The Dark Roads (17 page)

"You know you can't stay here," Benny told him, "You gotta get back to those assholes you're walking with."

"Fuck off Benny," Richie said, "Where you been?"

"Dead," Benny replied, "Where you been?"

"Almost dead."

"Yeah. You're going nutso. You know that, right?"

"A little," Richie admitted.

"There's a way to keep it a little cool, but it won't ever be all the way cool again," Benny said.

He set the fork down onto the surface of the table and stood. Benny picked up a sketchbook that had been laying there along with a pencil. He brought it over to Richie and dropped it into his lap, disturbing some of the dust moats in the process. Richie's dead friend stood in a shaft of sunlight, looking down at him expectantly.

"Want me to draw you something?" Richie asked, turning to an empty page, "You always wanted me to draw Elvis' mom naked for you."

"Nope. I'm past all that goofy shit. I want you to draw something for
you
," Benny said, "Start with that chick you're hanging out with these days. And write something down on it for me."

Richie woke with a start, confused by his surroundings for a moment, wondering why he couldn't see anything on his left side. It all came back as he looked around the room at the sleeping forms of his companions.

His left hand went to his face, touching the tape and gauze that layered over his eye. He felt the healing skin with the tips of his fingers, pressed against it to remind himself that he was awake.

Is it the dream?
a voice in the back of his mind asked.

It wasn't. He knew that, but there was always a hand around his wrist, pulling him back in. He didn't know if it was the medication that was doing this to him, or not, but he would soon find out. There had only been four pills left in the bottle when he'd rolled over and into a fitful slumber.

There
had
been dreams in that sleeping world. He couldn't remember them, but they'd been mostly bad ones. There had also been Benny. Whether
that
dream was good or bad would soon come to light.

This is not a dream, he told himself, in a dream the world wouldn't be like this. I would be back at home. Amanda would have long hair.

For some odd reason that thought always brought his mind back around. It took time, more time than he would like to give, but he always came back to that thought when the line between dream and reality blurred. He was thankful for that. If she hadn't pointed it out, he may not have been able to hold onto the idea so strongly. In a way, it was a miracle.

Richie rubbed sleep out of his good eye and stood among the sleeping bags and blankets. He searched the sleeping bodies around him until he saw Amanda's visage. Her hair was starting to grow out from the buzz cut unevenly, but it was starting to grow out. He thought of asking her to keep it short, to make sure it didn't grow in length past her chin, but he couldn't really make that request. He could only hope that she did. It was all that he could grasp.

He walked to the corner where they'd set their packs. He found his gear and began to search through it. When he found the sketch book, he began looking for a pen at the bottom of the ruck. Soon, he had one in hand.

He thought for a moment before opening Amanda's pack and rummaging through it until he'd found what he was looking for. Richie carried his things back to his make-shift bed and sat crisscross with the pages in his lap. Richie began turning pages, quietly looking through all of his creations.

He passed pictures of his friends, pictures of the shelter in which they'd slept, pictures he'd drawn from the memory of the horizon outside of his apartment windows. He could barely see the lines of any of it in the darkness, but he knew what each of them was.

When Richie came to the first blank page, he began to write. It took him a long time to do it, to make it small enough and still legible but when he finished, he'd written himself a short note on the top half of the paper and drawn a small picture of Amanda as she was right then.

He carefully pulled the page out, ripping the edge along the perforated line. He folded the page around the tiny letter and drawing, trying to be precise, needing the thing as miniature as he could make it. He worked up all of the saliva that he could manage and licked the edges he'd folded before pulling the wet ends apart.

Richie picked up the pocket watch he'd taken from Amanda's possessions and pressed the small button on top to open it, the attached chain dangling along the outside of his hand. He held his portrait up to the watch cover, considered, and turned the corners in before fitting the paper into the watch as if it were a locket. He nodded as he read the words to himself. He could use this. This would help.

He opened the clasp that held the chain onto the watch and slid the thing out of its loop. He'd find a piece of string, maybe, or see if one of the others had kept a necklace that was long enough and strong enough to hold the thing.

He hoped that Amanda wouldn't mind giving him back the duty of time keeper. She seemed to like being able to look at the clock, but he needed it more if he wanted to stay in the moment with them. He needed this reminder of reality.

"This is not the dream," he whispered, before reciting the words he'd been told to write down, "The night is real."

Richie put his things away. Richie laid back down on his sleeping bag. Richie went back to the dream for a while, but Benny didn't join him.

***

"I don't mind," Amanda said as she packed her things away and zipped the opening on her ruck.

"Thanks," Richie told her, the fingers of his right hand fiddling with the pocket watch hanging against his chest on a shoe-string Elvis had given him.

"Got to talk to you about something," Buddy said.

Richie looked up at him. Buddy was already on his way up the stairwell, but had turned to Richie. Richie nodded and followed him while the others finished stowing their gear.

The doors, heavy wood on rusty hinges, screamed in protest as Buddy pushed them open. The night was cooling, as it adjusted to the world of moon and stars. Both of them breathed deeply of the fresh air and walked a few feet away.

“Never saw the stars this clear back home,” Buddy said as he looked up.

“Too many lights back then. End of the world can’t be all bad.”

“I miss things, though.”

“We all miss things, Buddy.”

“Remember sitting down to a table? Me, you, Elvis, and Benny would all go to that seafood place in Lauderdale for oysters.”

