Tom paused, suppressing his immediate, visceral inclination to respond unequivocally in the negative, for, in truth, he was simultaneously seized by two conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he was totally repulsed by Lucinda's proposition, by its blatant impropriety, not to mention utter illogicality. How could he ever even consider what she was suggesting, that he could find even the smallest solace, never mind real happiness, with any other person in the wake of the loss of the one who meant the whole world to him? How could she ever consider it herself, for that matter, after all that her Richard had meant to her? On the other hand, he found himself irresistibly drawn to this woman, albeit not in the manner she may have intended. For she was indeed right about one thing—he now understood very plainly the desperation she felt at trying to fill the enormous void that existed in her soul. Tom felt a surge of heartfelt compassion for Lucinda and her lifetimes of sorrow wash over him like a wave, and he sorely yearned to reach out to her, to do or say something, anything, that might give her even the coldest comfort.
Suddenly, he himself felt deeply alone and afraid, like a hopelessly lost little boy, and he longed for that very same consolation he was prepared to offer her to be afforded himself in return. And this feeling quickly evolved into a paralyzing, almost palpable sense of horror as he had to acknowledge a devastating, awful truth: there was a part of himself which, out of weakness, perhaps merely desperate to avoid the sheer misery of the path that now lie before him, but undeniably present nevertheless, would be readily inclined to accept her proposition. His intellect began to assert itself, to play out all the arguments, the pros and cons, the cold, hard logic of his situation. Then, he realized that now was not the time for mere rationality. Not now, when what was at stake was all and everything that there is, or ever would be.
"I think” he replied finally, “that you should do whatever you feel is right.” He tapped his chest. “I think you should listen to what this is telling you."
"And what is yours telling you, Tom?"
Tom reached out to her. He placed his hand over hers and gently moved the tin away from himself and onto the table. “It's telling me to go back to New York,” he said, softly yet firmly.
"Yes,” Lucinda nodded. “I would expect it is.” She sighed. “We are too alike, indeed, you and I.” She shook her head, absently fingering the small green charm she wore around her neck. “And that just makes it all the more tragic.” She slowly retreated to the other side of the table and sat down. She picked up a fork as if to once again attack her chowder; her portion by now had been almost completely consumed, and only a few precious fragments of fish remained. She speared one and then put it down, abruptly. “Well,” she said, visibly upset, “I seem to have also lost my appetite.” Then taking in a deep breath, she again picked up her fork. She exhaled audibly. “I suppose though,” she said, her voice quavering, “there's no use letting all this good food go to waste."
Lucinda continued eating her chowder slowly, methodically, and joylessly. When she had finished she reached around behind her neck and removed the delicate gold chain which she always seemed to be wearing, the one with the shiny little green charm, and put it down on the table. It now became apparent that the charm was actually a tiny glass vial, containing some kind of green liquid. Lucinda poured herself another glass of wine, finishing what was left in the bottle. She then cracked open the top of the vial and emptied the contents into the glass, swirling it in her hand to mix the two ingredients together. She reached over and began stroking Sammy, who all the while had been eyeing her very intently and who now began to purr softly. “My poor, darling boy,” she said, looking down at him and shaking her head. The cat began rubbing up against her and meowing. “Be strong, now,” she whispered.
"Now, Tom,” she said in a strong, firm voice, “I will counsel you one last time to carefully consider your course of action. Keep your eyes open.” She fixed hers on him, the twin cobalt lasers maintaining constant contact. “You have many, many years of life left,” she intoned gravely. “I implore you: please, do not waste them on the dead. The elixir is all yours now, find someone worthy to share it with.” She held out the wine glass as if making a toast. “May you ultimately succeed where I have failed, Tom. May you triumph as totally as I have been vanquished."
With that she brought the glass up to her lips and drank. Sammy let out a loud shriek and leaped off the table. He then began to dart around the room frenetically, all the while emitting a stream of constant mews that steadily increased in volume and urgency.
"I think you can see your own way out,” Lucinda said to Tom. “You had best leave now, and avoid any unfortunate implications. I've told Ed Wilson everything. He's coming by tomorrow morning. He'll clean up whatever he has to, and then contact you.” She drained her wine glass and set it down roughly on the table. “And now, I must bid you good evening and goodbye.” She then very quickly exited the dining room, almost running away, with Sammy following in frantic pursuit.
