Текст книги "Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys"

Автор книги: Gary A. Braunbeck

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“Oh, yeah, it’s the same place. The guy who did this, he’s got stuff all over town. You ever been inside the Sparta or the L&K restaurant? They got watercolors he did of their places hanging in there. He did one of the courthouse, the old Savings & Loan . . . hell, you can’t go into a restaurant or city building and not see one of his watercolors.” Bernard looked at the painting. “‘R.J. Nyman’. So that’s his name. Huh.”

Martin realized that he could just ask Bernard if he saw the things on the roof—at least that way he’d have his answer—but he suddenly didn’t want to know; if Bernard said yes, then reality as Martin knew it had wandered off the highway; if Bernard said no, he’d follow it up with a lot of questions—Why, what do you see? Camera-creatures, you say? With wings and wolf’s legs and brass eyes? A giant golden web, you say? Hang on a second, I think Ethel might have another cup of pills for you . . . .

Better to stay quiet.

“I thought something about this painting you brought with you looked familiar,” said Bernard, holding the watercolors side by side. “You buy this off him, did you?” “A few years back. I gave him fifty dollars for it.” “I’ll bet he appreciated that. Huh—small world, isn’t it? You having a painting of his.” “I guess so.” Bernard handed them back. “I wonder whatever happened to that guy.” “Yeah.” Bernard stared at him for a moment, then asked: “Was that all you wanted?” Martin nodded. “Just making sure that I wasn’t seeing or imagining things.”

Bernard laughed, then clapped a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “You’re not ready for a ride in the Twinkie Mobile just yet; it’s the same building.”

“You have any idea how it . . . how the watercolor came to be here?”

Bernard thought about it for a few moments, then shook his head. “Beats me. You wanna ask Ethel? Maybe she knows.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m not all that curious.” Which was a lie, but he didn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to himself than he already had.

Reminding him that lunch was in an hour, Bernard left Martin’s room and returned to the nurses’ station, where he informed Ethel and Amber that it hadn’t been anything important.

Martin closed the door to his room, then walked back to the window.

The golden web was gone, as were the creatures.

And Martin was scared—scratch that: he was (as Wendy would undoubtedly put it) fuckin’ terrified. Yeah, some of this could be chalked up to all the drugs that had traveled through his system in the last twelve or thirteen hours, but not all of it. Jesus! Had he done something to mess up his brain chemistry? Had some of the pills from last night done serious, irreparable damage before he’d gotten sick? Was this temporary or was it going to get worse? After all, he hadn’t given a second thought to brain damage when assembling the ingredients for his Shuffling-Off Cocktail (as he’d thought of it), no; he’d intended to go all the way, so why bother worrying about the possible consequences of what might happen if he didn’t finish the job?

Oh, God, he thought. Have I . . . damaged something?

Calm down.

Take a few deep breaths . . . that’s it.

Think about something else, anything else.

He closed his eyes, saw an image in the darkness of his father sitting in front of the television, his body weak, his skin pale, sipping juice from a straw, asking Martin or Mom to turn up the sound a little, he couldn’t hear so hot, and, son-of-a-bitch these treatments really took it out of you, if he had it to do over, he’d’ve told them damn doctors to just cut out his prostate and be done with it instead of keeping the bastard . . . .

Martin went back into the main area, shoved in the videotape of The Best Years of Our Lives, and sat down, focusing all of his attention on the movie. It was a good movie, a damn fine movie, a movie he’d seen at least half a dozen times, and you couldn’t really get enough of Fredric March, Dana Andrews, and Harold Russell, especially in that glorious first half-hour, and here they were, all three of them, playing their roles to perfection, these three characters fresh from WWII trying to find a plane home, finally catching a ride in the cargo hold of a small transport, getting to know each other, talking about the war, what it was going to be like going home, then Harold Russell did that famous business with his prosthetic hands—his hooks—lighting everyone’s cigarettes with a single match, and then—

–and then all three of them stopped talking, stopped moving, and for a second Martin thought maybe the tape had gotten caught, it was an old VCR, after all, he was lucky it had played this much of the movie, so he leaned forward to hit the STOP/EJECT button—

–and Harold Russell looked right out at him, right into the camera. “We’d really prefer it if you didn’t do that just yet, Martin.” “You need to hear the rest of the story,” said Dana Andrews. “It won’t take that long, we promise.” “By the way,” said Fredric March, “we’ve been asked to apologize to you for the manner in which this is being sent your way.” Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, Harold Russell added: “We’re a little pressed for time.” Dana Andrews nodded. “You can say that again.” “Fellahs,” said March, “could we get on with this while he’s still alone?” Martin began rising to his feet. “What the hell is—?” Andrews pointed a finger. “This will go a lot easier if you’ll just please sit still and shut up.”

