1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  And this time the light stayed: a dim, murky light, yes—but light.

  Josh lowered his head and wept.

  Twenty-two

  Summer’s over

  Night caught them on Communipaw Avenue in the ruins of Jersey City, just east of Newark Bay. They found a bonfire of debris burning within the roofless hulk of a building, and it was there that Sister decided they should rest. The building’s walls deflected the freezing wind, and there was enough flammable material around to keep the fire burning until morning; they huddled close around the bonfire, because standing only six feet away was like being in a meat locker.

  Beth Phelps held her palms toward the fire. “God, it’s so cold! Why’s it so cold? It’s still July!”

  “I’m no scientist,” Artie ventured, sitting between her and the Spanish woman, “but I guess the blasts threw so much dust and junk into the air that it’s done somethin’ to the atmosphere—screwed up the sun’s rays or somethin’.”

  “I’ve never… never been so cold before!” Her teeth chattered. “I just can’t get warm!”

  “Summer’s over,” Sister said as she rummaged through the contents of her bag. “I don’t think it’s going to be summer again for a long time.” She brought out the ham slices, the last of the soggy bread, and the two cans of anchovies. Also in the water-shrunken bag were several items that Sister had found today: a small aluminum pot with a black rubber-coated handle, a little knife with a serrated blade, a jar of Folger’s freeze-dried coffee, and a single thick garden glove with two fingers burned away. Stuffed into the bottom of the bag was the glass ring, which Sister had neither looked at nor disturbed since they’d come out of the tunnel. She wanted to save looking at and holding the treasure for later, like a gift she would give herself at the end of the day.

  None of them had spoken again about the Holland Tunnel. It seemed more like a hideous dream, something they wanted to forget. But Sister felt stronger now. They had made it through the tunnel. They could make it through another night, and another day. “Take some bread,” she told them. “Here. Go easy on the ham.” She chewed on a soggy hunk of bread and watched the Spanish woman eat. “Do you have a name?” Sister asked. The Spanish woman looked at her incuriously. “A name.” Sister made the motion of writing in the air. “What’s your name?”

  The Spanish woman busied herself with tearing a slice of ham into small, bite-size pieces.

  “Maybe she’s crazy,” Artie said. “You know, maybe losin’ her kid like that made her crazy. Think that could be?”

  “Maybe,” Sister agreed, and she got the ashy-tasting bread down her throat.

  “I guess she’s Puerto Rican,” Beth offered. “I almost took Spanish in college, but I wound up taking a music appreciation course instead.”

  “What do you…” Artie stopped himself. He smiled wanly, and slowly the smile faded. “What did you do for a living, Beth?”

  “I’m a secretary for the Holmhauser Plumbing Supply Company, on West Eleventh. Third floor, corner office, the Broward Building. I’m Mr. Alden’s secretary—he’s the vice-president. I mean… he was the vice-president.” She hesitated, trying to remember. “Mr. Alden had a headache. He asked me to go across the street to the drugstore to get him a bottle of Excedrin. I remember… I was standing on the corner of Eleventh and Fifth, waiting for the light to change. This nice-looking guy asked me if I knew where some sushi restaurant was, but I said I didn’t know. The light changed, and everybody started across the street. But I wanted to keep talking to that guy, because he was really cute and… well, I don’t really get to meet a lot of guys I’d like to go out with. We were about halfway across, and he looks at me and smiles and says, ‘My name’s Keith. What’s yours?’” Beth smiled sadly and shook her head. “I never got to answer him. I remember a loud roaring sound. I had a feeling that a wave of heat just knocked me off my feet. Then… I think somebody grabbed my hand and told me to run. I did. I ran like hell, and I could hear people screaming, and I think I was screaming, too. All I remember after that is hearing somebody say, ‘She’s still alive.’ I got mad. I thought, of course I’m still alive! Why wouldn’t I still be alive? I opened my eyes, and Mr. Kaplan and Jack were bending over me.” Beth’s gaze focused on Sister. “We’re… we’re not the only ones who made it, are we? I mean… it’s not just us alone, is it?”

  “I doubt it. The ones who could make it out have probably already moved west—or north or south,” Sister said. “There’s sure as hell no reason to go east.”

