****
In the morning, everything was normal. Armstrong was puffing on a cigarette, looking toward the window, sunlight glinting off his earring. Bill was sleeping in his bed, looking small and frail and sick.
But not quite as sick.
There was the beginning of a rosy glow in his cheeks. His skin looked healthier, less pale. His overall frame seemed…well, stronger. Not bigger—he hadn’t gained weight during the night or suddenly sprouted weightlifter muscles—but stronger.
As though he could fight his illness, as though he could survive.
The nurse came in with an orderly, bringing three trays of food. “How’d you boys sleep last night?”
“Fine,” Toby said.
Armstrong grunted.
The nurse placed a tray of hot cereal, toast and orange juice on the bed in front of Toby. Bill was still asleep, and she placed a tray on the table next to his bed, not wanting to wake him. “Poor boy. He needs all the sleep he can get.” She walked around Toby’s bed and handed the last tray to Armstrong.
“I need a Band-Aid,” Armstrong said.
“What’s the matter?” The nurse sounded concerned.
“I cut myself.”
“Where?”
“On my neck.”
Toby’s heart started pounding. He glanced over at Bill, still sleeping in the bed next to his.
The nurse was bending close, examining Armstrong’s neck. “You sure did,” she said. “How did that happen?”
“Just get me a Band-Aid.”
“I’m going to have to put some disinfectant on that.”
“Fine,” Armstrong said. “Do you think you can get me a Band-Aid at the same time? If it’s not too much trouble. I mean, I don’t want to put you out or anything.”
The nurse walked out of the ward, shaking her head. “You have a mouth on you, boy.”
“Most people do.”
The nurse snorted. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t you pick at it or scratch it or anything. That’ll just make it worse.”
Toby looked at Armstrong. He thought he could see a red splotch on the other boy’s neck, and a small scratch running through the redness. “What happened?” he asked.
Armstrong glared at him. “None of your business, Prancer.”
Toby turned away. His gaze fell on the sleeping form of Bill Ives in the bed next to him. He sucked in his breath. Bill was still asleep, but he had shifted position. He was facing Toby and his mouth was hanging open.
His teeth and lips were both lightly coated with red.
****
Bill was getting stronger.
And Armstrong was getting weaker.
It was nothing really noticeable; even the doctors and nurses did not seem to sense any appreciable change. But Toby lived with the two boys, lived with them day in and day out. All three of them were confined to their beds, and they spent all day every day in each other’s company. Small changes were readily apparent when living in such close quarters.
Of course, Toby still did not know exactly what was happening. And after that first night, he forced himself to fall asleep well before curfew. Now he nodded off while the TV was still on, while the lights were still lit, while other people were still around. He did not know what occurred in the darkness, in the night, when the boys were all alone. He did not want to know.
But the bandage had been taken off Bill’s head, and the boy’s skin, if not ruddy, was at least normal. The doctors still hadn’t determined what was wrong with Bill, but Toby thought that when they finally did decide on an illness, Bill would probably be ready to go home.
Armstrong, on the other hand, was paler and much more nervous than he had been. He seemed to have shrunk in spirit, if not actual size, and Toby found that he wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Armstrong had the same silver earring, the same rough clothes, the same defiant hair, but he was no longer the fearsome dominating presence he had been those first few days. He seldom spoke now and had even stopped talking back to the nurse.
Strangely, Toby found himself empathizing with Armstrong. He still couldn’t say he liked the older boy, but he felt closer to Armstrong than he did to Bill. He could understand what Armstrong was going through. The older boy had scared him at first, but it was a physical fear, the fear of the school bully.
The fear he had of Bill was not simple. Nor was it physical.
Toby wasn’t sure why the smaller boy frightened him. But there was something not quite right about Bill Ives, something he couldn’t comprehend, something that went beyond normal human fears, something connected with that whispering sound at night, with the furious quiet struggle in the darkness.
He glanced involuntarily at Bill and found the boy staring at him.
Toby looked quickly away and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.
****
When Toby awoke, the TV was off and the ward was in darkness. He opened his eyes, though he could see nothing, and held his breath, listening, though there was nothing to hear.
He felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He jumped in shock, crying out, moving away from the unseen touch.
There was a quiet boyish laugh in the darkness. “It’s all right. It’s just me. Bill.”
Toby’s heart was pounding. His hand reached slowly out from under the covers and along the side of his bed, feeling for the button to call for the nurse. “Really?” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Really.” Bill’s hand found his and held it. “There’s no reason to call for anyone.”
Toby pulled away. He slipped both hands under the covers and held the blankets tight. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Haven’t you guessed?”
Toby remained silent, not responding.
“Haven’t you noticed any changes around here?”
Toby swallowed hard. “You’re a vampire,” he said.
Bill laughed. His laugh was light, airy, musical. “No,” he said. “Not quite.”
“Leave me alone.” Toby tried to make his voice sound assured, commanding, but it came out scared and small.
