Fade. Part 6

Finally he placed his pad and pencil in the little box next to the cash register and walked to the front of the store, peered out at the street through a window, and then snapped the lock in place. Glancing over his shoulder, he walked urgently through the narrow aisles of the vegetable section to the back room. I waited a moment near the meat counter before following him. I was barely aware of the cold now.

In the back room, he had turned on the gooseneck lamp that threw a flood of light on the clutter of account books, papers, and pencil stubs on his old desk. Taking a small key from his vest pocket, he inserted it delicately in the bottom drawer. He pulled out the drawer, reached inside and brought forth a quart bottle of whiskey. He lifted the bottle, drank from it in huge gulps, gasped, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and placed the bottle on the desk top.

Looking around, he called out again: "Anybody there?"

He uncapped the bottle and drank again, his eyes watering from the sting of the whiskey. Shuddering, he sat down on the old piano bench that served as his office chair. He replaced the bottle in the drawer and sat with head bowed. He did not move for several moments and my legs began to ache. I turned as someone rattled the front door and knocked on the window.

Mr. Dondier leapt to his feet and made for the doorway, so swiftly that I had no time to draw back and he almost brushed me as he pa.s.sed.

I watched his progress to the front door, saw a slender figure faintly through the windowpane. Mr. Dondier unlocked the door and drew it open.

Theresa Terrault stepped inside, hurriedly, glancing over her shoulder as she entered.

"I thought you weren't coming," Mr. Dondier said, locking the door behind her, "so I closed up a few minutes ago."

"I couldn't help being late," she said, her voice like a little girl's. She was was a little girl, despite the flashy sweater and the budding b.r.e.a.s.t.s. a little girl, despite the flashy sweater and the budding b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I heard some noise in here," he said. "I thought you sneaked in early and was playing a trick...." As they came toward the backroom he touched her cheek, then her breast. "You wouldn't play tricks on me, would you, Theresa?"

"No, Mr. Dondier," she said shyly.

I stared at Mr. Dondier and Theresa in disbelief. His daughter, Clara, was in my cla.s.s at school, a happy girl who laughed quickly and easily, and blushed as often as she laughed. She was the same age as Theresa, but Theresa was a poor student who hated books and homework and had been kept behind. Now my cheeks burned as I saw Mr. Dondier, who collected at the ten o'clock ma.s.s on Sunday mornings, pull Theresa to him and run his hand over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Wait a minute," she said, drawing back, extending her hand.

Mr. Dondier fumbled in his trousers, took out his wallet and extracted a bill whose denomination I could not see. One dollar, five dollars? He placed it on the desk, his hand trembling. "It's yours," he said. "After ..."

She giggled as he raised her up, lifting her under the arms and setting her on the desk, facing him. She pulled back her skirt, revealing k.n.o.bby knees.

Mr. Dondier sat down on the piano bench, his face red and sweating and his eyes strange and staring, as he raised her legs onto his shoulders and plunged his face between her legs. He moaned and his shoulders jerked violently as he burrowed between her thighs. Theresa looked down at his bald head, still moist in the light of the gooseneck lamp. Her eyes were vacant, l.u.s.terless, as if she were not really there, as if Mr. Dondier were using someone else's body.

"Oh, Theresa," Mr. Dondier moaned, his voice m.u.f.fled as he gasped her name and reached around now to clutch her b.u.t.tocks.

Vomit rose in my throat, my heart pounding so dangerously that I backed away instinctively, my cheeks hot and pulsing.

I had to get out of there.

As I headed for the front of the store, the image of Mr. Dondier and Theresa Terrault burned in my mind, like the dancing spots that linger after you've stared too long at a bright light. Blinking away the image, I made my way through the aisles, careful not to upset the displays of merchandise.

I opened the door quietly and slipped out, hugging the shadows of the entrance, waiting to see if the street was empty. A car pa.s.sed, headlights dim, the driver a shadow behind the winds.h.i.+eld. The cold was intense again. I hurried down the street, my sneakers gliding over the sidewalk, trying to outdistance my thoughts.

Later, in the shed at home, I endured the pause and the flash of pain as I forced the fade away and saw, to my relief, first the vague outlines of my body and then my bones and flesh. Then the clothes I wore. I stayed there a while, sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to my chest, exhausted, body limp, as if I had traveled long distances.

