Powers

by Deborah Lynn Jacobs

  I drowned my pancakes in maple syrup before answering. “No, of course not. It was just time.”

  “Ha. Right.” Joanne ran her finger over the syrup on her plate and brought it, dripping, to her mouth. “There’s something weird going on, you know? Like you two are magnets, first repelling, then attracting.”

  I’m thinking of my vision, of us in his bedroom, his arms around me, our eyes glowing in the candlelight. I haven’t told Joanne yet. I barely believe it myself.

  “Um,” I hesitated. “Joanne, do you like him?”

  “Of course I like him. That’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “You got the dream. He came to you,” Joanne said, for once completely serious.

  That’s ridiculous, I thought. Or was it? I finished my second breakfast, then said to Joanne. “Speaking of dreams, I’ve had another one. Some old drunk passed out in an alley.”

  “Whoohoo,” said Joanne. “What are we waiting for?”

  Adrian

  Saturday morning, I wake up alone in my own head. Or almost alone. I feel a whisper of thought from my mother, downstairs, reading the paper. Dad must be at work already. I shower, gulp down a protein shake and tell Mom that I’m off to work at the funeral home.

  First job, clear the walks. A foot of snow fell overnight. It’s fresh powder with the consistency of dust. I dig a shovel in, lift, and throw. It slides sideways off my shovel, right back onto the path. After an hour, I’m soaked through with sweat, shivering in my leather coat, and cursing my father all over again.

  I carry the shovel into the office, where Dad sits at his desk looking over a stack of files.

  “This sucks,” I inform him. Okay, maybe that’s not the best way to say “good morning, dear father,” but I’m not in my happy place.

  He looks up. “You’re dripping on my carpet.”

  “I need a snow blower,” I reply.

  He rifles through the newspaper and pushes a section toward me. “Can’t afford it. Buy this instead.”

  This is a gigantic aluminum shovel called a “snow float.” I’m not amused.

  “And while you’re at it,” Dad goes on, “pick up a gallon of paint in this color.” He reaches into his suit pocket and slides a paint chip across the desk.

  “You’re painting the bathroom?” The bathroom off the master bedroom is, in Mom’s words, a “bilious yellow.”

  “Nope. You are.”

  “What? No way!”

  “And who paid for your block heater?”

  “When are you going to stop throwing that in my face? Look, I’ll pay you back.”

  Stalemate. We face off, glaring, arms folded.

  Dad breaks first. “You hate it here, don’t you? I feel it. Your anger, your resentment.” He uncrosses his arms, leans forward, clasps his hands together. “I lie awake at night, Adrian, wondering what got into me. What was I thinking, uprooting you without a good reason?”

  I realize something. It’s not his fault. I think back to my mother’s words: your father felt compelled to move here. He felt you belonged here. It had sounded bizarre at the time, but that was before I’d met Gwen.

  “Uh, look, it’s fine, Dad,” I say. “It’s working out.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure? You could go back to Milwaukee, live with Joel.”

  I just look at him. Joel, my older brother, is married with a baby on the way.

  “Okay, not my best idea,” Dad says. “Look, do you think we could get back on speaking terms?”

  I nearly spill my guts, right then and there. Hey, Dad. Guard your thoughts, okay? I can read you like a book.

  Bad move. So, what I say is, “Sure.”

  Then we look at each other. After thirty seconds of silence, we both break out into goofy grins.

  “So, what’s new?” Dad asks.

  “Not much. What’s new with you?” I reply.

  We grin a bit longer, then Dad says, “Well, if you don’t mind picking up that paint, I’ll give you my debit card.” I should tell him to buy a winter jacket and warm boots. He must be freezing in that leather coat.

  “Hey, thanks,” I say.

  “Thanks?” What just happened? What did Helen say? That he was asking her about ESP?

  “Uh, yeah. For the debit card.” Oh, man, that was lame. Will he buy it?

  “Oh,” says Dad. Nah. Mind reading’s impossible.

  I suppress my sigh of relief. Don’t blow it.