"Lucy, what have you done?” Tom called out, getting up and following her. Lucinda ignored him, and Tom could see her black-clad figure beginning to climb the stairway, ascending the first few steps rather quickly before stopping abruptly. She grasped the banister to steady herself and paused a moment or two before starting again, only now moving much more slowly.
"Lucy, are you all right? Can't I do anything to help...?"
"Go away, Tom!” she called back, without turning around.
Tom had reached the foot of the stairs as Sammy scampered past him, almost tripping him as he did so. Sammy reached Lucinda, who by now had managed to climb only a few steps from the top, and leaped onto her, digging his claws deeply into her back.
"AAAH!” She cried out in pain, struggling to free herself from his grasp, twisting and turning around as she did so.
Tom could only look on in abject horror. Incredibly, Lucinda was aging right before him, visibly and very rapidly, like a time lapse photograph of a rosebud opening, blooming, and then ultimately wilting: her posture growing less erect, more bent ... fine lines appearing in her face and then deepening into dark creases, her skin becoming mottled with spots, sagging, and pulling away from the underlying bones ... her eyes rimmed with dark circles and sinking deep into their sockets ... her hair turning gray, growing thin and lifeless. In less than thirty second's time Lucinda's outward form changed from that of a beautiful young girl into that of an ugly old crone. In less than a minute she looked like a living dead woman, a walking corpse, just as she had appeared when Tom had seen her at the cemetery a month ago. Flailing her arms wildly she finally flung Sammy off of her, but the impetus of her awkward movements caused her to lose her balance; her body pitched toward the banister and she tumbled over it backwards, headfirst, falling twenty feet and hitting the floor with a resounding thud. Tom hurried over to see if he could help her, but she had landed in a manner that removed all doubt as to her condition, her whole body now lying in a crumpled heap, all facing down save for her head, which was now connected to the rest of her at an incongruous angle, her face tilted up toward the ceiling, eyes open and fixed, a trail of blood streaming from the corner of her mouth and beginning to pool around her motionless figure. Lucinda was dead.
"Yeeooww!!” Sammy let loose a long, ear-splitting mew, sounding disconcertingly like the anguished cry of a human child. Tom looked up to see the cat on the uppermost landing of the staircase, peering down at Lucinda's broken body below through the wooden slats that supported the banister. “Yeeeooowww!!!” Tom had been around cats before, but this was the worst sound he had ever heard one make, the sheer, palpable pain that inspired it seeming to permeate every fiber of the creature's very being. Suddenly, Sammy scaled the slats and leaped onto the banister, gingerly balancing himself on the very top perch. For a few seconds he was silent, moving his head this way and that, surveying all that was below him. He looked directly at Tom, who was shocked at what he saw, a sight he had neither seen before nor even imagined was poss
ible: welling up in the animal's clear blue eyes were actual tears, which began to flow freely down his furry, feline face. Then, he let out one last blood-curdling howl, which seemed to die in his throat just as he hurled himself off the banister and onto the floor below.
Tom stood there transfixed, unable to react. He heard a loud, sickeningcrack as the cat landed not on his feet but rather, as he had clearly intended, on his head, snapping his neck and killing himself instantly. Now, Tom could only gape in awe at the stunning tableau which had unfolded before him—two shattered, bloodied bodies, a woman and her cat curled up next to her, mother and son now joined in death, a scene both horrifying and heartbreaking.
What should I do—should I call 911, or the police, or anybody? Well, Lucy was probably right, he decided after a few moments.It would be better if I stayed out of this now . He shook his head. We would have all been better off if I had never met her to begin with.