Glancing out the small, dusty window, I saw the moon hanging remotely in the sky. I concentrated on the moon, filling my mind with it to blot out the memory of what I had seen in Mr. Dondier's back room. But what about the others I had spied on earlier? David Renault and Artie and Pete Lagniard, my best friend. And the people in the three-deckers carrying on their lives behind the walls of their tenements. If I had followed any of them, spied upon them, entered their homes, would their private lives have also revealed secrets? Dark and nasty secrets it was better not to know about?

Finally, the moon was gone and I slipped into the house, past my father dozing in his chair near the radio, my mother already in bed. I stood for a moment in the doorway to my bedroom, looking at my father, listening to the small sounds of the tenement, and I seemed like an alien to those sounds, a stranger to this place that was my home. I was filled with guilt and shame, as if I had committed a terrible sin. I undressed and slid into the bed but did not sleep for a long time.

That was the second time I summoned the fade.

The first time had been in the presence of my uncle Ade-lard in my grandfather's house on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon when everyone was gone and he tilted his chair back against the wall, and gave his command: "Do it."

He had given me careful instructions. Told me to lean against a wall that was not there, to close my eyes to shut off distractions, concentration coming easier in the darkness. Told me to expect what he called "the pause."

Now I closed my eyes and leaned against the invisible wall, body taut, elbows bent, legs stiff, prepared to withstand strong winds, hurricane, rain, sleet, thunder.

Suddenly, there was nothing.

I was in that pause he had mentioned, all sensations gone, breath caught and held, my entire being a void, a blank in s.p.a.ce. Was this what dying was like? I wanted to scream, cry out in terror, but before I could do anything at all, pain flashed throughout my body, a stinging, savage pain that found its way into every part of my being. I heard a moan, like the sound of a wounded animal, and knew the sound came from me although it was not like any sound I had ever made.

I opened my eyes and saw my uncle on his chair at the same moment that the cold invaded my body, exploding from inside and spreading through the same bones and sinews that were singing with pain.

Then, without warning, the pain stopped. Did not recede gradually or diminish in its impact but simply stopped. And the cold was balm after the searing pain.

My eyelids fluttered and I realized I had not actually opened my eyes to see my uncle-I had seen through my eyelids. My eyelids were gone, not there. Just as the rest of me was gone.

"How do you feel?" my uncle asked. There was an abundance of sadness in his eyes, the sadness I had seen that first day on the piazza.

I was surprised to find my voice normal when I spoke. "Fine, now. It was terrible for a few minutes, all those sensations."

"Seconds," he said. "Three seconds, maybe."

"That all?"

He nodded.

I lifted my hand, held it in front of my eyes, and could not see it. Studied the s.p.a.ce where my hand should have been, where my hand actually was. was. Not there. Not there.

Uncle Adelard squinted at me, then nodded his head in satisfaction. "Perfect. A perfect fade."

"Why do you call it 'the fade'?"

"Because you have faded away. Like color gone from an old piece of cloth ..."

I s.h.i.+vered with the cold. As I hugged my arms to my chest for protection, I could feel my s.h.i.+rt, the cotton fabric and the b.u.t.tons.

"My clothes," I said. "They're in the fade. You can't see them, can you?"

"No. Anything within the immediate energy of your flesh, even a wrist.w.a.tch or a ring, goes into the fade with you. But anything you touch or pick up will not be affected, will still be visible." His eyes narrowed. "You're cold, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said. "As if it's suddenly winter."

"The cold remains with you during the fade. But after the first few minutes, you adjust to it, get used to it. And remember this-it won't always be hard to go into the fade. Yes, there will always be the pause and the flash of pain-but this happens so quickly that sometimes you'll slip into the fade easy, the way a knife slips into a sheath. ..."

"How long does the fade last?" I asked.

"As long as you want," he said. "Until you force it away."

"I'm afraid, Uncle Adelard."

"Of what?"

"Everything. Moving. Walking. Right now, I'm afraid I might lose my balance and fall down if I try to walk. Does that sound crazy?"

He shook his head, smiling. "It's what happens the first time. Trying to walk on legs you can't see. How do you know they are really there? But trust me, they are. Trust yourself, too."

I looked down and saw nothing. Only s.p.a.ce. Although my body retained its weight, I felt a sensation of lightness, as if my body could soar through the air.

"Take a step or two," he suggested.

Those steps were like a child's first steps, faltering, wobbly, my body unbalanced, in danger of falling, as if I were walking a tightrope and could not see the rope. I placed my hand on the back of a chair for support, surprised at the solidity of wood in my grasp. As Uncle Adelard promised, the chair remained visible.