  “By the way, why don’t you look for a winter jacket and warm boots? You must be freezing in that leather coat of yours.”

  “Thanks!” I leave before I give myself away.

  Gwen

  We found him in the narrow alley beside the coffee shop. He wore a ratty brown coat and a gray hat, exactly like in my dream. The deep lines in his face were fuzzed with beard stubble. Clutched tightly in his hand was a whiskey bottle, half-concealed by a brown paper bag.

  “Is he dead?” Joanne whispered.

  “Well, if he is, we aren’t going to disturb him by talking out loud,” I whispered back.

  “Funny, ha, ha. Go check.”

  “Why me?”

  “It was your dream.”

  That was hardly logical, but I couldn’t think of a good comeback. I ventured into the alley. Drifting snow partially covered the ground, along with chocolate-bar wrappers, fast-food containers, and broken beer bottles.

  “Check his pulse,” Joanne said.

  I crouched down. Even in the frigid air, I could smell him.

  “Hey, Joanne,” I called. “Can lice jump?”

  She grimaced and made an impatient “go on” gesture.

  As I reached toward him, he blew out a loud, reverberating fart.

  “He’s alive,” I said, holding my nose. I grabbed my camera.

  “What are you doing?” Joanne asked.

  “Well, you see, when I push this button here,” I said, demonstrating, “I get this image of whatever I’m looking at.”

  “Very funny. You can’t print a picture of him. How would his family feel?”

  “If they’re that concerned, they ought to take care of him,” I argued. Just the same, I clapped the lens cap back on my camera and put it away. Maybe Joanne was right. I didn’t need to exploit the old guy’s misery.

  I pulled out my phone instead and dialed 411. “Hi, I need the number for the Rocky Water Police, please.”

  The operator gave me the number. “Should I connect you?”

  I hesitated. The future is set in its course. But not today.

  “Yes, please connect me.”

  Adrian

  I drive through silence. Snow-covered road, empty woods. No voices in my head. This ends when I arrive in town. I walk into Canadian Tire, looking for paint and a snow float. It’s Saturday and it’s a big store and it’s filled with people.

  The mental noise deafens me. I grab a snow float, pick up a gallon of paint, and take it to the counter to get the color mixed in.

  “You want this shook up?” asks the paint guy. He’s about my age, with spiked blue hair and a tongue stud. He puts the paint can into a mixer. Above the racket, I hear his thoughts—hurts to pee. Burns like—

  As if I need this. Then, another voice speaks in my head.

  —morning sunrise or peach delight? Morning sunrise … better with the drapes … too pink … but the peach is too peachy … might clash with the rug …

  I look beside me to see a middle-aged woman agonizing over two paint samples. Behind me, a baby, bundled up to its eyeballs in a snowsuit, hat, mittens, and a blanket, sits fussing in his car seat. His mental whining cuts through my head like a table saw.

  I pay for the paint, say to the guy with the blue spikes, “See your doctor.” I turn to the middle-aged woman beside me and say, “Morning Sunrise,” then say to the mother of the fussy baby, “He’s hot.”

  Then I leave. I’m partway out of the store when I hear another voice.

  Can lice jump? It sounds like
Gwen. I jerk my head around, looking for her, but she isn’t there.

  Could I be hearing her from a distance? Still wondering, I walk the few blocks over to First Street. A police car drives by and stops. Two uniformed cops walk into an alley and reappear half-carrying some old drunk. They pour him into the back of the police car and leave.

  Nice town.

  I walk into a store advertising a sale. Everything’s twenty-five percent off. One look tells me I’ve come to the right place. Jackets crowd the racks. One entire wall is overed with hats and gloves and something labeled “neck warmers.” They look like fleece tubes.

  “Need some help?” asks a girl with a freckled nose and brown eyes.

  “Yeah. I need some warm clothes.”

  She gives my leather coat the once-over. “Come with me. I’ll take care of you.”

  I see in her mind that she’d like to take care of me in more ways than one. Before long, I’m looking at a stack of stuff beside the cash register—a parka and boots guaranteed to keep me warm to forty below, insulated gloves, and a neck warmer.

