Slippage (44 page)

"This time you leave even your clothes behind?" she asked.

"This time I shake you clowns," he said, going down the hall, descending the stairs, opening the curtained front door, stepping out into the Illinois night, and seeing his car parked across the street. Surrounded by the other four.

As fragile as whispers, leaning against the car. Waiting for him.

Oh, Christ,
he thought,
this isn't happening.

"What the hell do you
want
of me?" he screamed. They said nothing, just watched. Three men and another woman. He could see the dark outline of his car through them.

He turned right and began running. He wasn't afraid, he was just frightened. It wasn't terror, it was only fear.

Abandon the underwear in the drawer. Lose the past life. Jettison the car. Get out of this existence. Forget the deposit on the room. Run away. Just...run away.

When he reached the end of the block, he saw the lights of a mini-mall. He rushed toward the light. Dark things have no shadows in sodium vapor lights.

Behind him, the milky figure of the fifth one emerged from the rooming house and joined her traveling companions.

They caught up with him only three times in the next year. The first time in Cleveland. There were four of them. Three months later, he stepped off a Greyhound Scenicruiser at the Port Authority Terminal in Manhattan, and they were coming up the escalator to meet the bus. Two of them, a man and the woman who had confronted him in the rooming house in Skokie.

And finally, he came full circle. He went home.

Not to Chicago, not to New Orleans, not as far back as he could remember, but as far back as he had come. Seven miles south of Cedar Falls, Iowa—on the thin road out of Waterloo—back to Hudson. And it hadn't changed. Flat cornfield land, late in September after the oppressive heat had passed, into the time of jackets and zipping up.

Where his house had stood, now there was a weed-overgrown basement into which the upper floors had fallen as the fire had burned itself out. One wall remained, the salt box slats gray and weathered.

He sat down on what had been the stone steps leading up to the front porch, and he laid down the cheap plastic shoulder bag that now contained all he owned in the world. And it was there that the last two of those who had dogged him came to have their talk.

He saw them coming down the dirt road between the fields of freshly-harvested corn, the stalks creaking in the breeze, and he gave it up. Packed it in. No more getting in the flow, chasing the wind. No more. He sat and watched them coming up the road, tiny puffs of dust at each step. The day was on the wane, and he could see clouds through them, the horizon line, birds reaching for more sky.

They came up and stood staring at him, and he said, "Sit down, take a load off."

The man seemed to be a hundred years old. He smiled at Ben Laborde and said, "Thanks. It's been a hard trip." He slumped onto the stone step below. He wiped his forehead, but he wasn't perspiring.

The woman stood in front of him, and her expression was neither kind nor hard. It was simply the face of someone who had been traveling a long time, and was relieved to have reached her destination.

"Who are you?"

The woman looked at the old man and said, "We were never a high school girl named Doris Burton, who was supposed to've died in a car accident in West Texas, but didn't. We were never an asthmatic named Milford Sterbank, who worked for fifty years as a reweaver. And we never got to be Henry Cheatham, who drove a cab in Pittsburgh."

He watched them, looking from the man to the woman, and back. "And which ones are you?"

The woman looked away for a moment. Laborde saw the setting sun through her chest. She said, "I would have been Barbara Lamartini. You passed through St. Louis in 1943."

"I was born in '49."

The old man shook his head. "Much earlier. If you hadn't fought with the 2nd Division at Belleau Wood, I would have been Howard Strausser. We shared a trench for five minutes, June 1st, 1918."

"This is crazy."

"No," the woman said wearily, "this is just the end of it."
 

"The end of what?"

"The end of the last of us whose lives you've been using. The last soft gray man or woman left on a doorstep by your passing."

Laborde shook his head. It was gibberish. He knew he was at final moments with them, but what it all meant he could not fathom.

"For godsakes," he pleaded, "hasn't this gone on long enough? Haven't you sent me running long enough? What the hell have I ever done to you...any of you? I don't even know you!"

The old man, Howard Strausser, smiled sadly and said, "You never meant to be a thief. It isn't your fault, any more than it's our fault for finally coming after you, to get our lives back. But you did, you stole, and you left us behind. We've been husks. I'm the oldest left. Barbara is somewhere in the middle. You've been doing it for several hundred years, best we've been able to tell. When we found one another, there was a man who said he'd been panning gold at Sutter's Mill when you came by. I don't know as I believe him; his name was Chickie Moldanado, and he was something of a liar. It was the only memorable thing about him."

The woman added, "There's nothing much memorable about any of us."

"That's the key, do you see?" Howard Strausser said.

"No, I
don't
see," Laborde said.

"We were never
any
thing
.
None of us."

He let his hands move helplessly in the air in front of them. "I don't know what any of this means. I just know I'm tired of...not of running...tired of, just, I don't know, tired of being
me."

"You've never been you." Howard Strausser smiled kindly.

"Perhaps you can be you now," Barbara Lamartini said.

Laborde put his hands over his face. "Can't you just tell it simply? Please, for godsakes, just
simply."

The woman nodded to the old man, who looked to be a hundred years old, and he said, "There are just some people who live life more fully than others. Take, oh, I don't know, take Scott Fitzgerald or Hemingway or Winston Churchill or Amelia Earhart. Everybody's heard their names, but how many people have read much Hemingway or Fitzgerald, or even Churchill's—" He stopped. The woman was giving him that look. He grinned sheepishly.

"There are just some people who
live
their lives at a fuller pace. And it's as if they've lived two or three lifetimes in the same time it takes others to get through just one mild, meager, colorless life, one sad and sorry—"

He stopped again.

