He pulled back his mostly unbuttoned pajama top, checked the bandage for bleeding, saw none, and then sat up. just doing that much seemed to exhaust him; the thought of getting up, even long enough to fall back into bed, seemed out of the question for the time being.
Maybe after his panicky, racing heart slowed down a little.
Can people die of bad dreams? he wondered, and in answer he heard Joe Wyzer’s voice: You bet they can, Ralph, although the medical examiner usually ends up writing suicide on the cause-of-death line.
In the shaky aftermath of his nightmare, sitting on the floor and hugging his knees with his right arm, Ralph had no real doubt that some dreams were powerful enough to kill. The details of this one were fading out now, but he could still remember the climax all too welclass="underline" that thudding sound, like a hammer hitting a thick cut of beef, and the vile spew of bugs from Carolyn’s head. Plump they had been, plump and lively, and why not? They had been feasting on his dead wife’s brain.
Ralph uttered a low, watery moan and swiped at his face with his left hand, provoking another jolt from beneath the bandage. His palm came away slick with sweat.
What, exactly, had she been telling him to watch out for?
Whiteman traps? No-tracks, not traps. White-man tracks, whatever they were. Had there been more? Maybe, maybe not. He couldn’t remember for sure, and so what? It had been a dream, for Christ’s sake, just a dream, and outside of the fantasy-world described in the tabloid newspapers, dreams meant nothing and proved nothing.
When a person went to sleep, his mind seemed to turn into a kind of rathouse bargain hunter, sifting through the discount bins of mostly worthless short-term memories, looking not for items which were valuable or even useful but only for things that were still bright and shiny. These it put together in freakshow collages which were often striking but had, for the most part, all the sense of Natalie Deepneau’s conversation. Rosalie the dog had turned up, even Bill’s missing Panama had made a cameo appearance, but it all meant nothing.
… except tomorrow night he would not take one of the pain-pills the
E.M.T had given him even if his arm felt like it was falling off.
Not only had the one he’d taken during the late news failed to keep him under, as he had hoped and half-expected; it had probably played its own part in causing the nightmare.
Ralph managed to get up off the floor and sit on the edge of the bed.
A wave of faintness floated through his head like parachute silk, and he shut his eyes until the feeling passed. While he was sitting there with his head down and his eyes closed, he groped for the lamp on the bedside table and turned it on. When he opened his eyes, the area of the bedroom lit by its warm yellow glow looked very bright and very real.
He looked at the clock beside the lamp. 1:48 a.m and he felt totally awake and totally alert, pain-pill or no pain-pill. He got up, walked slowly into the kitchen, and put on the teakettle. Then he leaned against the counter, absently massaging the bandage beneath his left armpit, trying to quiet the throbbing his most recent adventures had awakened there. When the kettle steamed, he poured hot water over a bag of Sleepy time-there was a joke for you-and then took the cup into the living room. He plopped into the wing-back chair without bothering to turn on a light; the streetlamps and the dim glow coming from the bedroom provided all he needed.
Well, he thought, here I am again, front row center. Let the play begin.
Time passed, just how much he could not have said, but the throbbing beneath his arm had eased and the tea had gone from hot to barely lukewarm when he registered movement at the corner of his eye.
Ralph turned his head, expecting to see Rosalie, but it wasn’t Rosalie.
It was two men stepping out onto the stoop of a house on the other side of Harris Avenue. Ralph couldn’t make out the colors of the house-the orange arc-sodiums the city had installed several years ago provided great visibility but made any perception of true colors almost impossible-yet he could see that the color of the trim was radically different from the color of the rest. That, coupled with its location, made Ralph almost positive it was May Locher’s house.
The two men on May Locher’s stoop were very short, probably no more than four feet tall. They appeared to be surrounded by greenish auras.
They were dressed in identical white smocks, which looked to Ralph like the ones worn by actors in those old TV docoperas-black-and-white melodramas like Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare.
One of them had something in his hand. Ralph squinted. He couldn’t make it out, but it had a sharp and hungry look. He could not have sworn under oath that it was a knife, but he thought it might be.
Yes, it might very well be a knife.
His first clear evaluative thought about this experience was that the men over there looked like aliens in a movie about UFO abductions-Communion, perhaps, or Fire in the Sky. His second was that he had fallen asleep again, right here in his wing-chair, without even noticing.
That’s right, Ralph-it’s Just a little more rummage-sale action, probably brought on by the stress of being stabbed and helped along by that frigging pal-n-pill.
He sensed nothing frightening about the two figures on May Locher’s stoop other than the long, sharp-looking thing one of them was holding.
Ralph supposed that not even your dreaming mind could do much with a couple of short bald guys wearing white tunics which looked left over from Central Casting. Also, there was nothing frightening about their behavior-nothing furtive, nothing menacing. They stood on the stoop as if they had every right to be there in the darkest, stillest hour of the morning. They were facing each other, the attitudes of their bodies and large bald heads suggesting two old friends having a sober, civilized conversation. They looked thoughtful and intelligent-the kind of space-travellers who would be more apt to say “We come in peace” than kidnap you, stick a probe up your ass, and then take notes on your reaction.
All right, so maybe this new dream’s not an out-and-out nightmare.
After the last one, are you complaining?
No, of course he wasn’t. Winding up on the floor once a night was plenty, thanks. Yet there was something very disquieting about this dream, just the same; it felt real in a way that his dream of Carolyn had not. This was his own living room, after all, not some weird, deserted beach he had never seen before. He was sitting in the same wing-back chair where he sat every morning, holding a cup of tea which was now almost cold in his left hand, and when he raised the fingers of his right hand to his nose, as he was doing now, he could still smell a faint whiff of soap beneath the nails… the Irish Spring he liked to use in the shower…
Ralph suddenly reached beneath his left armpit and pressed his fingers to the bandage there. The pain was immediate and intense… but the two small bald men in the white tunics stayed right where they were, on May Locher’s doorstep.
It doesn’t matter what you think you feel, Ralph. It can’t matter, because"Fuck you!” Ralph said in a hoarse, low voice. He rose from the wing-chair, putting his cup down on the little table beside it as he did. Sleepy time slopped onto the TV Guide there. “Fuck you, this Is no dream!”
He hurried across the living room to the kitchen, pajamas flapping, old worn slippers scuffing and thumping, the place where Charlie Pickering had stuck him sending O)ut he)t little bursts of pain. He grabbed a chair and took it into the apartment’s small foyer.
There was a closet here. Ralph opened its door, snapped on the light just inside, positioned the chair so he would be able to reach the closet’s top shelf, and then stared an it.