The Unspeakable (21 page)

But the man was hardly listening to me. He sat down with his comic book, more like a tribal squat, his trousers hiked up past his bony calves, and opened it, thumbing through the pages with glee. I loved Superman myself but Superman wasn't coming. I knew that and I tried to negotiate.

I said, “I have a whole box load of comics, mister. I can drop them off if you like. You can take every one.”

He didn't say anything.

“Green Lantern. Batman. I even have some Superman.”

“I don't like Batman. He wears a mask.”

“Then I'll pick out the Superman. If you let me go.”

“No Flash. No Green Lantern.”

“Just Superman.”

“I like Lois Lane. She's pretty. I have her picture.”

He leaned near me and showed me a picture that he pulled from his pocket. It was badly crumpled and old. A woman. I could see her face through the junk and I guessed that she was his mother.

He said, “Pretty like Lois. I taped her to my helmet. Boom boom.”

I didn't know what to say so I just kept on talking.

“You're right, she looks like Lois Lane. Can I leave now?”

“You probably like the other one. The evil sister.”

“No, I like Lois too.”

“I taped her on my helmet, you know.”

“Were you in the war, mister?”

“Bullets bounce off of Superman.”

It was obvious to me by then that the man wasn't normal. Maybe he was drunk or maybe that injury to his forehead had something to do with it. I didn't know. But I was still scared and I started to turn my body in the best position for a mad dash out the door. First, I tried other tactics.

I said, “My sister is looking for me, mister. She'll call the cops.”

But he didn't seem to be listening to me.

“I bet she's calling them now.”

“Others taped Wonder Woman to their helmets. But they died.”

“Is that a siren? You better let me go, mister.”

“Lois saved me. No more camps for me.”

“I'll scream.”

“No Koreans. No torture.”

“I scream loud, mister.”

“No fighting either.”

And then it hit me, even as a dense ten-year-old. Maybe this man wasn't some nutty hobo living in a caboose but a war hero. Maybe he fought in Korea, suffered injury and came back home again, but didn't know where home was so he ended up here.

“Are you a veteran, mister? The cops will go light if you are.”

“I'm Superman.”

“I bet they can help you.”

“Superman's strong.”

“But Clark Kent isn't.”

Right then I heard a real sound, not one that I was lying about. I heard footsteps walking up the stairs of the caboose, the sliding of cheap saddle shoes against metal.

It was Sandra.

She opened the door and took one look at the man, at the crease in his face like a monster, and she screamed. And she kept on screaming until I couldn't hear her scream anymore.

I took the statement from Louise Howser, which was lying in front of Marbury, and folded it up into my pocket. Marbury, who had been listening to this story, just sat there. He didn't say anything. He didn't even have a comment, which was rare.

I hadn't thought about the man in the caboose for years. But it didn't feel that long ago. I could close my eyes and still see his face,
the way he grinned at me with that goofy expression of his and how terrified I was. He was death. At least, that's how I have always portrayed death since then. Stupid. Not even plotting or methodical, just random foolishness.

The bartender came by with two more drinks, payment for trying to help the man with the lost glasses or maybe on account of Good Friday. He didn't say. Marbury took his beer and drank half of it in one swallow. I knew he couldn't stay quiet for long.

“You feel responsible for me, don't you?”

“It's late, Marbury. I'm tired.”

“Go ahead. You can tell me.”

“I'm just trying to give you a chance to clear yourself,” I said.

“Why?”

“We were friends.”

“It's more than that, Peter. Isn't it?”

I didn't want to tell Marbury the truth. Partially because I knew him and partially because the truth was embarrassing to me. But I said it anyway.

“I'm not sure I wanted to be a priest. Then I met you. I became one.”

“Don't say I was an inspiration.”

“You were.”

He gave me a sheepish look, one out of self-mockery, with his head half tilted and grinning like a fool. But I knew that he was no fool.

“I wouldn't read much into it, Marbury. You're treading water.”