Walking tentatively across the room, I gained confidence. Went to the window and looked out at the world of Eighth Street, a world that seemed very far away. I made my way cautiously, dragging my feet a bit, toward my uncle. Stood a few feet away from him.

"Some precautions, Paul. Sometimes, the fade comes without invitation. There'll be a warning-your breath will suddenly become short, which means the pause is about to begin. You won't have much time before the fade begins. If you are in public, you must get away, seclude yourself as soon as possible.

"The fade will also take away your energy. After the fade, you will feel wrung out, tired. Not so much at your age, perhaps, but as you grow older. The longer you are in the fade, the bigger toll it will take on your body."

He held up his hand, as if to detain me, perhaps sensing the panic that was growing in me.

"One more rule," he said. "Stay away from cameras. Avoid having your picture taken when you are not not in the fade. Cameras will not capture your image. Other times you will appear on film. There are many things I can't explain to you about the fade, Paul, and this is one of them. This camera thing is maybe something to do with light and how it affects film. I don't know. So, you must avoid having your picture taken...." in the fade. Cameras will not capture your image. Other times you will appear on film. There are many things I can't explain to you about the fade, Paul, and this is one of them. This camera thing is maybe something to do with light and how it affects film. I don't know. So, you must avoid having your picture taken...."

"That picture in the alb.u.m, Uncle. You told me you played a prank," I reminded him.

"Yes, I did. That time. I forced the fade just before the photographer took the picture. But I found out later, by accident, that I did not emerge on film...."

Standing before him in that strange new state, present but absent, transparent, my head spinning with his rules and precautions, I wanted to cry out: Get me out of this, take away the fade, let me wake up from this dream, this nightmare.

As if he heard my silent plea, he said: "Come back, Paul. Leave the fade."

I pressed forward against the invisible barrier, my hands curled into fists at my side, felt a force pus.h.i.+ng against me, held my position, and I was in the pause again, caught in that strange place between darkness and light, my breath taken away, panic racing along my flesh. And then the flash of pain, as if my body were a taut wire through which bolts of electricity pa.s.sed, unendingly, excruciatingly. At the point where I had gathered myself to scream, the pain fled, the pause ended, air filled my lungs and the cold vanished.

I was suddenly whole again, restored, intact, visible, here here and and now, now, Paul Moreaux, in the second-floor tenement of my grandfather's house on Eighth Street. Everything the same as before. Paul Moreaux, in the second-floor tenement of my grandfather's house on Eighth Street. Everything the same as before.

But not really the same again.

Never to be the same again.

"Why did you choose me?" I asked as my uncle Adelard and I walked the streets of Frenchtown, nodding h.e.l.lo to people as they pa.s.sed, pausing to watch Mrs. Pontbriand hanging s.h.i.+rts and pants on her clothes reel, as if putting invisible children-children in the fade-out to dry.

"I didn't choose you, Paul," my uncle said as we crossed Seventh Street.

"But you said you came home this time because of me," I pointed out with whatever logic I was able to summon. For a week, since his first revelation on the piazza, I had been in turmoils of thought and emotion. He had told me that day to be patient, that he would explain it all in due time. He asked me to trust him completely, to keep the fade a secret between us.

During that week, I had kept to myself, reading books, taking long walks to the Meadow, avoiding Pete Lagniard especially, afraid my secret would burst out of me if we talked. I stayed away from our usual hangouts, ignored the urgent messages he sent me in the soup can on the pulley. My final insult had been my refusal to go to the Plymouth that afternoon for the final chapter of The Ghost Rider The Ghost Rider when we'd learn the ident.i.ty of that phantom cowboy who galloped across the prairie. Incredulous and then angry, he cried out, "The h.e.l.l with you." He stalked away without looking back while I watched his departure with regret, knowing I had had no choice but to let him go. when we'd learn the ident.i.ty of that phantom cowboy who galloped across the prairie. Incredulous and then angry, he cried out, "The h.e.l.l with you." He stalked away without looking back while I watched his departure with regret, knowing I had had no choice but to let him go.

Uncle Adelard had chosen that afternoon to initiate me into the fade, borrowing the apartment of my uncle Octave and aunt Olivine in my grandfather's house while they went on a picnic to Lake Whalom.

Now we turned into Mechanic Street, past the houses to which I had once delivered papers whose tenants were now Bernard's customers.