Bill reached over and grabbed the edge of Toby’s blanket, pulling it down. “Come here,” he said. “I have something to show you.” His hand found Toby’s, pulling on it.
“No!”
“Yes.” And he was dragging Toby out of bed, making Toby’s muscles move against their will as he was pushed across the room toward Armstrong. “Just open your mouth,” Bill said softly. “And when I tell you, bite down.”
“No!”
“Yes.” There was light pressure of a hand on the back of Toby’s head, pushing his face downward. He opened his mouth to object and felt his teeth touch the soft flesh of Armstrong’s neck. “Don’t worry,” Bill said. “He won’t wake up.” He adjusted Toby’s head slightly. “Now bite.”
Toby bit. There was a warm flood of salty blood gushing into his mouth, healthy life-giving blood, and he began drinking it, lapping it up, feeling the strength flow into him, feeling the disease retreat within his body.
“No,” Armstrong muttered in his sleep. His legs kicked out against his blanket, causing it to fall off the bed. “No.”
Toby drank.
****
Toby awoke in the morning as usual. Sunlight was streaming into the ward and…he wasn’t afraid of it. Slowly, carefully, tentatively, he moved his hand into a beam of sunlight. Nothing happened.
He wasn’t a vampire.
Armstrong was still sleeping, one hand thrown over his face, but Bill was wide awake. Toby looked at him, confused. “Last night—” he began.
“It happened,” the other boy said.
Toby found that he was no longer afraid of Bill. He was no longer afraid of either of them. He felt better and healthier than he had in weeks.
The nurse came in with an orderly, served them all breakfast and left. The smell of toast and oatmeal woke Armstrong. He grunted and stretched and rubbed his eyes. Toby watched him in silence for a wh
ile, suddenly realizing that the older boy hadn’t smoked in two days.
“Why are you here?” he asked Armstrong finally. “What’s wrong with you?”
Armstrong glared at him. “I don’t have AIDS, gay boy.”
“What do you have?”
Armstrong sighed tiredly, and for once his voice sounded serious, honest. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They won’t tell me.”
“How long are you here for?”
The older boy looked at him, fingers worrying his silver earring. He looked uncertain, confused. “I don’t know. They won’t tell me.”
“How long have you been here so far?”
Armstrong stared into his oatmeal for several seconds. He took a sip of his orange juice, then looked at Toby. Their eyes met. “Five years,” he said. “I’ve been here five years.” He picked up his toast and started eating, staring out the window, and Toby noticed that the sunlight glinting off his earring made it look almost like a crucifix.
PALM READER
(1985)
Madame Carol sat in the dingy reading room staring through a crack in the curtained windows at the street outside. Very few cars came by these days, and it was rare to see more than one or two pass at the same time. She stared across the street at the Ford factory. It was closed now, and several of the front windows were broken. The once carefully trimmed hedges and neat rows of gladiolas were now overgrown with weeds, and even the weeds were turning brown due to the lack of water.
Her gaze returned to the reading table in front of her, and she looked at her appointment book. A Mr. Paul Burroughs was supposed to be in for a reading at ten o’clock. According to her watch, it was already ten-fifteen. And she had another man coming in for a consultation at ten-thirty. She couldn’t wait much longer.
A car pulled up out front. Peeking through the curtains, Madame Carol saw a thin, harried-looking, middle-aged man get out of a beat-up station wagon and walk across the small parking lot to the front door. She moved into the waiting room just as he rang the bell and opened the door. “Mr. Burroughs?”
The man nodded, trying to smile. “Yes.”
“You’re a little late, and I have another man coming in in fifteen minutes, so we’d better start right away.”
She led him into the reading room and gestured for him to sit down in front of the table. She placed his right hand in the proper indentation, palm up, and walked around to the other side of the table.
“Get much business these days?” he asked.
She knew he was nervous, just trying to make conversation, like so many of her customers, so she nodded pleasantly. “Surprisingly, yes. Quite a few people have been coming in recently.” She reached out and began stroking his palm, her long fingernails lightly tracing the lines, outlines and marks on his hand. His lifeline was short—very short—but she tried not to let it show on her face. She had long since given up telling people the truth about when they were going to die. The truth had been bad for business—it made people angry, it made people scared, it forced people to be skeptical. “You are going to live for a long time,” she intoned. “Your lifeline is long. You will live to be eighty-eight.”
The man smiled and relaxed somewhat, his features softening as the tension drained out of his muscles. “What about illness?” he asked.
Her fingernail traced the lines. There was illness looming up soon. Bad illness. “You will have a serious illness when you are sixty-five,” she lied. “But you will get over it. It will recur in your last year, and there will be nothing you can do. You will die a painless death, however.”
The man nodded. That was a long time away; he could afford not to worry about it.
Madame Carol decided to stick with what she really saw. “Someone close to you has died recently,” she said. “A woman. You loved her very much.”
“My aunt Helen,” the man supplied.
Madame Carol nodded. “You were planning a trip to visit her.”
The man’s face brightened. “That’s right.” There was a look of awe, of respect on his face.
