BACK to the Main Index
BACK to The Blind Pig
BACK to the Previous Chapter
A Time Machine
part 2
by Feech
Alexander does not ask for a ride to his own
house, nor begin walking off in another direction,
as I had expected him to. Instead, we enter the
Theatre lobby right behind Larry's dusty-blue coat
and head for a door situated in the narrow space
between two light-painted walls with black and
white prints hung upon them. Larry turns off
towards a flat, blue door beyond what I recognize
as the Box Office counter. No one is manning it
at the moment; it is only late morning.
"Well, I hope you know what you're doing,"
Larry finally says just before disappearing
through his blue door. "I don't know what else to
say, Alexander."
Alexander does not seem disturbed. "Who ever knows."
I can't see whether or not Larry nods, but
he's soon out of sight and the man carrying me
manages to balance my coat and open the door down
our little hallway. Immediately, a white flash of
some living thing rears up at Alexander and blows
warm breath over me.
"Down," Alexander's vodor says emotionlessly.
The white blur recedes, revealing the top of a
staircase. Alexander is taking me to a basement.
The blur ceases its wild motion, and becomes a
Dalmatian dog, smiling its innocently friendly dog
smile. It can barely contain its fervent need to
nose me, I can tell, but it obeys Alexander.
"Silence."
The dog wags in response to this.
"Go down-stairs."
The Dalmatian turns and trots down, a bit
precariously on the steps, tail moving. It had
not been barking nor making any kind of sound, so
I surmise that 'Silence' is a name rather than a
command. It obeys so well, it must be Alexander's dog.
"That is Silence," I am told a moment later.
"He is my dog. I see-- you are not afraid. I hope."
I adjust my body comfortably in the coat-nest
and open and shut my bill a few times, hoping to
convey general contentment. Alexander carries me
into the open space of the basement, and I see
that this is not just Theatre storage space. In
fact, that must be accessed by another door
altogether, although one of the doors here could
also lead to it. It is obvious that this is a
sort of living space. Then I know who this is.
This is Alexander Leaf, the playwright that has
been described as living on the same premises
where the Firehouse Group performs. I had not
known that he was a SCAB. He seems to keep pretty
much to himself. It makes me appreciate all the
more that he bothered to take me to the
veterinarian.
Silence dances around the living space,
showing how well he has kept things in his
companion's absence. Alexander praises him for
his patience, mentioning that he will take him for
a walk later on. "I walk by myself to meditate,
some-times," he explains for my benefit. I nod,
then tuck my bill into the fold of my unfledged
wing and watch the man put away his coat, turn on
a vid-feed quietly, and run a sink full of warm
water.
"This is just luke-warm," he informs me. "We
need to wash your underside and your feet."
I offer no resistance as I am lifted by
sharp, chill, but very gentle hands. I notice
with the bend of one leg, pressed into the center
of his palm, that a bit of Alexander's body
surface is warm as I would expect a Normal's to
be. He puts me in the shallowly filled sink, and
gingerly rubs the grime off my ankles and webs. I
watch him, feeling warm and warmer and then quite
awake. I had needed this. Now I could do with
some food.
Unremarkably, considering his behavior so
far, Alexander dries me lightly with a hand towel
and then brings forth a dish of something
appearing soft and filling. "Just wheat bread,"
he says. "But I will get you the formula the vet
suggest-ed."
I eat eagerly. I am beginning to enjoy
myself a little too much. I haven't had company
in so long, let alone been anybody else's company.
It doesn't seem fair to let him continue carrying
on like this. It's perfectly within my abilities
to gesture that I wish to be taken to his computer
keyboard, over there, under the papyrus wall
hanging, and type something out for him.
I could introduce myself. Professor Meg--
Meg-- something. It used to be important what my
identity was. At any rate, I could introduce
myself, and explain that I am not like this all
the time... But then it would beg the question,
Meg, what are you? And I'm not sure that I want
that answered. Let me be a baby duck for awhile;
I deserve the vacation. It's hard to say how many
times it's happened, my memories aren't too clear
on that, but there's always the chance there won't
be a next time. Somehow, it feels more probable
every time this happens, from what I recall of my
past emotions and the change, that once I've
shifted back again there will never be a baby Meg
to continue the cycle. It's not fair, but then
it's not fair to him, either. If he knew, he
could withdraw as he pleased. But-- he has no
idea, I could be _anyone_, _anything_, and here he
is feeding me baby food in his home and carrying
me about and yet speaking to me as if I am an
adult. Such foolhardiness is welcome. There
aren't many others who would chance to behave in
exactly the right fashion towards me; most
wouldn't dare to try. It could have been the
police. I could have cycled back to home again,
eaten alone and stayed alone.