“I've always been treading water.”

“Except this time I'll have to let you drown.”

Marbury didn't say anything. He turned away from me. He was beyond threats, beyond doubt of any kind. All of his faith was in God's hands and I knew that.

“You're so damn confident,” I said.

“I have to be. In Wheelersburg I saw the face of God.”

Marbury went back to the story, taking up where he had left off.

He said that the snow had ended in town but the wind was still howling. And the power was gone. The main generator, an oil-driven unit from the fifties, was in the basement, still in pieces as workmen scrambled to fix it. Most of the hospital was in near darkness, only made worse by night beginning to fall. A few battery-powered lights were on, thankfully, spreading out much needed light to some places, but most people were fumbling around in the dark. Doctors included, who ran from room to room with just their little penlights to guide them. It was pandemonium.

One of the doctors bolted into Helen's room and flashed his light on her face. She wasn't breathing. He started CPR, pushing air into her chest from his mouth while Marbury held the light. Seconds dragged into minutes.

Barris said, “She was fine a goddamn minute ago.”

But the doctor wasn't listening. He continued working on her despite the noise from the halls. Nurses were running back and forth, thumping into gurneys and carts of supplies, then cursing. Patients were crying out, saying how dark it was. And it was dark. Barris fumbled with a match until the doctor yelled at him to put it out.

“You'll set off the sprinklers!”

“I can't see.”

“Nobody can see,” said the doctor between breaths. “I thought some idiot shoveled the roof.”

“Somebody was up there,” said Marbury.

“Well, it's leaking on the generator. Water everywhere.”

Marbury just kept holding the light firm. But he said that he didn't feel that firm inside. He had a queasy feeling, knowing that the person up on that roof was him, and he never finished his business.

The doctor reached for his stethoscope and listened to Helen's heart. It was beating again, but just barely. He wiped his brow and said:

“She's experiencing some cardiac arrhythmia here. I warned you about optimism. I gave her something that might help but without electricity anything else here is a luxury. I'm sorry.”

“Then leave me alone,” said Barris and he slumped in a chair.

Marbury said that he left Barris sitting there, in the dark with his own thoughts. The doctor couldn't do much without power, though he was trying to find a portable generator. But that wasn't easy. The hospital only had a few of these and they were scattered about, and without an intercom or elevator to link the floors, locating anything was like finding a needle in a haystack. It took a lot of hope, which nobody had.

Abigail knew this more than anyone.

She said, “I had a hard enough time just finding candles. I put them in Lucy's room in case you're wondering. Looks like a church in there but at least she can see.”

“How's she doing?” asked Marbury.

“Cold. She seems cold. That room has a terrible draft.”

Lucy was indeed surrounded by several candles, soft glows as from a medieval monastery. They lit up her room enough for her to sit there and color in her book, though she should have been asleep. Marbury told her this.

But she said, “Too cold to sleep. Cold everywhere.”

Marbury agreed with her and tapped on the thermostat. It was already up as far as it could go. No power anyway. He took another blanket from a shelf in the closet and laid it over her. Lucy already had on three others and she was shivering. Her hand was clutching a green crayon and she diligently worked on her coloring book. One of those given out by churches and Sunday schools. Pictures of Jesus standing among sheep and with the disciples. Jesus was always
handsome and smiling in those books, noted Marbury, never angry or vengeful. Not like the world that he lived in.

“Jesus is green,” said Marbury, somewhat surprised.

“Green's a good color. Plants are green.”

Marbury smiled. Green, the color of life. It was appropriate.

But he wasn't here for good news.

“I'm here to talk to you about your mommy,” he said.

“She's dead, I know.”

Marbury was stunned by the casual way that she said it. No emotion, no care at all, as though she had no idea what she was actually saying.

“She's not well, Lucy. But she's still fighting. You have to pray.”

“But she's dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“God told me. This morning. He walked in and said it.”

“You saw God, Lucy?”

