Fade

by Robert Cormier

  In the apartment one evening, after a late frozen-food dinner that we barely touched, both of us exhausted after a day of frenzy at Broome, she said: “I have something to say, Susan.” In her best office voice.

  Bracing myself, I merely said: “Yes.”

  Her fatigue suddenly gone, she looked me straight in the eye and said:

  “Fade.”

  Enunciating the word so deliberately that she almost stretched it to two syllables.

  I waited for more.

  “Fade/’ she said again. Then: “Invisible. Unseen. Disappear.”

  Now she waited for my reaction, her eyes asking questions I could not comprehend.

  When I still said nothing, she said: “See how impossible those words sound? Written down on paper, fine. In my thoughts or your thoughts, also fine. But yesterday, alone in the office for a moment, door closed, I said this aloud: ‘Paul Roget had the power to make himself invisible.’ And immediately, hearing those words come out of my mouth, I realized how impossible they sounded. Try it, Susan.”

  I tried it:

  “Paul Roget faded, became invisible, unseen—”

  “See what I mean?” Meredith asked.

  And I did.

  On paper, between the first and last pages of a manuscript, nothing is impossible. But in the reality of sunshine on a carpet, furniture you can touch as you pass, faucets that spout water, headaches, loneliness on a Sunday evening, the illusions created by nouns and verbs and similes and metaphors become only that—illusions. Words on a page. And fade becomes, then, just another word.

  Finally, on the subway, crowded and jostled and hanging on to the straps for dear life, she said:

  “I did some checking today with the help of a gal I know in the research department at Time. Checked on Ramsey, Maine. Which we found does not exist. And the order of the Sisters of Mercy. Which likewise does not exist.” Swayed away from me as the car swung wildly entering a station. “Checked old resort towns with dried-up springs. Again: nothing.” Perhaps anticipating my response, she said: “All of which doesn't mean that they don't exist elsewhere.”

  “Then why did he switch from a real Frenchtown to a made-up Ramsey?” I asked. “From first person with Paul to third person with Ozzie?”

  “Because it's all fiction,” she said. “It has to be, Susan.” A kind of desperation in her voice.

  “I know,” I said.

  We looked in each other's eyes for a long time and then looked away. As if we had called a truce there in the crowded subway car careening under the streets of Manhattan. We did not speak of the manuscript again that summer.

  But that night in bed I thought of my grandfather and what he had told me one day in Monument, something I had not divulged to Meredith or even admitted to myself the day I had discovered the manuscript in her apartment.

  A year ago, October, a leaf-tumbling, beautiful day, I arrived in Monument by B&M train. My grandfather met me at the depot and drove me around town, pointing out places Paul had described in his novels and stories. At one point, we pulled up in front of the public library, across from City Hall.

  “Paul and I spent a lot of time there as kids,” he said, indicating the ancient stone building shrouded by trees and bushes. “Paul practically lived in the place. He told me he was going to read every book in there. I wonder if he ever did.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I think he knew the library better than the librarians. I once accused him of knowing about a secret room in the building. …”

  My penchant for drama and mystery asserted itself and, thrilled, I said: “Secret room?”

  Voice tender with reminiscence, he said: “One year, when we were eleven or twelve, I received a detective kit for Christmas. We went to the library looking for books on detection. We sneaked into the adult stacks, practically tiptoeing around because libraries were quiet places in those days. I discovered a book on fingerprinting and went to look for Paul. I couldn't find him. Looked up, down, all over the building. It's as if he had disappeared.

  “Finally, he showed up. Looked guilty as hell, pale, almost sick. I accused him of hiding—had he found a secret spot somewhere? He said he had felt a bit sick, sat down in the stacks, curled up, and sort of fell asleep. Sounded strange to me but I let it go because he'd been having a bad year. Fainted once or twice, lost weight, had no appetite. Growing pains, puberty probably, the doctor said, and gave him all kinds of tonics. This was before the days of vitamin pills, I guess….”

  At the time, the incident in the library did not make a large impression on me, and became a kind of footnote in my memory. Until that summer evening in Meredith's apartment when I read Paul's manuscript.

  Why hadn't my grandfather mentioned the incident in his report to Meredith?

  Had he refused to acknowledge Paul's disappearance because it would lead him to enormous conclusions that he could not accept?

  Or was he keeping secrets?

  Did Meredith have her own secrets?

  Were we all keeping secrets from each other?

  After all, I have not told Meredith about Paul's disappearance at the library, either.

  Two weeks ago I visited Monument for the first time since returning from New York City and found my grandfather, weak and wan, in a bed at Monument Hospital, recovering from surgery.

  “My colon,” he said. “And complications/’

  “What kind of complications?” I asked, appalled to see this man who had never looked like a grandfather suddenly looking like one, his graying hair no longer giving off flashes of distinction but uncombed, lusterless, his face ashen.

  “They don't know yet,” he said wearily. “Old age itself is a complication, Susan.”

  “You're not old,” I said. “You could never be old.”

  “I'm sixty-three,” he said. “But an old sixty-three, my girl. More than forty years on the force, thirty of them on night shifts, walking the beat before they gave me plain clothes.” Sighing, closing his eyes, he said: “Hell, it was a good life.”

  Speaking in past tense, as if his life were also past tense.

