The last three words were delivered in a gut-bucket rasp. Somehow Dr. O had gone from a child to a world-weary blues singer in half a dozen improvised lines. His invention delighted Mr. D. “I wish I could do that, Winston."
"I wish I could do what you do, Philip,” said Dr. O.
"You've published."
"Only because I was famous. Five years after those books came out, nobody was reading them. Maybe nobody read them when they were new."
"Sure they did,” Mr. D said. “I read them. They're quite witty."
"Do you really think so?"
"Would I say such a thing if it wasn't true?"
Dr. O stopped playing his practice guitar and looked hard at Mr. D. He thought about the question for a moment, and wondered if he were being mocked. “You might,” he said, “if you think I'm insecure."
Mr. D became thoughtful. “You're right. I could do that, but I didn't."
"You enjoyed me poems and stories and drawings, then?"
"Yes."
Dr. O put the guitar down on the carpet, its neck leaning against the chair. “Let's go for a walk, Phil."
"Out in the fog?"
"Yes, we'll get lost. It'll be grand."
Mr. D considered the possibility. A walk might kick start his imagination. “All right. Let me get a jacket."
Dr. O stood, buttoning up the same long, black coat he'd had on when he arrived. “Got any hats?"
"No, I don't wear them."
"I do, but I'd rather not go back up to my room just now. Let's go bareheaded."
"That was my plan all along."
Dr. O laughed. “And what a sinister plan it is, Mr. D."
Mr. D selected a short leather jacket and put it on. His belly protruded a bit, and he zipped up around it with some effort. “How do you stay so trim, Winston?"
"I don't eat."
"Of course.” They went through the office door and down a hallway to the back door.
"Age before beauty.” Dr. O opened the door for Mr. D and they went outside.
"Now I'll have a fag,” said Dr. O. His gaunt face was distorted in the match light through the fog.
Mr. D turned to shut the back door, and a cat slipped out before he could manage it. “Vishnu got away,” he said.
"Fine. Maybe he'll catch a rat."
"I was hoping he'd be our guide to the spirit world."
"We might need one,” said Dr. O, glancing about. Except for the diffused light from a street lamp, nothing was visible in any direction. Even when one looked up, all that could be seen was mist disappearing into the night.
"It's like standing on a cloud,” said Mr. D.
"We're standing inside a cloud,” Dr. O corrected him, “a low-hanging cloud that couldn't find the energy to climb up into the sky."
Mr. D shrugged. “I don't think that's accurate, Winston."
"Meteorological fol-de-rol, no doubt,” said Dr. O, puffing on his cigarette to show a red glow in the fog.
They started to walk away from the house. “We'll be lost in no time,” Mr. D said.
"Yes, but then we'll find ourselves again and start over."
Vishnu, a short-haired white and gray cat, rubbed against Dr. D's ankles. “He's not going to lead the way?"
"He'll do as he pleases, like all cats."
"Yes, but I thought we might follow him, just to see where he takes us."
"He'll lead us to rats."
"I'm not sure there are any rats out tonight."
Indeed, it seemed that nothing at all was out tonight. The street was so quiet that Dr. O's voice was startling when he spoke in the damp stillness. “Let's go this way."
They set out along the pavement, seeing no traffic, no pedestrians—nothing other than Vishnu.
Their footsteps fell with uncanny loudness on the macadam. At last Dr. O got rid of his cigarette, flicking it out of sight. “Seven minutes,” he said.
"What's seven minutes?” Mr. D asked.
"That's how long we've been walking, more or less,” said Dr. O. “It takes about seven minutes to polish off a fag."
"Oh. It seems like we've been out longer."
"That's because we're in Limbo."
"No, Limbo was abolished."
"Was it? What will they do with all those babies?"
"I don't know, Winston. Relocate them to heaven, I guess."
"A fine how-do-you-do that is. A thousand years or so of mucking about with Plato and Aristotle in a giant nursery, and now they've got to go join all the goody-two-shoes in heaven?"
"Not much of a deal for unbaptized babies, is it?"