I am put back in mind of my benefactors on
the road, but whoever they were my thanks will
just have to wait. If they were real, they do not
seem to want to be known, and I have decided...
at least for now... to let Alexander keep me as he
will. It is selfish of me. I console myself with
the idea that he's a grown man, a well-known
playwright, with fairly intelligent friends who
will voice concerns for his welfare. Larry did
so, and I needn't repeat anything that Mr. Leaf
does not care to have repeated.
This is an almost sinkingly relaxing feeling,
as though I am on the edge of a cliff, holding on
by bare fingertips, but it is a good place to be.
Edges and risk have been something of a comfort to
me since the change. For so long, it's been all
I've had left. Now let him make some use of me,
getting in a good deed for his own soul. These
thoughts ease my doubt.
I begin to fall asleep, aware of the spinning
sensations as I do so. Alexander sits down at his
keyboard, voiceless and unconcerned upon seeing me
cuddle into my coat-nest. The vid-feed he has
turned off while I was eating, replacing its quiet
chatter with a disc of the ocean; some sort of
collection of soothing sound effects. He begins
to type, his fingers bending up where the long
nails begin, and I watch for a short time amidst
the falling before I am truly asleep.
Over the course of weeks, this has become too easy.
If Alexander had been requested,
specifically, to act in accordance with what would
please a professor turned into a baby duck, he
could not do better than he has been doing.
Silence is allowed to nose me at times, to satisfy
himself as to my identity, but I remain otherwise
unmolested. I watch the plays; I sit in one of
the director's-chair-style cloth audience seats
and stare at the stormy, exuberant, then subdued
actions of people on stage. Kent Dryer, when
asked, watches me for Alexander and maintains a
respectful distance. German, the director, and
Larry, an owner of this place, are always decorous
around me because of the way Alexander treats me.
No one knows what to make of me; no one knows who
I am. It is strange to be treated this way only
because I do not bother to communicate.
Only November Divosijli, a young cat 'morph
who reminds me of that first night, has picked me
up and stroked the down on my head, and murmured
things to me. I don't mind in the least. It
surprised me, at first, that no one else has
followed her lead, but it has not yet happened and
I suppose it won't. The only lap I regularly sit
in is Alexander's. I almost imagine he is growing
somewhat smug about his nearly exclusive handling
of me.
I eat well-- the vet has looked at me once
more and adjusted his recommendations, and I am
filling out a bit. Of course, I am not growing.
Never a single pinfeather pushes out from among
the yellow and leaf-brown down coating over my
self. I expected this. The vet again asked about
other means of examining me medically, and again
Alexander bypassed it smoothly. Somehow, he
knows. Just my hesitation that first day,
perhaps. I do not want to go home. He is giving
me what I want. It is too easy.
Every other night I feel a twinge when I
snuggle into my new cat-bed, which has taken the
place of the coat, and watch Alexander sit down to
his keyboard under the papyrus fan on the wall.
On alternate nights I am too drowsy to care, but
that twinge always comes back in force, and the
repeated struggle plays out in my breast. Good
conscience has, so far, lost every time. And I
suppose I know why. I know that, sooner or later,
and sooner every night that I willingly hesitate,
my SCABS will make the truth plain and my decision
will be made for me. Then, Alexander can do as he
will. He has made choices, and I choose to let him.
One night I am feeling the pressure to
explain everything, and Alexander must see the
anxiety in my black eyes. I suppose they are
black eyes. I have not looked in a mirror, but I
think I remember ducklings as having black eyes.
He turns in his computer chair to see if I am
beginning to sleep, as he does every night. My
awakeness is evident, and as is so often the case
with him he does not bother to speak but instead
comes over to me and stares down with the round,
faceted eyes I have been able to place beneath a
ridge of shell on his face. Alexander does not
seem to particularly like his vodor. Larry and
German do more talking, really; the day he brought
me home was an exception. German's voice startled
me at first; it sounded false, like a vodor voice
that pretended to reality. But he is a budgerigar
'morph, and when I saw that it made sense.
Alexander has no voice but the vodor's. He is
expressive without it, I find.