“What my friend means,” said March, “is that we know how difficult this must be for you, but there is a good reason, and you’ll understand everything a lot better if you’ll just bear with us a little longer.” Harold Russell winked at Martin. “‘Keep your eyes open and your ears peeled and—’” “‘—your ass will stay attached,’” said Martin, tears welling in his eyes. “Dad used to say that all the time.” “It was his unit’s motto during the war,” said March. “71st Infantry, wasn’t it?” “Yes.” March nodded. “A good bunch of fellahs, your Dad’s unit. Destroyed one of Hitler’s secondary bunkers, didn’t they?” Martin nodded. “Dad carved his name into Hitler’s desk before he spit on it.”

Andrews laughed loudly. “Oh, I like that! Your dad must’ve been a helluva guy.” “Yes . . . yes, he was.” Fredric March pointed to his watch, and the other two nodded. “I’ll start,” March said. Then, looking directly at Martin:

“‘An old magic man’s new apprentice learns his lessons well, and soon is as powerful as the magic man himself. But this irritates an old magic man, who demands that the apprentice stop being such a show-off all the time.’”

“‘They argue,’” said Russell, taking up the tale. “‘Each grows more and more angry. The apprentice loses his temper and pulls the drain-plug from an old magic man’s head, re-opening the hole. The magic gushes out and the apprentice begins stealing it.’”

“‘An old magic man attacks the apprentice,’” said Andrews. “‘They claw at one another, screaming and thrashing and biting. Great gobs of flesh drop from their bones and smack against the surface of the wooden mask and begin to wriggle.’”

After this, Martin lost track of who said what; he only listened, he only watched, trying to make sense out of everything, trying to find a rational explanation; finding none, he could only accept what his senses dictated was real.

“‘An old magic man and his apprentice tear at one another until they are nothing more than slick bones that soon clatter to the floor in a heap. But the magic that has oozed and squirted from both of them covers the wooden soldier mask. The mask comes fully alive and swallows the magic. It grows a body with giant, powerful limbs and terrible wings. It rises up and shrieks into the darkness. The darkness is afraid for a moment, and cowers back. The mask opens its mouth and takes a bite out of the darkness, leaving a bright, golden hole in the night. The mask smiles, for it has the power of both an old magic man and his apprentice. It can do anything it wants.

“‘It unfurls its terrible wings and takes flight, soaring higher and higher, looking down upon all the wondrous things that have been revealed by the golden light spilling from the hole in the darkness. But, suddenly, it smacks its head into something and comes crashing down. Angered, it again takes flight, and again is knocked back down.

“‘“Why is this happening?” it cries out.

“‘“Where, exactly, do you think you are?” asks a distant voice.

“‘And the mask cries, “Show yourself!”’

“‘“You’re only as powerful as I think you are,” says the voice. “Never forget that.” “‘The mask flies up again and rams into the invisible barrier—but this time does not come crashing back down. “‘And, suddenly, it knows where it is, and to whom the voice belongs. “‘“I’m inside your head, aren’t it?” “‘“And here you’ll stay,” says the painter. “I may be ill, but I’m not so weak as to let you devour all my dreams.” “‘“We’ll see about that,” says the mask.

“‘And it remains there to this day, trapped inside the head of a painter who once dreamed a dream of a magic man and his young apprentice.

“‘But the mask has changed, has grown more powerful as the painter grows more ill. It is stuffing itself—gorging itself—on his dreams, his images, his ideas and memories . . .

“‘Most of all, his memories . . .

“‘They say it waits for the day when the painter can fight it no longer, and it will tear through his skull and devour the world you know . . . “‘Swallow it whole . . . “‘It has given itself a name . . . “‘“Call me Gash,” it says to the darkness . . .

“‘Gash is the destroyer of all things wondrous, the eater of wishes, the mangler of joy, the killer of spirit, the ruiner of hope, the deformer of memories . . . “‘Magic never dies . . . but magic men do . . . . “‘And there is nothing so dangerous as the mad orphan called abandoned magic.’” The three actors looked at one another, then nodded.

March crushed out his cigarette, lit another. “You know Gash by another name. One you should be familiar with, seeing as how he killed your grandmother, and how your mother was always worried he’d eventually get her, as well.”

