Days by moonlight

by André Alexis

  perpetually clutching, while the hair between knuckles and joints

  was thick. Added to that, they shook uncontrolledly.

  I had no idea what I was doing. I’d never seen a “laying on of

  hands,’ as Professor Bruno later called it. I took Maury’s right

  hand between my own hands as if I were incubating it. Then,

  with his hand lying in the palm of mine, I made clockwise circles

  around his joints and knuckles with my thumb and index finger.

  I did the same with his left hand, but by the time I had his left

  hand in mine, the man was quietly crying, tears falling from his

  face while he sniffled.

  When I was done, the swelling on both of his hands had

  gone down and he could make and unmake a fist with no pain.

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  Still in tears, he took my right hand, kissed it and held it to him,

  and croaked the words

  – God bless you! God bless you!

  over and over until I took my hand away.

  – Well, that’s extraordinary, said Professor Bruno.

  After their initial enthusiasm, everyone else kept quiet. They

  moved away from me. Then, one of the men in ponytails spoke.

  – What in the fuck did I just see? he said.

  I imagine all of those in Tims were just as unnerved. And,

  finding the whole thing unbearably strange, I forcefully shep-

  herded Professor Bruno out of the place while Maury talked

  about how like a sunny day it was not to feel pain.

  We drove on across Southern Ontario – grey road, green or un-

  greening fields, woods bisected by grey roads – without much

  talk. For once, Professor Bruno seemed more confused by what

  had happened than I was. It looked as if he were desperately

  thinking Seaforth through. My own thoughts and feelings were

  too jumbled to share. I was both proud and horrified, doubtful

  and certain.

  We were at Mitchell when Professor Bruno said

  – What did you do to that man, Alfie?

  – I think I cured his arthritis, I said.

  – But you know that’s unlikely, don’t you? I’ve been thinking

  it over and I think it’s more likely the power of suggestion. The

  man himself asked if you were a healer. He was desperate for

  one. And when I foolishly said you were a healer, he believed it

  wholeheartedly! He couldn’t have believed it more. So, when

  you touched his hands – and let me just say that was a magnifi-

  cent performance! as dramatic as if you’d really been a healer! –

  but when you touched his hands, Alfie, he did all the work. He

  cured himself. His brain manufactured its own analgesic and –

  voila! – he was cured. I feel for the poor man because by now he

  must be in terrible pain. Without the relief your presence gave

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  him, he’ll suffer like hell. But that’s not your doing. Not your

  doing at all! Besides, you couldn’t have been kinder. Your mother

  would be proud!

  – I’m sure you’re right, Professor. But I did feel a kind of

  current go between us.

  – That just shows you were under your own spell, Alfie. And

  good for you! The more you believe a thing, the more others’ll

  believe it. Now, who’d have thought young Alfred Homer, son of

  a pastor, would make a good confidence man? Not me! But I think

  you saved our skin back there. I don’t know what those people

  would have done to us. Especially the two in ponytails. If that old

  man hadn’t cured himself, we’d have been in real trouble.

  I said nothing. I was still trying to work things out for myself.

  Despite my feeling that some kind of current had passed between

  Maury and me, I thought the professor’s explanation was likely

  right. Maury had more or less cured himself. But the professor

  seemed to take my silence as a challenge to his idea. He sounded

  peeved when he said

  – You don’t really believe you can cure people, do you? Just

  like that?

  – No, I said, I’m sure you’re right.

  After that, neither of us spoke until we got into Barrow, a

  while later. Our silence added to the strangeness of the day. I’d

  never seen – or is it heard? – Professor Bruno keep so deliber-

  ately quiet for so long. Under normal circumstances, I’d have

  prompted him for conversation. But the idea that I’d kept some-

  one from pain – just the possibility of it – was overwhelming. I

  wanted to know for certain if what I’d done for Maury had been

  a fluke or if I’d been granted a new talent, some kind of enhanced

  sympathy – which is what it had felt like when I’d held Maury’s

  hands in mine.

  The little I knew about Barrow came from a novel I’d read

  called Pastoral. I don’t remember much of the story. It was about

  women fighting over a man, and a priest struggling with himself.

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  I’d read it out of curiosity, mostly. It had been recommended to

  me for the way the author describes the countryside, the flora in

  particular. In fact, I’d enjoyed the book for that reason. And I

  thought of Pastoral when we drove into Barrow, because the first

  thing I noticed, just after the town sign, was a ditch overrun by

  thistles, a plant poignantly described in the novel – their bright

  purple tufts distracting from their thorns.

  I’ve always thought thistles wonderful for the come-hither/go-

  away-ness of them, furiously flirting with bees while daring

  anything else to touch them. I’ve been stung by their thorns a

  dozen times in my life – mostly by accident, falling on them

  while playing in fields – but it never turned me against them.

  I’ve never found them anything but fascinating.