Now he says nothing, but bends at the knees
which make the pleats of his trousers jut out as
if with skinless limbs beneath them. I suppose
they are skinless. I have not watched him
undressing. His legs may be shining, hard-shelled
like some other parts of him. His sweater is
moving, in the chest area. It seems as though
tiny arms are in motion beneath it. He reaches
out with his extreme claws and touches the down on
my back. I look up at him, anxiously. I could
patter right over to his computer now and type it
all out with my bill, the whole truth and how he
could be doing all this for nothing; how he had
better be happy to be making me happy because
that's all he stands to gain from it. I may not
even be around long.
I close my eyes under the light pressure of
the claw-touches. He realizes that this does not
mean that I am fully relaxed, however.
Alexander picks me up in his thin palms,
attracting the attention of a promptly jealous
Silence, who wags over to bump against his
master's legs and eye him pleadingly. Alexander
rubs the top of the dog's head and ears to appease
him, and Silence grins, his pink tongue showing.
Alexander takes a seat with me on his bed.
In the other main part of his living space there
is a sofa, and another vid-feed, but that space is
more often shared with the Group and this room is
where I am allowed to rest quietly. I live with
Alexander. There is no telling how long it will
last.
The man holds me on his lap and seems to
ponder how to best get me to rest. He is as
concerned for my health and schedule as if I were
a real child. At last, he gets up and, still
holding me steadily, turns on the ocean-waves disc
again. I perk up at its initial sound, then lean
closer into the palms of his hands.
"Do you know what I am." The sound makes me
start slightly in his hands, and he apologetically
strokes me until I am calm again. Then, in reply,
I shake my head.
He nods. "If you are not sleepy I can show you."
I nod.
"It does-n't matter but I thought maybe with
not-thing else to talk about."
I squirm pleasedly in his grasp, showing my
willingness to talk about anything he wishes to
discuss. At least, anything but my own lack of
answers, which he has strangely and mercifully
left unprobed.
The man takes me to his bureau, holding me in
one hand while he pulls open a drawer with
another. "This is a pic-ture." He takes out a
heavy book with a textured cloth cover and lays it
out on the bed, fingering through it delicately
with a burnt-brown claw. I peer at the leaves as
they turn. He seems to turn them, unthinkingly,
in time with the recorded ocean waves. Matching
his timing to things seems natural to Alexander,
the way his walk seems natural to him. Yet he
must have been human sometime. That is, human in
the conventional, Normal terms. I wonder whether
his synchrony with his own disease was a necessary
thing that affected his responses to everything
else, or whether his SCABS walk is more natural to
him than his Normal man's walk was. Or, perhaps,
whether he is simply putting on a good front. He
may be, for me, in my presence. I again feel
guilty.
"Here." The claws stop and hold down the
edges of a glossy photograph page. It is the top
view of a horseshoe crab.
I make a little, peeping sound deep in my
throat, and Alexander seems surprised at the
fragment of voiced communication. "Yes."
I make no further noise. He shrugs almost
imperceptibly and gazes at the photograph. "So
now you know what I am. What else to talk about."
I take a good, long look at the page as
Alexander stands holding me over it. It takes a
slight bit of time, but once I find a single frame
of reference it is easy to make the rest of his
form fit into place. Yes, yes of course. The
segments down his entire back closely resemble the
pointed joints of the base of the horseshoe crab's
tail. Alexander has no visible tail, and his eyes
are placed as a human's, but I can see the crab
there, easily. I nuzzle into him to show, in some
way, I suppose, my approval of this
identification.
"What else to talk about." I don't really
think he expects an answer from me, but suddenly I
do have a request for him. I peep once, clearly.
He is surprised, to have me so blatantly
express anything with my voice, but he immediately
appears somewhat disturbed that he does not
understand precisely what I want.
I, of course, know that my one syllable could
be taken to mean a lot of things. I am just
curious to see what Alexander looks like under his
clothes. I reach pointedly for his sweater with
my bill, and when he holds me close to his torso I
tug at the side of one of his sleeves.
He does get the message. "Un-less you are a
fan of crabs it is not a pretty sight." His vodor
crackles a few times, unbidden, and I fluff out
the down-feathers on my head and try to appear
pleased.
In agreement, Alexander places me on the
bedspread and carefully removes his clothing. It
almost occurs to me that I am conveniently finding
many ways in which to avert my private worries
about Alexander's generosity, but fortunately my
interest in what he looks like completes the
silencing of my conflicts and I merely watch.
The man unknots and lays out his tie with
practiced flexing of his chitinous fingers.
What's amazing is that he can also remove and fold
a sweater without snagging one of the points of
his nails in it.