Martin opened his mouth to speak, but then Harold Russell shook his hooks and hissed, “Someone’s coming!”

Wendy stumbled into the main area and fell into the easy chair opposite Martin’s. Her face was flushed and her eyes glazed. She looked right at Martin, not seeing him, then stared at the television where March, Andrews, and Russell were saying their good-byes, promising each other that they’d get together again very soon.

“I hate these old fuckin’ movies,” Wendy said to no one in particular. “Why didn’t they make ‘em in color, anyway? Fuckin’ fuck-brains . . . .”

Martin laced his hands into a single, ten-fingered, white-knuckled fist and pressed it into his lap, rocking back and forth.

You know Gash by a different name . . .

That he did.

(Mom in the kitchen, looking around for a favorite sauce spoon: “I can’t seem to keep track of anything these days . . . must be losing my mind or coming down with—”)

The eater of wishes, the mangler of joy, the deformer of memories . . .

Alzheimer’s disease.

Saying nothing to anyone, Martin went back to his room, closed the door, and sat on his bed staring at the watercolors until Bernard came a-pummeling to announce lunch.

3

It should have surprised—if not outright petrified—Martin to discover that the third client in The Center was the large, balding black man who’d read the first part of the story to him from within the television, but by the time he sat down to lunch that first day, he was almost beyond it; too much had happened too quickly for him to fully deal with any of it, so—after taking his afternoon meds—he decided to follow his dad’s advice: He’d keep his eyes open, his ears peeled, and his ass attached. He was feeling shiny and more than willing to go along for the ride.

Wendy sat at the far end of the second table; Storyteller-Man at the far end of the first; so Martin took a spot more or less equidistant from each of them.

“You’re not making this easy,” said Storyteller-Man.

“I get a lot of complaints about that,” replied Martin, trying to figure out what sort of Mystery Meat had been used to make the hamburger. Storyteller-Man sighed, shook his head, then picked up his tray and moved down to sit across from Martin. “They’re real.” Not looking up, Martin doctored his hamburger with some salt and pepper and said, “Who’s real?” “You know. The Onlookers.”

Now Martin raised his head. “Is that what they’re called?”

“That’s what Bob named them, yes.”

“Who’s Bob?”

“I am. Well, my name’s Jerry, but I’m still . . . wait a second.” He closed his eyes and pressed his chin down against his chest, and for a moment he flickered, becoming a reverse image, a living film negative, but then pulled in a deep, hard breath and re-assumed solidity. “Sorry. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up this ruse.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s happening?”

Jerry raised one of his large, strong-looking hands, stopping Martin from asking further questions. “Remember how your dad was always telling people to stop yammering and get to the point? That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“How do you know what Dad used to say?”

“The same way I know that you had a short but perplexing conversation with your six-year-old self last night. The same way I know that when you tried to lose your virginity to Debbie Carver when you were fifteen you shot your wad all over her left thigh before you even got it in, and from that day on she always called you ‘Lefty’ but never told anyone why. The same way I know that you once stole ten dollars from your mom’s purse when you were sixteen to buy a couple of really rotten joints—and you always felt bad about that, didn’t you? Even though you eventually put back twenty, you always felt bad about it—and remember the way she made such a fuss over finding that twenty? ‘I must have a fairy godmother looking after me, Zeke.’ ‘Zeke’ was her nickname for you, by the way, and no one except her and you knew that. Ever. Do you want more examples or can we assume that you now understand I know things and move on?”

Martin raised his hands in surrender. “How can you be both someone named Jerry and someone named Bob?” No sooner was the question out of his mouth than he knew the answer:

R.J. Nyman.

Robert Jerome Nyman.

“But you weren’t black,” he said. “You were a short little old white guy with bad teeth, B.O., and shaky hands. I remember the shaky hands because the only time they were still was when they were holding a pencil or brush.”

“Hooray, his powers of recall aren’t completely in the crapper. Yes, that’s right—Bob is that short little old white guy; I’m the image he invented for his muse, and he calls me ‘Jerry’ because I’m as much a part of him as your right side is to you.” “Why’d he make you black?” “You got something against black folks?” “No. Just curious.”

Jerry thought about this for a moment. “I guess I believe you. To answer your question: I don’t know. I’ve only been . . . like this . . . real, I’d guess you’d say, for a little while. There’s only so much mental detritus I can sift through at any given time.”

“What are you, exactly?”

