Sleepers Awake

by Patrick McNulty

  As Sean sifted through the crowd waiting impatiently to check out, he spotted Gertie McElroy in Aisle 1. No one knew for sure how old Gertie was, but if he had to guess, Sean would put her around seventy-five at least. Her pale skin was stretched tight against thin bones that gave her the appearance of a delicate marionette. But beneath that globe of pure white hair was a pair of sharp green eyes and a tongue that could cut you to ribbons or warm your heart, depending on her mood, which was unpredictable at best.

  When Sean reached her she was trying in vain to sweep up a ripped bag of flour while unruly customers stomped obliviously through her aisle

  “For the love of Christ, can’t you see what I’m trying to do here, Iris?” Gertie said to a woman in her forties, wrapped in a long fur coat. The woman half-turned to say something, thought better of it and quickly darted down another aisle heading for the frozen foods.

  When Gertie spotted Sean wading through the other customers her pinched expression dissolved.

  “Billy’s lookin’ for ya, Sean.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he replied, as he turned sideways and allowed a mother and her three children to slip by with a cart piled high with groceries. “How you doing?”

  Gertie finally gave up sweeping the spilled flour and leaned on the end of her broom. “I’m hanging in there. I’d be a whole lot better if these fool people would just realize that this storm don’t mean the end of the world. It’s makin’ them all skittish, like that damn millennium bug all over again. People are already diggin’ themselves in. It happens every year. The days get short and the people get dumb.”

  Suddenly a big booming voice roared, “Goddammit, people, relax!” For a moment the white noise of mixed conversation and people moving like cattle through the aisles quieted down a couple of decibels as Billy Walters made his way through the mob toward Gertie and Sean.

  Billy Walters was a bear who had just begun to gray at the temples. Standing at least six foot five, he was tall and thick, with hands big enough to palm basketballs. He moved with the easy grace of an athlete as he dodged and sidestepped the store’s patrons, who clogged every aisle. As always he was dressed in jeans and a white denim shirt with The Trading Post embroidered in gold over the right breast.

  “I swear,” Billy began, “all these damn people are going absolutely apeshit. Every last one of them. I’m running out of everything and I won’t get another delivery until next Thursday, and that’s if the trench holds up. That’s almost a week with no supplies.”

  The “trench” was what the locals called the section of road into town. It ran between two sheer walls of rock, a narrow, winding piece of road nearly a mile long, dangerous at the best of times, but during bouts of inclement weather the weary travelers who had to cross it were exposed to falling rocks, high winds and sudden white-out conditions. Every winter it seemed the plows in town made that run every day, sometimes twice, as the road was the only way in or out of Danaid.

  “I remember back in ‘86, the weather got so bad we lost power for a whole week,” Sean said. “Had to gather in the church basement and ride it out.”

  “Well, at least this time we’ll be ready,” Billy said. “Your girlfriend’s been running her little ass off around town getting the word out like the goddamn sky is falling.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Sean.

  “The Emergency Committee had the church print up flyers to tell folks what to do when they hear the siren and when to come to the church,” Billy said. “It was Petra’s idea. No one left behind, she said, or something like that. She even arranged a deal with the At Your Service cab company to pick up the old farts like Gertie who might get trapped in their homes.”

  “And she got Marvin Thompson out walking door to door with the flyers,” Gertie said. “She must have a way with words cause that old sonofabitch wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

  “Marvin, eh,” Sean said. Maybe that explained why he’d been unavailable to do his real job, towing. “Have you seen him?”

  Gertie and Billy shook their heads.

  “His tiny grinch heart probably stopped from the shock of doing a good deed,” Gertie said, “You’ll find him in a drift somewhere with a fistful of flyers.”

  “But seriously, Sean,” Billy said, “when the bad shit hits, everyone is gonna head over to the church. Now, I’ve been ordering extra supplies to send over there. If I run out here, people might just go over there and help themselves.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Sean said.