Alexander removes and distractedly folds his
shirt, trousers, even his socks that have been
shaped into jagged claw-covers by his unyielding
form. He stands still, or as still as I have seen
him stand, but for the persistent twitching of
those additional limbs of some kind criss-crossing
his torso.
"They move when I am ner-vous," he admits.
"Or just about any time."
I nod. I recall seeing them on horseshoe
crabs held upside down. I do not remember, now,
whether I have ever heard what they are for; they
could be sensory, or sexual, or for locomotion,
and of course on Alexander they could be anything
in between. I do not ask him whether he has
personally identified the almost softly fanning
appendages. To ask would be to admit that I can
answer about myself. As it is, I know what he
looks like. His seems to be a permanent
condition. That is more than I can say for mine.
Alexander looks at me looking for some time,
and then I yawn. He piles the clothes over one
arm and lays them in the closet on a shelf,
evidently to wear next morning. He probably
doesn't sweat much.
"Are you ready to sleep yet."
I settle onto the tops of my feet, not really
replying either way.
"Are you o-kay."
No, Alexander. I'm not o-kay. But there's
nothing that can be done for me. I'm sorry that I
ever made you or anyone else care to even ask me
that. It makes this that much harder.
The half-horseshoe-crab man sits on the edge
of the bed and watches me, concerned. I keep my
expression blank.
Suddenly, he smiles and turns towards the
head of the bed. His fingernails draw back an
edge of the covers and he pats the sheet lightly
with dark clawtips. I must appear as pleased as I
feel, because his slick lip rises a little more
over one tooth in a more lopsided, broader grin.
I haven't slept in a bed in a long time. It would
feel dignified, for a change.
I accept by trotting duck-style over the high
folds in the bedspread, and place my chin on the
pillow. Alexander watches me for a moment, then
questioningly draws back the covers on his own
side. I make no protest, of course. I don't know
where else he would sleep in his own apartment.
Before climbing in for the night, the
playwright shuts off the distantly buzzing
computer, turns off all the lights but the one
lamp he consistently leaves for me so I can find
my way to the restroom, whose door he leaves open,
and turns down the disc he has in the player to a
background murmur. It is a collection of
classical pieces; Alexander likes the French horn.
Playing now is Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man."
In the dim light, I have a much easier time
imagining myself sleeping, and I begin to forget
what was troubling me. The bed feels rich and
clean around me. My own circular cat bed-nest is
clean, but it is plush like a child's toy and not
so smooth and hypnotizing as a true bed.
Alexander's rough scale-like shell makes
rustling noises on the sheet for a few moments,
but then he lies so still that only his breathing
interrupts the far-off sound of disc music and the
perpetual, dust-soft vibration of his chest
appendages moving. I suppose he will lift me down
if I need anything during the night. Alexander
will do anything I like.
Alexander. Is. I thrash under the pressure
of his hands, but nothing is letting up. Chilled
and burning up at the same time. Holding me down.
"Alexander!" I taste something in my mouth
as I say that, and it's rich and salty. I see
some of the same stuff on his face, grimacing over
me. I know it is the same stuff because it is
blood.
His vodor makes a sound like a soothing hush,
but my body is moving of its own volition and I
can only hate the jerking of my legs and arms just
before it happens, but not stop it. Only hate it.
I begin to choke on the blood, and don't know how
to tell him to let me up. But he notices.
"I am lett-ing you up. But you are hurting
your-self. I have called-- an-- am-bul-ance."
I suppose he would have to, I think around
the tremors, thankful for his claws holding my
wrists as they try unbidden to beat against my
face. The coughing and choking keeps me from
saying anything more, but I am grateful that I
spoke to him at all-- he knows, and I know, that I
am aware of who he is. This is better than last
time. Last time I was more disoriented.
Blood and spit dribble down my chin, and
before they reach my breastbone they have cooled,
and I begin to shiver even as the tremors are
calming slightly. If I could have stayed
unconscious, it might not have hurt so much, but
then he wouldn't have known I knew who he was.
Somehow, that feels important.
"Are you more cold or warm."
"More--" I cough, lick my lips and begin
again-- "cold. Please."
Alexander waits, feeling my tight arm muscles
and watching my face, but soon he sees and feels
that he may let go and I will not be striking at
myself. As soon as he frees me, to get a blanket
and wrap me up as I seem to have rolled onto the
floor during the shift, I drop my face into the
crook of one arm and try fervently to sob. My
body is too drained even to let me, though. So
soon. And I can't even show him how ashamed I am.
I can't even cry to show anything.
I say, and my voice sounds dead: "I'm so
sorry, Alexander."