"Not much of a deal for us if we get lost out here, Mr. D."
Dr. O had a point. They'd been walking for some time, not really paying attention to where they were going. Mr. D couldn't remember if they'd even crossed a street yet. Had they made any turns?
"When the sun comes up, they'll find our bleached bones in front of a shopping mall,” Dr. O said. “A grim fate for two kindred spirits."
"Yes, we are two of a kind, aren't we?"
"Three of a kind, if you ask me.” Dr. O pulled a packet of gum from an inside coat pocket and offered a stick to Mr. D.
"Thanks,” Mr. D said, accepting the gum. He unraveled the silvery paper and stuffed the gum in his mouth.
"It's sugarless,” said Dr. O. “Good for your teeth."
"There's not much hope for my teeth, Winston."
"There's not much hope for my Winstons,” said Dr. O, checking his crumpled cigarette pack. “I've only got three more."
"There's a gas station down this way, I think,” said Mr. D. “You can get a pack there."
They turned down a quiet street, as if drifting into a snow bank that parted before them. The cat was still with them.
Dr. O popped another stick of gum into his mouth and chewed vigorously.
The fog seemed to be thickening and the haze of street lamps was barely visible. It had been a long time since Mr. D had seen fog like this. If he hadn't felt his feet touching the ground, he could easily believe that he was floating in space, walking on a cloud.
"I can't see my shoes,” Dr. O said. “And it's not because I'm too fat. Look."
Mr. D looked. His shoes were gone, too, buried under the rolling fog. “It's swallowing us up."
"Good, I haven't been swallowed up in some time. It's a wonderful feeling."
Mr. D felt as if the world were constricting around them, a nebulous, moist planet that would devour them. He enjoyed the feeling.
"Soon there'll just be the two of us,” said Dr. O, “and all the rest will be gone."
"And then one of us will vanish, and the other will be alone."
Dr. O dropped to his knees with a popping of his joints. He wrung his hands. In a Jolsonesque voice, he cried, “What'll happen to us, then, sonny boy? Will you be in one world while I'm in another?"
Mr. D mulled over the question. “Yes, I think so. But that's the way it's always been, Winston."
"Always alone?” Dr. O rose, his skinny legs surprisingly agile as he jumped up. He raised a sly eyebrow. “Even when we're with women?"
"Even then."
"No matter how much we wish we were part of some larger group?"
"It seems that way."
"Bollocks."
"Maybe so. Who can say for sure?"
"I can say for sure that I'm part of the human community."
"Aren't you isolated by all your wealth and privilege?"
"Somewhat, but I'm still a human, and I care about other humans."
"Is that all it takes?"
"It's a start, isn't it, Mr. D?"
"I guess so."
They walked a little faster, as if changing their location could change the subject. Dr. O lit another cigarette. A dark shape loomed in the fog.
"Is it moving?” Dr. O asked.
"I don't think so. Maybe it's lying in wait."
"It could be a giant."
But as they drew closer to it, they saw that it
was only a house. “It's me neighbor,” said Dr. O. “Babblington Q. Flab, Esquire. Deals in rubber goods."
Mr. D laughed. His sense of humor wasn't like Dr. O's, but he found his friend's whimsically snide comments amusing, nevertheless.
"Shall we pop in for a late night visit?” Dr. O said.
"Do you think that would be all right?” Mr. D asked.
"There's a light on."
Indeed, a fuzzy yellow square came into sight overhead as they rounded the building. “I wonder if someone is writing up there,” Mr. D said.
"Another kindred spirit, no doubt,” said Dr. O, finding a wrought iron gate and swinging it inward; it responded with an elephantine groan.
They went up the walk and found a bell. Dr. O pressed it. There was no immediate answer.
"Come on,” said Dr. O. “We know you're in there."
"Maybe we should go,” said Mr. D.
And they were about to do just that when a distorted voice came out of an intercom box below the bell. “Who is it?"
"It's your old mate and neighbor,” said Dr. O, “come to borrow a cup of sugar."
A pause. “Winston?"
