Fade. Part 16

"The thing is, Paul, I did not think he was sick enough to die. I thought he was only sick and in pain and wanted me to help him. Wanted me to help him keep his condition a secret from everyone else. If that is what made him happy, then I was glad to do it. I used the fade to bring him toys. Went out at night and broke into the stores, brought him things. Did all I could. Loved him, kept his secrets, used the fade to help his pain. But he died anyway. In fact, he might have lived if I had not interfered. Or if I had told my parents what he was going through." Tears gathered in his eyes. "But I did not expect him to die."

I touched his arm in sympathy and knew that I could not confide in him after all. The circ.u.mstances of Vincent's death were different from Bernard's. My uncle Adelard had not killed anyone. Vincent's death was not an act of revenge.

I left him and knelt before the coffin, not praying, looking at the poor frail thing that had been my brother.

I'm sorry, Bernard, Pm sorry.

But knew that words were not enough.

Bernard was buried on a wind-howling morning, the cold biting at our cheeks as we stood under a faded green canopy that was no protection at all. We huddled together, s.h.i.+vering and shuddering, looking at the gray metal coffin held by straps above the hole beneath it. I averted my eyes and saw Mr. LeFarge at a distance, standing near the fence, leaning stolidly on his shovel, as if this were a summer afternoon.

The words of Father Belander were tossed on the air and blown away by the wind, French and Latin phrases dissipating on the air. Booming thunderclaps accompanied the wind, out of season, as if heaven itself protested Bernard's death and burial. Armand and I clung together, arms around each other, sniffing, tears frozen on our cheeks.

Snow began to fall, whirling madly as the procession made its way home in borrowed cars and a black limousine supplied by Tessier's Funeral Home. The car I rode in belonged to Mr. Lakier and it had a plush interior, everything maroon, and a smell peculiar to my senses: the smell of newness.

"A blizzard," someone yelled as we hurried out of the cars and up the steps to our tenement.

Everyone settled in the kitchen and parlor, my mother and aunts bustling about preparing food and the men in small groups, drinking whiskey in quick gulps.

After a while, I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door softly behind me, did not look at the bed where Bernard had slept between Armand and me. I went to the window. The panes were white with frost. I tried to wipe the frost away with my sleeve but failed to clear even a small spot.

I tried to cry but could not.

It came to me that h.e.l.l would not be fire and smoke after all but arctic, everything white and frigid. h.e.l.l would be not anger but indifference.

With numbed fingers I unfastened the latch and raised the window, and was immediately buffeted by the swirling wind and snow. The sting of the cold stabbed my eyes, seared my cheeks.

Thinking of Bernard sealed in the coffin, buried in the earth, still and silent until he became dust-my little brother, dust-I placed my hands on the windowsill, my face remaining exposed to the cold and the snow and the wind.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I yelled, but did not know whom I was calling a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"I will never fade again," I vowed, not knowing whether I spoke aloud or not.

"The h.e.l.l with the fade," I cried, repudiating this thing that had entered my life like something evil. "I make this promise. I will never use the fade again. Kill me if I do...."

I waited. For what? I did not know. But waited all the same.

A small noise reached my ears. Barely a noise, a rattle of metal hitting wood. Looking down, I saw the old tin can that Pete Lagniard and I used to send messages up and down to each other from the first floor to the second.

I picked it up, remembering the hot, lush summertime when Pete and I had ghosted through the night on our way to Moccasin Pond. How innocent I had been. As I tilted the can a bit of snow spilled out, and I saw something inside, a piece of paper, flattened and folded. My fingers were so numbed that it was difficult to pull the paper out. I unfolded it eagerly because it was precious suddenly, a souvenir of the summer, an old message left by Pete before the strike and the violence and all the bad things that had happened. Before the fade.

I opened the folded note and saw the scrawled words, twisting like tiny snakes on the paper.

h.e.l.lo, Paul The handwriting was unmistakably Bernard's.