  “You’re damn right,” Gertie added. “Anybody slides over there with anything but praying on the their mind is gonna catch a load a buckshot between the eyes.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gertie!” Billy said.

  Gertie slapped him hard on the tit, making the big man wince.

  “That’s for the blasphemy. And for calling me old.”

  “Fuck me,” Billy whispered, massaging his chest. “If people keep buyin’ like they are, even if the trench holds I’m gonna have to start rationing. Do you believe that? That’s how crazy it is. Like yesterday, Minnie Wilkes comes in here and takes twelve dozen eggs. Then she comes back an hour later and asks if I have anymore! You believe that? What the hell she doing with all them eggs?”

  Sean shook his head. “Crazy,” he said, but he wasn’t surprised. There was nothing a small town liked better than a little excitement. A little hint of danger. With the coming storm they got both.

  “Word is that you’re looking for me,” Sean said.

  “Indeed I am. Come with me. Gertie, go help Jessie at the till. Poor girl, they’re eating her alive up there.”

  Sean looked up at the cash register. Billy’s fourteen-year- old daughter Jessica looked to be on the verge of tears, trying desperately to replace a roll of receipt tape in the register as the customers, their patience wearing thin, grew louder and louder.

  “What about my break?” Gertie asked as Billy guided Sean

  toward the rear of the store.

  “I’ll be right back,” Billy called over his shoulder. “Two minutes.”

  Gertie shook her head and swore under her breath as she stood the broom against the racks and shuffled toward the front of the store.

  Billy’s “office” was a storeroom stacked high with boxes along three walls, with a little desk, a computer and a narrow kitchen chair.

  “Come on in,” Billy said, and closed the door behind Sean, dulling the noise of the shoppers. Billy moved to a stack of ketchup boxes and pulled out the bottom one without disturbing the rest of the column. The empty box was placed to the side, revealing a small floor safe. Billy crouched in front of the dial and spun in the combination. He swung the square metal door wide, took out a brown paper package the size of a videotape and tossed it to Sean.

  “Came in this morning,” he said. “Why’d you send it here?”

  “Christ, Billy, you’re the only one I know in this town that could keep a secret. If I went to old man Towler’s and picked something out, the whole damn town would know before noon. Besides, Towler ain’t exactly up on all the latest fashions, y’know.”

  “Towler’s? So it’s jewelry. For Petra?”

  “No, for you, dummy. Merry Christmas!”

  “Up your ass, Sean.” Billy closed the safe door and replaced his clever empty ketchup box disguise.

  “Still, the box is a little big for an engagement ring.”

  “Engagement ring? Jesus, Billy, she’s only been in town for

  what, six months?”

  “Yeah, but she’s been living with you for four.”

  There was a silence, then a small, quiet moment where the smiles between friends faded, if only for a moment.

  “I’m not even thinking about that right now, Billy.”

  “I’m sorry, Sean.” He whispered. “I should learn when to keep my big mouth shut.”

  As Sean slipped the package into his coat, Gertie yelled from inside the store, “Time’s up. I need m
y goddamn cigarette!”

  Both men looked at each other and smiled ruefully.

  Sean tapped on the box through his coat and said, “Thanks, Billy.”

  “Hey, anytime, but I better get back before old Gertie has a conniption fit. Give my best to Petra and Kevin.”

  “I will.”

  Billy opened the office door. All the shoppers were talking at once, fighting over items, complaining about something else, the weather, the lack of selection. Billy looked exhausted as he turned to Sean and suggested that he slip out the back, away from the mob. Sean nodded and headed for the rear delivery door.

  “Billy!” Gertie yelled again.

  “I’m coming, you crazy old bitch,” Billy whispered under his breath.

  8

  The Violet House was just north of Mabel’s Bakery on Main Street, a small brick shop wedged between the only pub in town, the Ritz, and a thrift shop, The Second Hand Rose. Its large front window showcased the very best in local talent. Portraits and landscapes that did their best to recreate the world around them crowded against one another for the most exposure.

