If Souls Can Sleep (The Soul Sleep Cycle Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  Maybe Darlene changed her mind!

  “Hello?”

  There was a pause. “Vincent?”

  He almost laughed. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Chapter 6

  Vincent dropped his keys onto the kitchen table and leaned against one of the chairs. Cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, he waited for his mother to speak.

  “I thought I was going to get the machine. I didn’t expect you to be home so early,” she said.

  Did you call the landline, hoping you could have another chat with Jerry while I was at work?

  He took a deep breath, holding in the accusation. He pulled his cell out of his pocket, turned it on—Darlene had a strict no-phone policy—and rolled his eyes when the display informed him that he had one missed call and one message from his mother.

  “Do you have off today?” she asked, her tone pleasant, unconvincingly upbeat. He tried to picture the person on the other end but couldn’t reconcile the clashing images of the girl who had refused to be a mother when he needed one and the woman who insisted on being one now that he didn’t.

  Vincent doubted he ever would know the real Evangeline Pierce.

  Since there was no right answer to her question, he said, “Must be your lucky day.” Another stretch of silence. “Is everything OK?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she replied. “I was just checking in…planning to leave another message.”

  He bristled at the implication. “I’ve tried to get back to you, but you’re never home.”

  “I’m never home when you return my calls on Sunday morning,” she corrected. “I come home from church every week to find a message from you on my machine. Coincidence?”

  Vincent opened the refrigerator, offering up a silent plea for cold beer. A container of creamer and a twelve pack of Mountain Dew shared the otherwise empty top shelf. He was half disappointed, half relieved that God still wasn’t answering his prayers.

  He slammed the door shut, rattling the bottles of condiments in the door.

  “I’m not the only one playing phone tag,” Vincent said. “You just said you didn’t expect me to be home right now.”

  She sighed into the phone, and he almost felt guilty.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” she said. “I’m genuinely glad you picked up. It’s been forever since you and me talked.”

  That’s because we don’t have anything to talk about.

  “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Vincent. About the arguments we had when you were living here. How angry you were…and…and everything.”

  Vincent waited, scowling.

  “I’ve been praying a lot about it.”

  Here we go…

  “And what did the Almighty have to say?” he snapped.

  Another sigh. “There’s so much distance between us. I understand why you couldn’t stay, but I really hope we can still have some kind of relationship. We both know that I never got the hang of this parenting thing, but I’m doing the best I can. With Danny in the hospital, you’re the only family I have.”

  Any sympathy he might have had vaporized at the mention of his half-brother.

  “With Danny in the hospital.” More like “with Danny being a vegetable” or “with Danny as good as dead.”

  But he wasn’t about to rekindle that fight.

  “I worry about you, Vincent,” she said at last. “Like I said, I’ve been thinking a lot lately…about us. Then I had this dream about you last night. I had to call to make sure…I don’t know…”

  Vincent didn’t realize he had been pacing until he stopped. “A dream? What kind of dream?”

  “You were in some kind of trouble, I think. I don’t really remember, but I woke up with this horrible feeling.”

  For a fraction of a second, he considered telling her everything—the strange dreams he had been having, how he had just lost his job, how frightened he was about what was happening in his head.

  Instead, he said, “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m doing OK.”

  “Have you spoken to Bella lately?”

  He opened the fridge. Still no beer.

  “Sorry, Mom, but I’m going to have to let you go. I have some errands to run, and then I’m going to get some shuteye.”

  “Shuteye”?

  “All right. But if you need anything…anything at all…please let me know.” It was the voice of the reformed Evangeline in his ear, but in his mind’s eye, Vincent saw young, rebellious Evie.

  So many promises, all of them broken.

  “I will,” he lied.

  “I love you.”

  “You too, Mom.”

  He let his feet take him into the living room, deposited the phone on the desk, and slumped down in Jerry’s recliner. Thinking of nothing, he stared out the window, where dying leaves dropped one by one to the ground.

  ***

  Vincent opened his eyes. A faint glow above the neighboring rooftops hinted at morning’s demise and the inevitable triumph of evening over afternoon. The overcast sky flooded the apartment with shadows. Fierce winds sent leaves flying in all directions. With each gust, an unearthly moan crept through the invisible spaces between the porch door and its frame.

  Shivering in spite of the apartment’s overactive Old World radiator, he reached for the lamp next to the recliner. He stretched his arm until he found the switch and then nearly fell out of the chair when the light came on.

  A few feet away, Jerry sat on the Low Rider, hunched over the coffee table, holding a massive sub sandwich with two hands.

  “Mmmf,” Jerry said, his mouth full of food.

  Once Vincent was sure his heart wasn’t going to explode, he asked, “Why are you eating in the dark?”

  Jerry chewed for a few more seconds, swallowed with a grimace, and said, “Didn’t want to wake you.”

  Jerry lifted his cup, and there was no sound of shifting ice cubes. Vincent recalled a ganja-induced rant about how paying for cups full of frozen water represented everything that was wrong with America.

  Straw still in mouth, Jerry asked, “Were you having The Dream?”

  Vincent sighed. “Not just now, but you’ll never guess what happened at work today.”

