“I’m a friend of Dr. Cooke,” Rosenbloom spoke calmly, so calmly it was maddening.
A sudden insight filtered through the boy’s brain, and realization dawned in his emerald eyes. “You’re a shrink, aren’t you?”
The bearded man’s eyes narrowed again, and he couldn’t quite disguise the tightness in his voice as he said, “I don’t like that word, Bradey. I’m a psychiatrist. Your parents asked me to speak to you.”
Bradley Wallace flinched, then glowered like a thundercloud. So
it was true. His parents really did think he was crazy. Damn them! And to think he’d had hope that for once they would be on his side and try to understand him. But they were just like that grease ball police lieutenant. No better.
“Go away,” he said angrily. “I’m sure you already got the whole story from them so just get the hell out of here!”
The lanky doctor didn’t even react to the boy’s outburst, as though he’d expected it. “I can help you, Bradey,” he stated in the infuriatingly calm voice that set Bradley Wallace’s blood on fire. He hated people staying calm when he was mad. “You see, I checked out your story, all of it, and I think you might be interested in what I found out.”
He slipped one well-manicured hand into his pinstriped jacket and Bradley Wallace expected him to pull out a gun. But the arrogant psychiatrist merely extracted a notepad, and flipped it open to the first page. Bradley Wallace’s anger increased steadily, and he wished fervently for just a trace of his old power so he could forcibly blow this man right out of the room. “I told you to get out!” he nearly shouted in frustration.
Rosenbloom ignored the demand completely. “You told your parents that there weren’t any rational explanations for the events in your story. But there are, and I want you to listen carefully.”
Despite his anger, Bradley Wallace’s curiosity was aroused. He knew what really happened, but decided to hear this dislikable man out. “I’m listening,” he muttered.
Rosenbloom nodded. “First, the missing cats. A man was caught in the act some months ago of stealing a cat and confessed to many of the other disappearances. He was selling the animals to research labs for experimentation. Not pretty, no, but hardly inexplicable.”
“That’s not true!” Bradley Wallace blurted, the doctor’s smugness and self-assurance becoming all the more intolerable.
“It is true, Bradey, and I have the newspaper clippings on the case to prove it,” Rosenbloom stated dispassionately. He held up several clippings and Bradley Wallace snatched them from his grasp. His mouth hung open as he scanned the slightly faded articles. The doctor spoke the truth.
“What about the cows?” the boy demanded, fear clutching at his heart.
Rosenbloom smiled easily and retrieved the clippings from Bradley Wallace’s slightly shaking hand. “No cows have disappeared since one of the ranchers shot and killed a renegade mountain lion.”
“A mountain lion?” the boy scoffed, folding his arms across his chest and ignoring the pain that movement caused. “Gimme a break!”
Rosenbloom shrugged, and more clippings appeared. A mountain lion really had been killed. In Marin County?
Bradley Wallace felt a sickness begin to creep up his throat, and his forehead suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. He never really paid much attention to the newspaper or even the TV news, so he’d never known any of this. His father’s words echoed in his flustered mind: there’re rational explanations for everything. Were there really?
Rosenbloom saw he was getting to the boy, and appeared to be enjoying his triumph. “As for the volcano in Hawaii,” he went on, “and the Golden Gate Bridge matter, those have been attributed to unusual changes in the weather conditions. No one, not any of the top scientists investigating those incidents believe there was any magic involved, nor anything supernatural. I spoke with some of them personally on the telephone, and have those conversations on tape if you’d like to hear them.”
Bradley Wallace reacted as he so often did when angry or frightened, with sarcasm. “Yeah, sure,” he sniped, “It always snows in Hawaii in July, and in one single spot only, on top of an erupting volcano. It happens all the time!”
“I’m trying to help you, Bradey.”
“Then why don’t you tell that fat slob of a cop to check out the old water tank I told him about? There’s plenty of proof there that I’m telling the truth, even blood from when Whilly and I got shot.”
Doubts had begun to seep into the boy’s mind, and he struggled to contain them. He knew what happened. Everything he said was true. It all happened!
