They also spoke of how his mother had punched his chest in an effort to revive his heart, and then she had "blacked out." Ned had been sore for a couple of days and he had seen the bruises on his body, but he couldn't remember the incident. His mother beating him. To save his life. She had, too. Ned could think of no other way to explain the fact that he was still alive. The other part, however, was not so good. He didn't like to hear of his mother blacking out. He couldn't bear the thought of anything bad happening to her.
Ned's father was cool. He wanted to play it all down. He told Ned's mother that the boy had suffered a hard case of summer flu and that she had overreacted "quite naturally." When Ned's fever was at its worst, she had, according to her husband, brought a "mini-attack" on herself. What it amounted to, as far as he was concerned, was a long, rough night, a nasty experience, but not the matter of life and death she thought it was. Ned had an inkling of something then: that it was important in some way for each of his parents to have their own versions of what had happened, with neither seriously challenging or being challenged by the other.
Dr. Melker came to visit Ned again, the day after the big night. He was not wonderful, but okay. The way his hair was arranged around the bald spot on the top of his head reminded Ned of how the circular garden looked from the top of the wall. He half expected to see steam rise up from the physician's scalp. Dr. Melker went through his routine of talking, asking, poking and listening. Then he patted the boy on the head, said something and went downstairs to confer with Ned's mother and father. Then followed five boring days of "recuperation."
Ned wondered about the missing day. What had happened to him? Where had he gone? Was he just sick? Or had the phantom come to take him, plunging icy hands into his heart, freezing the life in him until, somehow, perhaps through his mother's efforts, the spell was shattered? He would have to live with the riddle. Without knowing the answer, he knew he had it within him, buried deep in his own memory. And he was sure there was more to it than just a short history of the life cycle of the twenty-four-hour flu. Much more. Perhaps someday it would begin to surface, a little at a time. Or perhaps it never would.
But one thing was certain: the fear was gone. It wasn't a question of ignoring it or burying it. The fear was gone, and that's all there was to it. At some point during the illness, it had fallen away like dead skin. Ned didn't disbelieve in the phantom; if anything, he believed now more than ever. But there was also a fresh feeling within him. It was as if he had crossed a threshold and reached a point where he could know for sure that he was safe, that he could protect himself. The phantom was still there, right behind him—but in some way he knew the phantom now, and the compelling urge to look back over his shoulder had ceased to exist. The way from here was forward.
The sounds, the spa, the illness—everything he had gone through was now past experience. It was over and done with. It was a part of him, something he had absorbed in the same way that the body takes certain elements from the food that passes through it. Ned would think about it again, and often, his sense of wonder undiminished. But a kind of distance was setting in, bringing with it a crucial redefinition. The participant was becoming the spectator, the situation was becoming the memory, closed and intact. Ned knew it only as a feeling, unaware that it would inform his being for the rest of his life.
Ned slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket and then he put on a light sweater. He put his mother's gloves back where they belonged.
Linda told him not to be out too long, and to be sure to come straight home if he should begin to feel the least bit tired. She stood at the front door and watched her son walk down the street until he was out of sight. He will be all right, she told herself. Fear was the daily goblin, love the daily miracle.
It was great to be outdoors!
Summer's heat was spent. The air had a fine edge to it now and the breeze was spry enough to herald autumn. The first week of September. Time to have another go at the deeper waters.
It wasn't a long walk from his house to the post office in the center of town. Ned covered the distance in a few minutes. He was careful to touch the envelope only on its thin edges, not the flat sides. He dropped it in the LOCAL slot without bothering to put a stamp on it. As soon as he turned to walk away, he had second thoughts. Had anybody seen him, anybody who would remember the unstamped envelope and the youngster with the red sweater? Ned didn't want the police to come looking for him. As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything wrong (was there a law against anonymous letters?), but his parents would be upset. Well, it was too late now. He had done it. The letter was gone. He told himself again that he had done the right thing. It would have bothered him more to remain silent about that lonely corpse in the spa.
As Ned was going along Polidori Street, he stopped suddenly. He saw Cloudy up ahead some distance and on the other side of the street. He was walking in the same direction as Ned, and the boy hurried to catch up. Ned broke into a trot, keeping the black man in view while at the same time watching for a gap in traffic so he could get across the road. Ned knew that Cloudy had a room at the Capitol Hotel, which was somewhere around here, but he had never seen it, for he seldom had any reason to be in this part of town.
