man and the image. Distrusting everything because somehow he thought he could do better him. Somehow, he thought the tales were more gallant when the man had been a guardian. And somehow in taking the deal with the Nameless One, he had promised himself that despite everything, he was choosing to become a better man.
Because the bill collectors and the men who had taken away his mother and placed her into an asylum had been wrong. Because they were not the ones with the bad dreams. They were just the ordinary citizens, trying their best to keep on.
Roger brushed the tangled strands of hair back, remembering the magic of the crabs coming together to form a body. He even remember the three witches who had first made the deal. One of them, a youthful version of his aunt. But standing there; he could think of nothing better than seeing his father as a coward; for leaving his best friend behind. Turning his back on his fate and his family.
Standing there, now, he judged him as guilty. A man living on borrowed time, trying to do what was best to maintain the status quo. Roger rubbed his temples gently and put on the dorky glasses he had given up right before resuming baseball, and silently accepted the task he had been called to do. And with an imaginary bat, he whisked after it, swinging at a phantom ball. The image of T in his mind converted to Teresa and he promised himself that he would banish her, if it was the last thing he could do.