Death Kit (42 page)

“Isn't that what you are?” She stood up and walked to the foot of the bed.

Diddy calmer (now). “All right, maybe I am. But I still have a shred of my adulthood left, and it's that grownup man. I want you to listen to. It's the grownup you've been ignoring.… Do you understand?”

“I'm listening.”

She's so far away. “First, come back here. Next to me. On the bed.”

Hester sitting on the edge of the bed again. “I'm listening, Dalton.”

Can anything be done? Diddy will try. Balancing rage, frustration, and despair.

“I said, I'm listening.”

“Yes, I hear you … It's hard. I'm very angry. Yet somewhere I know what I'm angry about isn't your fault at all.”

“Oh Dalton, be angry. I beg you. Stop fussing with yourself. If you're worrying about me, don't. I can take it.”

“Do you remember what I was saying before you had to interrupt me and rush out to get the coffee? Do you remember, Hester?”

“Perfectly. You said you thought you weren't sick for a physical reason but because you were afraid.”

“That's right. Now, do you know what you were then supposed to ask me with affectionate concern? Your next line?” A sullen impacted look settled on Hester's face. Diddy snapped his fingers. “Quick! Quick!”

“Say your line again,” said Hester.

Diddy almost laughed. No point in browbeating her. Try to be patient. “Okay. My line was ‘I'm afraid.'”

“Afraid of what?”

“Bravo!”

“I don't like this game.”

“God damn it, it's not a game, Hester!”

“Yes, it is. But let's play … I'll play. I want to play. Look.” She's doing something to her face, just as sighted people do: pushing away the loose strands of hair from her forehead, settling her glasses further up on the bridge of her nose, smoothing out the frown. “Afraid of what?” Hester trying to sweeten her tone, Diddy could hear it. Still something metallic in her voice she couldn't disguise. Why was she so angry? Natural for a woman to want strength in a man. And natural for Hester, condemned to blindness, to need exceptional strength and competence. Yet, despite her handicap, she's strong, too. How unfair of her to resent so deeply his confession of weakness. Isn't she capable of sympathy for him?

“Afraid of what?” Hester says again.

Diddy longs to kick aside the warm sheets, vault out of bed, pull up the foul window and let in the icy air. Go for a walk, if only by the warehouses and docks along the contaminated waters of the Hudson. Board a train and leave the city; get on a boat and clear out of the country. For good.… But that would be a lie. And Diddy's body won't lie (now), won't transport him anywhere. Even to the window.

Once again: “Afraid of what?”

Diddy had almost forgotten. Startled, he blurts out, “I don't know. The truth, I guess.… Isn't that the only thing anyone is afraid of?”

“I don't understand, Dalton.”

“Yes, you do! Why do you say that?” Is this the opaque side of Hester he'd always dreaded? Her destructive energy made manifest? A wall. “I know you understand me as well as I do myself. If not better.” Diddy felt as if he were the blind one, utterly dependent on another's good will. Despises himself for begging, but he's so frightened. “Hester, don't shut me out.”

“But I don't understand, Dalton. Truly. And you mustn't expect me to. I know you detest my saying this, but I have to. Remember what I told you the day I left the hospital, when we were in the park? I said your truth was different from mine. And that hasn't changed.”

“Of course I remember,” Diddy cries impatiently. “And sometimes I think I even understand. But other times, I really don't. Then, I absolutely hate you for having said that; and for sticking to it … But listen, we mustn't quarrel now. I'm willing to believe what you said. Even assuming it's as you say, you can still help me. One real difference between us in this is that you're not afraid of your truth. And I am,” he groaned. “Absolutely terrified of mine.”

She leaned her head on his chest. Why won't she say anything?

“Help me, Hester!”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I guess.… I guess, I'm afraid that I'll have to do something, something I'm not doing,” Diddy stammered. “Something I'm languishing in this goddamned bed to avoid doing.”

“Well, then, get up and do it.”

“Will you come with me?”

Hester said yes.