  Truth be told, the owner, Violet Monroe, didn’t sell very much at all, but she wasn’t in it for the money. She lived off her pension and her dead husband’s rather large insurance settlement. Apparently, he was crushed at work when a crane malfunctioned and dropped a load of steel, leaving her with a small fortune that guaranteed her a life of relative ease for her remaining years. What little she did sell was to those who mostly came in to gossip or sample the latest batch of cookies that always seemed to be freshly baked and still warm. After a few minutes, or sometimes hours, if the topic was truly juicy, the browser usually went home with a little thumbnail sketch or a cute watercolor for their bathroom or kitchen or den. Violet didn’t mind. She enjoyed the company and the conversation, but what she enjoyed most was that the shop allowed her to be around artists.

  Whether they were gifted or not, she loved to watch them create, loved the excitement in their eyes as they tried to explain where they got the inspiration, and after, the proud look they gave their work. That was why she ran a painting workshop in the studio behind her shop twice a week, Sunday and Thursday at six PM . At the time she had a class of seven— seven different styles, ages and attitudes, ranging from the dotty old Mrs. Limprey, whose mind wandered mid-painting until her watercolor of a barn somehow ended up being a portrait, to a serious eighth-grader like Josie Tamler, who brought her own special paint, brushes and canvas that her parents had couriered from a professional artist supply firm in Denver.

  Of the seven, three were doing fine and might sell some day, if only to relatives, but one was truly gifted, one whom the others studied and watched, whether out of jealousy, respect or wonder. Violet had even caught little Josie tip-toeing past Petra’s canvas to sneak a peek.

  Beyond the maze of small tables and racks of paintings and prints sat a little counter. It had no cash register, just a cappuccino maker, a plate of cookies, and a small wooden cigar box where Violet kept her change. The store was deserted but as always a small, powerful stereo system piped Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones or Bob Marley through the small speakers mounted throughout the shop. The morning had started out gray, and more than likely would end that way, and on days like that when Violet needed a little sunshine, Bob always got the call and soon the sweet sound of “No Woman No Cry” drifted on the air.

  Behind the counter, through a beaded curtain, lay Violet’s own studio. It was a wide-open space where the sunlight fell through skylights and the long narrow windows at the rear of the building. Six easels sat empty at present, the next class two days away. Only one held a painting now.

  Violet Monroe stood by the open window, tapping her slippered foot to the beat of the song, whispering the lyrics under her breath as she blew a thin stream of smoke into the outside world.

  “Are you ready, yet?” she asked, tapping out a curled length of ash into a glass ashtray.

  Petra shifted the painting nervously on the easel, unable to find the center as she bit the end of her thumbnail. Finally, she nodded.

  And with that, Violet crushed out the stub of her cigarette and made her way over to Petra, her long metal earrings and her beaded necklaces clinking noisily like miniature wind chimes. Violet always looked, to Petra anyway, like a hip grandmother if there ever was such a thing. She wore heavy sweaters to downplay her considerable size, and today was no exception. Today it was a green and red cable knit, part of her Christmas attire, complete with a team of white reindeer parading around the wide hem. Her face was round, soft and happy, and never without a smile, or a grin. But that was where the whole grandmother image stopped dead.

  Her chestnut hair was streaked with white and cut short, leaving her with a messy, spiky, bed-head look that she pulled off quite nicely. She listened to the Rolling Stones, she grew pot in her upstairs attic and she had a tattoo.

  Black symbols and characters formed a thin line of script from the base of her hairline at the nape of her neck, to midway down her back. After seeing it, on a rare occasion when Violet had not worn a turtleneck, Petra had asked what the writing meant. Violet gave a far off look, as if remembering some delicious memory, her only reply being that it was a promise she had made long ago, and she had left it at that.

