"Good Lord, can't you see him?"
"See who?"
"Him! That… man… coming apart!"
"And when we do find him—if we find him—what are we going to do with him?" Sam asked.
Harry, still walking at Sam's elbow, could not answer the question. He shook his head, tried to think of a philosophical approach to the subject, could think of nothing. All of his concentration was on staying just where he was, and perhaps that—his intense, continuous, single-minded effort to stay earthbound—was responsible for the incredible exhaustion he felt. But if he couldn't walk on the sidewalk, as Sam was, he could at least stay a few feet above it, although even that was becoming difficult. Something was tugging very hard on him from above and he felt like a marionette.
"Well," Sam coaxed, "are you going to answer me?"
"I can't," Harry admitted. "I don't know what we're going to do with him."
"Shit. You created him, my friend. You should sure as hell be able to control him—"
"The way you controlled that . . . thing that attacked our boat?"
Sam glanced up at him, surprised. "How'd you know?"
Harry shrugged. "I may not be able to keep my feet on the ground, Sam, but it doesn't mean I'm stupid." He rose a bit further, to the level of Sam's neck, as he said this. "Goddammit," he whispered, and sank to his previous level.
Two blocks up, Sam noticed that a car had stopped halfway into the intersection. It was an odd place to stop, he thought
"Look at that!"
"Yes," Harry replied. "I see him."
"And I think he sees us," Sam said. As he was speaking, the car shot through the intersection and sped toward them, horn blasting so that traffic and pedestrians would get out of its way.
"Shit!" Harry breathed.
"This way," Sam called, turning to his left and running down an alley.
Harry—six, seven, eight feet off the sidewalk—followed, though clumsily. When he tried to run, his feet slid, as if he were running on ice. Sam quickly outdistanced him and within moments was at the far end of the alley, fifty yards away.
"Sam, I can't do it!" Harry yelled, and heard a car come to a grinding halt on the street, heard a door slam.
He was close to one of the two brick buildings that formed the alley's walls. He groped for the wall, a few feet away, but his hand went into it. He quickly withdrew it, cursing.
From ten feet below, he heard, "What are you doing, Mr. Briggs?"
He looked. Kennedy Whelan was scowling up at him.
"Come down from there, goddammit!"
Harry shook his head vigorously. He didn't want to speak, out of fear that actual dialogue with Whelan would doom the man. He glanced at Sam—looking on from the end of the alley—and back at Whelan. He shook his head once more.
"You're playing some kind of game, Mr. Briggs," Whelan growled, "and I don't like it. I don't have either the time or the patience for it."
Harry shook his head again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam approaching from the end of the alley.
"Sam, please, stay there!" he shouted.
Whelan looked down the alley. His brow furrowed. He drew his .38 from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Sam. "That's far enough, mister," he shouted. "Now get down on your belly, arms and legs spread."
Sam kept coming.
"Goddammit," Whelan shouted, "I will fire on you if you don't get on your belly now!"
Sam kept coming.
Whelan cocked his .38. "You've got five seconds to get down or I'll fire. One, two—"
Sam kept coming.
"Three—"
Sam disappeared.
Whelan fired. Once, twice, again. With his gun still held out on his extended arms, he whispered, "Where the fuck is he?" glanced at Harry, then back at the empty alley. "Where the fuck did he go?"
And Harry, despite himself, despite what he believed were the awful effects of dialogue with the living, said "Plooped," and then consciously forgot all about the sidewalk, the brick buildings, the alley, Whelan, Sydney.
