Dreamsongs. Volume II

by George R. R. Martin

  It was only a junkyard, full of garbage and scrap metal and wrecked cars, but tonight it seemed as magical as when Tommy was ten. On a rise overlooking the black waters of New York Bay, an ancient white Packard loomed like a ghostly fort. That was just what it had been, when Joey and he had been kids; their sanctum, their stronghold, their cavalry outpost and space station and castle rolled all in one. It shone in the moonlight, and the waters beyond were full of promise as they lapped against the shore. Darkness and shadows lay heavy in the yard, changing the piles of trash and metal into mysterious black hills, with a maze of gray alleys between them. Tom led them into that labyrinth, past the big trash heap where they’d played king-of-the-mountain and dueled with scrap-iron swords, past the treasure troves where they’d found so many busted toys and hunks of colored glass and deposit bottles, and once even a whole cardboard carton full of comic books.

  They walked between rows of twisted, rusty cars stacked one on another; Fords and Chevys, Hudsons and DeSotos, a Corvette with a shattered accordion hood, a litter of dead Beetles, a dignified black hearse as dead as the passengers it had carried. Tom looked at them all carefully. Finally he stopped. “That one,” he said, pointing to the remains of a gutted old Studebaker Hawk. Its engine was gone, as were its tires; the windshield was a spiderweb of broken glass, and even in the darkness they could see where rust had chewed away at the fenders and side panels. “Not worth anything, right?”

  Joey opened his beer. “Go ahead, it’s all yours.”

  Tom took a deep breath and faced the car. His hands became fists at his sides. He stared hard, concentrating. The car rocked slightly. Its front grille lifted an unsteady couple of inches from the ground.

  “Whooo-eeee,” Joey said derisively, punching Tom lightly in the shoulder. The Studebaker dropped with a clang, and a bumper fell off. “Shit, I’m impressed,” Joey said.

  “Damn it, keep quiet and leave me alone,” Tom said. “I can do it, I’ll show you, just shut your fuckin’ mouth for a minute. I’ve been practicing. You don’t know the things I can do.”

  “Won’t say a fuckin’ word,” Joey promised, grinning. He took a swig of his beer.

  Tom turned back to the Studebaker. He tried to blot out everything, forget about Joey, the dogs, the junkyard; the Studebaker filled his world. His stomach was a hard little ball. He told it to relax, took several deep breaths, let his fists uncurl. Come on, come on, take it easy, don’t get upset, do it, you’ve done more than this, this is easy, easy.

  The car rose slowly, drifting upward in a shower of rust. Tom turned it around and around, faster and faster. Then, with a triumphant smile, Tom threw it fifty feet across the junkyard. It crashed into a stack of dead Chevys and brought the whole thing down in an avalanche of metal.

  Joey finished his Rheingold. “Not bad. A few years ago, you could barely lift me over a fence.”

  “I’m getting stronger all the time,” Tom said.

  Joey DiAngelis nodded, and tossed his empty bottle to the side. “Good,” he said, “then you won’t have any problem with me, willya?” He gave Tom a hard push with both hands.

  Tom staggered back a step, frowning. “Cut it out, Joey.”

  “Make me,” Joey said. He shoved him again, harder. This time Tom almost lost his footing.

  “Damn it, stop it,” Tom said. “It’s not funny, Joey.”

  “No?” Joey said. He grinned. “I think it’s fuckin’ hilarious. But hey, you can stop me, can’t you? Use your damn power.” He moved right up in Tom’s face and slapped him lightly across the cheek. “Stop me, ace,” he said. He slapped him harder. “C’mon, Jetboy, stop me.” The third slap was the hardest yet. “Let’s go, supes, whatcha waitin’ for?” The fourth blow had a sharp sting; the fifth snapped Tom’s head half around. Joey stopped smiling; Tom could smell the beer on his breath.

  Tom tried to grab his hand, but Joey was too strong, too fast; he evaded Tom’s grasp and landed another slap. “You wanna box, ace? I’ll turn you into fuckin’ dogmeat. Dork. Asshole.” The slap almost tore Tom’s head off, and brought stinging tears to his eyes. “Stop me, jagoff,” Joey screamed. He closed his hand, and buried his fist in Tom’s stomach so hard it doubled him over and took his breath away.