“Southport,” Richie said with a faint smile, “Great view from the back deck.”

“Elvis would pile the horseradish onto his oysters and sweat the whole time he was eating.”

“And Benny would have a mountain of cracker crumbs in front of him. That guy was awful to eat with.”

They both laughed, before the moment could pass. Once it did, a sober look stole Buddy’s face away from happiness. He looked away from Richie, blinked a few times, then met his eye.

"I'm sorry, Richie," Buddy said.

"About what? It wasn’t your fault that Benny was a slob.”

"I need to take your gun," Buddy told him, struggling to keep eye contact.

The sound of crickets. That was another thing Richie had been missing recently. He'd heard them in the dream, finding the memory pleasant. He focused on that for a moment before saying anything.

He didn't know if he was angry, or sad, or if he understood why Buddy wanted to take his weapon from him. He did. It wasn't something he was very fond of, but his lapses in grasping reality were unsettling.

"Amanda and I were talking while you guys were sleeping," Buddy said, "This
thing
that you're going through. We don't know if it's the drugs or if it's something permanent. I just want to make sure we're all safe, including you."

"You think I'm going to what? Just turn around and start shooting?" Richie finally asked, not sure whether he was angry or just curious.

"No, man. I just want to make sure we're all safe, like I said."

"You also said, 'including me', right? So what happens if I get caught in a fight with no way to protect myself?"

"It's just until you're done with the antibiotics, Richie."

"That's today, Buddy. What about tomorrow?"

"You're fucking dangerous right now, man!" Buddy shouted, losing his self-control unexpectedly, "Every time you have one of these fucking freak outs, you aim the coach at somebody! I can't risk it!"

Richie glared at his friend. He
was
angry now, but he didn't know if it was anger at Buddy or himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold the fury at bay, trying not to say something that couldn't be forgiven.

"Fine," Richie said, "Get it out of my pack."

"You know I don't want to do this, but things have been getting scary lately," Buddy explained with an apologetic note in his voice.

Richie nodded. He
did
get the reasoning, but couldn't trust himself to speak any further on it. He walked away from Buddy, toward the road, needing a moment to himself. He held the pocket watch tightly and stared down the length of the road.

Is it the dream?
he asked himself, wishing for a moment that it was.

To be in a dangerous world, unarmed and confused, was a frightening concept, one that he could barely grasp. Richie was afraid, not of what could happen to him as he walked down the road, but of what was going on in the back of his mind.

Could I actually hurt them, thinking that it was the dream?

He opened the watch, looked at the picture he'd drawn and the words that went with it.

"The night is real," he whispered.

***

Elvis walked to Richie's left at all times now. He would defend his friend's blind side and Richie was thankful for that. He wondered if Elvis knew what was going on. Did he know why Buddy was carrying the coach now, rather than Richie? It was possible. Elvis was perceptive.

"You remember South Beach?" Elvis asked him, not looking away from the road.

"Oh yeah," Richie said with a small smile. It was the first thing he'd said since they'd started walking.

"You remember the boardwalk?"

Richie's smile widened as the memory of that long stretch came to him. Elvis was smiling, too.

"The coconuts, right?"

Elvis laughed out loud at that. They were avid fans of the tourist walk along South Beach in Miami. They would find a spot at one of the beach entrances on warm days and just watch. It was always a kick to watch the travelers buy coconuts from the locals when they could have simply picked them up on their walk. There was always a guy with a shopping cart full of the things, selling them at ten or twenty dollars each and there was always a line waiting to buy them.

"And the necklaces and earrings," Elvis said, still snickering, "Coulda' bought the same stuff at the dollar store for cheap."

Richie and Elvis had always enjoyed watching the tourist’s transactions. Buddy hadn't ever joined them on these little expeditions, not understanding the entertainment value of watching people buy random things. It would always be just the two of them and it was always good. Richie had almost forgotten such simple pleasures.

It was good to think about sitting in the sun, the warmth of it on your face, and people-watching with a friend who could enjoy it as much as you did. At the thought of the sun on his face, Richie reached up to touch his bandage, but touched the pocket watch instead.

"What are you guys laughing about," Amanda asked, "Secrets don't make friends."

"Just old times," Elvis told her, "Did you ever go to Miami?"

"Once," she said, "When I was in my thirties."

"Did you ever go to South Beach?" Elvis asked, looking at Richie to let him in on what was coming.

"Yep."

"Did you ever buy a coconut?"

Buddy looked over at Richie for the first time since their conversation earlier in the night and grinned. Richie gave the grin back, telling him that it was okay, that he could accept what had happened between them and that their friendship would remain as it had always been.

"I did, actually," Amanda said, her face lighting up in with reminiscent smirk, "From a little island guy with a shopping cart."

Richie's eyebrow raised and his smile changed to laughter. Elvis was trying to talk, but couldn't get anything out for his own chortle. Buddy shook his head and chuckled.

"What?" Amanda asked, confused and amused at the same time.

"You guys are such dicks," Buddy said.

"Takes one to know one," Richie told him.

The night wore on, the four of them walking without incident and talking to each other about old times. Richie made it through that part of the journey without falling into himself and was happy with the lack of daydreams.

He didn't think that they would ever be as happy as they once were, not in a world that had turned against all of them, but there were always memories to keep them together. They had enough good ones to cancel out some of the bad things, and it was obvious, to him at least, that they would be able to hold onto that. They would always have each other and the life before to get them through the one they were living.