Jerry picked up his hamburger, looked at the Mystery Meat, then dropped it back onto his tray. “I’m what’s left of Bob’s lucidity, of his reason, of his creativity and intelligence. I’m what managed to escape before Gash started in on the last few courses of his feasting. I can only hold this form for so long—like when Bernie does his bed-check or Ethel comes around with the meds . . . they only think of me as being here for as long as they see me, then maybe for a few minutes or so afterward . . . I . . . uh . . . I can only be this way for short . . . wait, I said that already, didn’t I? . . . I can only be this way for short periods . . . because the closer Bob comes to death . . . .” He stopped speaking, his eyes snapping closed, his whole body locking up in pain; his face began to bulge and swell and discolor; a jagged crack appeared in the center of his forehead and split downward, chewing through his substance like a shredder through sheets of paper, consuming him, bit by bit—his arms and legs became stumps, his eyes seemed to collapse into their sockets, his chest began to implode and he flickered once again, a human film negative, and from somewhere in the center of all this came the echo of a terrified scream, then with a sudden, powerful lurch, he pressed himself against the edge of the table and again was whole.

Martin shot a panicked glance toward Wendy, who sat facing down at her food with both eyes closed, emitting a low, deep snore, a thin string of drool trailing down from her mouth. When he turned back, Jerry was breathing heavily, gripping the sides of his lunch tray. “Are you all right?” Jerry couldn’t speak just yet, so gave his head a quick shake.

“I get it, okay?” said Martin. “I understand why you can’t stay like this for very long, why you had to . . . do that television thing like you did.”

“. . . corporeality’s a bitch . . .” whispered Jerry. “I liked it a lot better when I was just a flight of fancy. It’s easy, being a dream or manipulating electromagnetic waves. Flesh demands too much of the mind and heart. I don’t know how human beings do it.”

Martin started reaching for Jerry’s hand, thought better of it (how would it feel?), and so started to rise. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nothing. Please sit down.”

Martin complied.

“What it boils down to is this: right now Bob is lying in a dim little shit-hole of a room in the Taft Hotel in final stages of Alzheimer’s. He’ll be dead soon—maybe a day or two, maybe less—and when he dies, Gash is going to get out. Not as the disease he once was, not as Alzheimer’s, but the thing the Alzheimer’s is becoming.” Jerry closed his eyes and put a hand against his chest, pulling in three broken breaths that obviously hurt like hell. “It’s getting bad. I don’t think this is it, but it’s . . . it’s gonna be an awful one.” He opened his eyes. “You got time for one more question, then I need to go elsewhere and rally my ass.”

“Why me? Why are you—why is Bob, someone I don’t know—why are you coming to me?”

“Because you were kind. Because you did more for him that day than you remember. Because he thought of you as a friend. And because, in his last moments of lucidity, before the dementia got its hooks in all the way, he called on some superhuman reserve of will that I still can’t comprehend and managed to do two things: help me to escape, and remember you.” He pressed his hands against his eyes and pulled in a strained breath. “Listen, I gotta boogie-two-shoes for a little while. You stick around here . . . something tells me it’s going to get real interesting . . . .”

And with a flicker, he was gone.

When Ethel came out from the nurses’ station five minutes later, she found Wendy passed out at the table and Martin sitting in front of two trays of half-eaten food.

“My, my, aren’t you the one with an appetite?” she said to him.

Looking at her, Martin thought: Would she remember Jerry if I said something? Then decided, what the hell, he had nothing to lose: “Jerry couldn’t finish his, so he said I could have it.”

Ethel stared at him, blinking as if trying to remember something, then gave a slow nod of her head. “Oh, right, Jerry. I guess he’s still not . . . feeling well . . . .”

“He didn’t look too good to me,” Martin replied.

Ethel seemed about to say something else Jerry-related, then looked at Wendy, blinked again—I should take care of this, yes, that’s what I came out here for—and walked over to the unconscious girl.

Martin finished off his food, then what was left on Jerry’s tray.

If things were only about to get interesting, he was going to need all the energy he could store away against the effects of the drugs.

4

The rest of the day was torture.

Shortly before the scheduled second group session, Ethel came out and put a red X through the rest of the day’s planned activities, then Wendy woke up long enough to pitch another fit about being in “. . . this fuckin’ fruitcake factory!” before having to be sedated once again (though Martin had to give her high marks for her alliteration, accidental though it probably was); Martin watched The Best Years of Our Lives (with no ad-libbing from any of the actors, only crying at the very end when he remembered watching this with his dad), read half of a John Cheever short story collection he found on one of the shelves (having forgotten how sad Cheever was—a damned great writer, but depressing as hell), walked around the basketball court a dozen or so times before getting that Waiting for Godot feeling and deciding to shoot a few hoops (he’d sucked at basketball as a kid, and discovered that the ensuing years had done little to improve his stats), taken a second shower, checked out his window to make sure the Onlookers hadn’t decided to come back for an evening performance, and was about to resort to counting the holes in the ceiling when Bernard announced it was chow time.

