Dreams Underfoot n-1

by Charles de Lint

  Hilary herself was as tall as Zoe’s fiveten, but where Zoe was more angular and bigboned, Hilary was all graceful lines with tanned skin that accentuated her blue eyes and the waterfall of her long straight blonde hair. She was dressed in white this morning, wearing a simple cotton shirt and trousers with the casual elegance of a model, and appeared, as she always did, as the perfect centerpiece to the room.

  “I think I’ll be okay,” Zoe said. “Besides, I’ve always got Rupert to protect me.”

  At the sound of his name, Rupert lifted his head from the floor by Zoe’s feet and gave her a quick, searching glance.

  Hilary laughed. “Right. Like he isn’t scared of his own shadow.”

  “He can’t help being nervous. He’s just—”

  “I know. Highstrung.”

  “Did I ever tell you how he jumped right—”

  “Into the canal and saved Tommy’s dog from drowning when it fell in? Only about a hundred times since it happened.” Zoe lips shaped a moue.

  “Oh God,” Hilary said, starting to laugh. “Don’t pout. You know what it does to me when you pout.”

  Hilary was a talent scout for WEA Records. They’d met three years ago at a record launch party when Hilary had made a pass at her. Once they got past the fact that Zoe preferred men and wasn’t planning on changing that preference, they discovered that they had far too much in common not to be good friends. But that didn’t stop Hilary from occasionally teasing her, especially when Zoe was complaining about man troubles.

  Such troubles were usually far simpler than the one currently in hand.

  “What do you think he meant by small deaths?” Zoe asked. “The more I think of it, the more it gives me the creeps.”

  Hilary nodded. “Isn’t sleep sometimes referred to as the little death?”

  Zoe could hear Wolfe’s voice in her head. I’m the bringer of small deaths.

  “I don’t think that’s what he was talking about,” she said.

  “Maybe it’s just his way of saying you’re going to have bad dreams. You know, he freaks you out a little, makes you nervous, then bingo—he’s a success.”

  “But why?”

  “Creeps don’t need reasons for what they do; that’s why they’re creeps.”

  Remember me the next time you die a little.

  Zoe was back to shivering again.

  “Maybe I will stay here,” she said, “if you’re sure I won’t be in your way.”

  “Be in my way?” Hilary glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to be at work right now—I’ve got a meeting in an hour—so you’ll have the place to yourself.”

  “I just hope I can get to sleep.”

  “Do you want something to help you relax?”

  “What, like a sleeping pill?”

  Hilary shook her head. “I was thinking more along the lines of some hot milk.”

  “That’d be lovely.”

  Zoe didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t her own bed and the daytime street noises were different from the ones outside her own apartment, but it was mostly the constant replay of last night’s two conversations that kept her turning restlessly from one side of the bed to the other. Finally, she just gave up and decided to face the day on less sleep than she normally needed.

  She knew she’d been having bad dreams during the few times when she had managed to sleep, but couldn’t remember one of them. Padding through the apartment in an oversize Tshirt, she found herself drawn to the front window. She peeked out through the curtains, gaze traveling up and down the length of Stanton Street. When she realized what she was doing—looking for a shock of red hair, dark eyes watching the house—she felt more irritable than ever.

  She was not going to let it get to her, she decided. At least not anymore.

  A shower woke her up, while breakfast and a long afternoon ramble with Rupert through the grounds of Butler University made her feel a little better, but by the time she got to work at a quarter to twelve that night and started to go through the station’s library to collect the music she needed for the show, she was back to being tense and irritable. Halfway through the first hour of the show, she interrupted a Bobby Brown/Ice T/Living Colour set and brought up her voice mike.

  “Here’s a song for Gordon Wolfe,” she said as she cued up an album cut by the local band No Nuns Here. “Memories are made of this, Wolfe.”

  The long wail of an electric guitar went out over the air waves, a primal screech as the high E string was fingered down around the fourteenth fret and pushed up past the G string, then the bass and drums caught and settled into a driving back beat. The wailing guitar broke into chunky bar chords as Lorio Munn’s voice cut across the music like the punch of a fist.

  I don’t want your love, baby

  So don’t come on so sweet I don’t need a man, baby

  Treats me like I’m meat

  I’m coming to your house, baby

  Coming to your door

  Gonna knock you down, right where you stand And stomp you on the floor Zoe eyed the studio phone. She picked up the handset as soon as the online light began to flash.

  Which one was it going to be? she thought as she spoke into the phone.

  “Nightnoise. Zoe B. here.”

  She kept the call off the air, just in case.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Bingo. It was Bob.

  “Tell me about small deaths,” she said.

  “I told you he was dangerous, but you just—”

  “You’ll get your chance to natter on,” Zoe interrupted, “but first I want to know about these small deaths.”

  Silence on the line was the only reply.

  “I don’t hear a dial tone,” she said, “so I know you’re still there. Talk to me.”

  “I ... Jesus,” Bob said finally.

  “Small deaths,” Zoe repeated.

