To Sleep Gently

by Trent Zelazny

  Shelley hadn't come to school this morning. For the past couple of weeks she had attached herself to either Jack or Mike whenever possible, wanting them both and unable to find a way to make it work. Now all of a sudden, she wasn't here, and frankly, Jack was pleased. He remembered how he'd held her that night. Thought of the times he'd held her since. He wished he could still be there now, holding her, kissing her, loving her. The hard part was he knew he wasn't alone in this. Mike was falling for her too. He was sure of that. And he was glad she wasn't around today. The balance beam was precarious. The responsibilities were enormous, and he was glad for the break.

  Ever since that night he and Mike had exchanged few words. The few they did share were taut, acrimonious bits of insignificant inanity. The two of them standing there, not moving, not speaking, waiting helplessly for the right words or actions to come along. Nothing coming, nothing helping, nothing to break the self-inflicted tension, they would look at each other with a proud sort of shame and an undercurrent of hatred, and not knowing where to take it from there, they would part.

  Sitting here now, reading, a shadow dripped over onto pages 88 and 89.

  He looked up. Shelley was blocking the light. She wore a pair of white shorts and white tennis shoes with pink socks, and a green T-shirt that said ELLEN BEITEL MEMORIAL SCHOLARSHIP SOFTBALL TOURNAMENT. She seemed frightened. Her eyes were watery and her nose was red. Her brow was furrowed slightly, and her soft lips trembled.

  Closing up his book, he studied her. "Where have you been today?"

  She tried to meet his eyes but couldn't. Instead, her eyes wandered around, looking at nothing in particular, until she dropped them down and studied her shoes. "Can we talk?"

  Something sank inside him. He watched her sit down, moving almost in slow motion. Once seated, she reached for his hand, and he knew something was seriously wrong. His stomach turned to ice. Something was wrong and it involved him.

  He looked at her, the blood already running out of his head.

  A tear slid down her cheek. It stopped halfway down, quavered, then went to the end of her chin and let go. "I just want you to know," she said, "that I'm pregnant."

  3

  When he opened his eyes he saw blood on his hand. He raised up a bit and studied the red clotted glove through blurred, dizzy eyes. He said to himself, What happened? Then he fell back to the sidewalk and coughed.

  It hurts doing that, he thought. It hurts to cough. Everything's all fucked up inside. You took a pretty good beating. Nice work and good timing too, all things considered. Can you even sit up?

  He tried. He could. It was slow going but he got himself upright.

  Good. Now see that parking meter there? Use that and get yourself up to your feet.

  The top of the meter was as tall as a skyscraper. Taking hold of the metal post, he pulled, climbed up, putting one hand over the other. Once on his feet he shook his head, steadied himself. Much to his surprise, he felt better.

  Okay. Now let go of the meter and continue your journey.

  He did, though found that he was still shaky. He walked slowly, though a slight improvement over his previous baby steps. Instead of propping his shoulder against the buildings, he clasped his hands to his abdomen, and blinked repeatedly to keep his eyes from clouding over.

  You're doing fine. You're doing just fine. Slow and steady wins the race, big guy. You're the tortoise. Just be the tortoise. You're doing fine.

  He made it to the end of the block and looked right. He saw his car amidst dark shadows, down at the end. A step. Another. Then a half step and his legs went rubbery again. He dropped to one knee, but wouldn't let himself go down any further.

  Get up, he told himself, get up.

  That was when the lights hit him from behind. He heard the hum of an unsteady engine. When he turned to look, he saw nothing but two blinding bright eyes staring at him. They shot pain into his head, and when he shut his eyes to block it out, he grew dizzy and fell once more.

  Again he was distanced from everything. He kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the blackness. Enjoyed the spinning, nauseating sensation going round in his skull.

  Get up, he told himself. Get up and walk.

  A car door opened, closed.

  Keeping his eyes shut, he forced himself onto his elbows and began crawling away from the light. He crawled pitifully towards his car, not entirely certain he was going in the right direction, but knowing that he was headed away from the lights. He crawled through the grime, the cigarette butts and other small bits of trash. He listened to the sound of fast-moving footsteps. They sounded like a child in clogs, running down an empty hallway. They were closer now. Then a voice mixed into the clomping and it said, "Jack, oh my God!" The footsteps stopped right beside him, and a hand touched his shoulder.

  His eyes opened. His neck protested as he turned his head to see the source of the sound. When he saw her crouched above him, he opened his mouth but couldn't get any words out. All that escaped was a groan.

  "Jesus, Jack, what happened to you?" Her hands took hold of his shoulders, tried to steady him, then tried to pull him up.

  Do it, he said to himself. Get up to your feet.

  When he eventually lifted himself from the ground, defeating the fatigue pressing down on him, wheezing as he came up, she wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and together the two of them stumbled over to the humming lights.

  Sandra opened the passenger door and helped ease him inside. As she walked around the car to the other side, he found that he was mumbling incoherently. She climbed in, put on her seatbelt, and drove. "I'm taking you to the hospital," she said.

  Finally, though it was weak, his first cohesive word crept from his throat. "No."