"I came back because I knew it was your time for the fade," he said.

"How did you know?"

He sighed, placing his arm around my shoulder. "Something in the blood. Something that pa.s.ses through the generations. I look at you, Paul, and see myself as I was back on the farm in St. Jacques. I asked the same questions of my uncle Theophile, who revealed the fade to me the way I revealed it to you."

My s.h.i.+rt was damp with perspiration from the heat and my overalls clung to my body.

"Theophile was a commercial traveler, a fancy name for salesman in those days. He made his home in Montreal and visited us once in a while on the farm for the holidays. Les tes. Les tes. But he arrived this time in July and stayed a few days. One afternoon he followed me to the outer fields and showed me the fade. ..." But he arrived this time in July and stayed a few days. One afternoon he followed me to the outer fields and showed me the fade. ..."

Dust danced in the sunlight, rising from the street that had been tarred and covered with gravel earlier in the week.

"My uncle Theophile told me all that he knew about the fade. He said it pa.s.ses from one generation of the Moreauxs to another, always from an uncle to a nephew. And how it all began a long time ago...."

Antic.i.p.ating my question, he asked: "How long? Who knows? Back to the time of Christ, maybe. Uncle Theophile traced it for me as far as his knowledge took him. He was initiated in the fade by his uncle Hector when he was eight years old. That was in 1878,1 figured later. And Uncle Hector learned about the fade from his his uncle, a man named Philippe, back around 1840 or so, according to my calculations." uncle, a man named Philippe, back around 1840 or so, according to my calculations."

We left the paved section of Mechanic Street and headed down the hill toward the city dump and the cemetery.

"I spent only that one afternoon with Theophile and the poor man tried to tell me all he knew, which wasn't much. There were big gaps he couldn't fill in. He said Hector told him of a peasant in France, a Moreaux, who was a fader. This Moreaux sailed on a s.h.i.+p to New France, which is what Canada was called then. This was sometime in the middle of the seventeenth century. Do you see how far back the fade reaches, Paul?"

Arriving at the house of Mr. Lefarge, we paused in the heat and glimpsed the desolate tombstones in the cemetery. I followed my uncle as he traversed the narrow road barely wide enough for funeral processions.

"So what we know of the history of the fade starts with that peasant who came to Canada. We can guess the rest, of course. He settled in Quebec, farmed the land, raised a family, had descendants. You and me. Philippe and Hector and Theophile before us. He instructed his nephew in the fade as he had been instructed, as Fm instructing you."

We rested on a stone bench, the heat of the sun pa.s.sing through the fabric of my overalls, stinging my skin. Uncle Adelard leaned back, thrust out his legs, and closed his eyes. Lines of weariness were in his face, like old claw marks.

"I wish I had a lot more to tell you, Paul. More history, more rules and regulations. Answers to all the questions that must be in your mind. But that is all I have to offer, sorry to say."

He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Maybe you'll find out more about the fade yourself in time to come. Maybe you'll write about it. Not for others but for people like us, faders, as a guide for them. We do not have many consolations...."

The sadness I had come to identify with him was there in his eyes. Where was the sly trickster my father had told stories about? This wan, weary man did not resemble my father or my other uncles. Had the fade done this to him? Would the fade do this to me?

"Come on," he said, rising.

I followed him across gra.s.sy paths, between tombstones of all shapes and sizes, crosses and angels, some ornate and others merely slabs of slate.

He stopped at a corner lot where an impressive granite stone stood, the name Moreaux Moreaux chiseled on its front. A small square of granite had been planted beside the big stone. Daisies surrounded the square, fresh and bright. The name chiseled on its front. A small square of granite had been planted beside the big stone. Daisies surrounded the square, fresh and bright. The name Vincent Vincent had been carved into the stone. had been carved into the stone.

Uncle Adelard knelt down, made the sign of the cross, his lips moving in prayer. I also knelt, and prayed for the soul of my uncle Vincent. It was strange to think of him as Uncle Vincent. He was only twelve years old when he died. I remembered my father's anger because Uncle Adelard had left town before Vincent's funeral.

We rose to our feet. When I glanced at Uncle Adelard, his face looked misshapen.

"The gra.s.s is nice here," I said, needing to say something.

"Vincent died because of me," Uncle Adelard murmured, his voice so low that I barely understood him.

"Let's leave this place," he said wearily, his hand on my shoulder as if my body were a cane to support him as we walked away.