  As Jerry attacked the formerly foot-long sandwich, Vincent summarized his unexpected journey into Valenthor’s world while wide awake and the conversation with his pointy-eared cellmate. Because Evangeline had spilled the beans about Clementine, Vincent skipped over the part about Valenthor’s having had lost a young daughter.

  He couldn’t, however, omit the fact that he got fired.

  “Damn, that sucks.” If Jerry was at all concerned about how Vincent would pay his half of the rent and utilities, he was kind enough not to bring it up. “So…the elf chick wants to break out of jail because she thinks the knight is going to kill both of you. And she still wants you to save her homeland.”

  “That about sums it up,” Vincent muttered.

  “Do you know what you’re supposed to do to save Elf Land?”

  Vincent shook his head. His stomach was rumbling at the sight of Jerry’s ever-shrinking sandwich, which made him realize he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Not that any of the food in the house was his.

  I should go to the grocery store and buy a lifetime supply of ramen. Gotta start rationing what little is left of my savings.

  “Well,” Jerry said, popping the bit sandwich into his mouth, “doesn’t sound like there’s anything new to report to the Master.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure how many times Jerry had emailed the Master of All Things Fantasy since first making contact two weeks ago, but Vincent had gamely tried to answer the questions Jerry relayed from him:

  “How tall is the elf?”

  “Hard to tell. She’s always wearing a cloak and tends to crouch a lot.”

  “But she’s not tiny…not like a Keebler elf or anything, right?”

  “No, she
’s actually tall for a woman, I think. But she’s shorter than me.”

  “Does she know magic?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Hmmm. And she speaks English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she a princess?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like she’s wearing a crown.”

  “Does Valenthor wear a green hat or wield a boomerang?”

  Apparently, there was no shortage of elf maidens and warrior heroes in the fantasy genre. While the name Valenthor rang no bells with the Master, he—or she—wasn’t ready to rule out the possibility that Valenthor was a forgotten follower of King Arthur, an obscure warrior from Middle-Earth, or the legendary hero from any number of video games.

  Vincent had little hope Jerry and the Master would discover anything worthwhile. How could they? Even if they stumbled upon some reference that proved Vincent’s subconscious was stealing details from the real world, it wouldn’t explain how or why it was happening.

  Meanwhile, Vincent kept his own theory to himself because he couldn’t face his growing fear that on top of his many other problems, his brain was dividing into two different personalities.

  As long as I remember I’m Vincent, not Valenthor, I’ll be OK.

  Jerry swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and leaned back with a satisfied groan. “We need more information. The name of the city…or, better yet, the world. If nothing else, you gotta get the elf’s name.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Vincent said. “When I’m in The Dream, I won’t remember we had this conversation. I’ll know my real name, and sometimes I realize that I don’t belong there, but that’s about it.”

  “But isn’t it kind of weird that you don’t know her name yet?” Jerry asked. “You are stuck in a cell together.”

  Vincent dropped his heads in his hands. “I guess so. Maybe. What difference will any of it make?”

  “Well, for starters, we might get an idea of what you need to do next.”

  “This isn’t a game, Jerry! I don’t want to do anything next. I just want these dreams to stop!”

  Jerry took his paper plate into the kitchen and tossed it into the garbage. His voice carried from the other room. “Fair enough, but maybe the only way to stop them is to reach the end of the story…in which case the Master is a good person to have in our corner. He says he’s read almost every fantasy book ever published.”

  I can’t deal with this anymore.

  When Jerry came back into the living room, Vincent stood up, relinquishing the recliner back its rightful owner.

  “I need a distraction,” Vincent said. “I just want to…I don’t know…do something…have a little fun for once and forget about…everything!”

  Jerry half leaned, half sat on the arm of the recliner and almost lost his balance. “What do you wanna do?”

  No, Vincent, keep it together.

  Vincent chuckled dryly. “I’d suggest we invite some friends over, but honestly, Jerry, you’re the only friend I’ve got these days.”

  “We can have a little get together,” Jerry said. “I know plenty of people who don’t need an excuse to have fun. We can order some food, listen to some tunes, and get distracted.”

  I deserve this.

  “I’ll give Paish a call,” Jerry said. “I know for a fact she doesn’t have classes tomorrow. No one besides clueless freshmen enroll for classes that meet on Fridays. What do you say?”

  Vincent almost asked Jerry if he’d ever gone to college. Instead, he said, “Sure, Paish seems nice.”

  This is a mistake.

  Jerry grinned and reached for the phone. “I’ll give her a call. I’m almost out of weed anyway.”

  Vincent forced a smile.

  At this point, what do I have left to lose?

  Chapter 7

  Vincent clicked through the half-dozen channels over and over again. He barely saw the parade of sitcom actors, newscasters, and revolutionary products that promised to make life easier and happier.

  Jerry was out “picking up supplies,” but Vincent had volunteered to stay at the apartment in case Paish and her friends arrived before he returned. Never mind that their guests had to catch a bus from UWM and that the nearest liquor store was only a couple of blocks away.

  “Anything in particular you want me to get?” Jerry had asked. “My treat.”

  “No…just whatever,” Vincent had replied quickly.