Pete and I had often been discouraged in our use of the pulley system for communication because our brothers and sisters, aware of what we were doing-it was hard to keep the system a secret-played tricks on us. We found everything from dead mice to disgusting pieces of garbage in the can. I knew that Armand had been the one to leave the mice, while Pete swore that his brother, Herbie, had donated the garbage. We stopped using the system for a while, resuming it after a few weeks went by. My sisters used to leave notes in the can reminding me to take out the rubbish or that it was my turn to wipe the dishes, a ch.o.r.e I hated. Bernard left me a note occasionally, usually a crazy riddle or just a greeting. He never signed them but I always recognized his handwriting.

I stared at the note, the paper brittle, the penciled lines stark and distinct on the whiteness of the paper.

h.e.l.lo, Paul.

As if he had spoken to me.

I knew that I would never use the fade again, no matter how long I lived. I did not want others to die because of me.

On Sunday, I went to ma.s.s with my mother and father. The time for communion arrived. I joined them in the aisle, knelt at the communion rail, my hands folded under the white linen cloth. Raised my head to the priest, opened my mouth, allowed the wafer to be placed on my tongue. Trudged back to my seat, the wafer melting on my tongue. I was careful not to let it touch my teeth. I swallowed the wafer, telling myself: Think of it as a wafer, not communion, not the Body of Christ.

Kneeling, I waited for thunder and lightning, for the walls of the church to crumble, the pillars to tumble against each other. But nothing happened.

That was the worst thing of all.

The nothingness. The emptiness that never would be filled in all the years to come.

Twenty-five years later, I lay in my bed in the third-floor tenement across from St. Jude's Church, in the fade, in the middle of the night, my sister sleeping nearby in the bedroom, innocent of my condition.

I had never broken the vow I had made the day Bernard was buried and refused to consider what nightmares would be unleashed if I invited the fade. The fade had invited itself, however, depleting me, coming again and again, and I was helpless to prevent its a.s.sault.

In the safety of the darkness I endured the fade one more time, putting off the moment when I would force it away, postponing for a little while whatever symptoms would appear-the pause, the pain, the cold.

That night, however, there was almost bliss in the way the fade possessed me. I thought of that other fader out there, that unknown nephew who would carry the fade to another generation, whom I had been helpless to a.s.sist until tonight.

Rose had given me the clues I needed.

I would find him.

Warn him, protect him.

I would try to do for that poor fader what my uncle Ade-lard had never been able to do for me.

OZZIE

The nuns took him in, fed him, nursed his colds and fevers, treated his wounds and gave him their tender loving care. Thank Christ for the nuns, although he hated the convent itself. Hated the rest of the world too. Hated himself as well, especially the parts of himself he could do nothing about, the headaches and the sniveling. Never could get rid of it, the running nose, ever since the Pa who was not his Pa had knocked him on the nose and sent him reeling across the room. Then, seeing the blood and the warped bone, hit him again and again in the same spot. Ever since, Ozzie's nose had run incessantly and fierce pains sometimes raged in his head above his eyes and shot down to his cheekbones.

"Stop the sniveling," commanded his Pa who was not his Pa, but a fake and a fraud, then hit him again. "And stop the crying." When he was a little kid, he would cry when the old fraud struck him and the crying sent the fraud into a frenzy and he would hit Ozzie again, yelling at him to stop the crying, d.a.m.n you. stop the crying, d.a.m.n you. He tried to explain that he was crying He tried to explain that he was crying because because he was being hit and it was impossible to stop unless the hitting stopped but he could not get the words out because the blows were relentless. Finally, after a long while, he learned to stop crying. Or did something dry up inside him, in the place where tears formed? He could not stop the sniveling, but, by Christ, he could stop the crying. And that's what he did. He did not cry anymore, no matter what happened. he was being hit and it was impossible to stop unless the hitting stopped but he could not get the words out because the blows were relentless. Finally, after a long while, he learned to stop crying. Or did something dry up inside him, in the place where tears formed? He could not stop the sniveling, but, by Christ, he could stop the crying. And that's what he did. He did not cry anymore, no matter what happened.