  “My God.” Beth drew in a sharp breath. “My mom and dad. My little sister. They live in Pittsburgh. You don’t think… Pittsburgh is like this, do you? I mean, Pittsburgh could be okay, right?” She grinned crookedly, but her eyes were wild. “What’s to bomb in Pittsburgh, right?”

  “Right,” she agreed, and she concentrated on opening one of the anchovy cans with its little key. She knew the salty taste of the things might make them more thirsty, but food was food. “Anybody want one of these?” She scooped a fillet up on her finger and put it in her mouth; the fishy taste almost made her tongue curl, but she got the thing down, figuring fish had iodine or something that would be good for her. Both Artie and Beth took an anchovy, but the Spanish woman turned her head away.

  They finished the bread. Sister put the remaining slices of ham back in her bag, then poured the oil from the anchovy can onto the ground and returned the can to the bag as well. The ham and fish might carry them a couple of days more if rationed properly. What they had to do tomorrow was find something to drink.

  They sat huddled around the bonfire as the wind shrieked beyond the building’s walls. Every so often an errant blast got inside the building and swept up cinders like comets before it spun itself out. There was only the noise of the wind and the fanning flames, and Sister stared into the seething orange heart of the bonfire.

  “Sister?”

  She looked toward Artie.

  “Would you… would you mind if I held it?” he asked hopefully.

  She knew what he meant. Neither of them had held it since that day in the ruins of the Steuben Glass shop. Sister reached down into her bag, pushed aside the other junk and put her hand around the object wrapped in a scorched striped shirt. She brought it up and peeled the still-wet shirt away.

  Instantly the glass circle with its five spires and its embedded jewels burst into brilliance, absorbing the bonfire’s light. The thing shone like a fireball, perhaps even brighter than before. It pulsed with her heartbeat, as if her own life force powered it, and the threads of gold, platinum and silver sizzled with light.

  “Oh,” Beth breathed. The gemstone lights were reflected in her eyes. “Oh… what is that? I’ve never… I’ve never seen anything like that… in my life.”

  “Sister found it,” Artie replied; his voice was reverent, his attention riveted to the glass ring. He tentatively held out both hands. “May I… please?”

  Sister gave it to him. When Artie had it, the pulsations of the gemstones shifted speed and rhythm, picking up Artie’s heartbeat. He shook his head with wonder, his eyes full of rainbow colors. “Holding this makes me feel good,” he said. “It makes me feel… like all the beauty in the world isn’t dead yet.” He ran his fingers over the glass spires and circled his forefinger over an emerald the size of a large almond. “So green,” he whispered. “So green…”

  He smelled the clean, fresh aroma of a pine woods. He was holding a sandwich in his hands—pastrami on rye with hot spicy mustard. Just the way he liked it. Startled, he looked up and saw around himself a vision of green forest and emerald meadowland. Beside him was a cooler with a bottle of wine in it, and a paper cup full of wine sat close at hand. He was sitting on a green-striped tablecloth. A wicker picnic basket was open in front of him, displaying a bounty of food. I’m dreaming, he thought. My God—I’m dreaming with my eyes open!

  But then he saw his hands—blistered and burned. He was still wearing the fur coat and his red pajamas. The sturdy bla
ck wingtips were still on his feet. But he felt no pain, and the sunshine was bright and warm, and a silken breeze stirred through the pine forest. He heard a car door slam. Parked about thirty feet away was a red T-Bird. A tall, smiling young woman with curly brown hair was walking toward him, carrying a transistor radio that was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

  “We couldn’t have asked for a better day, could we?” the young woman asked, swinging the radio at her side.

  “Uh… no,” Artie replied, stunned. “I guess not.” He had never smelled air so fresh and clean before. And that T-Bird! My God, he thought. The T-Bird had a foxtail hanging on the antenna! He remembered that set of wheels now! It was the finest, fastest car he’d ever owned, and—Wait a minute, he thought as the young woman approached. Hold the phone! What the hell is—

  “Drink your wine,” the woman offered. “Aren’t you thirsty?”

  “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I am thirsty.” He picked up the cup and drank the wine in three swallows. His throat had been burning with thirst. He held the cup out for more and downed that one just as fast. And then Artie looked into the woman’s soft blue eyes, saw the oval shape of her face and realized who she was; but she couldn’t be! She was nineteen years old, and here they were back on their picnic on the afternoon he had asked her to marry him.

