Loss (8 page)

That made Billy laugh, a strangled sound that bordered on a scream. Death and Pestilence and the flying horse/car, those were all just symbols of his stress. He wondered what it meant if you knew you were dreaming when you were in the middle of a dream, and he decided he didn’t care. This wasn’t real, so he didn’t need to care.

This wasn’t real.

Suddenly Death was right in front of him, peering at him with those empty blue eyes, and he said, “This is more real than you have allowed yourself to know, William Ballard.” A cold finger touched Billy’s forehead, and it seared him down to his soul.

Death’s voice, penetrating, insistent:
Remember
.

And Billy remembered.

***

. . .
Billy’s in the sandbox, building castles and getting filthy and loving every second of it. The castle’s going to be the setting for the ultimate battle of Good versus Evil—in other words, the battle of every single toy, creature, and superhero he’s ever owned, created, or seen on television. Billy’s got a tremendous imagination. His mom tells him so every day. She’s there somewhere on the periphery of the playground, sitting on a bench and reading a book. Billy doesn’t need to look around to know she’s watching. His mom always watches. It makes him feel safe. He smiles as he adds more sand to reinforce the towers.

It’s a gorgeous spring day, complete with blue skies and singing birds. Trees talk to each other in the breeze as the sun smiles down on everyone. Other kids are in the playground, too, but Billy doesn’t notice them. He’s lost in his sandcastle architecture, already planning on building an extension for the mega-round of the tournament. He’s got to be thorough; he doesn’t want anyone left out of the superhuge battle.

A cloud passes over him, and Billy sneezes, once.

Wait—maybe he should make this part of the castle open to the sky. That way, the flying aliens and superheroes don’t have to worry about bumping into the ceiling. He scoops out more sand.

The cloud hasn’t moved.

Billy’s sniffling now, his nose leaking and his eyes watering. He barely notices; he just uses his shirt as a tissue and keeps on playing in the sandbox. Something’s not right, he decides as he frowns at the hollow tower, but he can’t decide what it is. Maybe he’ll make another castle right next to this one.

A shadow falls over Billy.

No, not a castle, he decides. A fortress. With wings, so that it can fly. He grins, inspired, and he reaches for more sand.

“It won’t last,” says a man’s voice.

Billy jumps, and he whips his head around to see a huge man dressed in white looming over him. There’s something wrong with the man’s face—it looks like it’s melting. Billy is about to shout for his mom, but then he feels three things, one right after the other. First, he’s horribly thirsty. Second, he has a sudden urge for potato chips. And third, he’s calm, extremely calm. There’s no reason for Billy to panic; if the man in white does anything scary, Billy will run to his mom. Billy is proud of himself for being so grown up.

“Addison’s disease,” says the man in white. His voice sounds like it’s being pulled out of his mouth and dragged along gravel. “The adrenal glands don’t produce enough cortisol, which helps the body respond to stress. A feel-good disease. Just for you, Billy.”

Billy cocks his head to the side as he looks up at the man. He’s positive he hadn’t told the man his name, and he’s not wearing a shirt with his name printed on it. Instead of feeling uneasy or scared, Billy just accepts it. “I’m thirsty,” he announces.

“Of course you are. Dehydration is one of the symptoms of Addison’s. You should be thankful that I’m repressing most of the other symptoms, like vomiting and diarrhea.”

Billy isn’t sure what diarrhea is—it sounds like a girl’s name—but he’s familiar with vomiting. The last time he’d puked, it was because he had what his mom called a “tummy bug.” Billy hates vomiting. By extension, he hates bugs. “I’m getting some water,” he says. When he stands up, there’s a moment of dizziness. The man in white catches him before he can fall. His gloved hand is cold on Billy’s back.

“Sudden low blood pressure,” the man with the runny face says. “Another symptom. Nothing to worry about. This is all temporary.”

“I’m not worried,” says Billy. And it’s true: He’s not. He walks over to where his mom is, going slower than usual because his legs feel a little rubbery, and he frowns when he sees her sleeping on the bench. The lady next to her is also sleeping.