  Tom tried to summon his concentration, to grab and push, but it was the schoolyard all over again, Joey was everywhere, fists raining down on him, and it was all he could do to get his hands up and try to block the blows, and it was no good anyway, Joey was much stronger, he pounded him, pushed him, screaming all the while, and Tom couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t do anything but hurt, and he was retreating, staggering back, and Joey came after him, fists cocked, and caught him with an uppercut that landed right on his mouth with a crack that made his teeth hurt. All of a sudden Tom was lying on his back on the ground, with a mouth full of blood.

  Joey stood over him frowning. “Fuck,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bust your lip.” He reached down, took Tom by the hand, and yanked him roughly to his feet.

  Tom wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand. There was blood on the front of his shirt too. “Look at me, I’m all messed up,” he said with disgust. He glared at Joey. “That wasn’t fair. You can’t expect me to do anything when you’re pounding on me, damn it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Joey said. “And while you’re concentrating and squinting your eyes, you figure the fuckin’ bad guys are just gonna leave you alone, right?” He clapped Tom across the back. “They’ll knock out all your fuckin’ teeth. That’s if you’re lucky, if they don’t just shoot you. You ain’t no Jetboy, Tuds.” He shivered. “C’mon. It’s fuckin’ cold out here.”

  WHEN HE WOKE IN WARM DARKNESS, TACH REMEMBERED ONLY A little of the binge, but that was how he liked it. He struggled to sit up. The sheets he was lying on were satin, smooth and sensual, and beneath the odor of stale vomit he could still smell a faint trace of some flowery perfume.

  Unsteady, he tossed off the bedclothes and pulled himself to the edge of the four-poster bed. The floor beneath his bare feet was carpeted. He was naked, the air uncomfortably warm on his bare skin. He reached out a hand, found the light switch, and whimpered a little at the brightness. The room was pink-and-white clutter with Victorian furnishings and thick, soundproofed walls. An oil painting of John F. Kennedy smiled down from above the hearth; in one corner stood a three-foot-tall plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Angelface was seated in a pink wingback chair by the cold fireplace, blinking at him sleepily and covering her yawn with the back of her hand.

  Tach felt sick and ashamed. “I put you out of your own bed again, didn’t I?” he said.

  “It’s all right,” she replied. Her feet were resting on a tiny footstool. Her soles were ugly and bruised, black and swollen despite the special padded shoes she wore. Otherwise she was lovely. Unbound, her black hair fell to her waist, and her skin had a flushed, radiant quality to it, a warm glow of life. Her eyes were dark and liquid, but the most amazing thing, the thing that never failed to astonish Tachyon, was the warmth in them, the affection he felt so unworthy of. With all he had done to her, and to all the rest of them, somehow this woman called Angelface forgave, and cared.

  Tach raised a hand to his temple. Someone with a buzz saw was trying to remove the back of his skull. “My head,” he groaned. “At your prices, the least you could do is take the resins and poisons out of the drinks you sell. On Takis, we—”

  “I know,” Angelface said. “On Takis you’ve bred hangovers out of your wines. You told me that one already.”

  Tachyon gave her a weary smile. She looked impossibly fresh, wearing nothing but a short satin tunic that left her legs bare to the thigh. It was a deep, wine red, lovely against her skin. But when she rose, he glimpsed the side of her face, where her cheek had rested against the chair as she slept. The bruise was darkening already, a purple blossom on her cheek. “Angel…” he began.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. She pushed her hair forward to cover t
he blemish. “Your clothes were filthy. Mal took them out to be cleaned. So you’re my prisoner for a while.”

  “How long have I slept?” Tachyon asked.

  “All day,” Angelface replied. “Don’t worry about it. Once I had a customer get so drunk he slept for five months.” She sat down at her dressing table, lifted a phone, and ordered breakfast: toast and tea for herself, eggs and bacon and strong coffee with brandy for Tachyon. With aspirin on the side.

  “No,” he protested. “All that food. I’ll get sick.”

  “You have to eat. Even spacemen can’t live on cognac alone.”

  “Please…”

  “If you want to drink, you’ll eat,” she said brusquely. “That’s the deal, remember?”