He stops pulling the blanket around me,
surprised. He does not speak, but comes around to
lean close in front of me and admonish me with his
expression. I know my voice expresses nothing.
He cannot know I mean it. And by the time I have
enough control to make any kind of a true
apologetic speech, I'll be recuperating from this
bout in the hospital and then sitting home,
waiting for the next time. If there is a next
time, this time.
People are knocking at the door. "It's the
EMT's," they say. "Ambulance." Their voices are
heavy, and concerned. Alexander lets them in
quickly and they check me over. I know I'll
appear all right, soon enough. There are some
things they cannot fix, but those symptoms that
are due to the trauma are what they worry about
right now.
Silence is... Silent. He never even barks,
not once. Alexander touches him on the head and
he backs out of the way, forehead wrinkled. I
wonder if he knows this is me. Alexander comes
with me as I am carried to the ambulance. I
didn't go to the hospital, most of the other
times. It all has depended on whether anyone else
is around.
"You will be o-kay." I feel his claw make an
indentation on the white skin of my wrist. I
choke on any sort of reply I might have made.
Unfortunately, they are even kinder and more
concerned than I had thought. Larry, his friend
Francis, Bix and Andrea, November (weeping,
terribly worried for me... why? Does she miss her pet
duckling? She doesn't know the least thing about me
as I am) and of course the inevitable Alexander have
visited me whenever they have been allowed to. I
didn't expect this; at least, I didn't allow myself to
believe that I might expect it. It was easier to believe
they could stop caring when things changed. Now I know
why I felt ashamed at accepting all Alexander has
done for me. I knew he would care about what
happens to me. If he didn't, he wouldn't have had
to pick me up out of the street in the first
place. But it's too late now.
Of course, I am the only one who leaves the
hospital fully knowing. It is my diagnosis and my
responsibility to carry it, and share it when need
be. Most of the Firehouse Group from the Kelly
Theatre supposes that I will be returning to my
house, now that I have been restored to what
appears to be a Normal form. They don't know what
it's like, and that I'd have no reason to go back.
I've dragged Alexander far enough into this,
yet I go home again with him anyway. It's all for
my own sake, too. I like his home so much.
There's nothing in it for him, anymore. A glimmer
of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, I might get
lucky again sees fit to flare up in my brain. I
know it's not right to entertain it. I must be up
front with him. He doesn't deserve to suffer from
somebody else's SCABS.
He sits me down on the edge of the bed and
stares at me, expectantly. He knows full well
that the expression on the nurses' cautiously
closed lips was not routine for releasing a
patient. He does not say, but is clearly
demanding, "What is it."
I sob, then. I intended to answer concisely,
and thoughtfully, taking into account his obvious
attachment to me and the cool approach I have
managed to take since after I lost my job. It
left me nothing to look forward to, I decided
then, and I could always remain separated from the
future in this way. But my chest is constricting
and my stomach churns and my head aches from what
seem like years of repressed crying. They won't
wait, now. The sobs jolt out of me until I know
that if I don't let them come I will start
bleeding again, so I give in and cover my face
with my hands.
"Meg." He knows my name, now.
I try to indicate that I will answer him, but
that the whimpers in my throat won't resolve
themselves into words...
"Shh. Meg." Alexander places a long, thin
hand over the nape of my neck, cooling and warming
it at the same time. Enough of one and the other,
not too much of either.
"I can't-- I can't--" I mean to say I can't
talk, but I guess he can derive that from the
constant pauses while I draw in breaths from the
end of crying.
Alexander's basement apartment always remains
neat and calming even in desperate situations.
Its sand-colored walls seem to smooth the edges
off my terrible upset, now, and I rock slightly
under my benefactor's arm until I can draw a
relatively unlabored breath.
"I'm sorry, Alexander," I speak finally in my
weak, but harsh voice. I'm too tall for my weight
and I feel like a blemish on the clean apartment
with my thin, rickety body. Some of my apology is
just for that, for my SCABS-ancient woman's form,
my white hair that is never anything but stringy
and the veins showing rudely through the skin of
my arms.
Alexander just looks at me reproachfully.
"But I need to apologize. You don't-- you
don't understand."
The vodor rustles. "I know I do-n't.
Explain to me."
"Mr. Leaf. I knew all along I would change
into this. I always do. But the duckling is the
only thing keeping me alive."
There, it's said. Not very elegantly, but at
least it's a start.
