by Keith LaHue
A disturbing thought occurred to him: if he was also James, living the good life in sunny California, then was James also Jimmy? Even in this lucid dream, the thought of the duality of being was seriously disturbing. Something was happening...he could feel himself slip out of this dream and into...
...wakefulness. Jerome was shaking him. The light had returned, miraculously. He had only been in that other world for a few moments.
"You were talking. I watched you for some time. I don't know where your brain went, but it wasn't here. Did your mom call you James? Wait. We don't have moms. Are you all right?"
Jimmy shook off the caul of his first dream, his first night of sleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "I was somewhere else. How much time has passed? It's light again."
"It wasn't either longer or shorter than any of the nights we've had. What happened to you? Your eyes were closed, and you were hardly breathing. A couple of times I touched you, thinking something was wrong. Then I found Tom, and he explained it to me. I mean, in a rudimentary way I know all about sleep. We all do, most of us, except for all of the Indians who are already doing it."
"Well, I had an actual dream. I think. In it, I was someone else. James." He went on and described it to him the best he could, including the part about the strangeness of the passing, or not passing, of time.
"That sounds like a hell of an experience. I want to try it. I did come into this state of consciousness at roughly the same time as you. I wonder why I can't sleep yet."
"I think possibly that we evolve at different rates. One thing that I remember is the James person's knowledge that not all of us are equal. Some of us are...how do I put it. Not as complete as others."
"You mean you're better than me?"
"Of course not. Just a little further down the path is all. You'll get there. You may not even want to; the dream was disturbing in some ways. The worst part of it is that I think James is alive. Or as alive we are. And I think he's me, and I'm him. We're connected, that I'm sure of."
"I'm not sure I want to dream then. I don't like the idea of sharing what makes me unique with someone else...or another me."
"I'm not sure we have a choice. I need to eat."
"Me too."
They exited the dwelling and found that the others had put together a trail breakfast. Both of them ate, with Jimmy grilling anyone he could about these dreams, and the apparent duality of self. None of them had experienced this, not even Tom, who he knew to be one of the first to become self-aware.
34
Carol Woodward, a senior administrator at the department of social services inpatient youth facility looked over the report on Karl Stenger. The emergency room doctors, and later a child psychologist, had agreed that while the degree of trauma could only be labeled as severe, he was going to be fast-tracked into a foster home, and back to his former school.
He'd made the papers of course. Even in a city the size of Indianapolis, murder still made the news, as did the rescue of abducted children. The girl had ended up being admitted to a long term facility, due to the extenuating nature of her wounds, both physical and mental. Her chances for a full recovery weren't great.
Karl would need quite a bit of attention himself if he was going to recover fully. He was still here at Windcliff for the time being, even rating the coveted private room on unit three. He'd been examined thoroughly, and the worst had been confirmed. In addition to a long history of psychological abuse, physical abuse was considerable. He had cigarette burns that were the length of an entire cigarette. Over the years, Karl had been seen at the hospital three times for broken bones. Social Services hadn't found enough conclusive evidence to keep him. So they're repeatedly sent him back to the twisted man masquerading as a father.
He'd been raped repeatedly. Fortunately, this appeared to be a more recent development. The scars Karl had, at least the physical ones, would heal to an extent; Carol had her doubts about the psychological ones. She questioned the wisdom of sending him back to his old school. Children were the most vicious and cruel people she knew of. The boy would be the subject of bullying, she was certain.
She padded down the hall quietly to check in on Karl. It was eight O'clock at night, a time when many of the children would still be watching TV or playing board games in the common room, but she knew Karl would still be in his room. He hadn't bonded with any of the other children on the ward. Most of the time he was sullen and unresponsive. Other times he would explode in anger, then tears.
Carol knocked softly on Karl's door before entering. Karl was playing with one of the construction toys available. He'd built a small log cabin and was just putting the chimney on.
"Well Karl, are you feeling better today?" She looked at him as his eyes drifted off to who-knows-where. She hated it when he got the thousand-yard stare. She knew he wasn't ready to be discharged, but the day was drawing near. The county's coffers had determined that. It was either to a foster home, or psych. And while he had suffered terrible abuse, he passed all of the pen and paper tests the clinicians had given him. To Carol, this meant nothing other than Karl was smart.
His gaze gradually shifted back to hers, and his eyes finally rested on her, even looking her in the eye. She inwardly cringed, as she could see the pain, still fresh in his mind. "I like building things. Davey builds the best things. I want to help him sometime."
Davey was the only friend Karl had as far as Carol could tell. He was the boy whose mother had been an integral part of the discovery of Randy Stenger's crimes. Last she'd heard, Karl's father had already been stabbed, even though he was still in County, awaiting trial. She hoped it hurt like hell.
Davey hadn't been allowed to come and see Karl, he'd shown up the second day. Carol wasn't sure of the level of understanding Davey had of the crimes that had been committed. How could an eight-year-old understand the concept of anal rape? Obviously, she couldn't tell him anything. She had sent him away with an advisement that he couldn't see Karl as long as he was in this facility. Dejected, she was remorseful that the one friend Karl had wasn't able to see him.