  It was noon when I parked across the street from the main

  square, a village green with a statue, park benches, and a flower

  garden full of yellow tulips. Having time to kill before Mr.

  Stephens came home, we ate at Ari’s Charred Grill, a diner that

  looked like diners everywhere: booths, tables at the back, a sit-

  down counter with swivelling stools. It also felt the way diners

  feel: homey, because the grill smelled of cooking hamburger, and

  homey because you could dress almost any way you liked and be

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  welcome, but also strange, because you could never be sure how

  friendly the patrons actually were.

  Ari’s was run by a man whose name was – no surprise –

  Aristotle. He was short, dumpling-shaped, bald, and he seemed

  to dislike Professor Bruno on sight. But he seemed to like me,

  also on sight. He brought us a complimentary tomato soup with

  macaroni, suggested we try the pork souvlaki, and then asked if

  I happened to be a healer.

  – Oh! You think Ari is genius! he said when he saw the look

  on my face.

  It turned out, though, that his brother Dimos had been in

  Seaforth and had witnessed what I’d done at Tim’s. Ari had

  guessed – a little wildly – that I was the “Black healer,” but the

  fact that he’d rightly guessed pleased him no end.

  – You have lots of money, he said, but you don’t have to

  spend it here! You eat f
or free if you help with my dogs.

  Whereas in previous towns, we’d been mistaken for other

  people, the professor and I, it now felt as if I’d been mistaken for

  myself. Professor Bruno came to my defence.

  – He’s not doing that healing thing now, he said. He’s

  eating lunch.

  – You I don’t listen to, said Ari. You are manager.

  He pretended to spit on the floor.

  – Like vampire, he said. Only reason I let you stay is him. So,

  don’t get nosy!

  The diner was quiet. Anyone who wasn’t already looking at

  us turned to get a look. Ari put up his hand.

  – But you eat first, he said to me. First you eat!

  I hadn’t ordered much: a hamburger and a glass of water. The

  professor had, “in a moment of nostalgia,’ ordered a grilled cheese

  sandwich. But while he got what he’d asked for, I got a hamburger,

  pork souvlaki, orange juice, coffee, and a Greek salad – lettuce

  with feta crumbled on it, olive oil, olives, tomato slices. It would

  have been too much for me even at my hungriest, but I made an

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  effort to finish all of it, believing as I do – as my parents taught

  me – that food is as much a privilege as it is a right.

  When I’d eaten as much as I could, Ari himself cleared the

  dishes from our table and snapped his fingers. Almost immedi-

  ately, his wife brought a box to our table. In the box were two

  small dogs that looked nearly dead, though one of them growled

  as if to prove me wrong. I suppose, at some point, they had both

  been beautiful animals: Italian Greyhounds.

  – We had accidents, Ari said.

  When he took the dogs out, I could see what he meant. One

  of them had been run over by a car. Its back legs were flattened.

  As he lifted it from the box, it cried out raised, its head slightly,

  too tired to do anything more, and lay on the tabletop, as still as

  if it meant to escape further detection. The other was in worse

  shape. No one knew what had happened – a fight of some sort,

  it seemed, and most likely with another dog. One of its ears was

  bitten almost off and it was still bleeding from the head. Ari put

  down a white towel before putting the dogs gently on the table.

  Ari’s wife said

  – Patina’s been in an accident and Pietra got into a fight.

  Please do something.

  Now all the patrons were crowded around. I was even more

  intimidated than I’d been in Seaforth. Having taken the box off

  the table, Ari sat across from me and smiled. His wife sat beside

  him, Professor Bruno having been relegated to the sidelines. I

  could feel a collective desire for something.

  – What do you want me to do? I asked.

  – Make them better, said Ari’s wife.

  – I don’t know if I can, I said.

  – Oh, like my cousin says, he’s modest. You touch dogs. See

  what happens.

  Out of the blue. Those words came to me then, as I looked at

  the creatures before me. I felt a rush of sympathy for both of

  them. I also wondered if I could lessen their suffering, if I was

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  capable of it. This was the moment to see what I could do, to see

  if Seaforth had been a lucky coincidence: me touching Maury’s

  hands while Maury’s belief in me eased his pain. If I helped these

  dogs, it would be proof that I’d changed in Feversham, changed

  in some fundamental way.

  I started with Patina. Stroking her back with one hand, I touched

  the places where she’d been run over with the other. It was imme-

  diately as if a current passed through the back part of her body,

  the part that had been crushed. Her back legs kicked out. Then, no

  doubt as shocked as I was, she got up, bit me so that my hand

  bled, jumped down from the table, and, making her way among

  the legs of the spectators, ran out the back of the diner.

  I barely noticed I’d been bitten. I concentrated on Pietra. I

  touched her head, stroked her neck, and – this was the uncanny

  moment – somehow healed her ear so that, if you didn’t know it

  had been almost bitten through, you’d never have guessed it had

  been bitten at all. She got up in less of a state than Patina had.

