The Sleepwalkers Part 8

We are one.

Love, MEEE!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Dear Billy, Okay, so I was telling you about my friend Mariam, right? Well, she was cheating on her boyfriend Will with this guy Casey (don't worry, I'd never cheat on you, lover) . . .

Billy-Caleb-stops reading. This is enough. He stuffs a handful of letters into the cargo pocket of his shorts, then shovels the rest back into the chest, and claps the lid shut. With one last sidelong glance down the shadowy hall for safety, he puts the chest back on the floor and shoves it roughly under the nightstand. As he leaves the room, he flicks the light off again.

"A lot of wisdom, a lot of laughing, a lot of happiness," says a slurred voice.

"What about my lifeline?" asks Bean eagerly.

"Ah, can't see in this d.a.m.ned light," says the drunken witch. She's hunched very close to Bean's outstretched palm.

Bean looks up at Caleb in the doorway.

"Hey, there, buddy," he says. "Sit down. Mrs. Zikry is reading my palm. You're next."

"We should really get going," says Caleb.

"Ah, come on, party p.o.o.per," says Bean. "Don't you want to know if you're going to be the editor of the New York Times someday?"

"Hmm, your lifeline-" begins the witch, smiling.

"Maybe next time," says Caleb. "Let's go."

Bean looks disappointed, but the witch just goes back to her bottle.

"My Annie was such a dancer!" she says, but whether she's talking to herself or to them, Caleb can't tell.

"Let's go," he says again.

"Okay, okay," says Bean. "Thanks for the warm c.o.ke, Mrs. Zikry. Maybe next time I'll drink it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Zikry," says Caleb. "Hey, don't drink so much, okay? It's bad for you."

"My Annie was such a good, obedient girl!" she says, staring at the coffee table and taking a shallow swig of whiskey.

There's nothing else he can say, so Caleb follows Bean out the screen door, thinking that even the strange, heavy Southern air is like a mountain breeze compared to the rot of that trailer.

They cross the field of stars and step into the twisted paths of the forest.

It takes them almost twice as long to get home as Caleb thought it would. Almost every path he leads them down, he has to double back. Finally, the familiar wooden fence, now half fallen and peeled of all but a shred of its paint, ushers them into the Masons' backyard.

Only then do they speak, and only a few sentences.

Bean: "So what did you find in her room?"

Caleb: "Nothing." He wants to explain, but for some reason, he's ashamed for Christine and can't say it. "She's crazy, just like you said. She's crazy and her mom's even crazier. I'm sorry I dragged you here. We'll leave tomorrow."

"Sweet," says Bean.

And that's that.

TRANSCRIPT-Patient #62, SESSION #79 (In this session, the patient begins to show signs of progress.) DIRECTOR: You're very quiet today.

(The patient doesn't respond.) DIRECTOR: You had some visitors earlier. Tell me about them.

PATIENT #62: It was Billy.

DIRECTOR: What was that? Speak up, I can't hear you.

PATIENT #62: It was Billy and his friend.

DIRECTOR: And who is Billy? Patient Sixty-two, please answer me. Who is Billy?

PATIENT #62: He's my best friend.

DIRECTOR: Well, that's nice. Did you enjoy seeing him? I thought it might be nice for you. Did you enjoy it?

(The patient nods.) DIRECTOR: Were you ashamed for him to see you like this?

(The patient nods.) DIRECTOR: What do you think he would say if you told him about all the voices you think you hear? Do you think he would believe you?

PATIENT #62: I guess not.

DIRECTOR: Patient Sixty-two, look at me. Did you think he was going to rescue you? Did you think this Billy was going to take you out of here?

PATIENT #62: I guess so.

DIRECTOR: Well, how long has it been since he came?

PATIENT #62: He came today.

DIRECTOR: No, he came three days ago. This is Thursday; he came on Monday.

PATIENT #62: I thought it was today . . .

DIRECTOR: Three days. Patient Sixty-two, I don't think he's coming back. Do you?

(The patient is becoming agitated.) PATIENT #62: I don't know. I don't know.

DIRECTOR: Relax, relax, relax.

(The director walks behind the patient and places his hands on her shoulders, then slips one down inside her nightgown.) DIRECTOR: What's wrong? Why are you crying?

PATIENT #62: Because.

DIRECTOR: Tell me why, I don't understand.

PATIENT #62: Director, please stop.

DIRECTOR: Stop what?

PATIENT #62: Please stop touching my breast.

DIRECTOR: I'm not. You're touching your own breast. Why are you doing that?

PATIENT #62: I'm not.

DIRECTOR: Why are you touching your breast, Patient Sixty-two? Does it feel good when you touch your breast like that?