"Maybe when you get out of here, you can visit Davey. Would you like that? You're going to go to a new family in a few days, and while it's not in your old neighborhood, you'll be able to see all of your old friends at school. They'll be happy to see you, I know Davey will. Didn't you say he had a giant model in the basement of his house?"
"Yeah. Will the other kids know what my Dad did to me? I don't want them to know."
Talk about getting to the nitty-gritty. How was she going to tell them that they would know? That they did know. She knew in her heart that Karl should be transferred to a different school. How management had made such an inane decision was beyond her. No way to sugar coat this, she would tell him the truth. He deserved that.
"Karl, the other kids know about the bad things your father did. But you know you'll have people to talk to right? There will be a psychologist assigned to you, and you see him every day in the beginning. And of course your new family, there will be three other children to play with, and the parents will be like your new parents, a new mom, a new dad! It'll be just like -
She was cut off when Karl flew into an apoplectic fit. He violently smashed the log cabin, sending pieces flying. He lunged at Carol, beating his little fists against her chest. She was doing her best to restrain him, he was screaming at her to never talk about his mother, never! He started bawling, still hitting her ineffectually. She pressed the button near the door to summon the orderlies.
"I'm sorry Karl, I know no one could ever replace your mother or -
- I told you not to talk about her!"
He stopped hitting her just as the orderly arrived. She shooed him away, saying she was okay. Karl just sat and cried. It was against the rules, but....she reached out and held him. He pressed his head into her neck, sobbing. "I loved her so much and she protected me from daddy then daddy killed her and she left me without saying goodbye then daddy blamed it all on me and hi
t me and did that dirty thing then he got the girl and she cried and cried but he didn't care he just hurt her and he just hurt me in a bad way over and over and I wanted mommy to come and kill daddy and now he's going to die too one of the police told me what they do to bad men in prison and he'd get killed and I'm only sorry I can't kill him myself. And...and...and" He dissolved in heaving while he sobbed. Carol just held him close and whispered that it would be okay. But she knew better. She knew that most of the time, for most of the children like Karl, it was never going to be okay. Gradually his tears stopped. He was already dressed for bed, so she tucked him in, and in another breach of protocol, she kissed him goodnight. If she had been a religious woman, she would have prayed for him. She had seen enough damaged children; hopelessly wrecked, that she knew there was no God. She turned the light off as she left.
Karl was still awake, thinking about what the lady had said. A new mom. He thought he might have to kill her too, just like he was going to kill daddy if he got the chance. When he thought of his mom, he mostly felt sad. None of the happy times were left in his memory. She had kept his dad from him most of the time, but not all of the time. Then daddy had killed her, and he was helpless against the burns, the arm twisting, the bad thing daddy did to him when he was going to bed.
Davey never had any of those things happen to him! He hated Davey too. Maybe he would kill Davey and his whole family. Davey's dad would never do bad things to him, he was sure. His mom made the best cookies he had ever tasted and he'd probably kill her too, just to make Davey feel as bad as he did.
The model. That giant magical model that Davey and his father had built. It was so beautiful. He had never in his life had anything like it. He liked building things too. The one time he had asked Davey if he could help with the model, Davey had looked away, and said that it was "mostly his dad that made it".
Karl knew better. Davey got to do his fair share. Sure, some of it would be too hard for a kid, but he knew by the way Davey had turned away that Davey had built a lot of it too. In his mind, he didn't know the word for what he felt. Sometimes he imagined that Davey was his brother, or a cousin or something. That they would play together every day, with the model, and the race car track, all of the toys he had. And his mom would make cookies every day. Davey's father would come down to the basement and help, and muss his hair the way an adult did when they really liked you.
He always started blubbering again about when he got to this point in the fantasy. Davey wasn't his brother. While Davey's dad did muss his hair up when he saw him, he knew he didn't really care about him. When Davey's mom made cookies, she smiled and seemed happy, but he could tell she just felt sorry for him. None of them knew about his family. His own mom had only baked cookies once. His dad had a fit, and first, he pigged down a bunch of cookies, then he threw the rest away before Karl could have even one. Then he hit his mom and told her in dirty words that they couldn't afford cookies. That night was one of the long ones. Karl was asleep when his dad came into his room and lit a fresh cigarette. Karl had awaked to the sound of the match strike. His dad roughly pulled down his pajama pants and told Karl to stay still no matter what. He put the cigarette on his bottom. He knew if he screamed it would only make it worse.
But he had to scream. And scream he did. His mother came rushing into the room. She yelled at his dad to stop! Then she took the cigarette off of him. His day had hit her then, hard. She cried out, and all the while Karl was enraged. Not even because of the burn, but because his dad was hurting his mom.
His mom was backing away, trying to stop his father. He hit her one good, and Karl could hear the sound of her jaw break with a sickening snap. Karl had heard the same kind of sound when his dad had taken Karl's arm and broken it quite intentionally. His mom screamed out in pain, muffled by the now malfunctioning jaw.
"Oh fuck. You stupid cunt. Now I have to take you to the hospital. You know I think you fell again. You're always falling down you stupid bitch. And when they ask you something? You'd better not say of fucking thing. Unless you want your second son to die too."