  Petra pulled back the cover sheet and unveiled her painting. Violet stood back and studied the work carefully. Her face revealed nothing.

  “Jesus,” she whispered.

  Petra shuffled a little closer to the large woman.

  Violet edged forward, almost cautiously, toward the canvas.

  “My God, Petra,” she said. “Where did you come up with this?”

  “You told me to dig deeper. To reveal myself. Well, here I am.”

  Violet found herself holding her breath, her skin covered in goosebumps. It was nothing more than a bit of canvas and paint, she knew that, but Petra had created something more than a static scene. Much more. Something fluid. The word “alive” spilled over her lips just below a whisper. Violet shook her head.

  “Vi?” Petra asked. “Do you like it?”

  Violet nodded and tried to smile, but she felt cold and scared for some reason. There was something wrong here, something very wrong. It wasn’t something she could put her finger on, but it was there, all around this thing. This painting.

  “My God, Vi, you’re shaking.”

  Off in the near distance a small bell rang, announcing the arrival of the day’s first customer. Violet looked away from the painting and immediately felt better.

  “I’ll get that,” Petra said, moving toward the door.

  “No, it’s all right, sweetie,” Violet replied. She’d do just about anything to be farther away from that painting right now. “It’ll probably be Mary Wills, she’s been haggling over the Knopfler original for three days straight now.”

  “The one with the ducks?”

  Violet nodded.

  “How much does she want to pay?”

  “Nothing. Says she’s related to the artist in some way. I swear, a couple more days and she’s gonna wear me down and she’ll leave here wearing that damn thing.”

  Petra laughed and smiled, but her attention never left the painting.

  “Petra, honey, why don’t you go on upstairs and find a frame for that, and we’ll put it out in the shop. I can’t wait till that little snot Josie sees it. She’s gonna just shit.”

  And with that Violet slipped into the shop through the beaded curtain. A few moments later she called out loud enough for Petra to hear, “Hello, Mrs. Wills.”

  Petra’s smile faded as she reached for her painting with the tips of her fingers. Slowly, she traced the outline of the central figure, the narrow shoulder, the back hunched forward, the sliver of profile left lit by the dim light of a diffused moon. Petra’s eyes closed. She swayed slowly like candlelight caught in a breeze.

  In an instant the studio, the painting, the entire world was gone, and she was alone i
n the darkness, swimming among them. She could not see them, but she felt them. They were close. They spoke as one, directly to her, through her, within her. A million voices formed one ancient voice that would not be denied. She gathered its message, slowly collecting, understanding the one word that screamed in her mind. The voice was her own. To herself she whispered the one-word prayer.

  Awake.

  9

  Norman Conklin found himself channel-surfing for over an hour before he finally killed the television and tossed the clicker onto the sofa. It was no use. He was coming and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. He knew he would come. He knew they would send him. Heartless sonsabitches they were. He should have never taken that picture. He should’ve said no, I ain’t doin’ it. But he couldn’t and they knew it. And he knew it too. This whole thing was bigger than him. Bigger than the whole town. He needed to take that picture, and he did, and they were pleased. And now he was coming.

  Finally, he stopped staring into the black middle distance between where he sat and the dead TV. His big blonde lab, Ruby, was already sitting up tall next to the couch. She eyed her owner suspiciously, sensing something amiss but not sure what.

  Norman reached down and gave the old dog a good scratch behind the ears. Ruby chuffed and licked his palm. She felt it too, Norman thought. She always could.

  Norman wrapped his threadbare housecoat around himself and stepped to the windows that overlooked the driveway. It had begun to snow earlier and now the world was covered in a fresh blanket of white. The wind was constant, blowing drifts of snow across the fields and through the wrought iron fence of the cemetery. Norman let his eyes slide shut as he placed his forehead against the cold window glass. For the most part he pushed their voices away, until they seemed far away, distant, like a radio playing in another room. But today, there was no ignoring them, no tuning them out. Something was happening.