  The deal, yes. He remembered. Angelface provided him with rent money, food, and an unlimited bar tab, as much drink as he’d ever need to wash away his memories. All he had to do was eat and tell her stories. She loved to listen to him talk. He told her family anecdotes, lectured about Takisian customs, filled her with history and legends and romances, with tales of balls and intrigues and beauty far removed from the squalor of Jokertown.

  Sometimes, after closing, he would dance for her, tracing the ancient, intricate pavanes of Takis across the nightclub’s mirrored floors while she watched and urged him on. Once, when both of them had drunk far too much wine, she talked him into demonstrating the Wedding Pattern, an erotic ballet that most Takisians danced but once, on their wedding night. That was the only time she had ever danced with him, echoing the steps, hesitantly at first, and then faster and faster, swaying and spinning across the floor until her bare feet were raw and cracked and left wet red smears upon the mirror tiles. In the Wedding Pattern, the dancing couple came together at the end, collapsing into a long triumphant embrace. But that was on Takis; here, when the moment came, she broke the pattern and shied away from him, and he was reminded once again that Takis was far away.

  Two years before, Desmond had found him unconscious and naked in a Jokertown alley. Someone had stolen his clothing while he slept, and he was fevered and delirious. Des had summoned help to carry him to the Funhouse. When he came to, he was lying on a cot in a back room, surrounded by beer kegs and wine racks. “Do you know what you were drinking?” Angelface had asked him when they’d brought him to her office. He hadn’t known; all he recalled was that he’d needed a drink so badly it was an ache inside him, and the old black man in the alley had generously offered to share. “It’s called Sterno,” Angelface told him. She had Des bring in a bottle of her finest brandy. “If a man wants to drink, that’s his business, but at least you can kill yourself with a little class.” The brandy spread thin tendrils of warmth through his chest and stopped his hands from shaking. When he’d emptied the snifter, Tach had thanked her effusively, but she drew back when he tried to touch her. He asked her why. “I’ll show you,” she had said, offering her hand. “Lightly,” she told him. His kiss had been the merest brush of his lips, not on the back of her hand but against the inside of her wrist, to feel her pulse, the life current inside her, because she was so very lovely, and kind, and because he wanted her.

  A moment later he’d watched with sick dismay as her skin darkened to purple and then black. Another one of mine, he’d thought.

  Yet somehow they had become friends. Not lovers, of course, except sometimes in his dreams; her capillaries ruptured at the slightest pressure, and to her hypersensitive nervous system even the lightest touch was painful. A gentle caress turned her black and blue; lovemaking would probably kill her. But friends, yes. She never asked him for anything he could not give, and so he could never fail her.

  Breakfast was served by a hunchbacked black woman named Ruth who had pale blue feathers instead of hair. “The man brought this for you this morning,” she told Angelface after she’d set the table, handing across a thick, square packet wrapped in brown paper. Angelface accepted it without comment while Tachyon drank his brandy-laced coffee and lifted knife and fork to stare with sick dismay at the implacable bacon and eggs.

  “Don’t look so stricken,” Angelface said.

  “I don’t think I’ve told you about the time the Network starship came to Takis, and what my great-grandmother Amurath had to say to the Ly’bahr envoy,” he began.

  “No,” she said. “Go on. I like your great-grandmother.”

  “That’s one of us. She terrifies me,” Tachyon said, and launched into the story.

  TOM WOKE WELL BEFORE DAWN, WHILE JOEY WAS SNORING IN THE back room. He brewed a pot of coffee in a battered percolator and popped a Thomas’ English muffin into the toaster. While the coffee perked, he folded the hide-a-bed back into a couch. He covered his muffins with butter and strawberry preserves, and looked around for something to read. The comics beckoned.

  He remembered the day they’d saved them. Most had been his, originally, including the run of Jetboy he got from his dad. He’d loved those comics. And then one day in 1954 he’d come home from school and found them gone, a full bookcase and two orange crates of funny books vanished. His mother said some women from the PTA had come by to tell her what awful things comic books were. They’d shown her a copy of a book by a Dr. Wertham about how comics turned kids into juvenile delinquents and homos, and how they glorified aces and jokers, and so his mother had let them take Tom’s collection. He screamed and yelled and threw a tantrum, but it did no good.