  After another long hesitation, she heard Bob sigh. “They’re those pivotal moments in a person’s life that change it forever: a love affair gone wrong, not getting into the right postgraduate program, stealing a car on a dare and getting caught, that kind of thing. They’re the moments that some people brood on forever; right now they could have the most successful marriage or career, but they can’t stop thinking about the past, about what might have happened if things had gone differently.

  “It sours their success, makes them bitter. And usually it leads to more small deaths: depression, stress, heavy drinking or drug use, abusing their spouse or children.”

  “What are you saying?” Zoe asked. “That a small death’s like disappointment?”

  “More like a pain, a sorrow, an anger. It doesn’t have to be something you do to yourself. Maybe one of your parents died when you were just a kid, or you were abused as a child; that kind of trauma changes a person forever. You can’t go through such an experience and grow up to be the same person you would have been without it.”

  “It sounds like you’re just talking about life,” Zoe said. “It’s got its ups and its downs; to stay sane, you’ve got to take what it hands you. Ride the punches and maybe try to leave the place in a little better shape than it was before you got there.”

  What was with this conversation? Zoe thought as she was speaking.

  As the No Nuns Here cut came to an end, she cued in a version of Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain”

  by Faster Pussycat.

  “Jesus,” Bob said as the song went out over the air. “You really have a death wish, don’t you?”

  “Tell me about Gordon Wolfe.”

  The man’s voice echoed in her mind as she spoke his name. I’m the bringer of small deaths.

  “What’s he got to do with all of this?” she added.

  Remember me the next time you die a little.

  “He’s a catalyst for bad luck,” Bob said. “It’s like, being in his company—just being in proximity to him—can bring on a small death. It’s like ... do you remember that character in the L’il Abner comic strip�
�the one who always had a cloud hanging over his head. What was his name?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Everywhere he went he brought bad luck.”

  “What about him?” Zoe asked.

  “Gordon Wolfe’s like that, except you don’t see the cloud. You don’t get any warning at all. I guess the worst thing is that his effects are completely random—unless he happens to take a dislike to you.

  Then it’s personal.”

  “A serial killer of people’s hopes,” Zoe said, half jokingly. “Exactly.”

  “Oh, give me a break.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “Yeah, right,” Zoe said. “You feed me a crock of shit and then expect me to—”

  “I don’t think he’s human,” Bob said then.

  Zoe wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting from this conversation—a confession, perhaps, or even just an apology, but it wasn’t this.

  “And I don’t think you are either,” he added.

  “Oh, please.”

  “Why else do you think he was so attracted to you? He recognized something in you—I’m sure of it.”

  Wolfe’s voice was back in her head.

  I feel like I should know you.

  “I think we’ve taken this about as far as it can go,” Zoe said. This time she was the one to cut the connection.

  The phone’s online light immediately lit up once more. She hesitated for a long moment, then brought the handset up to her ear. “I am not bullshitting you,” Bob said.

  “Look, why don’t you take it the tabloids—they’d eat it up.”

  “You don’t think I’ve tried? I’d do anything to see him stopped.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the world’s tough enough without having something like him wandering through it, randomly shooting down people’s hopes. He’s the father of fear. You know what fear stands for? Fuck Everything And Run. You want the whole world to be like that? People screw up their lives enough on their own; they don’t need a ... a thing like Wolfe to add to their grief.”

  The scariest thing, Zoe realized, was that he really sounded sincere. “So what am I then?” she asked.

  “The mother of hope?”

  “I don’t know. But I think you scare him.”

  Zoe had to laugh. Wolfe had her so creeped out she hadn’t even been able to go to her own apartment last night, and Bob thought she was the scary one?

  “Look, could we meet somewhere?” Bob said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Somewhere public. Bring along a friend—bring a dozen friends. Face to face, I know I can make you understand.”

  Zoe thought about it.

  “It’s important,” Bob said. “Look at it this way: if I’m a nut, you’ve got nothing to lose except some time. But if I’m right, then you’d really be—how did you put it?—leaving the world in a little better shape than it was before you got there. A lot better shape.”

  “Okay,” Zoe said. “Tomorrow noon. I’ll be at the main entrance of the Williamson Street Mall.”

  “Great.” Zoe started to hang up, pausing when he added: “And Zoe, cool it with the onair digs at Wolfe, would you? You don’t want to see him pissed.”

  Zoe hung up.

  “Your problem,” Hilary said as the two of them sat on the edge of the indoor fountain just inside the main entrance of the Williamson Street Mall, “is that you keep expecting to find a man who’s going to solve all of your problems for you.”

  “Of course. Why didn’t I realize that was the problem?”

  “You know,” Hilary went on, ignoring Zoe’s sarcasm. “Like who you are, where you’re going, who you want to be.”

  Rupert sat on his haunches by Zoe’s knee, head leaning in towards her as she absently played with the hair on the top of his head.

  “So what’re you saying?” she asked. “That I should be looking for a woman instead?”

  Hilary shook her head. “You’ve got to find yourself first. Everything else’ll follow.”

  “I’m not looking for a man.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, not actively. And besides, what’s that got to with anything?”

