Boundaries (5 page)

"What?" he’d whispered. And he’d heard himself, though his voice had sounded distant, as if
he
were being whispered to.

He’d been lying on his left side with his right arm down so his hand was on his upper thigh and his left arm was up, as if he were reaching.

He had felt no pressure beneath him, no tug of gravity. He had, oddly, felt pressure from above.

Then, in an instant, he was in the tunnel again, and its mouth was receding, and he had felt as if he were falling.

And he had felt very, very afraid. Consciousness had seemed like a reprieve.

~ * ~

"Look at us," he heard. It was Christian’s voice; he knew that Christian was in the room, and that Karen was with him, but he did not turn to look.

"Please," said Karen.

"No," David said.

A few moments of silence followed, then Christian said, "Why did you do it?"

David said nothing.

Karen said, "Tell us why you did it, David. We need to know."

David said, his gaze still on the ceiling, "I didn’t do what you believe I did. I
couldn’t
do that."

Christian said at once, "You took some damned drug, right? Tell us what we’re
supposed
to believe."

David said nothing. He wanted to tell them to leave; he didn’t need their criticism, their pity, or even their understanding, now.

Christian repeated, "You took some damned drug," paused, then added, with emphasis, "
right?
"

David nodded a little.

"Then it’s self-explanatory."

Karen admonished, "This is not the time to be judgmental—"

"The hell it isn’t," Christian cut in. "This is
exactly
the time. What better time is there, Karen? This is my friend, here, and for some damned stupid reason, he—"

"I went over," David cut in. He did not turn his head to look at them. "I went over to the other side." He looked at Christian, saw that the muscles of the man’s square face were rigid, as if in anger, and that his large gray eyes were wide with disbelief.

"I’m not going to listen to it," Christian managed, as if preparatory to leaving the room. But he stayed where he was.

Karen said, her voice low, clearly embarrassed, "I’m sure you
believe
that, David—"

"I don’t
believe
it, I
know
it." He waited a moment for his sudden anger to subside. He looked away again, at the ceiling. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "But it’s simply not a matter this time of belief or disbelief. I went over to the other side, again, and it . . . scared the hell out of me."

Christian said, "They’re probably going to charge you. Attempting suicide is illegal—"

Karen admonished, "Please, Christian."

"No," David said. "Let him talk. I know this confuses him. Of course it confuses him." He looked at Christian. "Forgive me," he said.

Christian said, still angry, "It’s weak, it’s a weak thing you did. Weak and selfish." He paused. "And damned unnatural, too."

David gave him a quick, puzzled look. "You don’t understand. I went looking for Anne. And for him, too. For Brian Fisher. I
must
find them, I
have
to find them."

"Why?" Karen asked.

David looked earnestly at her. "Karen, it’s clear, isn’t it? I need to know why she died. I have to know the reason for it. I need to know if she’s happy, now." He looked away. His eyes misted over. "And I need to find
him
, too!"

"Him?" Karen asked.

"Brian Fisher. My sister’s murderer. He thinks he’s gotten away with something. But he hasn’t. He probably thinks that he’s punished himself for my sister’s murder—but it’s not good enough, it’s not nearly good enough!"

"
Goddammit
!" Christian whispered.

I
n the room the days came and went like leaves turning over in a wind. Time was not measured well by them; the days measured only the passing of events—snow fell and covered the house to a depth of several inches, then was gone; a breeze passed through the house, pushed the dust about, and when it dissipated, the dust collected itself again.

The dust was sturdy and flesh-colored. It sat up a little as it collected itself, then it lay down again.

In the cellar, during the passage of darkness, the things that lived there slithered up the stairs, out the doors and over the windowsills, and found the fields of clover empty.

They went back to their cellar.

And they waited.

~ * ~

Christian Grieg said, "I’ve told you this before, David—I think you sound flaky when you talk about going over to the other side."

David was surprised. "You never told me that," he said. It was the morning after Christian and Karen’s first visit, and he was sitting up in his hospital bed and thinking that he felt good. "You said you believed me," he went on.

"No, David. I never believed you. And if I haven’t told you before that you sounded flaky, then I meant to."

Karen said, trying to be the peacemaker, "This is getting nowhere."

"We’ve nowhere at all to go," Christian snapped. "This is a dead end. We’re visiting our friend who’s crazy, our friend who tried to kill himself." He shook his head. "There’s nothing to discuss, there’s nowhere to go, Karen."

David said, "I’ve never heard you sound like this before, Christian."

Christian smiled. It was as quick as a pulse beat, and as tiny as the smile of a baby that has burped, but David saw it and wondered about it. Christian hurried on, his mouth set and serious, "I don’t understand you, David. I don’t think I’ve ever understood you. And it doesn’t make me feel good. You’re my friend, and I think I’m supposed to understand you. But here’s the thing; if I don’t understand you, then how can I understand anyone?"