"Barbara, you'd better do it. I've waited too long. I'm just running off at the mouth like an old fart."

She put a hand on his thin shoulder to comfort him, and said, "You were one of the passionate ones. You lived at a hotter level. And every now and then, every once in a while, you just leached off someone's life who wasn't up to the living of it. You're a magpie. You came by, whenever it was, 1492, 1756, 1889, 1943...we don't know how far back you go...but you passed by, and someone was wearing a life so loosely, so unused, that it just came off; and you wore it away, and added it on, and you just kept going, which way it didn't matter, without looking back, not even knowing.

"And finally, the last of us followed the thread that was never broken, the umbilicus of each of us, and we came and found you, to try and get back what was left."

"Because it's clear," said Howard Strausser, "that you're tired of it. And don't know how to get out of it. But—"

They sighed almost as one, and Barbara Lamartini said, "There isn't enough of either of us left to take back. We'll be gone, passed through very soon."

"Then you're on your own," Howard Strausser said.

"You'll be living what portion has been allotted to you," the woman said, and he could see through the holes where her milky eyes had been.

And they sat there into the deepening twilight, in Hudson, Iowa; and they talked; and there was nothing he could do for them; and finally, the woman said, "We don't blame you. It was our own damned fault. We just weren't up to the doing of it, the living of our own lives." What was left of her shrugged, and Laborde asked her to tell him all she could of the others they had known, so he could try to remember them and fit to their memories the parts of his own life that he had taken.

And by midnight, he was sitting there alone.

And he fell asleep, arms wrapped around himself, in the chilly September night, knowing that when he arose the next day, the first day of a fresh life, he would retrace his steps in many ways; and that one of the things he would do would be to return to New Orleans.

To go to the Parish Coroner, and to have exhumed the body of JANE DOE
#112; to have it dug out of the black loam of Potter's Field near City Park and to carry it back to West Texas; to bury the child who had never been allowed to be Doris Burton where she would have lived her life. Pale as opal glass, she had passed through and whispered away, on the last night of the poor thing that had been her existence; seeking out the only friend she had been allowed to have, on a noisy street in the French Quarter.

The least he could do was to be her last friend, to carry her home; by way of cheap restitution.

___

Then, one day, a year and a half after she’d booked, taking all the goods and every cent in the bank account. I got this teary, weepy, jerky call from Charlotte, begging me to “take her back” (her phrase). I didn’t have much room for choice…she was calling from the PX nearby. I gotta admit it, by this time, almost three years after we’d been wed, I was scared shitless of her. Not that she’d knife me or anything, but that she was wired and weird and capable of driving an oak tree crazy. But I said I’d drive over to the PX and we’d go have a cup coffee, and we’d talk.

___

The Dreams A Nightmare Dreams

Yes, they died. Sixty-five million years ago they died, all but the most cunning of them who burrowed deep and hid so well that the dreams never found them. It gave them time to alter their shapes, to devise tricksy alternatives, to outrun and outfox the dreams till they could become bats and rats and sharks and cockroaches, snails and whales and birds and men.

Pay close attention here. Forget the floods and the ozone depletion, the hurricanes and earthquakes, the drive-by killers and the nuclear terrorists. They will pass with the rest of us if the thing that lies dreaming in its crypt at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, in that vast sunken cathedral called the Sigsbee Deep, if that thing ever stops dreaming and wakens. Your puny terrors and wee hours sweats don't mean a damn, my friend, if that eyeless thing at the bottom of the Sigsbee yawns and shudders and stretches its spikey nasal hoses for leagues in all directions, and comes fully awake. Horrorists and charlatans and clairvoyants and those who rant in tongues and serial killers have tried to name it, but it
has no name.

It has no kin, it has no home. It has no heart, it has no soul. It has no caring and it has no fear. It is pure nightmare, and it killed the dinosaurs.

You thought it was a great meteor that struck the Earth sixty-five million years ago, just out of the Cretaceous, just into the Tertiary, that's what you thought, isn't it? A great meteor, and a deadly shroud of dust that mantled the planet and hid the sun. And the plants died, and the atmosphere boiled, and the great saurians perished, crashing to the ground and lying there till they rotted. That's what you thought, isn't it?

Pay close attention here. That isn't even
remotely
what happened. The truth lies dreaming at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. The truth is eyeless and frightening without a soul. Immense and asleep in a great fanged crypt that keeps the nightmare sucking at our dreams, oh pay attention, pal.

It came through a suppurating wound in the fabric of the universe. A sucking chest wound in the skin of eternity. A burst blood vessel in the atrophied brain of Forever. Who the hell knows where it came from? Not even the nightmare knows what hideous miscegenation of stone and vomit gave it birth. But there it was, traveling through the lava flow of space-time, burning and screaming, on an endless voyage that would last its entire million-age life.

And there was a rip, a tear, a fracture, a schism, just the neatest little rift...and it fell into
our
universe. It fell, and fell, all through the millennia without number it took for our reality to get born, reach maturity, and take a hold on life. It fell toward us, and sixty-five million years ago it fell through our sky and impacted on the post-Pangaean landscape, and made the crater they call the Sigsbee. The vile horror that lay curled in that cosmic cradle, it reached out with its hundred minds, and it licked at the surface of every brain it could find, no matter how large, no matter how small. It savored the worm, it tasted the fungi, it slobbered over the centipede. But when it found the thoughts of the dinosaurs, it knew fulfillment, a disgusting satiation. It could dominate, if it could invade the minds of the saurians.