Cloudy turned down a side street and disappeared. Lost him, Ned thought. It didn't matter; they'd probably see each other at the baithouse later. But he jogged on, crossed the street and reached the corner where he had last seen Cloudy. Ned was curious to get a glimpse of this other side of his friend's life.
The street was short and narrow. Ned had almost walked past the place before he noticed the sign, a darkly tarnished metal plate that identified the Capitol Hotel. It looked more like a house than a hotel, and it was as run-down and weather-beaten as Ned might have expected if he had ever given it any thought.
He went through the front door, into a hallway. A young man with a blemished face and oil on his hair sat at a small desk. He wore a T-shirt that said SWORN TO FUN LOYAL TO NONE.
"Excuse me. I'd like to see Cloudy."
The man stared at Ned.
"What?"
"I'd like to see Cloudy."
The man worked his stare again, but then it got to be too much trouble. It was wasted on a kid, anyway. Come to think of it, what's a white kid doing visiting an old coon? Come to think of it, who gives a shit? He pointed.
"Down the end, down the stairs, down the end, last door."
Ned found the stairs at the back of the hallway. The steps were bare cement, winding down to the low cellar passageway lit by a fluorescent bulb. He passed three doors. The fourth was the last. Ned knocked.
"Yeah?"
It was Cloudy's voice. Ned opened the door and stepped into a small, plain room. The floor was covered with old linoleum and the only items of furniture were a painted bureau, an armchair and a camp bed. Cloudy was sitting on the bed, sorting through a pile of clothes. He wore rumpled, baggy white pants and a loose white jacket. He must do some work here, at least part-time, Ned realized. It felt very strange to be there and to see Cloudy there, in an environment so completely different from the one in which they knew each other. The baithouse was shabby and poor, but it was also enchanting and magical. This place was simply drab. There was an air of unrelieved melancholy about it. Cloudy doesn't belong here, Ned found himself thinking. The old man was recovering from the shock of this unexpected visitor.
"Why, Mister—why Ned—well, I—“
"Hi, Cloudy."
"What're you doin' here? Not that I ain't glad to see you."
"I saw you on the street, so ... I just wanted to say hi and see how you are."
"Well, come in, come in. Sit down here. That's mighty nice of you to come see me like this."
He patted Ned on the back and settled the boy in the armchair. But Cloudy seemed a little uneasy, as if he had been caught off guard at the wrong moment.
"I was sick," Ned said.
"You was? I'm sorry to here that, but you're all better now, ain't you? You
look okay, still skinny but okay."
''I'm all over it now, but I was really sick, Cloudy. I heard my mom tell my dad she thought I was going to die. And there's a whole day I don't remember any of at all. The doctor came to see me a couple of times."
"My goodness, I guess you was sick at that."
"I had to say in bed for five days."
"Well, I'm glad you're better now. Ain't right, a fine young fellow like you gettin' sick at all, and bein' stuck in bed all the time, is it?"
"No, it's boring."
"'Course it is." Cloudy folded a shirt, set it aside and looked up stiffly. "You been around to the baithouse since you got over bein' sick?"
"No, I'm going out there this afternoon," Ned replied. "Today is my first day out of the house. I had to go to the post office this morning—that's why I'm in town."
"Oh, I see." Cloudy nodded, but his features seemed to be wrestling with themselves. The old man was trembling. "Oh, Ned, Ned ... I have to tell you ... Peeler died .... "
Ned's mouth opened. Cloudy reached over, lifted the boy out of the chair and hugged him.
"In his sleep a few nights ago .... We was drinkin' and talkin' and singin' … havin' a high old time, till we both just fell asleep ... in the baithouse .... Peeler, he never woke up. He's left this world, Ned. I'm sorry .... "
He held Ned for a long time. The boy clung to his chest and cried until he was exhausted and there were no more tears, just deep, shuddering gasps. Cloudy rocked Ned gently in his arms. He wanted to say something more, to find words that would ease the child's pain, but there were no such words.
"The phantom took him," Ned spoke finally.
"No, no, no," Cloudy whispered. "He just died. It's death, that's all."
"That's what the phantom is."