Second son? Davey didn't have a brother. It didn't register what he was talking about. His father turned to him.
"I have to take your bitch mother to the emergency room. She fell." He laughed like hell for a second and then spoke again. "You be quiet all night. We could be gone a while. If you aren't good I'll know it. And you don't want any more bad things to happen to you, do you? And if you tell anyone, and I mean anyone, we're going to have a 'Multiple cigarette night'. Got it? And you know I'll know if you're bad. I always know, don't I?"
Randy Stenger roughly pulled his wife up from the corner of the room she was slumped in. "One word to the doctor and I'll kill you bitch. But first I'll make you watch while I kill the punk."
Karl didn't know what a Punk was. He hears them go downstairs. His mother was moaning through her broken mouth. Karl heard his dad tell her to shut up.
Karl let the memory recede, and he returned to the present. To the white room with just a bed and a dresser. The parts of the log cabin were scattered all over the room. He got up to pick up the pieces, even though Carol had put him to bed. He did so without turning on the light. He liked to make things. Davey and his perfect mom and dad did too. But he was going to get them. But before he killed them, he wanted to see them all cry when he destroyed their precious model. He hated it. Most of the time, hate was all he felt. Except when he thought of his mom. She was the only one in his whole life that had loved him.
35
The moment the barriers fell, Artimus felt as though he'd been crippled, both mentally and physically. His head hurt, and fleeting visions floated before his eyes. He was in a large coliseum - no, it wasn't called that here, in this New York. It was Yankee Stadium. He felt the lay lines beneath the middle of the bridge shudder as if being tested by the magic they had used to remove the barriers. He opened his mouth to talk and nothing came out.
The mages were coming around; Flavius was helping them up just as Artimus was falling. He fell to the ground, but not unconscious, he was just somewhere....else.
It was the start of the seventh inning, and Arty had the mound. It was up to him to keep the dreaded Red Sox at bay. The Yankees had one-run lead and Arty aimed to keep it that way. The pitch...strike one. Strike two. Strike three and (who?) the batter was out. He felt something in his mind and intrusion of sorts. He looked into the stands, maybe for the first time. His head swam with visions of another place, a different time even. In the stands, he saw many people, it was a warm summer day, and the place was packed with...what were they? Some of them had faces, but some looked like what he'd always imagined mannequins looked like. Just the suggestion of features, nothing fully articulated.
The next batter was up. With sudden clarity, he realized what a sham this was. He had no memory of playing any other team than the Sox. He could not recall what any of the other teams in baseball were called. He left the mound. His manager was waving at him. He could make out him mouthing the words "what the fuck". He ignored him and continued on. He climbed the short wall between the field and the stands and looked around. One of the fully formed faces, a rarity here it appeared, turned to him to speak.
"Whaddaya doin' Arty? I came here for a game and you walk off the field. What's up?"
"What is your name?" The young man looked to be about twenty or so, dressed in blue jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. He looked lost in thought, he was searching his mind for the simplest of things.
"Why I'm...I'm Flavius!"
The scene dissolved leaving Arty...
...standing on the bridge with one hell of a headache. He looked around at the circle that surrounded him. Camilla, Antonia, and Laelia had all recovered and were looking at him queerly. Flavius put his hand on his shoulder and Artimus knew that he had an inkling of what had happened. Maybe more.
"Are you all right?" asked Flavius.
"I think so. I know where we have to go there's this big...."
"Stadium. Yankee Stadium. Your duplicate is pitching for the Yankees and my twin is in the stands watching. I didn't pass out the way you did, but I felt it."
"Did you see it?"
"No. I felt what you had seen when I touched you. Have to say, kind of unsettling to know that there is more than one of me."
"Yeah, I get that too. We're going to this Yankee Stadium. And I want out of these ridicules toga's before we enter it. We all need to change."
"I like my toga!" exclaimed Camilla.
"Sorry, it's got to go. We're in New York now. And while we're still figuring things out, if that's even possible, I want us to blend into the crowd."
"What crowd? We're the only ones here."
"Camilla, we are standing in the middle of a bridge with no traffic on it. Of course, we're alone," said Flavius.
"I have some errant memory," said Laelia. "Someplace called Fifth Avenue, That has lots of shops where we might find clothing."
"Do you have other memories of having been here before also? Asked Artimus.
"It's more like a feeling. I can't isolate many particulars. It's like there's a blueprint of the city in my mind. I also have the bizarre notion that my name is really Jane. But I can't picture this twin if indeed there is one." She addressed the entire group now. "Can you all please call me Jane?"
"I don't see why not," said Camilla. "Though I'll be sticking with my original name. I like it."
"Any other name changes?" asked Flavius. There was a mummer amongst them, but no one else spoke up.
"Alright then. Laelia can you bring us to this market place?"
"I think so. It's quite a ways from here."
"We'd best get at it then. No sense in standing around in the middle of the bridge."
The group moved in tandem. The bridge was quite long. When they were fully into the Bronx, which had only been born recently, all of them noticed how half-finished the entire area looked. Laelia led them to a subway station that she said would move them more quickly through the city.