  The girl, Mandy, rings up the sale. I whistle when I see the total.

  “You could wait until next week,” suggests Mandy. “Everything’s half off then.”

  “How about giving me half off now?” I give her my best little-boy smile.

  “I couldn’t.” Boss is on holiday. She’d never know.

  “No one will know,” I push. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  She wavers. She’d never find out. Never checks my sales receipts.

  “I won’t tell and you won’t tell,” I say, dropping my voice down into seduction range. I slip around the counter, move in close. “Don’t make me beg, Mandy.”

  He’s adorable. Wonder how he kisses?

  I look around the store. We’re alone. I lead her behind a rack of clothes. I draw out the moment, moving in close, leaning down so our lips almost touch. I pull back to give her time to say no.

  I must be crazy, she thinks. I don’t even know him. Oh, no. Don’t leave. Do it. Do it, already.

  I mean to kiss her lightly, a mere brush of my lips on hers, but she leans into me and gives me a long, slow kiss. I break away first.

  “Wow,” she says.

  “Yeah, wow,” I say. “So, about that discount?”

  She hesitates, then, “Sure.”

  I pay with Dad’s debit card and tell her thanks.

  “Wait.” She scribbles her number on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Call me.”

  “I will,” I promise, as the door chimes on my way out.

  But I know I won’t. She got what she wanted. I got what I wanted. End of transaction; both parties satisfied.

  Gwen

  After calling the police, I left Joanne sipping a latte at Freshly Ground and headed over to the newspaper office, where Doug was on weekend coverage.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Doug said. “Nice hair. So what brings you in on a Saturday?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that fire. I’d like to do a background article about arson. You know, typical profile, motivation, common methods. That sort of thing.”

  “What? A week ago, you said you were a photographer, not a reporter,” said Doug.

  “Things change,” I said. “So, can I go ahead?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” said Doug, pushing his sleeves up. “We don’t want to run anything that could be seen as sensationalism.”

  “You could hold it until the guy strikes again,” I said.

  “When?”

  “If he strikes again.”

  Doug cracked his knuckles. I held my breath.

  “Okay. Go for it.”

  “Thanks, Doug. You won’t regret this.”

  He shook his head as if bemused. “You know, kiddo, you’ve got good instincts. You’ll make a fine reporter.”

  I grinned all the way back to Freshly Ground.

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 19

  Adrian

  A week passes. I learn something. There are pluses and minuses to reading minds.

  On the plus side, it can be useful. When I don’t know the answers on an English quiz, I borrow them from Gwen’s head. In History, I’m zoning out when the teacher asks me a question. The answer is in his mind. On Monday, I see that my mother is planning to cook liver and onions for dinner. I grab a burger on my way home.

  On the minus side, I have very little control over what comes into my head. It’s like walking through an electronics store with every stereo, every television turned up at max volume. Working for Dad at the funeral home is killing me, no pun intended.

  Normally, my job is easy: greet people at the door, direct them to the right rooms, make sure there’s always hot coffee, keep the walks clear of snow. But, one night, we have a visitation for the family of a suicide. He’s young, only sixteen. His mother’s grief is so raw that I find myself locked in the bathroom, my heart racing, my stomach churning. I turn on the tap, splash water over my face. I’m shaking so violently that I can barely grab a paper towel. I have to gain some control over this. No way will I turn into my father.

  How do you control your own mind? Weight lifting helps, but only while I’m working out. So, feeling a bit foolish, I give meditation a try. I light a single candle and stare at the flame. I block out everything, even my own thoughts. After several nights, I achieve stillness. I try to remember that stillness at school, when Gwen’s presence magnifies everything. I can’t block completely, but at least I am able to lower the volume.

  And so the week passes, each day revolving around Gwen. On Monday, she leaves for her newspaper job full of excitement. She’s working on a story about the arsonist. One phrase repeats in her head, you’ve got good instincts. She loves the sound of it.