"The very same."
"Come on in.”
A buzzer sounded and Mr. D grabbed the door handle. They went inside. Faint amber lighting showed a stairway in front of them. A door squeaked open upstairs and footsteps sounded. The fattest woman Mr. D had ever seen came to the top of the stairs.
"You brought a friend?” she asked.
"Yes, this is Mr. D. Mr. D, this is Doris."
"Hi, Mr. D. Well, come on up. I'm not going down there. I don't want to trip on those stairs."
Mr. D followed Dr. O as he climbed up to the second floor. Before they got to the top, Doris turned and walked away.
"Where's she going?” Mr. D asked, noting the great number of doors at the top of the stairs. There seemed to be dozens of them.
"Don't worry, mate. I know the way."
"That's a relief."
Mr. D soon saw that there was no trick to finding where Doris had gone. The open door cast a long rectangle of light across the bare wooden hallway floor. They went into the open room.
"I'm glad you showed up, because I'm bored,” Doris said.
"As long as I don't bore you because I showed up,” Dr. O replied.
"Oh, no. You're the most entertaining person I've ever known.” Doris wore a housecoat that spread out about her like a pink waterfall as she sat on the edge of an enormous bed in a big, messy room. The bedspread was pink, too; in the dim light, she seemed to become part of the bed, with only her hands, head, and feet showing. “How did this reprobate get you to come out in such a fog, Mr. D?"
"Oh, I'm a night owl, too,” Mr. D said. “I stay up late working."
"Me, too."
"What kind of work do you do?” Mr. D asked.
"I'm an artist."
"Really? Paint? Sculpture?"
"I've tried those, and just about everything else."
"Oh.” Mr. D waited for her to tell him more.
"Winston,” she said, “don't drop ashes on the floor."
"All right, mum.” Dr. O found a standing ashtray among the clutter and flicked the ash from his smoke.
Mr. D noticed that the bed appeared to be an antique, perhaps three centuries old. It looked like something Marie Antoinette might have slept on, complete with an enormous, ornate headboard. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the mattress and pillows were stuffed with goose feathers.
"Have a seat if you can find one,” said Doris.
Mr. D, sedentary by nature, accepted the invitation. He picked up some books and papers from a wing chair, placed them carefully on the floor, and sat down. Dr. O paced, making his way through stacks of papers higher than his head, chewing gum and smoking, as usual. At times he disappeared behind the stacks, and then reappeared elsewhere. Occasionally, he reached up and took something off the top of a stack to look at and put it back after thirty- or forty-second perusals. Sometimes he said “ahem” as he did this.
"Lovely,” said Dr. O, after looking at one such paper. He didn't put this one back, nor did he take his eyes off it.
"Thank you,” Doris said.
"You've done all this since I was last here?"
"Yes, and more. You know all these rooms are filled with my work."
"Yeah, I know."
"May I see it?” Mr. D asked.
"Sure."
Mr. D got up and went to see what Dr. O was looking at. It was a crude drawing of a bird. He stared at in puzzlement.
"So, what do you think?” Doris asked.
"Uh, pleasant."
She laughed. “Thanks. You're a nice guy."
"Tell that to my exes,” Mr. D said, hoping to change the subject.
"How many you got?"
"Five."
"Want another one?"
Mr. D glanced at her, hoping she was joking. The grin on her round, pleasant face told him that she was. He ventured a chuckle. “I think I've had too many already."
"You got kids?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Girls?"
"A couple,” Mr. D said. “You?"
"Oh, I've got a lot of kids, Mr. D, and a lot of grandchildren, too."
"Great."
"Our kids are all we leave when we go,” said Dr. O, in a rare moment of somberness.
"Well, I don't know about that, Winston."
"What else, then?"
"We leave our work."
"But we don't leave our play?” Dr. O said, brightening.
"You're always so full of fun, Winston,” said Doris.
"Only because I have a short attention span,” Dr. O replied, putting the drawing back on the high stack.
Mr. D felt something touching his ankles. For a moment it frightened him, but then he looked down to see that it was Vishnu the cat.