  She looked at him. What started as astonishment evolved into a queer knowledge that something was going on. Rather than driving herself mad with judgment or perplexing rumination, she stared through the windshield and drove the car instead. "So what happened there?"

  "I got jumped," he told her. It was draining to speak. His words came out in breathless little jumbles. "Two guys. beat the crap out of me."

  "Why?"

  It was too much effort to shrug, though he wanted to. "I just happened to be there, I guess." Then he was blinded with a fiery pain that slashed through his head. He whimpered, clenched his fists, then eased back in his seat.

  She put on her blinker, made a left. The stereo was on, very soft. It was that song "Green Tambourine," by the Lemon Pipers, though it was almost inaudible. He was impressed he'd picked up on it at all.

  "You have to go to the hospital," she told him.

  "No I don't," he said; and when she looked at him, through his shuddering pain and extreme exhaustion, he managed a bloody-toothed grin.

  "You look awful," she said.

  "Thank you."

  "Tell me what happened."

  "I thought I already did."

  "No, tell me how it went down."

  Though it took him longer than it should have, he told her about having a coke at the hotel, about going for a walk, and pausing at the corner in debate with himself. He told her about the two men, how they had jumped him. And how he'd managed to get in some good licks in the end.

  Watching her drive, he could tell she was in a dispute with herself as to whether she should believe him or not. He knew from looking at her that she was going to cave. He just had to be patient, had to be the tortoise. He grinned again, to himself. Then pain overtook him.

  "So why don't you wanna go to the hospital?"

  "A hospital is no place to be sick."

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. The song had changed from "Green Tambourine" to "Isn't It a Pity," by George Harrison. Dempster always liked the song, though he didn't want to turn it up. Everything was a pity right now; he didn't need anyone singing it in his ears.

  After another minute, he said, "I thought you were gone. I mean, I thought that was really it."

  More silence.

&
nbsp; "What are you doing? I mean, why are you still in Santa Fe?"

  She cut him a glance. Her expression was cold now. An elaborate sigh blew out from deep within her. "I'm leaving tomorrow," she said. "I was just out for a night drive, taking in more of the city."

  Another grin crept onto his face. "And you happened to find me. What are the chances of that?"

  She looked at him again. He could tell she wanted to smile but wouldn't allow herself to. "It would seem," she said, "in one metaphorical sense, anyway, your ship has sunk."

  Which sense she meant, he wasn't sure. He sagged in his seat, and thought about all the trouble over the past few days. Not even free for a week, and I've already created more problems than I can handle. But why should I cry about it? Everybody's got troubles. Sandra here, she's got troubles of her own; but you got to admit it's strange—this is the third time we've walked into each other's lives in only a few days. Ships passing, converging, straying, converging. You know what it's like when you look at her. It's not the same kind of thing as when you look at Carly. Carly wanders in with her body and you're hooked. Sandra wanders in with that and everything else to boot, and when you see her, something changes inside you. You feel stronger. You also feel weaker. You feel more like the man you know you can be. Like the man you want to be.

  Sandra pushed a tape into the cassette deck, most likely just for something to do. It was faint, but he recognized it as the Hollis Wake.

  He looked at her, staring through the windshield. His voice was weak when he said, "Sandra?"

  She looked at him, then back to the road.

  "I'm sorry," he told her, and turned his attention out the window. Buildings passed by. He realized they were on Saint Francis Drive and didn't really care. He didn't care where he was, so long as it was with her. "I'm sorry about. I'm. I'm sorry that."

  "Skip it."

  The car suddenly accelerated. Her lips were pressed tight. She made a right onto Cerrillos Road and the car picked up more speed. Dempster didn't know what to say. All words were lost. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak but held it back. They didn't talk again until she pulled into the parking lot of the Quality Inn ten minutes later.

  She switched off the engine and then turned to him. "Come inside. I'll help you get cleaned up."

  "If I'm putting you out, you can take me back to where I was."

  She didn't answer. Instead she got out the car, walked around and opened his door, and helped him out. The pain, all of it, was fading, but it was still there, oppressing him, dragging him down. And of course she would be on the second floor. He had to hold onto her as they climbed the steps. Once he almost lost his balance, pulling Sandra down with him, but she managed to keep him on his feet, and they made it to her door.

  That's pretty much what you're doing, my man. Pulling her down. At first you were a wonder to her, a super hero, Captain America or someone. And now, well. now you're nothing more than a fucking burden.

  Inside the room he sat down on the bed. Enough strength had returned that he was able to sit up now without any problem. He watched her walk into the bathroom, saw the light go on, and then heard the sound of running water. When she returned, she was holding a wet washcloth and two towels, as well as a glass of water, a bottle of peroxide, and a box of Band-Aids.

  "I don't imagine those came complimentary with the room."

  "I keep myself prepared for certain eventualities," she said, and handed him the glass of water. She began cleaning the blood and dirt from his face. The washcloth felt nice and warm, and he closed his eyes. He listened to her breathing and to the sounds of the washcloth as it brushed against his skin.

  They were pleasant sounds, mixing in with the warmth. It was like having a really sweet dream.

  "Well," she said after a time, "whatever went down, they got you pretty good."