His mother was the reason he went to live with the nuns. Poor Ma, that he loved so much. He remembered her as the smell of bottles. The smell, really, that came out out of the bottles, which he learned later was the booze. Gulping the booze behind the door, out of sight, when she thought n.o.body was looking. It took him a long time to realize she was hiding the sips and the gulps, until finally she hid them no longer and drank the stuff down hungrily like it was food and she was starving. And when the fraud came home, he would hit her for the drinking and hide the bottles and later break them, smas.h.i.+ng them into the sink and smas.h.i.+ng her too. of the bottles, which he learned later was the booze. Gulping the booze behind the door, out of sight, when she thought n.o.body was looking. It took him a long time to realize she was hiding the sips and the gulps, until finally she hid them no longer and drank the stuff down hungrily like it was food and she was starving. And when the fraud came home, he would hit her for the drinking and hide the bottles and later break them, smas.h.i.+ng them into the sink and smas.h.i.+ng her too.

At night, Ozzie tried to block his ears against the noises he heard in the bedroom. The strange noise of the bedsprings, yes, but more than that, the cries of his Ma and sometimes the moaning and then her m.u.f.fled screams and the grunting of the old man like a wild animal. Ozzie could not bear to hear the sounds and he would block his ears and dig himself deep into the bed and the blankets.

Finally, one night, her cheek purple with bruises and her jaw scarlet and swollen, she crawled to Ozzie's bed and whispered frantically to him that she had to leave, kissing him good-bye and hugging him and telling him that she would come and get him soon but she never did. "Try to stay out of his way," she said. She went to live in that terrible house on Bowker Street where the wh.o.r.es lived, although she was never a wh.o.r.e. And she died before she could come and rescue him. When the old fraud discovered she was gone, he gave Ozzie one of the worst beatings of all, and then the old faker tore the house apart, smashed chairs against the wall and slammed dishes to the floor, before he finally fell asleep in a heap on the kitchen floor, where Ozzie found him in the morning.

Your Pa is poor and your Ma is a wh.o.r.e.

That was the refrain he heard in school after his Ma went to live on Bowker Street. That's why he hated the kids, especially Bull Zimmer, who chased him every day and caught him sometimes and rubbed Ozzie's nose in the dirt or squashed it on the sidewalk while the other kids laughed. By this time he had learned something else besides not crying. He had learned to endure. Endure, a Endure, a word from school. Looked it up. So he endured. Did not cry. Suffered the blows. Refused the help of Sister Anunciata, angry at her that time she chased Bull Zimmer away after Bull Zimmer had followed him to the convent throwing rocks and hitting Ozzie on the back of the head with one. word from school. Looked it up. So he endured. Did not cry. Suffered the blows. Refused the help of Sister Anunciata, angry at her that time she chased Bull Zimmer away after Bull Zimmer had followed him to the convent throwing rocks and hitting Ozzie on the back of the head with one.

Later in the convent, Sister Anunciata bathed his wound, and ran a cool hand across his brow. She smelled of old medicine on the shelf too long. She was old herself, brown spots on the backs of her hands, face wrinkled like a crumpled paper bag. That's all he ever saw of her, the face and the hands, the rest of her enclosed in the black and white. He felt her hand cool on his forehead and almost, almost, yielded to it, almost but not quite, holding back.

"Summer's coming, Ozzie," she whispered. "And you won't have to go to school for a while. You can work here in the convent."

School was the old brick building downtown where his teacher, Miss Ball, in the eighth grade, was as hard as her name and gave him the freeze, pretended he wasn't there, never called on him to recite, which was as bad in its way as Bull Zimmer hitting him after cla.s.ses were done. When she looked him straight in the eye one time, he saw something worse than hate. Saw nothing in her eyes. As if he did not exist, did not matter.

"Poor Ozzie," Sister Anunciata said.

And he pulled away from her but in a gentle way, because she was his only friend. But he still did not want her pity, wanted n.o.body's pity.

"But I don't pity you, poor Ozzie," she said. "Pity is placing myself above you."

"What is it then?" he said, puzzled.

"Compa.s.sion," Sister Anunciata said. "Compa.s.sion, boy. And love. What Our Lord feels for us all, although I am not setting myself up as the Lord."

Always so modest, the nuns, so proper, whispering in the convent, so fearful of being more than they seemed.

"Mea culpa," Sister Anunciata said, kneeling by his bed. "Mea culpa "Mea culpa ..." ..."

He looked at her suspiciously, did not trust anyone speaking in another language. "What's that mean?" he asked, eyes narrow, fearing she was playing a trick on him.

