Nights, however, were a different matter.
The first night, I decided to turn in early. I drank a cup of espresso, marked my place in the book I was reading, and settled down in the double bed.
I awoke in what had once been a shopping mall, now abandoned and inhabited by poor people, most of whom were wandering down the once-carpeted aisles of stores trying to hawk pieces of scrap metal they'd scavenged. A woman walked up to me and held out a rusted gear. "Want to buy it?" she whined pitifully. "Only a dollar."
I was completely baffled, trapped in that dazed and foggy netherworld between sleep and wakefulness. I did not know what was going on. I looked down at my body and got another rude shock. I was female.
Then it came to me. I remembered my warm comfortable bed in my rented beach shack. "I am back in my cabin on the beach," I blurted out. "I am the same person I was when I went to sleep last night."
And I was.
I must have been talking in my sleep. It was the only plausible explanation. No one had ever mentioned it to me-not my parents, my brother, not any of my friends or roommates-and perhaps it wasn't even audible, but apparently I was a sleeptalker. That was a problem. I could control my waking actions and my conscious thoughts, but sleep, dreams, and my subconscious were beyond my reach.
The sleeptalking continued, and I was never sure whether I'd wake up in my own bed, wake up on some alien planet, or even if I would wake up at all. Sometimes, I would awaken in the middle of the night only to find myself in some surrealistic nightmare, in a world with no recognizable features and with the bizarre juxtaposition of unrelated objects so characteristic of dreamscapes. Once, I remember, I awoke in a Wild West fort on a huge bed of ostrich feathers nearly twenty feet high. I was surrounded by soldiers. To my right, a storm was brewing over a barren plain. To my left, bright and shining, stood an ultra-modern supermarket.
Although I never broke my vow of silence during the day, I constantly talked in my sleep, and then again when I awoke-in order to return to the "real world."
Eventually, the problem did go away. Whether I willed myself to stop talking in my sleep or whether it disappeared of its own accord I don't know. All I know is that it took a long, long time.
I refuse to let myself think about the possible reverberating effects my nighttime mumblings may have had.
When the week was up, I left my rented cabin. I traveled. At first, I wanted to get as far away from people and civilization as I could. So I headed north, to the wilds of Canada and then on to Alaska, doing odd jobs here and there for my room and board, pretending to be mute. But I'm a city person. And I found that I missed the throngs of people and the hustle and bustle of city life. I wanted to be near the crowds, even if I could not be part of them. And, truth be told, it's just as easy to remain isolated and alone in crowded cities as it is in deserted countrysides. Cities are so impersonal and cold, and the people in them so alienated from each other, that I fit right in. I mean, / notice my lack of communication; I have to live with it, it is an unending constant in my life and it is torture to me. But to everyone else, I'm just another person. No one notices that I don't speak.
But this is all beside the point. This is all background information. This is all a preface to what I want to say.
I have given it a lot of thought. Over twenty years of thought. And I have decided to use the power one last time. I do this not out of selfishness or greed. I do this not for myself at all. And I do not enter into this rashly or without reason. I do this after careful consideration and deliberation, and with a definite goal in mind. I do this purposefully and with a clear conscience.
For over these past decades, I have come to realize the full implications of this ability. I understand the tremendous, almost supreme and absolute power which I wield in my fallible and mortal body. It is a terrible thing to live with day in and day out, a terrible burden and responsibility. I cannot and should not be entrusted with such capabilities. Nor should any person.
I do not know if there are others with this power. Perhaps, even as I write, whole realities are coming and going, shifting and changing all around me. But no more. I intend to put a stop to it. I intend to make sure that no human being shall ever have to live through the hell which I have experienced.
Tonight I will speak. And the power will cease to exist.
I have thought this through, as I've said, for many years, and I believe I have honed down, defined, and clarified my statement to such an exact degree that it will have no effect other than the one which I intend. I have even written it down, to make sure I make no mistakes.
Of course, it is impossible to know exactly what all the consequences of my words may be. The laws of nature and science may crack and break; the world itself may change utterly. But I am willing to take that risk. I must take that risk.
In the process I, too, along with my power and along with any other individuals who have this ability, will cease to exist. It is for the best. My senile ravings, once I grow old, will now never be able to affect anyone; the cries of my death will not cause chaos. Instead, I will simply de-exist. I will probably never have existed at all. The people I once knew will not retain even a faint memory of me.
This, then, is my record, my proof. I have written down the events as they have transpired and have attempted to explain, somewhat, the full implications of my power. If I am successful in what I intend, the power will disappear forever and will never trouble humankind again. If I am not successful ... who knows? I can only try. And I am willing to chance it.
Wish me luck.
