Fade. Part 19

Taking money out of my pocket, I said: "Nothing for me. I'll meet you in the common."

The common was modest in size. The gray barrel of the cannon was covered with meaningless graffiti. Whoever had a.s.saulted the town had ignored the common. A spotlight, spared from the vandalism, showered illumination on the gazebo. The old man and I sat on the steps, looking at Main Street across the way, almost eerie in its stillness. A few people came and went, flitting through the shadows, emerging into the light from the stores and then disappearing into the gloom.

The old man did not drink immediately and seemed to be taking pleasure from merely holding the bottle in his hands. He had neatly folded the paper bag and slipped it into an inside pocket.

"How do you like this town of ours?" he asked expansively, his hand waving in the air, as if he were offering the town to me as a gift.

"Not the friendliest place in the world," I said. "All day long, hardly anybody said h.e.l.lo."

"People here don't talk too much," he said, brooding, studying the bottle as he held it up to the light.

He suddenly took the cap off the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank desperately.

"People here should have a lot to say," I said. "Look at Main Street. Like a war zone, as if it's been under attack...."

"Ramsey's a hard-luck town, mister," he said. "All gone to h.e.l.l. Old folks dying off and young people moving out. The springs are all dried up. And we got that convent out there in the woods. Kind of a spooky place." He grimaced, displaying the broken tooth rimmed with blood. "Maybe the town's haunted. If a house can be haunted, maybe a town can be too...."

"How long's it been going on?"

"How long's what been going on?" he asked, studying the bottle, caressing it lovingly with trembling fingers.

"The haunting," I said. "Must be recent. The springs dried up years ago, before World War One. And the convent was there before that. But all this damage, the broken windows, looks like it just happened...."

He did not answer but drank again, his Adam's apple dancing as he swallowed.

Across the street, two men left the Ramsey Diner and were taken up by the darkness. A young couple walked hand in hand, drifting by in the summer evening.

"That's a nasty b.u.mp on your head," I said.

Tentatively, he touched the wound. "I fall down sometimes," he said sheepishly. "Old age is h.e.l.l. I'm always b.u.mping into things too. Can't always blame the booze, either. Other day, I tripped over a loose plank in that old G.o.dd.a.m.ned sidewalk. Cold sober, I was ..."

"You must fall down an awful lot," I said, gambling a bit. "Recently, too. That bruise on your head and that broken tooth, now. Looks like they happened yesterday. Today, maybe ..." Fis.h.i.+ng in the dark, following my instincts. "Guess you've got bad luck too. Like the town. Maybe you're haunted too."

Another shrewd glance as he closed one bloodshot eye, as if to see me clearer with the other.

"What are you saying, mister?"

"Just making observations," I said. "I'm a writer. I'm supposed to notice things. While you were watching me all day, I was watching the town. The damage, n.o.body willing to say h.e.l.lo to a stranger. As if everybody's afraid of something." Taking chances again. "And now those injuries of yours. It's like the town's under attack. You, along with the town ..."

He brooded over those remarks, lifting the bottle into the air, turning it over in his hands, placing it against his lips but not drinking. "Stuff hits me fast these days," he said, words slurred a bit. "Bingo, and I'm almost gone." He belched, and I turned my face away. "Then I fall down, break my tooth-"

"I don't think so," I said, openly gambling now.

"Don't think what?"

"I don't think you broke that tooth falling down. It doesn't look like it was caused by a fall." Pus.h.i.+ng the bluff further, I added, "I think somebody hit you...."

"Who would hit an old man like me?" he asked, the bloodshot eyes alert now despite the alcohol working in his veins and spreading throughout his body. "I mind my own business, don't look for trouble."

"Maybe that same ghost," I said, keeping my voice flat and crisp, undramatic. "The same ghost that haunts the town. The ghost that isn't a ghost. ..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Before I could answer, he struggled to his feet, while trying to find a pocket for the bottle.

Getting up, I placed an arm around him, tried not to breathe the sour breath and the dank odor of his clothes. "Take it easy, Mr. Pinder," I said. "I don't mean any harm." Pressuring his shoulder a bit, I got him to sit down again. "In fact, I'd like to help. If somebody's giving you a bad time, maybe we can do something about it. ..."

"n.o.body can do anything about it," he said. "Not when it's a ghost who isn't a ghost ..."

"Who is it, then?"

"Shh ... shh ..." he said, raising a quivering finger to his lips, while seeming to shrink even deeper into his layers of clothing. He thrust his face toward mine and I braced myself against the a.s.sault of odors. "Terrible things are happening here in Ramsey. Best you get out of here. Out of the Glenwood and back where you belong, in Ma.s.sachusetts."

"You mean something might happen to me? I might get beat up too? My tooth broken, a lump on my head?"

He drew away. "I didn't say that." His head dropped forward, his chin coming to rest on his chest. "I don't know what I said. Don't pay any attention to me." Suddenly he looked up, tilted his head, listening, tense and alert. "You hear something?"

I raised my head, squinted toward the shadows surrounding the gazebo, the dark blobs of shrubbery, trees with heavy low branches. Across the street, no one walked. A sleepy town, a town that went to bed early.