"So you didn't get lost after all,” he said, bending to stroke the cat's ears.
"Vishnu never gets lost,” said Dr. O. “He's a god, you see."
"The Preserver in Hinduism,” Mr. D added.
"Right. I had a friend who was into all that."
Vishnu lay on his side with his head up, his ears moving about as Mr. D scratched them. “He's a friendly guy."
Suddenly Vishnu jabbed with his left paw and scratched Mr. D on the back of his hand.
"Not always so friendly,” Dr. O observed.
In the dim light, Mr. D watched a bead of blood form on his hand. He sucked on the tiny wound to clean it.
"Auto-vampirism,” said Dr. O. “It's all the rage these days.” He bent down and picked up the cat, draping Vishnu around his shoulders like a mink stole. “Shame on you, you naughty beast. Mr. D isn't a mouse, you know."
"He was just playing,” said Doris.
"Cats are like roses,” said Mr. D. “They're beautiful, but they have thorns."
"How poetic,” Doris said.
"He's a writer,” said Dr. O. “That's why I envy him."
"How in-te-resting,” said Doris. “I wish I had writing talent."
"Have you ever tried it?” Mr. D asked.
"Oh, yes, I've tried just about everything creative you could think of, even macramé."
"Macramé?"
"Yes, like this.” She pointed to a planter knit from yarn, hanging by a metal hook from the ceiling. A fern's spidery fronds embraced the planter and its shadow in the corner of the room.
"Very nice."
"Thank you, Mr. D."
"How does it keep the moisture in?” Mr. D asked, moving closer to the planter.
"A basket under the macramé."
"Oh."
"There's more here than meets the eye,” Dr. O said with melodramatic flair. “Very suspicious. Very suspicious indeed."
"You forgot to harrumph,” said Mr. D.
"Harrumph,” responded Dr. O.
"You two could be a comedy team,” Doris said.
"Oh, Dr. O,” sang Mr. D, remembering a
comedy routine he'd seen when he was a kid, “Oh, Dr. O, do you know why I'm going to Egypt, Dr. O?"
"Why are you going to Egypt, Mr. D?"
"Because up and down the Nile, the girls wear nothing but a smile, and that is why I am going to Egypt, Dr. O."
Doris howled with laughter.
"Music hall?” enquired Dr. O.
"Vaudeville.” Mr. D said. “Gallagher and Shean.”
"So funny!” Doris said, between fits of laughter. “So, so funny."
"So-so?” Dr. O said, looking down his nose at her. “I thought ‘twas better than that."
"Oh, Winston!” Doris cried with delight.
"I'll defend this woman's honor,” Dr. O said, cupping one side of his mouth with his hand. “Which is more than she ever did."
"Too much!” Doris roared. “Too, too much!"
Mr. D laughed at the way she was laughing, and Dr. O laughed at Mr. D's laughter. They laughed until they hurt, and then laughed some more, snorting and wheezing at the sheer absurdity of their laughter.
Vishnu meowed.
"He wants something to eat,” Dr. O said, “the feline pest."
"I've got something for him,” Doris said. She got off the bed and went to a tiny refrigerator nearly hidden behind an exercise bicycle whose seat was piled high with papers and yellowing magazines. She took out a bowl and set it on the floor.
Vishnu needed no invitation. He sprang from Dr. O's shoulder and made his way quickly to the bowl.
"Is it human flesh?” Dr. O inquired mildly.
"Better than that, liverwurst."
Dr. O knelt beside the cat as Vishnu bolted his food. “A nice paté for you, my pet?"
Vishnu paid no attention to him as he ate the liverwurst.
Dr. O rose and sucked on his cigarette. “What shall we do now, children?"
"Wait for the sun to come up,” Mr. D suggested.
"And then drink the dew?” Dr. O asked.
"We could go out and pick flowers,” said Doris.
"Good idea,” said Mr. D. “How long before dawn?"
"I'm not wearing a watch,” said Dr. O.
FSF, April 2008 Page 12