“He already did check it out,” Rosenbloom replied evenly. “Your school, too, where you said you were attacked.”
Rosenbloom paused deliberately, forcing Bradley Wallace to ask, “Well?”
“All he found in the water tank were some blankets, a lantern, and a small television set.”
“Josette’s music box,” the boy blurted, “didn’t he find that?” It had been there, he knew.
“No.”
Bradley Wallace felt his head spinning. Everything was suddenly so confusing. “What about blood?” he challenged, determined to puncture the arrogant doctor’s perfectly rational set of explanations. “There must’ve been blood all over the place, some of it animal blood.”
The man shook his head slowly. “Only yours, Bradey.”
Those words struck the boy like a physical blow. “That’s impossible!” What was happening here? He didn’t understand any of this. “He was there, I tell you, and blood was all over the place!” His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he squeezed them together until the knuckles turned white. His heart beat wildly in his chest.
The psychiatrist smiled. He was definitely getting through to the boy, and pressed home his advantage. “All the blood found in that tank was analyzed, and it was all yours.”
“What about at school?” Bradley Wallace stammered uncertainly.
“Nothing,” Rosenbloom replied quietly. “No trace of anything having been burned there, no blood, no bullet. Nothing.”
He shrugged, but Bradley Wallace was too shaken to even notice the smugness peeking out from behind the man’s thick beard. No blood? No charred remains? Not even the blackened bones? They were there; he’d seen them. He hadn’t imagined it. He hadn’t!
“What about Captain Courageous?” he whispered, still clutching at any possibilities.
The doctor merely shrugged again, noncommittally. “No one ever saw him, or at least can remember seeing him, and since there’s no proof of any kind to indicate his identity, anyone could come forth and claim to be him. Especially since he’s vanished completely without a trace.”
“That’s only because I was afraid,” Bradley Wallace tried vainly to explain. But he was so rattled he wasn’t sure of anything. “After I stopped the Golden Gate Bridge I got scared. I was afraid I might hurt somebody and so I stopped being the Captain. But I still have the costume. It’s hidden in my closet at home!” That should be proof of some kind, he decided hopefully.
But Rosenbloom’s impassive features told him all he needed to know. “As I said, no one knows what this Captain looked like, or what he wore. Yours could be an old Halloween costume for all we know.”
The rubber stamp! That would’ve been proof positive, Bradley Wallace now realized with a silent groan. If only he’d looked harder and found one.
“Let me ask you a question,” Rosenbloom went on, flipping his notebook shut with a tiny slap. When Bradley Wallace merely gazed dully back at him without speaking, the doctor continued. “About the girl. Didn’t it strike you as very coincidental that her name was the same as the character you liked so much on ‘Dark Shadows?’ After all, Josette is not a common name.”
Bradley Wallace didn’t answer. What could he say? He’d wondered about that seeming coincidence numerous times himself.
Rosenbloom lounged contentedly in his chair, pleased by the obvious doubts and uncertainties clouding the boy’s face. “T
ell me, Bradey, have you ever had any wet dreams about this Josette?”
Bradley Wallace’s head snapped up and his face flushed a deep red. How could Rosenbloom have known about the dreams?
Rosenbloom smiled. “I see you have. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to every boy.”
“It does?” Bradley Wallace wasn’t certain he heard right. Those
sticky dreams were normal? He was so confused. And afraid. Was he really crazy after all?
The doctor laughed lightly. “Of course it does. Didn’t anyone ever tell you . . .” He trailed off. The boy’s blank, expressionless face troubled him. “I see they didn’t. Look, Bradey, this whole business happens all the time. Kids with family problems creating a fantasy world in which they can live without the hurt and tensions they experience at home. From what I just learned about the dreams, it’s obvious to me that you and your parents don’t talk much. Am I right?”