The Washingtonians
During the Gulf War, I was amazed at the public's mass acceptance of the government's view of events. Something like 120,000 Iraqis were killed, not all of them soldiers or Husseins-in-training, many of them ordinary men, women, and children who happened to be living in the same geographical area in which we were dropping bombs. But the news was controlled, information filtered through official government press conferences, and on TV we saw no bodies, no blood. So people believed what they were told. I got to thinking about what it would be like if all our history was like that, if what we learned in school was simply the party line, not the actual truth. "The Washingtonians" grew from there.
I will Skin your Children and Eat Them.
Upon Finishing, I will Fashion Utensils of Their Bones.
"It's authentic," Davis admitted. "It was written by George Washington." He flipped off the light and, with gloved fingers, removed the parchment manuscript from underneath the magnifier. He shook his head. "Where did you get this? I've never come across anything like it in all my years in the business."
Mike shook his head. "I told you. It was in a trunk of my great-grandmother's stuff that we found hidden in her barn."
"May I ask what you intend to do with it?"
"Well, if it was authentic, we were thinking we'd donate it to the Smithsonian or something. Or sell it to the Smithsonian, if we could. What's the appraisal value of something like this?"
Davis spread his hands in an expansive gesture. "It's invaluable."
"A ballpark figure."
He leaned forward, across the counter. "I'm not sure you realize what you have here, Mr. Franks. With this one sheet of paper, you can entirely rewrite the history of our country." He paused, letting his words sink in. "History is myth, Mr. Franks. It's not just a collection of names and dates and facts. It's a belief system that ultimately tells more about the people buying into it than it does about the historical participants. What do we retain from our school lessons about George Washington? About Abraham Lincoln? Impressions. Washington was the father of our country. Lincoln freed the slaves. We are who we are as a nation because of what we believe they were. This letter will shatter that belief system and will forever change the image we have of Washington and perhaps all our Founding Fathers. That's a huge responsibility, and I think you should think about it."
"Think abo
ut it?"
"Decide if you want to make this knowledge known."
Mike stared at him. "Cover it up? Why? If it's true, then people should know."
"People don't want truth. They want image."
"Yeah, right. How much do I owe you?"
"The appraisal fee is fifty dollars." Davis started to write out a receipt, then paused, looked up. "I know a collector," he said. "He's had feelers out for something of this nature for a very long time. Would you mind if I gave him a ring? He's very discreet, very powerful, and, I have reason to believe, very generous."
"No thanks."
"I'd call him for you, set up all the-"
"Not interested," Mike said.
"Very well." Davis returned to the receipt. He finished writing, tore the perforated edge of the paper, and handed Mike a copy. "But if I may, Mr. Franks, I'd like to suggest you do something."
"What's that?" Mike asked as he took the receipt.
"Sleep on it."
He thought about Washington's letter all the way home. It was lying on the passenger seat beside him, in a protective plastic sleeve that Davis had given him, and he could see it in his peripheral vision, dully reflecting the sun each time he turned north. It felt strange owning something so valuable. He had never had anything this rare in his car before, and it carried with it a lot of responsibility. It made him nervous. He probably should've had it insured before taking it anywhere. What if the car crashed? What if the parchment burned? His hands on the wheel were sweaty.
But that wasn't why his hands were sweaty. That wasn't really why he was nervous. No. That was part of it, but the real reason was the note itself.
I will Skin your Children and Eat Them.
The fact that the words had been written by a real person and not a character in a novel would have automatically made him uneasy. But the fact that they had been written by George Washington ... Well, that was just too hard to take. There was something creepy about that, something that 1 made a ripple of gooseflesh crawl up the back of his neck f each time he looked at the plastic-wrapped brown parchment. He should have felt excited, proud, but instead he felt J dirty, oily. He suddenly wished he'd never seen the note.
Ahead of him on a billboard above a liquor store, a caricature of George Washington-green, the way he appeared on the dollar bill-was winking at him, promoting the high T-bill rate at the Bank of New York.
He looked away from the sign, turned down Lincoln Avenue toward home.
Mike paced up and down the length of the kitchen. "He implied that rather than give it to the Smithsonian or something, I should sell it to a private collector who would keep it a secret."
Pam looked up from the dishes, shook her head. "That's crazy."
"That's what I said."
"Well, don't get too stressed out over it-"
"I'm not getting stressed out."
"Will you let me finish my sentence? I was just going to say, there are a lot of other document appraisers, a lot of museum curators, a lot of university professors. There are a lot of people you can take this to who will know what to do with it."
He nodded, touched her arm. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just... I don't know. This whole thing has me a little freaked."
"Me too. This afternoon I was helping Amy with her homework. They're studying Johnny Appleseed and George Washington and the cherry tree."
"Two myths."
"There's a picture of Washington in her book...." She shivered, dipped her hands back into the soap suds. "You ought to look at it. It'll give you the willies."
He smiled at her. "I could give you my willy."
"Later."
"Really creepy, huh?"
"Check it out for yourself."
"I will. You need me in here?"
"No."
He patted the seat of her jeans, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll be out front then."