*   *   *

On time. At ten-fifteen in the morning, the Cherry Valley Local exited, racing, from the northern mouth of the tunnel. A slim, puny, rackety train; conveying an impression of considerably less force than the Privateer. When one recalls the sealed-off reticence of the Privateer's powerful diesel, the very smoke spewed out from the funnel crowning the engine of this train seemed an emblem of weakness.

Standing on the sloping field, a few feet above the track, Diddy watches and listens, Hester listens. The last rumbling of the train fades beneath their feet. (Now) the ground is still again. It had snowed yesterday. The fields are lightly dusted with snow; covering the crossties and rails of the two tracks, a strip of thin white icing. But Diddy and Hester aren't cold. The sun is shining; the temperature must be in the fifties—unusual for late January.

Figuring from the railroad timetables that Diddy had consulted and was this moment pulling out of his pocket to check for the last time, the next train using this tunnel in either direction on Thursday enters at twelve minutes after eleven. In exactly fifty-seven minutes. Diddy calculated that it should take them no more than fifteen minutes to reach the site where the Privateer had stalled. Allowing another fifteen minutes to get out, they would have plenty of time. Diddy didn't plan to linger. A few minutes, he expected, would suffice.

Diddy entering the tunnel with Hester, their arms linked. They proceed cautiously, leaving the late morning light behind them. Though Diddy has brought along a heavy 6-volt torch, it's still hard to see. The powerful, wide beam does not repel the blackness. No more than did the slim, feeble beam of the pocket flashlight he'd carried before. The tunnel remains, essentially, unilluminable. In addition, Diddy has in the past months developed a more complex, suspicious relation to light. Perhaps the torch's ineffectuality is connected with the fact that it's only for him. No light can assist Hester to see better; with or without a flashlight, the tunnel is equally dark for her. But so profound is their sympathy that Diddy can no longer distinguish himself from her in such matters. What's dark for Hester is equally dark for Diddy. This tunnel, for example. Though he oughtn't to forget that the bright wintry fields outside, stretching away from both sides of the track, are dark for Hester, too.

The tunnel is cool but humid, thick with the smell of oil and damp rock. They continue walking, Diddy slightly in the lead. “Don't worry, darling. I can see exactly where we're going.” But he
is
worried. Feels they're the two children from the fairy tale, wandering hand in hand through the enchanted forest. Lost. Being the boy, he's obliged to be the braver and the stronger. Reassuring his little sister who weeps in fright; supporting and tending her. But in the end, Diddy recalls, the girl proves to be the more levelheaded and effective. While her brother is captured by the witch, jailed, readied for eating, the resourceful girl still contrives to preserve a portion of her liberty—through guile rather than strength. It's she who manages to rescue him.

Diddy trying to be strong and guileful.

But the tunnel is not only a site of terror and threat. This time, it's also reassuringly familiar. The advantages of doing something more than once. The tunnel is like home.

As is the darkness. Several months living with Hester have made Diddy feel king of all dark places. Darkness a familar element. He could make his way in the tunnel equally well without a light. Deciding to test his prowess, switches off the torch for a minute. Indeed, it does seem to make hardly any difference. Didn't Diddy always have an excellent sense of direction? But then, feeling that he's showing off, behavior inappropriate to the gravity of the occasion, turns the light on again.

Trudging (now) through a chain of puddles. Doesn't faze Diddy, because he's wearing heavy cleated boots; not street shoes of soft leather. But Hester's feet must be getting wet. “Darling, let me carry you. You aren't dressed right for this. You should be wearing flat shoes and slacks. How stupid of us not to think of that!”

“I'm all right.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. But I hate the smell in here.”

“It's diesel oil, I think.”

“No, something else besides that,” she says. “Can't you smell it?” Diddy does smell something else, which he can't identify.

“Are you cold?” Diddy the Concerned. Beginning himself to feel chilled. Realizing that Hester is wearing only a thin linen dress under her coat.

“No, I don't mind the cold.”

Diddy about to say something else that's solicitous, when he tunes into a sound other than their footsteps. Not, thank God, the roar of an approaching train. A low, tapping noise. “Hester, do you hear that?” Grips her hand.