  In Boston's North End, I found an ancient church and went inside to burn a candle for him, the way his generation did in the old days. There were no candles in the church, only an array of small light bulbs in candle holders. The bulbs lit up when you inserted a coin. I placed a dollar in the poor box instead and offered a prayer before a statue of St. Jude.

  I will visit my grandfather in Monument again but won't ask him any more questions about Paul.

  * * *

  Meredith and I keep in touch with brief notes and late-night phone calls. She has asked me, hooray, to return to Broome & Company next summer. Two days ago I received a letter from her that contained the following:

  “Had a long talk with Walter Holland at Harbor House yesterday. He's still interested in a Paul Roget collection and positively glowed when I told him about the new manuscript, fragmented though it is. Funny thing, Susan. As soon as I sent it off by messenger this morning, a feeling of—I don't know—peace? (no, too strong a word), accomplishment? (not exactly that either), came over me. A feeling that I had paid off a debt, as if I had completed a mission Paul wanted me to carry out. Crazy? Maybe. But a kind of sadness was lifted from me, sadness that had lingered ever since his death all those years ago.”

  Paul Roget died in his bed in a rented apartment on Second Street in Frenchtown on June 3, 1967, at the age of forty-two. The New York Times obituary said he died of natural causes. My grandfather told me that Paul had been the victim of a series of ailments in his final years. He had developed diabetes, lost a great deal of weight, and suffered a heart attack two years before he died.

  He had become more of a recluse than ever in those last days, moving from apartment to apartment, refused to have a telephone installed, stopped writing (although he must have written the fade manuscript at that time). He did not always admit visitors when they knocked at his door. Although he never turned away his nephews and nieces,
his enthusiasm for their company diminished and, sensing his growing indifference, they stopped visiting. My grandfather saw him at mass occasionally on Sunday but never saw him receive communion.

  He seems to have faded away. Not the fade of his manuscript but fading the way the lights and colors of the day fail as night falls, as if he began to live his manuscript in a manner he could not have foreseen.

  Thus, he became a fader after all.

  That, I thought sadly, is the end of that.

  Until.

  Until five days ago, when I picked up The Boston Globe and read the following story, which is what I have pinned to my bulletin board:

  MYSTERY BLAST KILLS 75:

  SECOND TRAGEDY IN WEEK

  SHERWOOD, N.Y. (AP)— A mysterious explosion in a chemical plant here Tuesday killed 75 workers and injured 23 others in the second major tragedy to hit this city of 11,000 in a week. On Friday night, 20 students and 3 teachers died when fire swept the Sherwood High School gymnasium during the Senior Prom.

  The causes of the explosion and fire have not been determined. Police Chief Herman Barnaby said that “foul play is suspected in both cases.”

  “We are baffled,” admitted Henry Tewks-bury, plant manager of ABC Chemicals, Inc. “Because of the volatile nature of the chemicals, we maintain the strictest security in the world. Our experts tell us it was impossible for anyone to penetrate our security without being observed. That person would have had to be invisible.”

  Equally “impossible,” according to high school principal Vito Andalucci, were the circumstances in which the students and teachers died in the gymnasium. About 100 escaped the smoky blaze, but those who lost their lives were trapped in a corridor, unable to open a door leading to safety.

  “That door was under my personal surveillance the entire evening,” Principal Andalucci said. “This precaution was taken because last year rowdy outsiders entered the gym through that door and disrupted the prom. I vowed that would not happen this year. Impossible as it was, someone jammed the mechanism of the lock. Thus, when I sent those students and teachers off in that direction, I was sending them to their deaths.”

  Chief Barnaby refused to comment on reports that the town had been plagued recently by acts of terror, ranging from vandalism in business places on Main Street to a series of break-ins in local homes.

  Meanwhile, the state fire marshal's office discounted a report that a teenager had been seen in the vicinity of the plant shortly before the explosion. One Sherwood resident, who has not been identified, said the teenager “disappeared into thin air” after being spotted near the plant's entrance.

  “We are looking for physical evidence and cannot be involved with rumors and hearsay,” Fire Chief Martin Peters said.

  I sit here in my room in Boston, safe and snug, thinking of someone at this moment in upstate New York, someone who might be a new fader, another nephew in a new generation, a madman unleashed on the world.

  Impossible, I tell myself, even as I wonder if I have the answer at last to the reason why Paul wanted his manuscript held back until this year or later. Did he want it to coincide with the appearance of a new fader—as a warning or a message?

  I don't know the answer to that question.

  Or to some other questions, either.

  I mean, I sit here and I think of the fade and that clipping on the bulletin board and I wonder if I am safe and snug after all. If any of us are.

  And I don't know what to do about it.

  God, I don't know what to do.

  Published by

  Delacorte Press

  an imprint of

  Random House Children's Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  Copyright © 1988 by Robert Cormier

  Lyrics from “I Can't Get Started” by Ira Gershwin & Vernon Duke

  copyright © 1935 by Chappell & Co., Inc. Copyright renewed.

  International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Lyrics from “All Alone” by Irving Berlin copyright © 1924 by Irving Berlin.

  Copyright renewed 1951 by Irving Berlin.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cormier, Robert.

  Fade / by Robert Cormier.

  Summary: Paul Moreaux, the thirteen-year-old son of French-Canadian

  immigrants, inherits the ability to become invisible, but this power

  soon leads to death and destruction.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-52331-0

  [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. French Canadians—United States—Fiction.] I. Title.

  v3.0

  Table of Contents

  OTHER BOOKS BY ROBERT CORMIER