"All right. I'll be through here in a minute. Go over Amy's math homework, too. Double-check."
"Okay." He walked into the living room. Amy was lying on the floor watching a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond. Her schoolbook and homework were on the coffee table. He sat down on the couch and was about to pick up the book, when he saw the cover: mountains and clouds and a clipper ship and the Statue of Liberty and the Liberty Bell. The cover was drawn simply, in bright grade school colors, but there was something about the smile on the Statue of Liberty's face that made him realize he did not want to open up the book to see the picture of George Washington.
A commercial came on, and Amy turned around to look at him. "Are you going to check my homework?" she asked. He nodded. "Yes," he said. "Do it quick, then. I'm watching TV." He smiled at her. "Yes, boss."
The pounding woke them up.
It must have been going on for some time, because Amy was standing in the doorway of their bedroom clutching her teddy bear, though she'd supposedly given up the teddy bear two years ago.
Pam gave him a look that let him know how frightened she was, that told him to go out to the living room and find out who the hell was beating on their front door at this time of night, then she was no longer Wife but Mom, and she was out of bed and striding purposefully toward their daughter, telling her in a calm, reasonable, adult voice to go back to bed, that there was nothing the matter.
Mike quickly reached down for the jeans he'd abandoned on the floor next to the bed and put them on. The pounding continued unabated, and he felt more than a little frightened himself. But he was Husband and Dad and this was one of those things Husbands and Dads had to do, and he strode quickly out to the living room with a walk and an attitude that made him seem much braver than he actually felt.
He slowed down as he walked across the dark living room toward the entryway. Out here, the pounding seemed much louder and much ... scarier. There was a strength and will behind the pounding that had not translated across the rooms to the rear of the house and he found himself thinking absurdly that whatever was knocking on the door was not human. It was a stupid thought, an irrational thought, but he stopped at the edge of the entryway nevertheless. The door was solid, there was no window in it, not even a peephole, and he did not want to just open it without knowing who-
what-was on the other side.
He moved quickly over to the front window. He didn't want to pull the drapes open and draw attention to himself, but he wanted to get a peek at the pounder. There was a small slit where the two halves of the drapes met in the middle of the window, and he bent over to peer through the opening.
Outside on the porch, facing the door, were four men wearing white powdered wigs and satin colonial garb.
He thought for a second that he was dreaming. The surrealistic irrationality of this seemed more nightmarish than real. But he saw one of the men pound loudly on the door with his bunched fist, and from the back of the house he heard the muffled sound of Pam's voice as she comforted Amy, and he knew that this was really happening.
He should open the door, he knew. He should confront these people. But something about that bunched fist and the look of angry determination on the pounder's face made him hesitate. He was frightened, he realized. More frightened than he had been before he'd peeked through the curtains, when he'd still half thought there might be a monster outside.
I will Skin your Children and Eat Them.
These weirdos were connected somehow to Washington's note. He knew that instinctively. And that was what scared him.
He heard Pam hurrying across the living room toward him, obviously alarmed by the fact that the pounding had not yet stopped. She moved quickly next to him. "Who is it?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "I don't know."
He peeked again through the split in the curtains, studying the strangers more carefully. She pressed her face next to his. He heard her gasp, felt her pull away. "Jesus," she whispered. There was fear in her voice. "Look at their teeth."
Their teeth? He focused his attention on the men's mo
uths. Pam was right. There was something strange about their teeth. He squinted, looked closer.
Their teeth were uniformly yellow.
Their teeth were false.
George Washington had false teeth.
He backed away from the window. "Call the police," he told Pam. "Now."
"We want the letter!" The voice was strong, filled with an anger and hatred he had not expected. The pounding stopped. "We know you have it, Franks! Give it to us and we will not harm you!"
Mike looked again through the parted curtains. All four of the men were facing the window, staring at him. In the porchlight their skin looked pale, almost corpselike, their I eyes brightly fanatic. The man who had been pounding on f the door pointed at him. Rage twisted the features of his face. "Give us the letter!"
He wanted to move away, to hide, but Mike forced himself to hold his ground. He was not sure if the men could actually see him through that small slit, but he assumed they could. "I called the police!" he bluffed. "They'll be here any minute!"
The pounder was about to say something but at that second, fate stepped in and there was the sound of a siren coming from somewhere to the east. The men looked confusedly at each other, spoke quietly and quickly between themselves, then began hurrying off the porch. On their arms, Mike saw round silk patches with stylized insignias.
A hatchet and a cherry tree.
"We will be back for you!" one of the men said. "You can't escape!"
"Mom!" Amy called from her bedroom.
"Go get her," Mike said.
"You call the police then."
He nodded as she moved off, but even as he headed toward the phone, he knew with a strange fatalistic certainty that the police would not be able to track down these people, that when these people came back-and they would come back-the police would not be able to protect him and his family.
He heard a car engine roar to life, heard tires squealing on the street.
The Collection Page 5