"Did you hear a footstep?" he whispered, close to my ear.

My fader? Was he in the vicinity? Lurking in the bushes?

"I don't hear anything," I said.

He nodded at my words, sighed with relief and drank again, his hand unsteady as he held the bottle to his lips. His lips hung loose now, his eyelids drooping at half-mast. I saw the danger of having him become too drunk to provide me with information. I would have to work faster.

"What did you expect to hear?" I asked, bringing my mouth close to his ear. "Whose footsteps?"

"I don't know," he said, whispering, confidential, as if we shared the same mystery.

"I do," I said, whispering back, sharing the secret. "The footsteps of a boy. Thirteen years old. He's lived here all his life. And suddenly doing things."

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice raw, his eyes wide with fear. "How come you know so much?"

"My name's not important," I said. "What's important is that I know what's going on, some of it, at least, and I can help. But you must trust me...."

Again the quivering finger to his lips as he peered into the darkness, his eyes searching the grounds surrounding the gazebo. "I'm the only one in Ramsey who knows," he said, whispering. "Everybody knows something's something's going on and it's not vandalism but I'm the only one who knows what's going on and it's not vandalism but I'm the only one who knows what's really really going on...." He continued to study the darkness. "You see anything out there? Hear anything? He could be here, there, anywhere." Turning to me, he said: "Best we go to my place. With four walls around us. Be safer to talk there." going on...." He continued to study the darkness. "You see anything out there? Hear anything? He could be here, there, anywhere." Turning to me, he said: "Best we go to my place. With four walls around us. Be safer to talk there."

He was alert now, without any visible effects of the muscatel, made sober obviously by fear. As we made our way out of the park, however, he leaned against me for support, and continued to do so as we walked across the wooden sidewalks, past the Ramsey Diner to a section of three-decker houses.

"Bowker Street," he said.

A few minutes later, we descended cement steps to the cellar he called home. Linoleum covered the floor and a cot stood against a brick wall. Otherwise, no sign of habitation. No sink or stove or table or chairs. The narrow windows were covered with cardboard. "You can see why I choose to sleep outdoors," he said, with a trace of the humor he had displayed when we first met.

He bolted the door behind us and inspected the room, as he had inspected the common, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

"He's not here," I said. I was certain that I would be able to detect the presence of my fader if he was in the room or even nearby.

The old man sank down on the cot and I lowered myself gingerly, amazed at how he lived in a world of foul smells and did not seem to notice: the odor of sour wine and the smell of the dump and now the cellar air heavy with something damp and rotting.

"Tell me about him," I said. "His name. Where he lives ..."

The old man sighed, groped for the bottle in his pocket, took it out and inspected it closely. Barely an inch of wine left. He looked at it longingly and then placed it on the floor, next to the cot.

"He'll kill me," he said. "If he finds out we talked. And he can find out easy. He comes and goes. I thought for a minute when we came in that he might be here."

I waited in silence, let him lead the way, not wanting to press too much, afraid that he might withdraw completely if I tried to hurry him.

"He used to be nice to me, you know. Buy me booze, even Scotch one time though it's too rich for my blood. Showed me tricks, too. Tricks he could do." He reached down to touch the bottle, as if touching a rabbit's foot for luck. "Then he got mean. Started doing mean things. Hit me, knocked me down. Wouldn't buy me booze anymore. Started wrecking the town, too." He sagged, sank back against the wall, let his chin drop to his chest. He closed his eyes and I was afraid that I might be losing him, that the liquor had lured him into sleep, but before I could rouse him, he said: "Then his stepfather. A terrible man. Used to beat the kid up terrible. The kid and his ma. Leonard Slater, his name. Got hammered to death a few weeks ago. Big mystery here in Ramsey but I know who did it...."

I had not been prepared for murder, but I should have been. Murder is the ultimate damage and I had seen nothing but damage since arriving in Ramsey. Now I wanted to flee this place, the cellar and the town, get away from this pathetic old man and his grisly story. I had tried to get away from the fade most of my life and thought I had succeeded but now saw that it was impossible to avoid it altogether. If not in my generation, then in another. And murder in both.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Ozzie," he said, almost dreamily. 'Oscar, but n.o.body calls him that. A poor kid, really. Got a nose like a rotten tomato. Like you said, he's only a kid. He lives with the nuns, out at the convent. Only thirteen years old but the things he does, mister, the things he could could do. Gives you the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. Thank G.o.d for the booze." do. Gives you the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. Thank G.o.d for the booze."

His hand reached down for the bottle and he raised it to his lips, draining the last few ounces, neatly, no spills, those last drops precious.

We had not talked about the fade at all, the topic silent between us. But I had to be certain now, had to dispel any doubts that might remain.

"What do you mean by things he does?" I said.

"You know what I mean."

"Tell me what you mean."

Flinging the bottle away, he watched it spiral through the air, bouncing against the opposite wall, not breaking, landing on the floor.

"Disappears," he cried. "He makes himself invisible." Turning to me, he said: "It's impossible what he does. But he does it. He vamooses. Into thin air. And, mister, if he can do that, he can do anything. ..." He collapsed on the couch, out of breath, as if he had exerted himself beyond his endurance.