Wendy all but inhaled her dinner, never once acknowledging Martin’s presence, then went back to her room. Martin sighed, got himself a tray, and was just removing the cover when Ethel came out to join him.

“Want some company?” she asked.

“Yes, please. All this ‘quiet time’ is losing its charm.”

Ethel sat across from him and smiled. “Things here are usually a lot more structured than this, Martin; but right now it’s just you and Wendy. I’m sure we’ll have more folks in here come tomorrow and things can get back to normal—well, what passes for normal in here.”

“I’ll try to occupy myself.”

She leaned forward, her face growing serious. “It must have been hard on you, losing both your folks so close together like that.” It didn’t seem like something that required a response, so Martin made none. “You took care of them for a long time, didn’t you?’ “Yeah . . .” “You should be proud of yourself; a lot of people wouldn’t’ve done that.” “Didn’t change things.”

“But that doesn’t mean you failed. They were both very sick. Just because they left you, that doesn’t mean they love you any less where they are now.” Martin looked up from his Jell-O cup and tried to smile. “I wish I could believe that.” “You promised to take care of them, and you kept your word.” “I tried.”

“You’re not God. You couldn’t make them not be sick.”

He set down his spoon and leaned back. “No, I couldn’t. All I could do, in the end, was watch them die.”

“At least you were with them; at least they didn’t have to die alone. I know that probably doesn’t seem like much, but it ought to count for something, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Ethel. That’s most of the reason I wound up in here.” “You’ll be better when you leave. Maybe not a lot, but at least a little.” “That might be nice.” In the nurses’ station, Amber answered the phone, then called for Ethel.

“I have to go see who that is,” she said, rising. “I think you should spend the evening out here and not in your room. Watch another movie, or some stupid sit-coms. I’ll make popcorn in a little while, how’s that sound?” “Sounds okay.” “You strike me as a decent man, Martin. I just wish you saw it yourself.” Martin thanked her, finished his dinner, and spent the next few hours in front of the television.

Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just Ethel’s saying that he and Wendy were the only clients—Jerry hadn’t shown himself for hours, so why would she remember him?—it was this nagging sense that something was about to happen.

Soon.

And it bugged the shit out of him that he didn’t know what. Jerry had told him just enough to tell him almost nothing at all.

Because you were kind. Because you did more for him that day than you remember. Because he thought of you as a friend . . . .

“Had a friend and didn’t even know it,” he whispered at a re-run of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

At eleven, he went in to brush his teeth and wash up, then Ethel came out with his evening medications—the ones designed to knock you on your ass inside of fifteen minutes.

Christ, he wished he didn’t have to take these.

Ethel handed him a cup of water and his cup of pills, Martin tossed the pills into his mouth, and then—once again—Amber was confronted with some crisis in the nurses’ station she couldn’t deal with, so Ethel went back to check on it. Martin turned his head and spit the pills into his hand, then quickly put them in his pocket. Ethel never came back out to check with her penlight. And so Martin went to bed, wide awake and anxious.

* * *

He didn’t have to wait long. At 11:20 (according to his watch), something tapped against his window from outside. He rose from bed, crossed to the window, and found himself staring into the face on an Onlooker. It stared back at him for a few moments, then jerked its head to the left; twice. “What?” said Martin. Again, it jerked its head to the left.

“To the left is a wall and a door—this isn’t one of those Lady or the Tiger things, is it?”

The Onlooker turned slightly to the side, opening one of its eyes and projecting an image into the middle of the room: a basketball. Martin almost laughed. “The gym? You want me to go to the gym?” The Onlooker nodded. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to get past the Better Mental Health Squad?” The Onlooker made a small, slumping movement that could only have been a sigh of exasperation. A few seconds later, the door to Martin’s room swung slowly open. “Did you do that?” Once more, the Onlooker jerked its head to the left. Martin walked over to the doorway, leaned out to have a look in the hall—

–except he wasn’t looking into the hall alongside the nurses’ station; not unless they’d put up a backboard and hoop in the last half-hour.

“Nice trick,” he said, but the Onlooker was gone.

You were right, Jerry; this just got real interesting.