At that, he drifted off into the New York City winter air.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Amelia wondered if she would want to go back to Silver Lake, even if she knew how to get there. Her quirky but pleasant people had clearly been in the process of changing when she'd left. She might return and discover that she had become persona non grata with them and wasn't welcome in the very place that she'd created. But the question was probably hypothetical anyway. She had no idea where she was. How could she? Around her, nothing but nodding sunflowers crowded the narrow road. Hours earlier, she'd passed an idyllic little house, complete with ginger-bread. A big red barn stood beside it. A horse leaped about in a pasture near the barn, and a woman and child watched blankly from the house's porch as she sped past. She hadn't felt the need to stop. Let them have their dreams, for aslong as they were allowed. And when those dreams began to change and take on a life of their own, that mother and child would deal with them as well as they could. It seemed to be the way that things worked here. God knew why.
For now, she would simply continue driving. If this place had boundaries, perhaps she would reach them sooner or later. If this place was actually run by someone, perhaps she'd bump into him—or her—sooner or later and then she'd pepper him—or her—with questions.
Or perhaps, sooner or later, she'd find Morgan and Freely and Jack South. Perhaps they'd have built some spaces of their own and would have learned to cope with their creations.
And maybe she'd find Harry too. She smiled. She realized that she actually wanted to find him and that surprised her. In life, their relationship had been so combative, so unpredictable, so volatile. But now she missed him and wanted him with her. Perhaps putting the seconds, minutes and hours, the days, years and decades behind her would, all by itself, accomplish that.
She turned on the radio. Harry Chapin, "Time in a Bottle." She smiled again. All she ever seemed to pick up here were dead people singing pertinent songs. Whoever ran this place was as corny asKansas in August.
Sydney was unimportant. Sam Goodlow was unimportant. Whelan was unimportant. Even Amelia, Silver Lake and the murder of the uninvolved were unimportant. And he, Harry Briggs—whoever he might have been—was unimportant….
Only sleep mattered. Blissful, deep and unencumbered. He was entitled. Everyone became entitled after a lifetime of pain and doubt.
Far below, the lights of Manhattan winked out, one by one, until the city was dark. As it joined with the dark sky, Harry felt a cold hand in his and heard a soothing voice tell him, "This way."
He questioned nothing. He let himself be carried off.
Sam Goodlow looked out of Viola Pennypacker's living-room window and saw the people gathered on the beach only a stone's throw away. There were half a hundred people, all naked and animated, laughing, talking, running, swimming and making love in the bright daylight.
Sam blushed because of all the wagging fannies and bouncing breasts and erect cocks he was seeing. Was this, he asked himself incredulously, the community that Harry's wife had created?
He moved away from the window, hesitated, then went to the front door and opened it. He stepped out onto the porch and hesitated again. He felt uncertain and a little afraid, though he wasn't sure why.
A young woman on the beach turned, saw him, stared. He stared back. Then, almost as one, the rest of the people on the beach turned and stared at him too. He returned their gaze.
A young man took a few steps toward him. A young woman nearby did the same, and then an old couple, an old woman, another young woman, a child. The whole group was moving slowly and deliberately his way, gazes fixed and unblinking.
Sam stared back. Fear made his stomach turn over.
The room was as big as a football stadium and it held thousands and thousands of people who were lying on their backs on what might have been legless slabs of pine. Harry guessed that they were sleeping.
He saw these peop
le dimly because the room was dimly lit. He heard no snoring and no breathing. No one talked while they slept. No one rolled over or rolled back, or got up to pee or thrashed about, victimized by insomnia.
Everyone slept without sheets, blankets, pillows and pajamas. They slept close to one another. Backs of hands touched backs of hands. Ankles touched ankles, thighs, ears. Hair intruded, with protest from no one, upon bellies, chests, forearms.
Harry wanted to join these people, he needed to join them. But when he looked about, he saw no free space. He sensed that someone was standing with him in the room, although he could see only the sleeping bodies on their slabs. He patted himself at his hips, his chest. He was still wearing his trench coat and double-breasted suit. This wasn't right. How could he sleep in his clothes?
A voice as neutral and as sexless as air told him, "You have a choice." The voice was not at his right or left shoulder. It wasn't beneath, above or in front of him. "You could choose to sleep, as these people have. And if that's your choice, then you'll sleep just as they are. Completely. And without interruption."