“I hear something.” Don't whisper, darling. They have to talk above Diddy's heart thundering in his chest. Both begin listening (now), while trying to walk as noiselessly as possible and not to slacken their pace. “Dalton, I'm afraid.” He clasps her hand more tightly. “Really. I want to go back.”

Diddy not knowing which alarms him more. The indecipherable noise ahead, getting slightly louder (now) and more distinct. Or Hester's anxiety; and its possible consequences. That she might compel him to turn back with her. Or that she might desert him, leaving him to continue without her.

“Darling, don't make me go back with you now. You know I can't let you turn back alone, and I don't want to go on by myself. Trust me. Stay with me.”

Hester doesn't reply. But doesn't pause, either; keeps walking, not even slowing down. Oh, let her silence and the steadiness of her step signify that she's willing to continue with him. But she could change at any moment. Fear may win. And once Hester decides to turn back, she will. Diddy won't be able to dissuade her; or stop her, except by force. Knows she's afraid. The difficulty is that he's frightened, too.

There's no doubt that the tapping sound is getting louder. Whatever or whoever is making the sound must be only a short distance ahead. (Now) the tunnel no longer seems familiar, known, even knowable. Diddy doubts that he's ever been here before. How could he have been? In this tunnel? All Diddy perceives are features common to every railroad tunnel: the long enclosed space, the damp cool air, the darkness, the bed of hard earth, the empty track along which they're walking. And, as in every tunnel, all sounds are deadened; almost an echo effect.

Only one idiosyncratic feature: the track is curving. As did the track last time. Yet, although no long jointed iron train languishes alongside to supply an index of the degree of curvature, Diddy is convinced that this track's curve is more pronounced than the other one.

(Now) Diddy sees light ahead. Not a direct source of light, but an aura seeping from beyond the curve of the track. To make sure, extinguishes his torch for a moment. “Light ahead,” he whispers to Hester. She doesn't answer. Diddy switches his light on once more. Then turns it off for good, and hooks it on his belt.

After walking another minute, the new light and the person who performs some task under its glare both spring into Diddy's view. The light comes down from a huge fixture which hangs from the ceiling of the tunnel, made of irregular strips of black wrought iron and harboring at least a dozen naked bulbs. Under the light, a tall swarthy workman is engaged in some kind of repair of the track. At a distance, Diddy observes that the man has on work clothes that closely resemble Incardona's. Boots, overalls, and undershirt. The main difference is in the accessories: unlike Incardona, this man wears a knee-length brown leather apron that covers the front of his shirt and ties around his neck.

“I see someone just ahead,” mutters Diddy.

“Have we found the trackman?”

Hester's question stalks Diddy, reaches him, leans on him like a huge flat stone. Startling, heavy, oppressive. Diddy appalled by the possibility of such a misconception. As if Hester thought the man they were approaching is the same one Diddy described yesterday, before they set out; when he'd presented her with the whole truth, including the newspaper report and his interview with Incardona's widow. As if he still hadn't been understood. Or more likely, still wasn't believed.

“Another man,” Diddy, not trusting himself to speak further.

(Now) they're almost upon him. In face and form, Diddy sees, this man does resemble Incardona. And, what's more upsetting, he too is working at dismantling what appears to be a kind of barrier across the track. But this barrier is built of different material from the first. Rectangular gray-white blocks—whether of quarried stone or concrete, Diddy can't tell yet. A good portion of the job already done.

Holding Hester tightly around the waist, Diddy halts about ten feet from where the man is energetically at work with a chisel and hammer, chopping away at the cement filling between the blocks. Diddy's head begins to thicken. Much as he longs to deny it, the resemblance between this man and Incardona is uncannily close. Both about the same age, build, height, and complexion; both have similar, rather ordinary gross features. Could they possibly be brothers? A slightly younger or older Incardona, who works for the railroad. Named Charlie. Being brothers is at least one step away from being the same. But no, that's absurd. Look again. Diddy trying to hang on to the differences. Once again: there's no lamp strapped to his brow; this man is wearing a leather apron. And it isn't of a miner hacking at the under-earth that Diddy is reminded. This man suggests, partly by his appearance and partly by his style of work, a tanner. Or a smith at his forge. Or, somewhat remotely, a gravedigger.