"Nothing for you to concern yourself about," she said.

But the words lingered in his ears.

"Let us pray together," she said.

He prayed for his Ma, n.o.body else, not even himself.

Poor Ma, who was not really his Ma, but loved him and he loved her. He knew that he was adopted, that the Ma of his blood had given him away. Often, when he was little, Ozzie got confused by them all. His real Ma and Pa, the blood ones, were gone forever, of course. And good riddance. He would never know their names or where they came from or where they went to. Which was fine and dandy with him. He hated them both, as much as you could hate anyone you'd never known. They had abandoned him, left him behind. Gave him away, for Christ's sake. What kind of people gave their baby away?

He was lucky the nuns found the Ma who brought him up even if her blood was different from his. She was small and sweet and told him stories and sang him songs in her soft lilt of a voice, songs about Ireland across the sea and green fields and the little people and the house where she was born. She crooned to him about the Pa that he could not remember, the one she had loved, and how happy they were when they took Ozzie home for the first time. That was his second Pa, not the fake and fraud and not the Pa of his blood, whoever he he was. This second Pa, the one his Ma loved, was tall and handsome and could make miracles on paper, she said. He could draw a few lines and, lo, there would be a rabbit or a fawn or one of the little people. He was too good to go on living, she said. Too beautiful for this world. He had laughter on his lips and Christmas in his eyes. And it was Christmas when he died. People should not die at Christmastime but his good Pa did, a freak accident, they said, killed by falling wires in the fierce winter storm as he came home with presents for Ozzie in his arms. All night long they cried, Ozzie and his Ma, until Ozzie fell asleep as cold dawn touched the windows. was. This second Pa, the one his Ma loved, was tall and handsome and could make miracles on paper, she said. He could draw a few lines and, lo, there would be a rabbit or a fawn or one of the little people. He was too good to go on living, she said. Too beautiful for this world. He had laughter on his lips and Christmas in his eyes. And it was Christmas when he died. People should not die at Christmastime but his good Pa did, a freak accident, they said, killed by falling wires in the fierce winter storm as he came home with presents for Ozzie in his arms. All night long they cried, Ozzie and his Ma, until Ozzie fell asleep as cold dawn touched the windows.

His Ma took sick after the good Pa died. She was frail to begin with, a whisper of a girl, hardly a woman at all. And that was when old man Slater came along. Not really old, maybe, but not young anymore. A woodworker when he worked, the smell of sawdust surrounding him, and it seemed he even had sawdust in his eyes, his pupils dark with specks in them like sawdust. He gave Ozzie his last name and made it legal and proper, Oscar Slater. Your name is Slater and be proud of it, the new Pa told him. And Ozzie tried to be proud until this Pa began to give him slappings and cuffs behind the ears and finally found his nose. What happened to turn the new Pa into a monster like that? Ozzie didn't know and would never find out. In fact, he could not, after a while, remember when this fraud of a Pa was not not a monster, beating up on him and his Ma. a monster, beating up on him and his Ma.

And then she died. In that house on Bowker Street.

She lay white and brief in the coffin and Ozzie knelt there in the night, the candles burning low, and he made an attempt to cry, wanted to cry, needed needed to cry for his mother, to weep for the terrible thing her life had been and he could not, could not cry. And hated the fraud of a Pa even more now, hated him worse than ever because the fraud had taken away his ability to cry, had forced him to stop crying and now he could not summon tears for his Ma, could not honor her with his tears. Sniveling instead, his nose leaking as he leaned his aching head against the coffin, he vowed his revenge. to cry for his mother, to weep for the terrible thing her life had been and he could not, could not cry. And hated the fraud of a Pa even more now, hated him worse than ever because the fraud had taken away his ability to cry, had forced him to stop crying and now he could not summon tears for his Ma, could not honor her with his tears. Sniveling instead, his nose leaking as he leaned his aching head against the coffin, he vowed his revenge.