"Are you saying that I'll sleep forever?" Harry asked.
"Or you may choose to return," the voice went on. "And if you do that, then you'll never sleep."
"Return?" Harry asked. "To where?"
"If you sleep," the voice said, "all that you've created in this life will sleep too."
"This life? Which life?" Harry asked. "And what do you mean 'all that I've created'? Do you mean Sydney?"
"And if you return," the voice said, "all that you've created in this life will return with you."
"I don't know what in the hell you're talking about," Harry pleaded. "I'm just so damned tired."
"And this is the place for sleep," the voice said.
"Forever?" Harry repeated.
"What's forever?" the voice said.
"It will be exactly like being dead, won't it?" Harry asked.
"It depends upon your point of reference, I suppose," the voice said.
Point of reference, Harry thought. Sure, everything depended upon one's "point of reference." The universe was cluttered with bullshit. He couldn't avoid it, even here.
But in reality and despite the bullshit, he realized that he had no real choice. If he returned (to what and to where?), he would drag Sydney along with him. If he stayed here and ... slept, then Sydney would sleep too. So what real choice did he have? If he chose to return, then he was probably choosing death for who knew how many other people, because of his creation. If he stayed here, it would be the classic That's all there is, there ain't no more! kind of death for himself, and for Sydney. His choice was obvious.
"I'm staying," he announced, feeling at once very noble and very afraid.
"But you're not sure," the voice taunted.
"I want to stay," Harry declared.
"Those who choose sleep, must be certain. You simply aren't."
"I'm certain that I'm exhausted," Harry said.
"That's not enough," the voice said.
"People get exhausted, they sleep, dammit!" Harry protested.
"You think I'm going to argue with you?" the voice said. "Exhaustion isn't enough. You haven't stopped living, so you have no place here. Sorry. My mistake."
And with that, the huge room with its endlessly sleeping people was gone.
Sam thought very briefly about going back into Viola Pennypacker's house, locking the door and hiding, but he decided that if he did that, he'd be stuck there for God knew how long. So he ran.
And the inhabitants of Silver Lake came after him. En masse. Silently and single-mindedly. Like cats. Leonard, Mrs. Conte, Mrs. Alexander, Gilly and half a hundred others. Gazes fixed and unblinking. Their naked bodies glistening nicely in the bright daylight.
He ran from cottage to cottage, banged on doors, got no answer, kept running. He didn't know what these people wanted from him, but he wasn't about to stop and ask.
It occurred to him, all at once, that it was likely they just wanted him to leave. He stopped running and looked at them. They were only a few yards away. He thought he'd been faster.
"Okay, okay, I'm leaving," he told them.
They stared silently at him.
"Really, I'm leaving," he repeated. "I know when I'm not welcome." He attempted a smile.
They stayed put. They said nothing.
He looked around. What was the quickest way out of this place?
"Maybe you could help me," he suggested.
They only stared.
He nodded. "Sure, I understand. I'll find my own way."
He turned. A footpath led around the side of a neat little cottage nearby and then into a small stand of trees. He pointed, looked back. "This way, huh?"
The inhabitants of Silver Lake said nothing. He took the path into the woods.
Doodling in Time
Chapter Thirty-eight
The man boarding the 129th Street subway train usually paid no more attention to graffiti than any other subway rider. It was as ubiquitous as bad air or lousy manners. But this bit of graffiti—scrawled in scab-red near the subway car's rear door—caught his brief attention because it seemed so earnest, and so anachronistic too. Modern graffiti artists weren't so much interested anymore in declaring their existence and importance through their names and a few four-letter words as in constructing elaborate and delicate structures in pastel that they coaxed from inexpensive cans of spray paint.
SYDNEY WAS HERE! the graffiti read, and the sub-way rider—with a fondness for simpler times—smiled nostalgically at it before boarding the train.