(The patient nods.) DIRECTOR: Then why are you crying?

PATIENT #62: Because I'm so confused. I know I'm not crazy, but . . . I just don't know anymore. . . .

DIRECTOR: You know what? I think we're ready for the next phase of our work together.

(The patient begins crying loudly and shaking, but does not move.) (The director bends close to Patient #62's ear.) DIRECTOR: {This portion is inaudible.}

Chapter Six.

PACK OF MARLBORO REDS. One left. He holds it in his good hand, sticks it in his lips. It dangles there until he digs a lighter out from under a crushed RC Cola can and pops a flame. Then he snaps the cigarette to attention, taut, and breathes all that mother-lovin', toxic s.h.i.+t into his lungs. He dumps it out in a sigh. Looks down at the crumpled map on the desk in front of him. Spreads it out with his good hand as if to smooth out all the wrinkles, an impossible task. He slouches in his chair and takes another drag. No revelation, nothing. One thing's for sure, he's no Sherlock Holmes. Praise G.o.d.

Not surprising. In middle-school gym cla.s.s, he was no rope climber. At Markston High School he was no mathematician. No writer, either. Not much of a mechanic when he did that stint in his stepdad's shop, and the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d never missed a chance to remind him of it. Was never much good with women, so it made perfect sense that he was a lousy husband when he finally got the chance. Couldn't hold down that job keepin' books at the industrial supply-morphine makes the numbers swim once you're on the third or fourth pull from the whiskey flask. Couldn't just keep his blessed mouth shut and swallow his pride enough to appreciate that job checkin' groceries at the Publix, even though they had health benefits and everything. And, of course, let's not ever forget the last fiasco, the crown of them all. After that one, anything is easy to swallow. So there's not a speck of surprise in the fact that he can't figure this out, a bona fide mystery. One thing, though, gotta be fair. One thing no one can deny, one thing they can scrawl on his gravestone: Ron Bent was a good father. At least there's that. Praise G.o.d.

He goes to fold up the map and gets ashes all over it: one more screwup to go in his ever growing screwup file. He brushes the map off and folds it up, against the folds. Seems like he's folding against the folds every time with this blessed map. Seems like there's no right way to fold the thing. The s.h.i.+ny star stickers-gold, red, blue, and the scrawled, nearly illegible "Ron writ," as he thinks of it, disappear in the folds until finally, miraculously, the part saying "The Florida Panhandle, by Rand McNally" faces up. He sets it neatly in front of him, thinking he might never unfold it again, now that it's actually put away right.

Maybe that would be best. He's been staring at the thing for over two years.

Three big steps and he's at the sink, tosses the cigarette in. It hisses and smokes, then shuts up. Squirts some Colgate on his finger (forgot his toothbrush at the last motel, go figure) and brushes. Looks at himself. Gaining weight? Check. Hair a little thinner? Check. Grayer? Hard to tell with this flickering fluorescent light, but it's safe to say-check. Spits, splashes water into his mouth, pulls the rubberband out of his ponytail. It pulls and hurts. Tosses it next to the sink, takes a leak, undresses to his skivvies, and sits down on the bed, feeling it strain and hearing it squeal under the weight of his body. What's the blessed box spring complaining about? He's the one who has to carry his heavy a.s.s around all day, not it. He shoves his feet under the covers and clicks off the light next to his head. It's dark. A truck yells past on the highway, then another, then another. Hollow light seeps in between the curtains. Somebody's clomping up the steps outside, shaking the whole place. They walk by his door; he can hear them clearly: "That's fine. Let's just worry about it in the morning. Jesus."

"I'm just saying . . . " This voice is a woman's-the other one was a man's.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n, I've been driving all day, can we just-"

The words are cut to a dim m.u.f.fle as the door to the room next to him thumps shut.

He closes his eyes.

This is the ritual. It never changes. Another night, another cheap motel, another shallow sleep with another restless day nipping at its heels. Now, one last thing before sleep: the prayer.

Hey, Lord.

Here we are again.

Bet you get tired of hearing from me.

Same old prayer as always.

Keep me alive, keep me breathin'.

Keep me believing.

Not much new, I guess, just another day On the trail.

Keep Keisha well, Lord.

Hold her tight to you.

Keep her safe.

And if I can do her any good, Bring me to her.

If I can't do her any good, At least let me see her bones once Before I put her in the ground Before they put me in the ground.

And when they do, please bring us both home, Lord.

Thanks for your blessings.

You know I'm your servant.

Always have been, In my way, Always just been waiting for your bidding.

Waiting for you to touch me.

Or to answer me at all.

Still waiting.

Anyway.