Bradley Wallace remained silent. The man’s voice seemed miles away, the question a faint buzzing in his ears. The events of the past year were unreeling in his mind sequentially, each one taking on a different, more frightening cast as he applied the doctor’s logical explanations. It suddenly now seemed entirely possible that he imagined everything, that it had all been some kind of living dream he’d conjured up to fill the emptiness in his life. A sickening dread welled up within him as the ultimate extension of that theory flashed before his eyes - that he’d imagined Whilly. Could it be possible that he’d imagined the only real true friend he ever had? His heart filled with the deepest despair imaginable, and he slowly, half-consciously realized that Rosenbloom was trying desperately to get his attention. He focused slightly blurred eyes on the disturbed doctor and wondered momentarily how long he’d buzzed out for this time.
“Are you all right?” Rosenbloom repeated anxiously, apparently taken completely by surprise. He’d heard about these lapses from Cooke, but hadn’t really expected to witness one himself.
Bradley Wallace half-saw the doctor’s loss of composure, and felt a brief upsurge of perverse pleasure. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” he stated quietly, locking his piercing emerald eyes on those of Rosenbloom. “I just want you to leave.”
For some reason he didn’t understand, the boy’s intense gaze made Rosenbloom uncomfortable, and he looked away quickly as he stood up. “Think about all I’ve told you,” he said, trying for his former self-assurance but finding it more elusive than before. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.” He glanced at the staring boy once more quickly, but Bradley
Wallace completely ignored him. Rosenbloom left the room, and Bradley Wallace heard the door click softly shut. He was alone again.
He lay still in the bed, hearing only the sound of his steady breathing, his frightened mind spinning furiously with doubt. It was true that no one but him had ever seen Whilly, but that was intentional. Now Bradley Wallace wished he hadn’t been so careful, so meticulous in his efforts to keep the dragon’s existence a secret. Now he wished someone else had seen Whilly, too. It just didn’t seem possible that he imagined everything. And yet, what if he had?
That would mean he’d totally flipped out, and a shiver ran through his body at the thought of his parents locking him away forever in some dark, forbidding nuthouse with bars on the windows and crazy inmates who foamed at the mouth like rabid dogs. Whilly. Were you just a dream, he asked the stale morning air silently? Just a dream? A deep, pervasive sense of loneliness overwhelmed him even as the tears sprang from his eyes and coursed down his cheeks, and he mourned the loss of a best friend who’d maybe never even existed.
He heard the door crack open behind him, and turned his tear-streaked face more deeply into the pillow. “I said go away,” he muttered lifelessly, his words muffled by the soft down of his pillow.
“I’m just bringing your lunch,” a soft, lyrical voice told him quietly. He knew that voice; it belonged to the Flying Nun, the pretty one. Embarrassed by his tears, Bradley Wallace quickly wiped them away with the corners of his pillowcase. Turning his head, he finally saw the nurse clearly for the first time. She was a nurse, too, he realized, and it was her cap he’d mistaken for that of the Flying Nun. She was old, he noticed, maybe even thirty, but very pretty for her age. She reminded him vaguely of Maggie Evans on “Dark Shadows,” except her raven-black hair was coruscated into a bun beneath her cap.
She had a slim, attractive figure, and wore a knee length white nurse’s uniform that, for some reason the boy couldn’t understand just then, looked much better on her than it did on the other nurses who’d been attending him. Her cheerful smile and dancing blue eyes were a welcome relief after Rosenbloom. She held a tray in her hands on which were several plates of food.
“Thank you,” he said, sitting up quickly. His appetite had suddenly reappeared with a vengeance. “I’m really hungry,” he almost apologized.
She laughed, a light, airy laugh, as she set the tray down on the movable table and pushed it over to his bed. “Don’t sound so apologetic,” she told him with a smile. “We want you to eat.” She removed the cover from the largest plate and frowned with annoyance at the hamburger beneath. “I told them no meat. Your mother said you’re a vegetarian.”
“No way,” he said, his mouth watering as he snatched up the juicy red burger. “I love meat.” He took a huge bite and chewed as though he hadn’t eaten for weeks. “I like it more rare, though,” he told the rather surprised young woman after swallowing.
“I wonder why your mother told me that,” she mused, her face darkened with befuddlement.