  “Everything. You wouldn’t be in this situation, you wouldn’t have all these weird guys coming on to you, if you didn’t exude a kind of confusion about your identity. People pick up on that kind of thing, even if the signals are just subliminal. Look at yourself You’re a nice normallooking woman with terrific skin and hair and great posture. The loony squad shouldn’t be hitting on you. Who’s that actor you like so much?”

  “Mel Gibson.”

  “Guys like him should be hitting on you. Or at least, guys like your idolized version of him. Who knows what Gibson’s really like?”

  Over an early breakfast, Zoe had laid out the whole story for her friend. Hilary had been skeptical about meeting with Bob, but when she realized that Zoe was going to keep the rendezvous, with or without her, she’d allowed herself to be talked into coming along. She’d left work early enough to return to her apartment to wake Zoe and then the two of them had taken the subway over to the Mall.

  “You think this is all a waste of time, don’t you?” Zoe said. “Don’t you?”

  Zoe shrugged. A young security guard walked by and eyed the three of them, his gaze lingering longest on Rupert, but he didn’t ask them to leave. Maybe he thought Rupert was a seeingeye dog, Zoe thought. Maybe he just liked the look of Hilary. Most guys did.

  Hilary glanced at her watch. “He’s five minutes late. Want to bet he’s a noshow?”

  But Zoe wasn’t listening to her. Her gaze was locked on the redhaired man who had just come in off the street.

  “What’s the matter?” Hilary asked.

  “That’s him—the redhaired guy.”

  “I thought you’d never met this Bob.”

  “I haven’t,” Zoe said. “That’s Gordon Wolfe.”

  Or was it? Wolfe was still decked out like a highroller on the make, but there was something subtly different about him this afternoon. His carriage, his whole body language had changed.

  Zoe was struck with a sudden insight. A long shiver went up her spine. It started out as a low thrum and climbed into a highpitched, almost piercing note, like Mariah Carey running through all seven of her octaves.

  “Hello, Zoe,” Wolfe said as he joined them.

  Zoe looked up at him, trying to find a physical difference. It was Wolfe, but it wasn’t. The voice was the same as the one on the phone, but people could change their voices; a good actor could look like an entirely different person just through the use of his body language.

  Wolfe glanced at Hilary, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “You ... you’re Bob?” Zoe asked.

  He nodded. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You’re twins?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.” His gaze flicked to Hilary again. “How much does your friend know?”

  “My name’s Hilary and Zoe’s pretty well filled me in on the whole sorry business.”

  “That’s good.”

  Hilary shook her head. “No, it isn’t. The whole thing sucks. Why don’t just pack up your silly game and take it someplace else?”

  Rupert stirred by Zoe’s feet. The sharpness in Hilary’s voice and Zoe’s tension brought the rumbling start of a growl to his chest.

  “I didn’t start anything,” Bob said. “Keep your anger for someone who deserves it.”

  “Like Wolfe,” Zoe said.

  Bob nodded.

  “Your twin.”

  “It’s more like he’s my other half,” Bob said. “We share the same body, except he doesn’t know it.

  Only I’m aware of the relationship.”

  “Jesus, would you give us a break,” Hilary said. “This is about as lame as that episode of—”

  Zoe laid a hand on her friend’s knee. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re saying Wolfe’s a schizophrene?”


  “I’m not sure if that’s technically correct,” Bob replied.

  He sat down on the marble floor in front of them. It made for an incongruous image: an obviously wellheeled executive type sitting crosslegged on the floor like some panhandler.

  “I just know that there’s two of us in here,” he added, touched a hand to his chest.

  “You said you went to the tabloids with this story, didn’t you?” Zoe asked.

  “I tried.”

  “I can’t believe that they weren’t interested. When you think of the stuff that they do print ...”

  “Something ... happened to every reporter I approached. I gave up after the third one.”

  “What kind of something?” Hilary asked.

  Bob sighed. He lifted a hand and began to count on his fingers. “The first one’s wife died in a freak traffic accident; the second had a miscarriage; the third lost his job in disgrace.”

  “That kind of thing just happens,” Zoe said. “It’s awful, but there’s no way you or Wolfe could be to blame for any of it.”

  “I’d like to believe you, but I know better.”

  “Wait a sec,” Hilary said. “This happened after you talked to these reporters? What’s to stop something from happening to us?” Zoe glanced at her. “I thought you didn’t believe any of this.”

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  Zoe just didn’t know anymore. The whole thing sounded preposterous, but she couldn’t shake the nagging possibility that he wasn’t lying to her. It was the complete sincerity with which he—Bob, Wolfe, whatever his name was—spoke that had her mistrusting her logic. Somehow she just couldn’t see that sincerity as being faked. She felt that she was too good a judge of character to be taken in so easily by an act, no matter how good; ludicrous as the situation was, she realized that she’d actually feel better if it was true. At least her judgment wouldn’t be in question then.

  Of course, if Bob was telling the truth, then that changed all the rules. The world could never be the same again.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  “Yeah, well better safe than sorry,” Hilary said. She turned her attention back to Bob. “Well?” she asked. “Are we in danger?”

  “Not at the moment. Zoe negates Wolfe’s abilities.”