I will kill you someday, you fraud and fake, Ozzie vowed, would kill him not only for the blows to the nose and the other beatings but most of all for what he did to Ma, for driving her finally out of the house to the terrible tenement on Bowker Street, the house the kids hooted at and pointed fingers at and threw stones against. Your Pa is poor and your Ma is a wh.o.r.e. Your Pa is poor and your Ma is a wh.o.r.e. Yes, he would kill the others too. One by one. Starting with the Bull and Miss Ball. Then, Dennis O'Shea with his orange hair and sharp tongue who made up the songs and chants. Clever Dennis O'Shea, who loved to trip kids walking up the aisle and then putting on his innocent face. The girls were no better. Fiona Finley, who walked in clouds of perfume, in her fancy dresses and shoes with heels and nylon stockings and who wrinkled her nose when he came near her as if she smelled something bad. And Alice Robillard, who invited everybody in the cla.s.s to her birthday party, everybody except Ozzie, that is. Yes, he would kill the others too. One by one. Starting with the Bull and Miss Ball. Then, Dennis O'Shea with his orange hair and sharp tongue who made up the songs and chants. Clever Dennis O'Shea, who loved to trip kids walking up the aisle and then putting on his innocent face. The girls were no better. Fiona Finley, who walked in clouds of perfume, in her fancy dresses and shoes with heels and nylon stockings and who wrinkled her nose when he came near her as if she smelled something bad. And Alice Robillard, who invited everybody in the cla.s.s to her birthday party, everybody except Ozzie, that is.

Living in the convent spared him the experience of the town. Where he always had to avoid people's eyes, duck down alleys, take shortcuts. He was ugly, of course, and mean. Kicked cats, chased dogs before they chased him. Swore at people who saw him as the son of a brute, with a terrible nose and a mother they said was a wh.o.r.e when she wasn't. He got back at them by spitting at them, stealing from them, sneaking stuff out of stores. After a while they wouldn't let him go into the stores unless he showed them his money first. Kelcey's Grocery and Dempsey's Drug Store and the five-and-ten banished him from their places forever. Before that, Kelcey hired him to sweep up and stock the shelves but always yelling at him to stop his sniveling. "It's not appetizing to the customers," Kelcey said. That did it. I'll show you appetizing, he thought as he sneaked nine Baby Ruths, his favorite candy bar, into his jacket. Which was a foolish thing to do, of course, but the only way he could take his revenge at the moment, stealing from Kelcey and taking something that was good to eat. But the Baby Ruths bulged in his jacket and Kelcey grabbed him by the collar and the candy bars spilled to the floor in front of the customers- Calafano the barber and Mrs. Spritzer with her stuck-up airs because her husband was a selectman-and he stood there in his humiliation, caught and sniveling. Vowing revenge.

His only friend in town was old man Pinder, who drank too much and reeled down the sidewalk, b.u.mping into things and falling down. Old man Pinder was the oldest person he knew. He kept busy doing odd jobs for the store owners, taking out the rubbish, sweeping sidewalks, sleeping sometimes in the alley in the back of the five-and-ten if he was too drunk or weary to make it home.

Home was the cellar of the rooming house where the wh.o.r.es lived, where his mother lived after she left the tenement, although she wasn't a wh.o.r.e. "Your mother, lad, was a real lady," the old man told him one time. "She drank like a fish but she was a lady through and through." Sometimes, late at night, before he went to live with the nuns in the convent and didn't want to risk going home and meeting the wrath of the fake and the fraud who was not his Pa, he would sleep next to old man Pinder in the alley, back to back, drawing a bit of warmth from him. The old man always wore several sweaters and jackets and at least two overcoats and he would drape one of the coats around Ozzie's shoulders and they would sleep cozy in the chill of the night until they awakened at dawn as Reap, the cop, kicked their feet while stray dogs barked at them. He and the old man would struggle up and away from the alley, all aches and s.h.i.+vers.

One night when he stole into town from the convent, he saw the old man, bleary-eyed from drink, leaning against a parking meter. "You're better off out there with the nuns," the old man said, shaking with the drink and the cold, smelling terrible.

So he settled in the ways of the convent, sleeping on the cot in the small room no bigger than a closet off the kitchen. The nuns fed him their food from the table, plain stuff, tasteless, but he swallowed it to fill the emptiness in his stomach. He performed ch.o.r.es for them, scrubbed floors and walls. Sister Anunciata sang songs as she did her own ch.o.r.es and he liked the sound of her voice, although it wavered and cracked sometimes, making him chuckle. No one beat him up in the convent. He felt safe here away from school.