The woman using the stall in the third-floor Macy's powder room closed the door, sat down, then shrieked. The words SYDNEY WAS HERE! were scrawled in scab-red on the inside of the stall door.
The phrase appeared again and again throughout Manhattan. On doors and windows, on statues, side-walks, roadways and street signs. On bridges, boats and even in the corners of a few placards that advertised free film and topless dancing. SYDNEY WAS HERE!
Few who saw the phrase actually read it or registered it. There were some who saw it in more than one place and some who actually saw it in half a dozen places. But few of these people took any more notice of it than they did the sleeping homeless, who were also ubiquitous, or the thousands of cooing pigeons underfoot, or the yellow cabs that zipped here and there. SYDNEY WAS HERE!—emblazoned everywhere in scab-red—was simply another one of count-less minor annoyances that seemed to erupt overnight. Eventually, people would be dispatched to scrub it away wherever it appeared.
Harry Briggs had been driving for a long time on a road that seemed to snake endlessly through fields of tall grass and nodding sunflowers. He wasn't sure how long he'd been driving. It seemed like centuries. He'd stopped for coffee and for meals—at friendly little restaurants that rose up magically from the fields of tall grass and sunflowers—and he'd stopped to stretch his legs, but he hadn't stopped to sleep and he thought that he should be getting tired by now. He supposed that it was mid-afternoon when he decided this, and that he was sweating because the road that cut through the nodding sunflowers and tall grass was supernaturally hot.
He didn't notice until the deed was done that a fat, black spider had crawled up from somewhere inside the car's front seat and bitten him on his bare forearm. He saw the spider—it was staring at him with tiny red eyes—and he saw the slight discolored area on his arm, so he hit the brake pedal and pulled over to the shoulder of the road.
"Jesus," he whispered, not because the bite hurt, but because it was so unsettling to be bitten and not have noticed right away. It was unsettling also to have huge black spiders living inside his car's front seat. There might be dozens of spiders in there. Aunt and uncle spiders, mother and father spiders, baby spiders waiting to grow up. A whole community of fat spiders with tiny red eyes.
He stared at the spider that was staring at him from his bare forearm—gripping the steering wheel—and he realized that he didn't know what to do. P
erhaps the spider merely wanted light and air. Blood and companionship. So it had staked a claim to his forearm, and if he, Harry, tried to uproot it, it would probably bite him again.
"You can't stay there," Harry said, and the creature moved its huge front legs a little, as if in response. At last, it lumbered off, down his forearm and into the seat again.
When he looked up again, he saw that the shadows had lengthened and that dusk, like a shower of fire, was upon him.
Harry showed a photograph to the cashier at a natural foods store and asked if she had ever seen the person in the photograph. The woman answered that she hadn't, then added, "But there are so many people coming and going these days. It's like a parade."
Harry said, "Thanks, anyway," and bought some of the woman's natural foods, because he felt duty-bound to now that he had taken up her time.
He stopped at a gas station and showed the man tending the pumps the same photograph. The man looked at it for a moment and said, "She's one classy dame, ain't she?" Harry agreed, but then the man went on to say that he had never seen her before and that even if he had, he probably wouldn't remember her, considering how "crowded the roads have been." Harry frowned, said thanks, put $5 worth of gasoline into his monster Buick—though he didn't need the gasoline—and drove off.
Presently, he stopped to pick up a hitchhiker. Harry had done a lot of hitchhiking and he knew how it felt to stand in the heat or the cold for hours at a time waiting for a ride.
"Where you headed?" he asked the stocky, craggy-faced, red-haired man he'd picked up.
"I really don't know, Harry," the man answered, though Harry hadn't told him his name. "And I'd say the same about you too."
Harry supposed that this answer should have made him uncomfortable. He supposed it should even have sounded a little threatening. But it didn't, because he got the notion that he had met this man before. Harry asked him, "Do I know you?"
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