David said, "What is there to understand? There is this world. And there is another. And, regardless of what you believe or understand, I went from here to there." He looked apologetically at Karen. "It’s true, Karen. Everything I’ve told you and Christian is true."

"Yes," she said, "I know that, I understand that." But she was clearly at sea. She shook her head a little, gave him a small, nervous grin, looked at Christian, who was stone-faced, then back at David. "I believe that you believe it, David. That’s important, I think."

He sighed. "Yes, well thank you for that," he said. "Now, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you both to leave. They’re coming to give me some damned shot in a couple of minutes, and I’d like some privacy."

"Of course," Karen said, and got her coat from the back of a chair nearby.

Christian said, still stone-faced, his voice crisp and knowing, "You’ll have to talk to us sooner or later, David. We’re your friends. You can turn your back on us, but we’ll still be here."

David gave him a long, studied look. He saw the man smile once more, the same kind of smile he’d seen on him a few minutes earlier, and again he wondered about it. He decided that it was not a nervous smile—the kind that one friend gives another when he doesn’t know what to say, or what to think. It was the kind of smile that has guilt and satisfaction in it. And secrecy. The kind that is little more than a twitch. He said, "Yes, Christian, I’ll talk to you. I’ll have a lot to say, in fact."

"Good," Christian said. "It’s best for everyone. Come to grips with it David. This is a heinous thing you’ve done. It’s a crime against yourself. It’s appalling and unnatural."

David said nothing. He had never before seen Christian so archly judgmental and he wasn’t sure how to react to it.

"Good," Christian repeated, and a moment later he and Karen left the room.

~ * ~

The martins that had gotten closed up in Anne Case’s empty house had found their way to the third floor ballroom and were going after the spiders that lived there. There were audacious jumping spiders, daddy longlegs, a brown recluse; and there were far more spiders than the martins could eat in a day. Most of the audacious jumping spiders—whose eyes were much better than the eyes of other spiders—had seen the martins and were busy finding hiding places.

There were many places for the spiders to hide. There was a set of tall cupboards in four of the room’s six corners. These cupboards were for towels or clothes or dancing shoes, all of which were items that, at one time or another in the house’s one hundred-year history, had been in use in the room. There were also built-in bookcases whose shelves did not all fit flush with the wall, and some of the spiders hid on the back edges of these shelves. A half dozen of the spiders also hid in the tall lace curtains at the bay windows, although the martins spotted two of these spiders easily and made quick work of them.

The martins called to each other as they flew about the room. Their song was high-pitched, but musical, and the martins liked the way it echoed from the walls of the huge room; in fact, the younger of the two birds was convinced for a moment that there were other birds in the room.

In the basement of the house, there was a tiny gas leak. It was not a potentially explosive leak, but on still days, when a breeze could not push through the cold air vents and into the basement, the leak built up and smelled bad. Creatures that lived in the basement had died because of the leak. The newborns of a dormouse, which had made its nest in a corner of the basement near the leak, were now struggling mightily to stay alive while their mother rushed frantically about, with no idea what was happening. Eventually, using an instinct that was far more useful to it than naked intelligence, it would relocate the nest, and its children would survive.

On this day, two sturdily built middle-aged women in crisp gray business suits came to the front door of the house and knocked firmly. Each of the women had a bible tucked under her arm and a sheaf of
Watchtowers
in hand. When they got no answer to their knock, they knocked again. They wore pleasant, forgiving smiles which did not alter even as the women went back to their car and drove away.

~ * ~

The doctor attending to David introduced a man who was tall, very thin, and almost comically intense looking. "This," said David’s doctor, "is Dr. Flexner. He’s a psychiatrist and he would like to speak with you for a few minutes, if you’re up to it."

David gave both men a noncommittal smile, but said nothing.

"Are you up to it, Mr. Case?"

David said, "If he is."

Dr. Flexner nodded a little, as if to himself. He said, in a voice that had the jarring quality of being sepulchral and nasal at the same time, "I have looked at your file, Mr. Case. I find it, and you, quite interesting."

"Thank you," David said.

"Thank you? For what?"

"For finding me interesting."

"Well, of course, all people are interesting—"

"Yes, they are," David agreed.

Dr. Flexner smiled tightly, as if realizing he was being toyed with. He said, speaking slowly and succinctly, the nasal quality in his voice now very obvious, "I would like to talk with you specifically about your visits to what you refer to as ‘the other side.‘ I have worked with other people, I can tell you, who have claimed similar . . . odysseys." He smiled again, coyly. "I myself have had such an experience, and I must say that it was quite horrifically convincing."