After his Ma died, the kids did not sing about her anymore but started in on his nose. His curse of a nose. His nose with the pimples and the broken veins under the skin so that it looked like a battered and bruised strawberry. When the unholy choir at school stopped chanting about his mother, they started on the nose. Faucet nose, faucet nose, always leaking like a hose. Faucet nose, faucet nose, always leaking like a hose. Dennis O'Shea and more of his clever words. But by that time he was expert at pretending he did not hear the voices. And the Bull had finally gotten tired of beating him up and let him alone, did not chase him anymore. He bided his time. Waiting. Dennis O'Shea and more of his clever words. But by that time he was expert at pretending he did not hear the voices. And the Bull had finally gotten tired of beating him up and let him alone, did not chase him anymore. He bided his time. Waiting.

Waiting for what?

He did not know.

But he knew that he was waiting for something something to happen. Something incredible. Lying in his cot at night, he felt it in his bones, in his soul if he had a soul which Sister Anunciata insisted he had although he doubted it. Anyways, he knew deep inside of him that something was coming, something was about to happen. to happen. Something incredible. Lying in his cot at night, he felt it in his bones, in his soul if he had a soul which Sister Anunciata insisted he had although he doubted it. Anyways, he knew deep inside of him that something was coming, something was about to happen.

Patient, marking time, enduring, he made up his lists. Just before falling to sleep at night, he made lists of those who would be the targets of his revenge when whatever he was waiting for came. That vicious fraud of a Pa was at the top of his list and then Bull Zimmer and the other kids at school, Dennis O'Shea and Alice Robillard. And something special for Miss Ball, who would finally know that he existed, all right. He entertained himself with images of blood and broken bones and screams of agony as he closed his eyes.

He smiled as he drifted off to sleep, waiting for that incredible thing to happen.

And, finally, it did.

*e killed the old fraud first, of course, hammering the head of the Pa who was not his Pa and would certainly never be after that hammering was done with. Made like he was driving a spike home, hitting him square in the middle of the forehead again and again.

He killed the old fraud as he lay sleeping in the tenement where the three of them, his Ma and the fake who called himself his pa, had lived all those years. He'd heard that the fraud was back in town, back from where he didn't know and didn't care. First time the faker had shown his face in town since Ma had died. The return of the fraud and the faker had coincided with the incredible thing that had happened. Like an omen. What he had been waiting for all that time.

He had no name for it, the incredible thing. How could you name a thing like that? But then it did not require a name. It would require a name only if you spoke of it aloud. And he would never do that. Would never speak to anyone about it. How could he possibly speak about it?

It.

How it came.

Finally, after all his waiting.

He had awakened in the night, which was unusual because he always slept clear through until morning, without dreams, sleep being merely a blank period in his life, and he always woke up quickly at first light of day. That night, however, he had bolted from sleep in the middle of the night, in darkness.

His body felt strange, funny, light, chilled, a different kind of cold, an inside cold, as if a block of ice had melted in his stomach and was spreading through his body. He had a dim memory of pain quickly come and gone.

He snapped on the small lamp next to his bed.

And saw what he did not see.

He knew his arm had reached out to snap on the light. He also knew that his fingers had gripped the switch to turn it on. But as the light filled the room, making his eyes blink, he did not see his arm or his hand or his fingers. Crazy. He knew they were there, could feel feel them there, wiggled them, snapped two of them together and heard the sound of the snap. But he could not see his fingers. them there, wiggled them, snapped two of them together and heard the sound of the snap. But he could not see his fingers.

He closed his eyes, lay back, reached out and turned off the light, listening to the small click of the switch. Lay in the dark, enduring the nightmare as he had endured so many things. He heard once that the real nightmare was the kind where you dreamed you were awake in your bed, in your room, lights on, believing it was real. And that's when the monsters came through the windows or the door.

s.h.i.+vering, he reached out again and snapped on the light. Held his hand up but couldn't see his hand. Could see the room, the floor, the windows and the white curtain, the chair against the wall, but could not see himself. Threw back the covers with the hand he could not see, saw that the rest of him was not there either. His old faded pajamas that the nuns made him wear were gone too.