"A man's time comes," Cloudy went on. "Nothin' you can do. It ain't easy, but that's the way it is. Peeler, he had a good life accordin' to his own way. It was his life, nobody else's, and if a man can say that, he's doin' pretty good. You understand what I'm sayin'?"
"The phantom came for me, and took Peeler instead."
"Ned, Ned, you ain't listenin' to me. Come on," Cloudy pleaded. "Peeler wouldn't want you to hear it any way but right. His time was up, and that's all it is. You understand?"
Ned was unsure, but he nodded anyhow. "Cloudy, where is he? I mean ... where does a person go when they die?”
"A better place."
"Really?"
"Has to be," Cloudy said impatiently. He knew he had to say or do something to keep the boy from becoming morbid about the subject. "The thing is, we can't sit around feelin' sorry for old Peeler," he said. "You think he'd like it if we did? The hell he would. And we can't sit around feelin' sorry for ourselves, neither. That's plain selfish. Even though it hurts, we got to remember to feel glad. Glad we knew Peeler, glad he was a friend of ours. You see? Glad he's in our hearts for the rest of our lives. We're damn lucky for that, and don't forget it."
"I won't."
"All right." Cloudy exhaled heavily. "Now I got to tell you somethin' else you won't like."
Ned gave a start, but the old man's arms held him close.
"What is it?"
"I'm movin' on from here."
"What? No! Cloudy, no!"
Ned struggled to sit up and look at Cloudy. Tears filled the boy's eyes again.
"I got to, Ned. I can't stay here no more. Winter gets in my bones, worse every year. And I'm tired of this place, I can't stay here. I got to go."
Ned's body shook as he cried within. He was sorry now that he had gotten better, sorry he had stepped outside to find his world changing so drastically and cruelly. It was several minutes before he could speak again.
"Where?"
"Florida. I got relations down there. It'll be better for me, it truly will. Otherwise, I wouldn't go."
"But you and Peeler were my only two friends," Ned said miserably. "And now you'll both be gone."
"You'll be okay, Ned. You know your way. You don't need us for that. If you did before, you don't now."
"But I do."
"Besides," Cloudy hastened to continue. "Even if they're miles and miles apart, friends are still with each other if they're real friends. You'll find that out, Ned, I promise you. Are you goin' to forget Peeler?"
"No."
'''Course you won't, and that means he'll be with you all the time, no matter where you are or what you're doin'. Same goes for you and me."
"I know that, but—"
“Ned, hey, Ned .... " Cloudy felt dull and inadequate. The boy was in a state and he had to bring him out of it. Even if that meant appearing to be brusque. There was another way. The boy had to accept what was. "Now listen. I got to go over to the baithouse and get a couple of things I left there. You want to walk with me?"
Ned was still taking in the second item of bad news and he couldn't think for a moment.
"How about it?" Cloudy asked.
"If I go there, I'll cry again. I can't help it."
"That's okay, Ned. I know how you feel. You want to cry one more time, you do it. But I'd like you to come with me this last time. Will you?"
"All right."
Cloudy changed out of his work whites and into his old suit. They didn't say much more until they were away from the center of town and on the road to the baithouse.
"Ain't you got school startin' pretty soon?"
"Monday."
"Sounds like you ain't lookin' forward to it."
"I'm not."
"I didn't care for it much neither, leastways not till I was out a few years. Then I wisht I was back in."
"Cloudy, when are you leaving?"
"Oh, a few days, I guess."
"By the weekend?"
"By then, I guess, yeah."
"Before you leave, will you go fishing with me again? For largemouth bass. Peeler said September is a good month to fish for them."
"I could do that, sure. But I ain't never caught no largemouth bass before, so don't expect me to know much about how to do it."
"Me either, but I'd like to try."
"Why not?"
Ned stopped when the baithouse came into sight.
"Are you okay?" Cloudy asked, touching the boy's shoulder.
"No."
Then Ned started to walk forward again. Cloudy felt good to see the boy struggling to be brave and strong in the face of grief.
"Cloudy."
"Hmmmn?"
"Did you ever make a scarecrow?"
"I can't recall."
'Tm going to make one. In the field out in back of our house."
"How come?"
"I don't know. I just want to."
Phantom is #3 in our Necon Classic Horror Series
Phantom Page 25