Actually, everyone in the playground is sleeping. Everyone except for him and the man in white.

“Narcolepsy,” says the man, who’s watching Billy. “Extreme daytime fatigue, resulting in falling asleep at inappropriate times. Again, temporary. Get your drink. Then I have something to show you.”

Billy rummages through his mom’s large shoulder bag and produces a juice box. Straw in place, he sips his apple juice as he walks back to the man. “Are you an ice cream man?” he asks, staring at the man’s pristine white clothing.

The man in white smiles slowly. It’s rather horrible to look at. “I am many things. Why not an ice cream man as well?”

Billy ponders this as he drinks his juice.

“Come with me,” says the Ice Cream Man, who turns his back on Billy and starts to walk off the playground. “And throw out the empty box. Littering is a disease of the world, and I don’t abide by it.”

Billy follows, tossing his juice box in a garbage can. He knows he’s not supposed to talk to strangers or go with them anywhere. But this man knows his name. And besides, Billy is feeling so calm that he feels good, really good, like he just ate something tasty and is feeling it settle comfortably in his belly.

The Ice Cream Man walks, a cloud of dust in his wake, and Billy Ballard follows as if in a dream.

At the edge of the park, Billy sees a white horse. Not a merry-go-round horse, either, but a real live horse, about a million feet tall and so white that it’s like staring at the sun. Billy grins in delight.

“Tell me,” says the Ice Cream Man, “would you like to ride the white horse?”

Stunned by his good fortune, Billy nods.

“All you have to do is agree to wear the Crown when the time comes.”

Billy scrunches up his face as he tries to understand the Ice Cream Man’s words.

“Will you wear the Crown, Billy Ballard?”

Billy says, “A crown. Like a king?”

“This Crown,” says the Ice Cream Man, motioning to his forehead.

Billy squints, and now sees there’s a thin silver band nestled over the man’s eyebrows. Even looking hard, Billy can barely see it, thanks to the man’s long greasy hair and his misshapen forehead. It’s like the crown is being eaten by the man’s terrible face.

“Why?” asks Billy.

“Because I’ve picked you.”

“Why?” Billy asks again.

The man in white smiles. “Because it makes more sense to pick my predecessor now than to have the Pale Rider do so post mortem.”

Billy knows with crystal-clear certainty that even though the man is telling the truth, he’s also lying.

“Omission isn’t the same thing as lying,” the Ice Cream Man says with a sniff. “But it’s your choice. Either agree to wear the Crown when the time comes and get a ride on my fine white steed, or say no and run back to your meager little life.”

Billy looks at the horse. The huge animal seems to be smiling at him, like it’s trying to tell him that riding on its back would be the best thing in the whole world.

“What do you say, Billy?” The man’s voice is smooth now, not at all like the rough voice he’d used back in the playground. Hearing the man speak makes Billy think of a glass of cold milk. Or maybe vanilla ice cream, the soft kind that swirls into a point. “Do you want a ride on the horse?”

Biting his lip, Billy nods.

“Do you agree to wear the Crown when the time comes?”

Again, Billy nods.

“You have to say the words, Billy. Say that you agree to wear the Crown.”

Staring at the white horse, Billy says, “I’ll wear the Crown.”

The Ice Cream Man grins, and Billy feels the calmness inside of him begin to erode. There’s a pit in Billy’s stomach, and it’s white and filled with bugs.

“Excellent,” hisses the Ice Cream Man. “Come here, Billy, and I’ll get you saddled up . . .”

The man in white reaches out to Billy, and Billy sees that the man’s gloved hand is twisted into a monster’s claw. The last shreds of calm are torn away as Billy opens his mouth to scream . . .

***

“No!” Billy cried, throwing himself back to avoid the Ice Cream Man’s touch. The cold spot on his forehead vanished, and warmth flooded through him. He stood, shaking, panting for breath.

A dream
, he told himself as he shivered.
Just a dream!

“It was no dream, William.”