“Beats me,” he shrugged, chomping down a few more bites. “I don’t even like vegetables much.”
No doubt another of his mother’s attempts to cause him trouble. Why couldn’t his parents just go away somewhere and leave him alone?
The pretty nurse replaced her frown with a smile. “Well, at least you have an appetite. That’s a good sign.” Her smile was almost radiant, and Bradley Wallace felt a funny tingling sensation as he looked at her. “What shall I call you, by the way?” she asked suddenly. “I always like to call people what they want to be called, you know. I heard your mother call you ‘Bradey’. Is that your nickname?”
He scowled between mouthfuls of burger. “Yes, and I hate it. I don’t much like ‘Bradley Wallace’ either, but it’s better than that.”
She laughed and nodded. “When I was your age I hated my name, too.”
“What is it?” the boy asked, genuinely interested.
She wrinkled her nose in a funny sort of way, reminding Bradley Wallace of Samantha Stevens of the TV show “Bewitched.” “Sarah,” she told him with a shrug. “I always thought it sounded like an old lady, like ‘Gladys’ or ‘Bertha.’ You know something - I think most kids hate their names. Someone else’s always sounds better. I remember one girl whose name I loved and wished it was mine. Her name was ‘Lisolette,’ and I thought that was so pretty. But then one day after we’d both grown up she told me she’d always loved my name and hated hers. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”
He nodded wordlessly, beguiled by her soft prettiness and delightful voice. He’d even stopped eating to stare at her lovely features.
She laughed again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Usually I don’t ramble on to perfect strangers like this. You eat.”
He took another bite and considered what she’d said about names. “You should never feel bad to be named ‘Sarah,”’ he told her after a moment. “That was the name of Barnabas Collins’ little sister, and he loved her more than anyone. It’s a beautiful name.” His voice became wistful as he spoke of the characters that had been his friends for so long, and now were gone.
Sarah’s pert face lit up with delight. “You watched ‘Dark Shadows,’ too?”
Now his face lit up, but more with surprise than anything else. “Yeah,” he stammered in amazement, “It was my favorite show.”
She beamed. “Mine, too. I only just started wo
rking days this week. I used to work nights so I could be home every day at four.”
“I’ve never met anyone who liked that show as much as me,” Bradley Wallace said, his heart leaping into his throat. “Except Whilly.” His face clouded, and his hands slowly dropped to the tray. Except Whilly.
Sarah eyed him compassionately, and reached out to brush the hair away from his eyes with a gentle sweep of her slender fingers. “I think I’ll call you ‘Brad.’ Would that be all right?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. No one’s ever called me that before.”
She smiled warmly. “There’s a first time for everything, right?”
He nodded, his mind drifting back over previous events, times he’d been so angry with Whilly that he couldn’t even think straight. Had his anger really been directed at his imagination? Or had the anger been part
of the dream, too? He suddenly found himself back in Sister Mary’s classroom, standing up before the class reciting that poem he never understood.
“What are you thinking about?” Sarah asked him softly.
His voice became inflectionless as he recited the poem that had flashed through his mind during each of those intervals of uncontrolled anger, “’Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.’” He trailed off, his expression deep and thoughtful.
“What’s that?” she asked curiously.
“A poem,” he replied, his voice sounding far away. “A poem I remember from school. I never really understood it, all this time. But now I think I do. I don’t know why, but I think I do. After I stopped the Golden Gate Bridge, and the wind,” he frowned, then, “or at least thought I did, I was so afraid of this power in my head. I was afraid that I might destroy the whole world if I lost control. I thought I was the only one who could do that. But now I know that I’m not the only one.”
He paused a moment, considering. “I think anyone who wants too much for himself, or gets too angry, or just hates too much, can destroy the world, too, because people can’t live together that way. Whilly always told me I had to learn control, but I think everyone has to learn that, or else their hate or their temper or their selfishness will destroy everything, in fire or in ice. At least, I think that’s what Whilly meant, if he was even really there.”
A Boy and His Dragon Page 53