  Meanwhile, she’s still suspicious of me. Had I lied? Am I reading her mind? Invading her privacy? She tests me, imagining gross images and watching for my reaction. On Tuesday, I’m about to bite into a tuna sandwich when she thinks about maggots, forty or fifty fat, glistening, white maggots, crawling over the surface of my sandwich. I bite into the sandwich and smile. On Thursday, I pick up my carton of milk. She imagines sour milk: pale liquid filled with chunks. I drain the entire carton and continue on with our conversation. I can almost feel the chunks sliding down my throat; can almost taste the vile liquid.

  It’s a game with shifting rules. She’s sneaky and underhanded. I respect that. I like a challenge. Besides, I have my own secret weapon.

  Flowers.

  On Monday, I bring her a yellow rose. My florist guy gives me a card, and I write a single word on it: Friendship.

  On Tuesday, I give her Baby’s Breath: For Innocence.

  Wednesday, I bring a yellow daffodil. I write on the card: The sun shines when I am with you.

  Thursday, a pink camellia. I am longing for you.

  And on Friday, phlox. I don’t even know what phlox is, but I’m going on the advice of my new friend, the florist. I write on the card: Our souls are united.

  Gwen smiles.

  Gwen

  I think he was telling the truth about not reading my mind. I tested him a few times by imagining the grossest images I could imagine. He didn’t react. Not even an involuntary shudder. I imagined maggots on his sandwich and he bit into it with obvious enjoyment. Sour milk, and he swallowed it without hesitation. No one has that kind of self-control. As a Watcher, I’m sure of this. There would have been some small sign if he’d seen the images in my mind.

  We sit together in English and in Psychology. He has lunch with me every day. When Joanne joins us, he is polite, but he gives his attention to me.

  I discover things about him. I’m pop or soft rock; he’s alternative rock. I’m Russian novels; he’s classic cars and body-building magazines. I’m quiche and spinach salad; he’s steak, rare, with a Caesar salad on the side.

  But we have some things in common. Movies set in the Middle Ages, knights and chivalry and stealing from the rich to give to the poor. And anything sup
ernatural—movies, TV shows, even books, though he reads only graphic novels.

  And then, there’s the flowers. I thought it was dumb that Conrad brought Joanne flowers, but now I’m waiting to see what each new day will bring. I love the way he writes a message for each one, love the way he brushes against me as he hands me the flower. Love the intensity of his blue eyes and the way he looks into mine as if he has nothing else in the world to do.

  The weirdest thing happens when we touch. I feel that warmth, that tingle, running through me. Everything seems sharper, clearer. Often a vision comes to me.

  The arsonist will strike again. That’s a recurring vision. Where or when, I don’t know, but it feels like it might be soon. And when it does, Doug will run my background article. He’s already read it and pronounced it, “Excellent work. Good, objective reporting.” I’m hoping, if I can impress him, that I can land a summer internship at the paper. How cool would that be?

  Adrian

  On Sunday, I’m painting the master bathroom when I learn another price of my gift.

  Dad pokes his head around the corner. “Hey, guy, how’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Missed some.” Dad points.

  I slide the roller over the spot. Paint speckles fly through the air, making a splatty sound.

  “Yup, this is going to look great,” says Dad. “Terrific house, don’t you think?”

  “Um-hmm.” I’m concentrating, trying not to get paint on the woodwork.

  “Great bathroom, too,” Dad rambles on. “Great big Jacuzzi tub, huge shower.”

  I freeze. I’m reading his thoughts. He’s thinking of that nice big shower, big enough for two people. Oh, man. They went at it, last night, right there in the shower. I see the memory in Dad’s mind. Sick. It’s like watching porn, only it’s my parents.

  “Uh, Dad? You have to leave.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got to, uh, use the…” I motion toward the toilet.

  “Oh! Sure! Catch you later.”

  I drop the paint roller into the pan, lock the door, sink to the floor. The room spins. There are certain things I don’t need to know, and this is at the top of the list. I leave without bothering to clean up. A moment later, I’m in my car, heading to town, driving on autopilot. I wind up at the school. The whole time I’m telling myself, I can control this mind-reading thing. Dad caught me off guard, that’s all.