"How long." Nothing but that, and spoken as
monotonously as everything else that emanates from
the vodor. I glance at Alexander, and blink
rapidly to clear away the tears clinging to my
sticky eyelashes... I seem always to have some
disgusting membrane loosing something onto my
body. A fuzzy baby duck I am not in the least.
"I... don't know," I manage to answer.
"Three or four weeks, they say. Maybe less, maybe
more. Certainly not more than five weeks. And
it's always the same. I always start over at the
same place."
Alexander is placing his arms around me,
slowly, moving closer in what my guilty mind
admits is a comforting, welcome hug, but at the
same time I know I can't let him do this if he's
not really hearing me. I should know better,
though. Alexander is aware of too many things
about me to stop listening now.
"Shh. Shh. Calm down and then you will get
cleaned up. You need-ed to cry."
I nod, the tears threatening again at the
mention of them. I lower my head and mutter,
"Yes."
A long pause lets the sounds of air moving in
the apartment and Silence curling tighter into a
sleeping ball clean the most part of the tension
from directly around me. I feel better, but
weaker, and don't work so hard to sit upright.
Alexander lets me lean on him for an indeterminate
amount of time. Finally, when he sees that I am
awake, merely letting some of my body rest, he
speaks.
"You will stay here, Meg."
I nod. There is no use arguing. He has
asked and received his answer. He already knows
the rest from what he knows of living with me. He
doesn't need to hear that sometimes it's four
weeks, sometimes two and a half. He knows that if
I don't change, the degenerations inside will
finish out my body before the other form ever
reappears.
"Good." He strokes my hair, and holds me
close so my own chest feels his moving, and
probably those limbs can feel the rise and fall of
my ribs.
This looks like the right place. Something
about it is slightly off-center, and I hesitate, but
the landmarks seem right; I may be misjudging things
due to my changed shape and size.
"It was here..? You remember." I hold my
coat-collar tighter against my mouth so I'll
breathe warmed air. Alexander tightens his grip
on my mittened hand.
He nods, "Yes." He, too, though, glances
about in slow confirmation at the road and its buildings.
"Someone spoke to me. I swear that I ate
something. But I saw no one before the voice and
a sort of surrounding black-out. There were
others, too, I would swear it more strongly if I
had any idea who it could have been."
Alexander, surveying the street by MacLeod's
laundry building, of course sees no one. His
vodor's volume does not rise above an acceptable
indoor level, but he attempts, "Hello. Any-one."
My voice is raspy, but I try as well. There
is no reply. Only Silence, touching his nose to
the gritty, cold surface of the road, turns to
face us and wiggle whenever we call out.
I sigh. Even this makes my shoulders ache.
I needed the air, and desired to find my
benefactors of the night I changed on the street,
but my body is dictating the end of this walk.
"Alexander, I'm sorry, I need to go."
"Ofv course. Come Silence."
Silence trots evenly on the end of his nylon
leash. Alexander seems to support some of my
weight by holding my hand lightly; I don't know
how he does it. His measured gait brings back the
sounds that reached me when he picked me up; two
steps, and taking the foot back in line, alternately,
two steps again... Something sounds a little off.
As if we're not far enough yet from the place where I
was found. Listening to Alexander, I begin watching
the ground.
"We-'ll try a-gain an-other time."
"Wait." I notice that we have had to take
more steps, I'm sure of it now. More steps to return
to the main road. It's as if a whole block had somehow...
Moved. Alexander waits. Silence noses at the seam of
the blacktop, newer where we stand, separating this area
where I was found from the rest of the neighborhood.
The blackness of the asphalt, hugging its tiny pieces of
gravel and dust, recalls something to me.
I glance quickly back over my shoulder, constantly
readjusting my collar over my chin and mouth, but
in the clear air there is nothing but the rise of steam
from an outlet to the laundry building. For a moment I
imagine I feel something, a presence, but then it's gone--
whether it was real and I forced it away by noticing it is
now impossible for me to say.
"Is some-thing different," Alexander inquires,
noticing that I have felt it too.
"Yes." I cough slightly, knowing I have to
give it up for now-- whatever it was, it is at least
temporarily silent, or motionless. "You're right--
we'll try again. Some other time."
Alexander looks back, just as I did. His
vodor speaks evenly, but it feels like a whisper.
"They have all moved."
Someone is aware that he has said that. They will
expect me back. I won't know what to offer them to make
up for all the mystery except a plain thank-you.
Silence dances at the edge of the thickly-laid
asphalt. Alexander draws the leash taut, and takes
firmer hold of my hand, and for the time being we
disappear, as well.