“He was wearing a big striped hat. I guess the sun bothers God's eyes because he had on a pair of sunglasses.”

Marbury was dumbfounded. He thought about the various psychology classes that he had taken in his lifetime. Ideas came back to him, theories of human behavior, the way people displace their emotions and anger on others, including an unseen God. Then he remembered that he was dealing with a child and he threw every theory that he had ever heard out the window.

He said, “This is your mother, Lucy. Do you understand me?”

“Dead, mister. Like I said.”

“Aren't you sad? It's OK to be sad.”

“Sad is for bye-bye. No bye-byes here, silly.”

“Death sometimes is bye-bye, Lucy. For a while at least.”

“I know. Mommy's playing with toys right now.”

“What toys?”

“In heaven. Lots of trucks and dolls too. You'll see.”

“How do you know all this, Lucy?”

“God tells me. When I close my eyes. Like this.”

She closed her eyes and Marbury watched her expression change completely. No complexion. No sign of life at all, as if in a trance.

Her eyes popped back open. “Sleeping all right.”

“You see things?”

“I see Jacob. Mad as a mean bee.”

“He's just sad about your mother. He loves her, Lucy.”

“No reason to be sad. God will open up his box.”

“You've asked him to?”

“You did, silly. In the chapel.”

Just then the lights went on all over the hospital. Marbury heard a loud but muffled roar from the halls. People were cheering and clapping. Marbury cheered as well.

“See?”

“I'm afraid I had nothing to do with that, Lucy.”

But she just smiled as though she knew better.

Marbury said that it was about then that he heard another sound over the cheering. A loud wail. It sounded like an animal in pain, and the sound grew louder and louder until it was outside the door, which burst open with the thumping of an angry fist. It was Barris. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and his shirt was torn, as though he had grabbed it and pulled from such an agony as had never been seen or felt.

He said, “My Helen is dead.”

“When?”

“Does it matter? There's your God, priest. A murderer.”

Lucy just shook her head. “God doesn't kill, Jacob.”

But Barris wasn't listening.

“To hell with you, brat. You could have saved her.”

“She's only sleeping now. You'll see.”

“She's dead, kid. But that's the way you want her, isn't it?”

He took a step toward her. Menacing.

“You can't fool me. Just by holding back, you did it, all right. Killed her. I've seen you cure other people. You could do it, kid. You just didn't want to. And now my Helen's gone.”

His eyes, wet with tears, began to look larger. Almost to magnify.

He said, “I curse your birth, child.”

“Jacob—”

“Out of my way, preacher. This is between me and the kid.”

But Lucy wasn't afraid.

She said, “God isn't mean, Jacob.”

“I did my part. I did what I was told. I did exactly what your God wanted, right down to the letter. I had promises.”

“Promises come true,” said Lucy.

“Like what, kid?”

“Big kisses.”

“Kisses? I don't even have that now.”

Barris took another step forward. His fingers curled into a fist.

“Look at me. I'm ruined, child. My heart's ruined.”

Marbury grabbed him and said, “I thought you didn't hit kids, Jacob.”

“I don't. But I might think about starting.”

Someone broke Marbury's concentration by yelling. We both turned to the bar and saw two guys, who were on opposite sides of one another, standing up and cheering on the basketball game. The two teams were separated by only a point. It was down to the last few seconds and somebody from one of the teams was working an in-bounds pass. Everyone held their breath, at least the guys watching the television did, and all eyes followed as the pass flew up high to the perimeter. Someone grabbed the ball, took a shot, and missed. The crowd went crazy. Game over.

I saw one of the guys hand over a few bills and just shake his
head. Easy money. My own experience with gambling wasn't so easy. I only made a bet once in my life, with Marbury, it turns out, wagering that I could hit twenty shots in a row from the foul line. It was a stupid bet. One bred from my own ego and probably wanting to show him up, but I won. Barely. The last shot rolled around several times before falling in. And then it fell only from the slightest push from gravity, not my skill.