  She licked my hand where I was bleeding, before Ari’s wife took

  her and held her as if she were a child.

  Everybody now looked at me. I looked at Professor Bruno.

  – We’ve got to be going, said Professor Bruno. We’ve got an

  appointment.

  A thin, older woman, alarmed and puzzled, said

  – How did you do that?

  But Ari, who’d been quietly watching, told her to be quiet.

  – He has somewhere to go, he should go. But we wash

  hands first.

  By which he meant that they would wash my hands. The

  woman asked again

  – How did you do that?

  Ari pushed her aside, not gently, and told her to shut her

  mouth. Evidently, he felt a similar dislike for her as he’d felt for

  the professor. He returned to our table with soap and warm water,

  clean towels and bandages. Nor would he let me clean my own

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  hands. He took each one in turn, washed it, dried it. He dressed

  the one the dog had bitten with bandages. When this ritual was

  done, people began to talk, all of them all at once, it seemed. It

  was now that Professor Bruno proved his concern for me.

  – That’s enough! he said. My son’s done everything you asked.

  Get out of the way and let us go!

  I think it must have been his tone: loud, forceful, parental. It

  calmed people down. And when Ari looked as if he were going

  to interrupt, the professor said

  – How dare you keep him here, sir! He’s done enough for

  you. Get out of our way.

  Taking me by the elbow, he moved me through the crowd.

  When we were at the door, Ari said

  – What about grilled cheese?

  – Your dogs paid for it, said Professor Bruno.

  I have no idea what Ari’s reaction was. I was amazed at what

  I’d done. A number of people followed us out of the diner, but

  the professor, who’d taken me by the arm, led me directly to the

  car, and, once I’d got behind the wheel, slammed the door after

  me. We drove off in the direction of John Stephens’s home. But

  when we got there, the professor again put his hand on my arm

  – this time, to hold me back.

  – All right, Alfred, he said. I want you to tell me what’s going

  on. This isn’t normal. What are you doing?

  – I’m healing things, I said.

  – I can see you’re healing things, Alfie, but how? Those dogs

  were in horrible shape. How did you heal them?

  I couldn’t answer him, but that didn’t stop the professor from

  trying to find an answer for himself.

  – It’s mass hypnosis, he said. It can’t be anything else. Don’t

  you think so, Alfie? Otherwise what we have is miracles and, to

  be honest, I don’t believe in miracles.

  – I don’t know what you mean, Professor. Do you mean I

  didn’t help those dogs?

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  – That’s exactly w
hat I mean! You’ve found a way to convince

  us all – even the dogs! – that you’ve healed them. But once the

  spell is broken, the dogs will discover that they’re still horribly

  wounded and that’ll be the end of that. Everything will go back

  to normal.

  – But one of them ran out of the diner, I said. It couldn’t

  have done that before.

  – Such is the power of suggestion, said Professor Bruno.

  Our minds are our supplest instruments. Supplest and most

  powerful. Those dogs thought they were cured. So, they acted

  like it, at least for now. I bet you they’ll be half-dead again before

  we leave town. That’s the answer, Alfie. I’m sure of it! This was

  all suggestion! Very impressive, though. Very impressive.

  Having reassured himself that the world was as he thought it,

  Professor Bruno stepped out of the car, leaving me to wonder

  what the extent of my capacities might be. I believed him – or

  wanted to believe him – when he said that the healing was done

  by suggestion. It was still strange that I’d suddenly learned how

  to convince a man his arthritis was cured, to convince dogs that

  they hadn’t been run over or hadn’t been bitten. But “suggestion”

  was such a reasonable way around the unreasonable that it was

  difficult to dismiss. Then again, for Professor Bruno, almost

  everything had to do with mind, with thought. Even truth –

  which he didn’t think humans could reach by argument – was a

  thing of the mind to him. So, of course, he’d reduce this healing

  to psychology. I wasn’t ready to disbelieve him, but I wasn’t

  convinced by his words.

  We got to Mr. Stephens’s house before two, but he was home

  already. He answered the door and invited us in.

  – It’s nice to see you again, Professor, he said as he shook

  Professor Bruno’s hand.

  He didn’t shake my hand. He looked at my face and then

  hugged me. From that moment, it was clear we wouldn’t be speak-

  ing of John Skennen. Mr. Stephens, too, had heard about the

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  incident in Seaforth. Ari’s wife, a friend of Mrs. Stephens, had

  called to tell her what had happened in Seaforth and at Ari’s,

  and Mrs. Stephens had then told her own husband.

  – It’s amazing how quickly news travels through these small

  towns, said Professor Bruno.

  – You’re right about that, said Mr. Stephens. You can’t fart in

  Bright’s Grove without everyone for two counties knowing about it.