Billy looked up to see the Pale Rider leaning against the bed rail, hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. His hair hung almost artfully in front of his eyes, casting them in shadow. “It’s amazing to see just how far you people go to lie to yourselves,” Death said idly. A smile teased his lips—just a hint by the corners, almost too subtle to be seen. “Imagine how much you could accomplish if you stopped insisting on denial as the norm.”

It was Death’s bemused smile that nudged Billy over the edge. He’d been elbowed, slammed, and tripped, that last in front of the girl he still dared to dream about, not to mention countless others in the pizzeria. He’d changed his grandfather’s adult diaper and put up with monosyllabic insults from the man who’d stepped in when his father had stepped out. He’d gotten through all of that because that was his life and that’s what he did: He got through it. He hated it, but he understood it.

But then Death had shown up, and everything Billy thought he’d understood got flushed down the toilet. And now Death had the gall to mock him?

In his mind, the PE coach sneered,
Don’t be such a girl.

Voice tight, Billy demanded, “Why am I here?”

Half-hidden by golden hair, Death’s eyes sparkled like caged sunlight. “Depends if your worldview is Maileresque or more along the lines of Vonnegut. Are you a ‘huge purpose’ fan, or more of a ‘fart around’ sort of guy?”

“You said you needed my help,” Billy said flatly. “And then you brought me here. Tell me why.”

“Ah, the direct approach. Groovy.” No question about it now: Death was smiling fit to burst. “I brought you here because of your connection to the man lying unconscious in this bed. The Conqueror cannot ride. And so the mantle of the White Rider falls to you.”

A heartbeat, then Billy said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You, William Ballard, are now Pestilence. Well,” added Death, somewhat sheepishly, “sort of.”

Billy’s stomach roiled. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or afraid or something else completely. He wanted to run until his legs turned to rubber; he wanted to throw his head back and scream until the sound was etched in his throat.

A lick of fire burned behind his eyes, and as the fire crackled it said:
You’ve convinced yourself that if you fight back, that will make it worse. It might. Then again, it might not.

Billy didn’t know about fighting back. But he did know that what Death had just said was ludicrous. The Ice Cream Man was real, and now Billy was . . . what, the Ice Cream Boy? No. Absolutely not.

“ ’Fraid so,” said Death. “You agreed to wear the Crown when it was time. And it’s time.”

“I
agreed?
I didn’t agree to anything!”

“For the price of a ride on the pretty white horse, you agreed to wear the Crown.”

The words sank in. “You’re talking about my dream.”

Death said nothing as he watched Billy, but the smile on his face stretched wider.

“You’re telling me that because of something I said in a dream from when I was a kid, that makes it a done deal?”

“It wasn’t a dream. You made an agreement with the White Rider when you were five.” Death paused, then said, “Sorry, William. That’s lousy, but it’s binding.”

“It’s
bullshit!
You can’t hold me to something I said when I was a kid!”

“Actually, I have to,” Death said gently. “Rules, you know. They suck, but they’re still rules. And these aren’t the kind you can break, or that I can overlook. Thou art Pestilence, William Ballard. Of a sort.” Shadows passed behind Death’s eyes. “I can’t give you the White Rider’s Crown because he wears it still. It would have made you the conqueror of health and sickness alike. That title remains with him. He is the Conqueror.”

Billy glared at the figure lying in the hospital bed. Indeed, on the man’s pox-ridden brow lay a thin band of silver, barely visible between the greasy strands of black hair. Billy thought the silver band was called a circlet. He also thought it looked completely nasty, resting there on the man’s lumpy face. There was no way he would ever let that band of silver touch his flesh.

“I can, however, give you his Bow,” said Death. “A consolation prize, perhaps, but still a good one.”

Eyes locked on the Crown, Billy shook his head. “I don’t want anything of his.” He wasn’t going to take over for the Ice Cream Man, or the Conqueror, or whatever he was called.

“He has many names, and even more titles. Before you prattle on about what you want and what you don’t want, look at the Bow.”

Something about Death’s voice made Billy turn to face the Pale Rider, who was motioning to the back corner of the room.

“You have to admit,” said Death, “you’ve never seen anything like it.”