  The PTA had gathered up comic books from every kid in school. They were going to burn them all Saturday, in the schoolyard. It was happening all over the country; there was even talk of a law banning comic books, or at least the kinds about horror and crime and people with strange powers.

  Wertham and the PTA turned out to be right: that Friday night, on account of comic books, Tommy Tudbury and Joey DiAngelis became criminals.

  Tom was nine; Joey was eleven, but he’d been driving his pop’s truck since he was seven. In the middle of the night, he swiped the truck and Tom snuck out to meet him. When they got to the school, Joey jimmied open a window, and Tom climbed on his shoulders and looked into the dark classroom and concentrated and grabbed the carton with his collection in it and lifted it up and floated it out into the bed of the truck. Then he snatched four or five other cartons for good measure. The PTA never noticed; they still had plenty to burn. If Dom DiAngelis wondered where all the comics had come from, he never said a word; he just built the shelves to hold them, proud as punch of his son who could read. From that day on, it was their collection, jointly.

  Setting his coffee and muffin on the orange crate, Tom went to the bookcase and took down a couple of issues of Jetboy Comics. He reread them as he ate, Jetboy on Dinosaur Island, Jetboy and the Fourth Reich, and his favorite, the final issue, the true one, Jetboy and the Aliens. Inside the cover, the title was “Thirty Minutes Over Broadway.” Tom read it twice as he sipped his cooling coffee. He lingered over some of the best panels. On the last page, they had a picture of the alien, Tachyon, weeping. Tom didn’t know if that had happened or not. He closed the comic book and finished his English muffin. For a long time he sat there thinking.

  Jetboy was a hero. And what was he? Nothing. A wimp, a chickenshit. A fuck of a lot of good his wild card power did anybody. It was useless, just like him.

  Dispiritedly, he shrugged into his coat and went outside. The junkyard looked raw and ugly in the dawn, and a cold wind was blowing. A few hundred yards to the east, the bay was green and choppy. Tom climbed up to the old Packard on its little hill. The door creaked when he yanked it open. Inside, the seats were cracked and smelled of rot, but at least he was out of that wind. Tom slouched back with his knees up against the dash, staring out at sunrise. He sat unmoving for a long time; across the yard, hubcaps and old tires floated up in the air and went screaming off to splash into the choppy green waters of New York Bay. He could see the Statue of Liberty on her island, and the hazy outlines of the towers of Manhattan off to the northeast.

  It was nearly seven-thirty, hi
s limbs were stiff, and he’d lost count of the number of hubcaps he’d flung, when Tom Tudbury sat up with a strange expression on his face. The icebox he’d been juggling forty feet from the ground came down with a crash. He ran his fingers through his hair and lifted the icebox again, moved it over twenty yards or so, and dropped it right on Joey’s corrugated tin roof. Then he did the same with a tire, a twisted bicycle, six hubcaps, and a little red wagon.

  The door to the house flew open with a bang, and Joey came charging out into the cold wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt. He looked real pissed. Tom snatched his bare feet, pulled them out from under him, and dumped him on his butt, hard. Joey cursed.

  Tom grabbed him and yanked him into the air, upside down. “Where the fuck are you, Tudbury?” Joey screamed. “Cut it out, you dork. Lemme down.”

  Tom imagined two huge invisible hands, and tossed Joey from one to the other. “When I get down, I’m going to punch you so fuckin’ hard you’ll eat through a straw for the rest of your life,” Joey promised.

  The crank was stiff from years of disuse, but Tom finally managed to roll down the Packard’s window. He stuck his head out. “Hiya, kids, hiya, hiya, hiya,” he croaked, chortling.

  Suspended twelve feet from the ground, Joey dangled and made a fist. “I’ll pluck your fuckin’ magic twanger, shithead,” he shouted. Tom yanked off his boxer shorts and hung them from a telephone pole. “You’re gonna die, Tudbury,” Joey said.

  Tom took a big breath and set Joey on the ground, very gently. The moment of truth. Joey came running at him, screaming obscenities. Tom closed his eyes, put his hands on the steering wheel, and lifted. The Packard shifted beneath him. Sweat dotted his brow. He shut out the world, concentrated, counted to ten, slowly, backward.