  “You’re staring, Artie,” she said teasingly.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just… I mean, you’re young again, and I’m sittin’ here like a French fry in red pajamas. I mean… it’s not right.”

  She frowned, as if she couldn’t fathom what he was talking about. “You’re silly,” she decided. “Don’t you like your sandwich?”

  “Sure. Sure, I do.” He bit into it, expecting it to dissolve like a mirage between his teeth, but he had a mouthful of pastrami, and if this was a dream it was the best damned dream sandwich he’d ever eaten! He poured himself a third cup of wine and guzzled it merrily. The sweet, clean scent of the pine woods filled the air, and Artie breathed deeply. He stared out at the green woods and the meadow, and he thought, My God, my God, it’s good to be alive!

  “You all right?”

  “Huh?” The voice had startled him. He blinked and was looking at Sister’s blistered face. The glass ring was still between his hands.

  “I asked you if you’re all right,” she said. “You’ve been looking into that thing for about half a minute, just sitting there staring.”

  “Oh.” Artie saw the bonfire, the faces of Beth and the Spanish woman, the ruined walls of the building. I don’t know where I went, he thought, but I’m back now. He imagined that he could taste pastrami, spicy mustard and wine lingering in his mouth. He even felt just a bit lightheaded, as if he’d drunk too much too fast. But his stomach felt full now, and he wasn’t thirsty anymore. “Yeah, I’m all right.” He let his fingers play along the glass ring for a moment longer, and then he handed it back to Sister. “Thank you,” he said.

  She took it. For an instant she thought she smelled—what was it? Liquor? But then the faint odor was gone. Artie Wisco leaned back and belched.

  “Can I hold that?” Beth asked her. “I’ll be careful with it.” She took it from Sister as the Spanish woman admired it over her shoulder. “It reminds me of something. Something I’ve seen,” she said. “I can’t think of what, though.” She peered through the glass at the sparkle of topaz and diamonds. “Oh, Lord, do you know what this must be worth?”

  Sister shrugged. “I guess it would’ve been worth some money a few days ago. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s worth some cans of food and a can opener. Maybe a pack of matches. At the most, a jug of clean water.”

  Water, Beth thought. It had been over twenty-four hours since she’d had a drink of the ginger ale. Her mouth felt like a dry field. A drink of water—just a sip—would be so wonderful.

  Her fingers suddenly submerged into the glass.

  Except it was not glass anymore; it was a stream of water, running over multicolored stones. She pulled her hand away, and drops of water fell like diamonds from the tips of her fingers back into the flowing stream.

  She sensed Sister watching her, but she also felt distanced from the other woman, distanced from the wreckage of the city around them; she felt Sister’s presence, but it was as if the woman was in another room of a magic mansion to which Beth had just found the front door key. The cool stream of water made an inviting chuckling sound as it passed over the colored stones. There can’t be water running right across my lap, Beth thought, and for an instant the stream wavered and started to fade, a thing of mist burned off by the stark sun of reason. No! she wished. Not yet!

  The water continued flowing, right under her hands, moving from beyond to beyond.

  Beth put her hand into it again. So cool, so cool. She caught some of the water in her palm and brought it to her mouth. It tasted better than any glass of Perrier she’d ever had. Again she drank from it, and then she lowered her head to the stream and drank as the water rushed around her cheek like a lingering kiss.

  Sister thought Beth Phelps had gone into some kind of trance. She’d watched Beth’s eyes suddenly glaze over. Like Artie, Beth hadn’t moved for over thirty seconds. “Hey!” Sister said. She reached out and poked Beth. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

  Beth looked up. Her eyes cleared. “What?”

  “Nothing. I think it’s time we got some rest.” Sister started to take the glass circle back, but the Spanish woman abruptly grabbed it and scrambled away, sinking down amid the broken stones and clasping it to her body. Both Sister and Beth stood up—and Beth thought she felt her stomach slosh.

  Sister walked to the Spanish woman, who was sobbing with her head bent over. Sister knelt beside her and said gently, “Come on, let me have that back, okay?”