"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.

His head tumbled forward. Half sitting and half lying down, he was completely still, seemed to be frozen in sudden paralysis or even death. Then his breath wheezed through his nostrils and he began to snore softly.

I shook him gently, calling his name. "Mr. Pinder ... Mr. Pinder ..."

No response, the snores growing louder and deeper, his chest heaving with the snores, his mouth dropping open.

I waited a few moments, listening to his snores, looking at that ravaged face, the broken tooth, the bruised flesh. I counted to a thousand, pausing between each number, and then counted another thousand. Finally, I let myself out of that dismal cellar he called home. Who was I to rouse him from whatever peace he found in his muscatel slumber?

*he problem was who to kill first.

Bull Zimmer had always been at the top of the list, and Miss Ball next. Then the other kids at school. But the voice kept urging him to do otherwise. Kept urging him to kill, first, Sister Anunciata, and then the stranger. Taunting him, haunting him until sometimes Ozzie wanted to scream.

Ozzie realized that the stranger knew too much, probably knew Ozzie's secret of disappearing. But-but what? He wasn't sure. Not yet. What if the stranger was his real Pa? Ozzie had to be sure before doing what the voice wanted him to do.

Sister Anunciata was different. Killing her was the voice's idea, not Ozzie's. Besides, killing her would be a problem. The cops would come again, the crafty officer in the green plaid jacket who questioned him that night about the death of the old fraud. He would be suspicious.

Let him be suspicious.

That's easy for you to say. But he'd be suspicious of me, not you. He can see me but not see you.

Are you daft? He wouldn V V see you, either, if you didn see you, either, if you didn V V want him to. You have to be smart. You have to use being unseen to kill her so that n.o.body will know. want him to. You have to be smart. You have to use being unseen to kill her so that n.o.body will know.

And how do I do that?

Simple. You kill her in front of the nuns, in front of witnesses. Make yourself unseen and then hit her. Hard. And she'll fall down and die in her tracks and n.o.body will see it was you. They 7/ 7/ think it was a heart attack. think it was a heart attack.

I don't know whether I should kill her or not.

She's looking at you funny, isn V V she? Nuns have strange powers. They know things other people don't. What if she knows you killed your Pa? she? Nuns have strange powers. They know things other people don't. What if she knows you killed your Pa?

He was not my Pa.

Just then, Sister Anunciata came along, hurrying down the corridor, finding him standing there looking out the window, the mop in his hand.

"Daydreaming, Ozzie?" she asked, her voice soft and tender, almost like the voice of his Ma. Was she putting on an act, pretending to be soft and tender?

"Just taking a rest," he said.

"You should take some time off, Ozzie," she suggested. "Go into the town and buy some ice cream. All work and no play is not good for you...." And she touched him on the shoulder.

He had to weigh carefully everything that Sister Anunciata said now, had to listen to her words and then decide whether she was saying one thing and meaning another.

"Now you finish the mopping and go along," she said, squeezing his shoulder again, and he wondered if she was giving him a message that way, maybe a message that the voice could not hear.

"Yes, Sister," he said, resuming his ch.o.r.e with the mop as she puttered away, her feet invisible in the long folds of her skirt skimming along the corridor.

He finished the floor and hung up the mop and changed his clothes in the small room near the kitchen.

And what about the old man?

What about the old man?

He knows too much ... ...

Ah, but he liked the old man, did not like like him exactly but liked to have him around. To cuff and tease. Once in the alley downtown, he saw a cat playing with a mouse, cuffing the mouse, the mouse trapped in a corner, toying with the mouse with its paw, until suddenly the cat pounced. The old man was his mouse. He toyed with the old man the way that cat toyed with the mouse. But the old man was also useful. The old man had told him about the stranger, staggered all the way out here to the convent early in the morning, suffering a terrible hangover, shaking all over the place, his tongue hanging out like a piece of old leather. him exactly but liked to have him around. To cuff and tease. Once in the alley downtown, he saw a cat playing with a mouse, cuffing the mouse, the mouse trapped in a corner, toying with the mouse with its paw, until suddenly the cat pounced. The old man was his mouse. He toyed with the old man the way that cat toyed with the mouse. But the old man was also useful. The old man had told him about the stranger, staggered all the way out here to the convent early in the morning, suffering a terrible hangover, shaking all over the place, his tongue hanging out like a piece of old leather.

"A stranger asking questions," the old man said.

"What kind of questions?" Suspicious. How much did the old man tell the stranger?

The old man looked uncertain. Then his eyes got crafty. Ozzie saw that the old man was deciding how much to tell, how much that was the truth and how much that was a pack of lies.

"Questions about the town," the old man said. "He's a writer. From Ma.s.sachusetts. Going to write about the old resorts. But then he started with the questions." Scratching his dirty, bristled face with a black fingernail. "About somebody who was thirteen. Somebody thirteen who has strange powers." The old man looked triumphant. "Right away, Ozzie boy, I knew he meant you. And that's when I got very very careful, using the old noggin. He bought me booze and figured he'd get me talking that way, but ..."