She knew she had him now. She had established her credibility. He would believe anything she told him. Her fingers continued gliding lightly over his palm. “Your children. You have two of them. Boys.”
He nodded.
“The oldest will become some type of writer, working for a newspaper or a magazine. It is hard to tell which. The other will be a teacher. It is unclear now what grade he will teach. I see somewhere in high school or junior high.”
The man leaned forward eagerly. “What about my wife?”
The bell in the waiting room rang, and Madame Carol’s fingers stopped moving. Her other appointment must be here. She stood up, excusing herself, and went out to open the front door. A young friendly-looking man in his late twenties was standing there, taking off his coat. “It’s hot,” he explained. He walked in as she held the door for him. “Madame Carol? I’m Baker Collins.” He smiled at her.
She motioned for him to sit down on one of the couches in the waiting room. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you. I’m just finishing up another reading.”
The man nodded, still smiling. “No hurry.” He bent down to pick out a magazine from the rack next to the couch, and she was suddenly conscious of the fact that all of the magazines were old. She felt embarrassed, aware that he would find nothing there to interest him, and she hurried back into the reading room to finish Mr. Burroughs’ reading.
Sitting down again at the table, Madame Carol began stroking her client’s hand, making ever-widening circular motions. “Your wife will be fine,” she said. “Her life will not alter drastically. Next year will be a bad financial year for you, but you will snap out of it the following year.” She was aware that she was lying, babbling, and she was sure that he knew it, but she just wanted to get the reading over with. She stopped touching his palm. “I’m sorry, but my next appointment is waiting for me.” She started to make out a receipt. “Here. I’ll only charge you half price. You can come in for the rest of your reading later.”
The man stood up. “No. I heard what I came to learn. I’ll pay the full price.” He happily counted out the bills, leaving an extra five-dollar tip.
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely impressed.
He smiled at her. “Thank you.” He walked out, his step considerably lighter than when he’d come in.
Madame Carol stuck her head out the door into the waiting room. “Mr. Collins? I’m ready for you now.”
The young man walked into the reading room and automatically sat in the chair. “Call me Baker,” he said.
“Okay, Baker.”
He looked her over, smiling, and she felt a trifle embarrassed, shy. She could feel herself reddening. “You’re not at all what I was expecting,” he said.
She smiled back. “Is that good or bad?”
“Oh, good. Definitely good.” He put his hand in the indentation on the table. “You’re a lot younger than I expected. And a lot prettier.”
Now she was blushing. She didn’t know what to say. Her hand reached out and began automatically stroking his palm. Consciously or unconsciously, her fingers went straight to his loveline. “You’re not married,” she said, both surprised and a little excited at the discovery.
“No,” he admitted.
“You broke up with a girlfriend within the past year, and it was a very bitter break-up. You still harbor resentment toward her and you miss your life together, although you would never take her back.”
He looked both pleased and surprised. “You’re right.”
Her fingers flicked to his lifeline.
It stopped almost immediately.
She felt a tinge of…what? sadness? dismay? frustration? She tried to let nothing show on her face. Her fingers moved instantly to other lines, touching, feeling. “You are unhappy with your job…”
“When will I die?” he asked bluntly.
Her fingers stopped moving, surprised by the question. She traced his lif
eline again, to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake. She hadn’t. “You have awhile,” she said vaguely. She felt a strange pull within. Half of her wanted to tell him the truth; the other half wanted to spare him the truth.
“How long?” he said, leaning forward.
“You will live until you are sixty-five,” she lied. “Your death will not be painful. It will come as a surprise.”
“What about my brother?” he asked, now intensely interested.
“It is unclear,” she said. “It is too hard to tell.”
He stood up. “Thank you. That is all I wanted to know.”
Madame Carol stood up, too, aware that her heart was pounding. She looked at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to hear more?”
He smiled and shook his head. “That’s okay.” He got out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
She decided to take a chance. “Nothing,” she said. She smiled. “It’s on the house.”
He nodded, looking slowly around the dingy room at the faded carpet, at the cheap prints of the Old Masters on the walls, before letting his gaze settle back on her. He took the bait. “Maybe I can take you out some time to make up for it, to even it out?”
She could feel herself blushing again, but it was a pleased blush. “I’d like that.”
“Here.” He took a pen from the table and scribbled a phone number on a scrap of paper. “This is my number. You probably won’t have to use it, but I’ll give it to you to show my good faith.” He handed the paper to her. “I’ll call you tonight. Would that be all right?”
“That would be fine.”
She walked out to his car with him. They said an awkward goodbye, and she went back into the waiting room. The next appointment—a woman—wasn’t due to arrive for another twenty minutes. Locking the front door, she walked through the reading room to the makeshift kitchen in back. She turned on the radio and started to make some coffee. The coffee supply was getting low. She’d have to see if she could get some more.
If there was any left.
Music droned on the radio for a few minutes, then the newscast came on. There was only one story. That’s all there ever was these days. That’s all anyone cared about. She turned up the broadcast.
Walking Alone Page 3