  As though not making the choice myself absolves me…

  Sitting on the edge of the Low Rider, hammering his foot against the hardwood floor, he tried to focus on the evening traffic report, but the aerial shots of slow-moving vehicles only reminded him that while hundreds of other people were driving home from work, he had no job.

  He turned off the TV and started flipping through one of Jerry’s Maxim. Instantly, he was aware of the sound of someone coming up the side door. He spun around on the couch, craning his neck to get a clear view of the building’s only communal entrance, just in time to see the door slam shut.

  Vincent came into the kitchen at the exact moment Jerry opened the apartment door, but he could think of nothing to say other than, “Hey.”

  “Greetings and salutations.” Jerry set a case of Milwaukee’s Best on the kitchen table. From a tall paper bag, he produced a two-liter of cola and a bottle of whiskey. “You strike me as a whiskey guy.”

  Jerry set the liquor on the table and put the beer and soda in the fridge.

  “Works for me,” Vincent muttered.

  Let’s get this over with.

  “I’ll start with a beer, though,” he added.

  “Ah, the Beast.” Jerry handed a can to Vincent and then took one for himself. “Even more vicious when it’s warm.”

  Vincent cracked open the can but just stared at it.

  Am I really going to do this? All those months of sobriety down the—

  “Down the hatch!” Jerry took a few gulps and wiped the white foam away with his sleeve.

  Vincent raised the can to his lips. The skunky smell alone made him lightheaded.

  Sorry, Clemmy. I’ve failed again.

  He took a long drink. The nearly forgotten but instantly familiar taste lingered on his tongue. He didn’t fall to floor, dead. The world didn’t end.

  He smiled and took another drink.

  They both were on beer number two when the doorbell buzzed—a loud, horrible noise that never failed to scare the shit out of Vincent. Jerry went down to open the side door while Vincent waited in the kitchen. He leaned against the refrigerator, but the pose felt phony. He polished off the rest of his beer and was reaching for another one when Jerry returned, trailed by three guests.

  “Anybody want a beer?” Vincent asked.

  “Or if you want something a little stronger…” Jerry gestured at the table. Four shot glasses formed a semicircle around the whiskey bottle. Lost souls worshiping at the foot of an idol.

  Paish approached the fridge. “I’ll have a beer.”

  A turquoise barrette held her bangs up to one side. Vincent thought that maybe she had gotten a haircut but didn’t ask.

  “You’re Vincent, right? I’m Tara,” a small young woman with light blond hair said. “I’ll also have a beer please.”

  Both of the girls wore hoodies, but their difference in taste was immediately apparent. Paish’s sweatshirt was a solid dark gray, while Tara’s was pink and brown and studded with rhinestones. Paish’s jeans were snug and featured several small factory-supplied holes. Tara’s were at least two sizes too big, a fashion statement that reminded Vincent of his brother’s skater phase as well as his subsequent gangster stage.

  The final guest—a hefty, dark-haired guy with baggy pants and a long wallet chain—made a beeline for the whiskey.

  “Who wants to do a shot?” he asked.

  “No way, Marc,” Paish said. “That stuff kicks my ass.”

  Jerry also declined.

  Tara set her beer on the counter. “Wh
y not? Let’s get this party started!”

  Vincent thought that one shot might be enough to start and end the party for the petite woman.

  “How about you?” Marc asked, turning to Vincent.

  The question kickstarted Vincent’s pulse. For a moment, he could only stare dumbly at the bottle. Keenly aware of everyone’s eyes on him, he cleared his throat and said, “Sure, why not?”

  “Right on,” Tara chirped.

  Vincent watched Marc filled a third shot glass. He had never seen the set before. Each glass was adorned with a big-headed bird in a different stage of drinking—from thinking to having an idea to guzzling down a bottle of liquor to lying legs-up on the floor. Marc handed him the last one. Vincent considered the bird’s X-shaped eyes.

  “Not planning on being a good boy tonight, huh?” Paish asked slyly.

  Before he could answer, Marc shouted, “Cheers!”

  I deserve to feel good for once.

  He pounded the shot. The fire that flowed down his throat and into his veins made him feel alive.

  Tara coughed and stuck her tongue out.

  “How about another one, T-dawg?” Marc asked.

  Tara, eyes watering, shook her head. “Maybe later.”

  Marc turned to Vincent. “Whaddaya say?”

  “I’m game.”

  As Marc filled the two glasses, the others moseyed into the living room. Vincent downed the second shot, and a happy fog drifted into his mind. He closed his eyes and basked in the buzz.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Marc grabbed a beer and went into the living room. Vincent followed, whiskey in tow.

  Jerry was already settled in his recliner, and since Vincent was the last one out of the kitchen, the couch had been claimed by their three guests. No vacancy.

  “You can sit on my lap,” Paish offered.

  “I’ll grab a chair from the kitchen,” he replied. “But thanks for the offer.”

  When he returned, Jerry was handing Paish some money. He took a moment to examine the leafy contents of a Ziploc baggie. At last, he took a big, satisfied sniff. Tara, perched with her legs tucked under her on the opposite end of the couch as Paish, rolled a joint.