  “Mi niña me perdona,” the woman sobbed. “Madre de Dios, mi niña me perdona.”

  “What’s she saying?” Beth asked, standing behind Sister.

  “I don’t know.” Sister put her hand around the glass ring and slowly pulled it toward her. The Spanish woman held onto it, shaking her head back and forth. “Come on,” Sister urged. “Let me have it—”

  “My child forgives me!” the Spanish woman suddenly said. Her eyes were wide and full of tears. “Mother of God, I saw my child’s face in this! And she said she forgives me! I’m free! Mother of God, I’m free!”

  Sister was stunned. “I… didn’t think you knew English.”

  Now it was the Spanish woman’s turn to blink dazedly. “What?”

  “What’s your name? How come you haven’t spoken English before this?”

  “My name is Julia. Julia Castillo. English? I don’t… know what you mean.”

  “Either I’m crazy or she is,” Sister said. “Come on, let me have this.” She pulled the ring away, and Julia Castillo let it go. “Okay. Now how come you haven’t spoken English before now, Julia?”

  “No comprendo,” she replied. “Good morning. Good day. I am happy to see you, sir. Thank you.” She shrugged and motioned vaguely southward. “Mantanzas,” she said. “Cuba.”

  Sister turned her head toward Beth, who had stepped back a couple of paces and had a weird expression on her face. “Who’s crazy, Beth? Julia or me? Does this lady know English or not?”

  Beth said, “She… was speaking in Spanish. She never said one word of English. Did you… understand what she said?”

  “Hell yes, I understood her! Every damned word! Didn’t…” She stopped speaking. Her hand holding the glass ring was tingling. Beyond the bonfire, Artie suddenly sat up and hiccuped. “Hey!” he said in a slightly slurred voice. “Where’s the party?”

  Sister held the glass circle out toward Julia Castillo again. The Spanish woman touched it hesitantly. “What did you say about Cuba?” Sister asked.

  “I’m… from Mantanzas, in Cuba,” Julia replied, in perfect English. Her eyes were large and puzzled. “My family came over in a fishing boat. My father could speak a little English, and we came north to work in
a shirt factory. How do you… know my language?”

  Sister looked at Beth. “What do you hear? Spanish or English?”

  “Spanish. Isn’t that what you heard?”

  “No.” She pulled the ring out of Julia’s grasp. “Now say something. Say anything.”

  Julia shook her head. “Lo siento, no comprendo.”

  Sister stared at Julia for a moment, and then she slowly lifted the ring closer to her face to peer into its depths. Her hand was trembling, and what felt like little jolts of energy coursed through her forearm to her elbow. “It’s this,” Sister said. “This glass thing. I don’t know why or how, but… this thing lets me understand her, and she can understand me, too. I heard her speak English, Beth… and I think she heard me speak Spanish.”

  “That’s crazy!” Beth said, but she thought of the cool stream that had flowed across her lap, and her throat that was no longer parched. “I mean… it’s just glass and jewels, isn’t it?”

  “Here.” Sister offered it to her. “Find out for yourself.”

  Beth traced one of the spires with a finger. “The Statue of Liberty,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The Statue of Liberty. That’s what this reminds me of. Not the statue itself, but… the lady’s crown. “She lifted the circle to her head, the spires jutting up. “See? It could be a crown, couldn’t it?”

  “I’ve never seen a lovelier princess,” said a man’s voice, from the darkness beyond the bonfire.

  Instantly Beth had the glass circle protected in her arms and was backing away from the direction of the voice. Sister tensed. “Who’s there?” She sensed movement: Someone was walking slowly across the ruins, approaching the firelight’s edge.

  He stepped into the light. His gaze lingered on each of them in turn. “Good evening,” he said politely, addressing Sister.

  He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a regal bearing, dressed in a dusty black suit. A brown blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and throat like a peasant’s serape, and across his pallid, sharp-chinned face were the scarlet streaks of deep burns, like welts inflicted by a whip. A blood-crusted gash zigzagged across his high forehead, cut through his left eyebrow and ended at his cheekbone. Most of his reddish-gray hair remained, though there were bare spots the size of silver dollars on his scalp. The breath curled from his nose and mouth. “Is it all right if I come nearer?” he asked, his voice pained and halting.