  "I've been beaten much worse," he told her. "I should be fine by tomorrow."

  Without opening his eyes, he sensed a cloud of tension develop in the air. The washcloth came away from his face, and when he looked she was rising. "I'm gonna rinse this out."

  When she came back, she kneeled down and took hold of his right hand. The sensation of their fingers touching sent a nervous tingle through him. When he looked at her, he saw her eyebrows were slightly lifted, as though she hadn't anticipated something that had just happened. She continued though, cleaning the blood from his knuckles and fingers.

  When his right hand was done she took hold of his left, and as they watched the blood disappear together, she asked, "How many beatings have you taken in your life?"

  Without giving it much thought he told her, "More than I should have." Flicking a glance up at him, she wiped his hand harder. Irritation or apprehension or just a deeper cleaning, he wasn't sure. "Jack?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm getting the feeling that everything I know about you isn't right." She set down the washcloth, added peroxide to one of the towels, took his right hand again and clasped the towel against it. It stung, but not as much as he'd thought it would. "I get the feeling that you're not Jack Driscoll, art appraiser," she said. "You're more like James Bond, or something."

  He looked her in the eye. It was the oddest moment he'd experienced in he didn't know how long. It was like staring into the eyes of Carly and Mike both—a beautiful, stunning person and also a best friend, only with something additional thrown into it. Something really amazing. Sure, he could lie to a minor extent. He could avoid the truth until the cows came home. But no matter what, he couldn't look her in the eye and feed her a load of shit.

  "I'm a fake."

  She rolled her eyes. "That much I think I've figured out," she said. "What kind of fake you are is another story."

  He opened his mouth to say something but didn't. He checked himself, searched his mind to see if he could find anything better to tell her, and realized he couldn't tell her anything at all.

  Sandra did to his left hand what she'd done to his right. He liked the feeling of their palms kissing, and enjoyed the memories and thoughts that it brought up. After a moment he wrapped his fingers around the hand holding his.

  She stopped what she was doing, looked up at him. Her eyes were moist but certain, and her hand gripped his with a tight affirmation he'd hoped for but didn't expect to achieve. "'She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness.'"

  "Now that one I don't know."

  "E.M. Forster," she told him. "Howard's End.."

  "Never read it."

  She rose from her knee and sat on the bed beside him. Then her head was on his shoulder. "Not that it's really any of my business," she said, "but when that girl answered your phone this morning.. .were you really about to.?"

  He placed his arm around her shoulder and clutched her tight. "No," he said, avoiding the truth, but not lying.

  "Because it's okay," she said. "At least, I think it is. I mean, it's not like we'd decided to become exclusive or anything." Her head came away from his shoulder, her face went red. "I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry. We aren't anything. Maybe we never should be anything. We've never even kissed, and for all I know this is something I've built up entirely in my head. Being a daydreamer, I have a tendency to do that sometimes."

  Watching her, listening to her, he felt spellbound. Warmth came from her body like steam from a hot towel and flowed into him. She moved closer to him, or maybe it was he moving closer to her. He wasn't sure, but he grew dizzy again. This time, however, it was because of the nearness, the heat rising between them. He kissed her gently on the lips. Then they kissed again. When they pulled away, she placed her head back on his shoulder.

  "Who was that girl that answered your phone?"

  "A girl that wanted things from me I wouldn't give her."

  A pause, then, "Okay."

  Another pause, then, "You don't sound as though you believe me."

  "'The highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides.'"

  "Thomas Hardy,"
he said.

  She shrugged. "I had planned on leaving right away after I called this morning," she told him. "But something—something wouldn't let me. Some voice inside my head told me I couldn't leave just yet. I had to stay a little longer. Honestly, I think I really stuck around out of some pathetic hope that maybe I'd."

  "Same here," he told her, not wanting her to finish that sentence.

  "It sounds crazy, Jack, so I don't mean to scare you."

  At that moment something happened inside him he'd never experienced before. All of his problems, all his troubles—suddenly none of it seemed very important. There's nothing that can't be dealt with, he thought as electricity surged through him, starting in his heart and spreading all the way out to the tips of his toes and fingers.

  "Sandra?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You ever read the Barchester Towers?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "'There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel.'"

  She raised her head again, looked into his eyes, uncertainty wavering across her blushing face. "That doesn't sound too optimistic," she told him.

  "It's not. But I think I'm as scary as you."

  He drew her face to his. The heat between them rose. Their arms wrapped around one another. They kissed, and when their lips parted they held each other for a long, quiet time. He didn't ever want to let her go. Never in his life had everything seemed so right, so perfect, so completely full. All the physical pain was suddenly gone; or much like when he'd been blacking out, it was so distanced that it didn't matter. Other than where he was at that exact moment, nothing else mattered.

  "So do I get to know who you really are?" she asked.

  "Let's just say, I'm not who you think I am—or thought I was."

  A pause, then, "As long as the person I see inside you is real."

  "I think that part's real," he said. "I hope it is, anyway." He paused, then took his turn. "You didn't call."

  "I know. I'm sorry. You'll hate me if I tell you why."

  "Yes, that's why we're having this moment."