Tom headed back into the kitchen. After all, he had come here for one reason, and one reason only, and he was not about to leave empty-handed. He threw open Lucinda's cupboards to reveal a bewildering assortment of herbs, herbal teas, and other preparations, a veritable pharmacopoeia of the natural.Or the unnatural, who can say? There's no way I can figure out any of this now, not by myself, anyway. Damn you, Lucy! Did you ever really want to help me ? Suddenly his eye was caught by one item: a small glass vial shaped exactly like the one that Lucinda wore around her neck, containing what looked to be the same green liquid. Tom reflected for a split second, then ashamed at his weakness, grabbed the vial and slipped it into his breast pocket. He closed the cupboard doors in disgust and went back into the dining room. On the table were the three white enamel tins with the purple hand painted flowers. Tom took them all, stuffing one in each pants pocket and holding the third in his hand, and headed for the front door. Abruptly, he stopped, and started walking back; he had to take one last look at Lucinda and Sammy.Why? Why am I doing this? Do I somehow expect her to come back from the dead? The plain truth of the matter was that Tom's confidence in the ordinary rules of nature had been shaken to their very foundation. Nothing in this world, it seemed to him now, was out of the realm of possibility. In a way, then, he found it almost comforting to see Lucinda and Sammy still lying lifelessly in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tom's odd sense of reassurance lasted only as long as it took to finally exit Lucinda's house. His earlier weather forecast had been all-too-accurate, unfortunately, and as he stepped out the front door the pitch black night was suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning and a tremendous clap of thunder; Tom had barely made it into his car before the first few large raindrops gave way to a hellacious, driving storm.Should I try to wait for this to let up? No, let me get away from here, now! He started the engine and drove down the path away from Lucinda's house and onto the street.
The streets here and now were totally deserted.No one wants to be out in this! Tom was able to quickly and uneventfully make his way out of town and to the highway and put Barnstable behind him.
The highway was a different story, of course. The traffic was steady, and had not really slowed down despite this extremely intense rain, which made driving all the more difficult and dangerous. Tom glanced at the chronometer. It was almost nine o'clock. I won't be home until after midnight. I'd better give Carole a call before it gets too late. He pushed the first speed-dial button on the speaker cell phone that was built into the control panel of his Cadillac, but the call would not go through.Damn this storm! He hit it again. Nothing. Tom reached over and pushed the button to manually access a dial phone, but the phone was dead. After another couple tries he gave up.Keep both hands on the wheel he reminded himself anxiously.Now wouldn't thatbe ironic , he thought, contemplating the possibility of a fatal automobile accident. As Sammy had proven earlier this evening, the protective powers of the elixir clearly did not extend to physical trauma. Then he imagined Carole sitting next to him and his mood brightened.
He remembered how she always teased him about being such a nervous driver, like a typical New Yorker, she always said.Relax! And she had always admonished him about his terrible body posture when he drove. He chuckled to himself, picturing what he must look like now: shoulders hunched, leaning forward anxiously; eyes held wide open; lips pinched, grimly pressed firmly together; both hands tightly clutching the wheel with white knuckles. A genuine smile creased his face, and he resolved to calm down. He took his left hand off the steering wheel and found the button to adjust his seat, pulling it forward and more upright, then he leaned his head and body backward until they were resting flush against the seat. He took deep, deliberate breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, trying consciously to relax, to release the tension in his muscles, just as Carole had taught him to do.That is better , he thought, as he settled in for the long drive to New York.Oh, Carole, where would I ever be without you?
The thunderstorms apparently had been part of a system moving rapidly up the East coast, so as Tom had driven south the conditions had begun to improve. By the time he reached New York, well after midnight, as he had correctly anticipated, it was perfectly clear and dry. Still, the drive had been long and hard, and by now Tom was extremely tired and finding it very hard to concentrate. He was very relieved when he finally exited the parkway. Then he realized with annoyance that out of force of habit he had gotten off at the wrong place, where he used to get off when he lived in his old neighborhood. Once off he decided not to get back on but rather continue home on the surface streets.
His path now took him past Dr. Michael's office. Even at this hour, the lights were still on. Tom shook his head. Doesn't he ever sleep? The man is dedicated, I'll give him that!Tom felt the urge to stop and talk to him. He turned off the main street and started around the block, looking for a parking space, but none could be found. Just as well, I suppose. What I really want right now is just to go home. Then, paradoxically, Tom found himself irresistibly drawn to first making one stop along the way, at another place that was nearby, one that also never closed, as it were. He turned a corner, then another, and started for St. Thaddeus.'
That was pretty stupid, actually, he thought as he pulled onto the street that housed his old church, remembering how late it actually was.The church doesn't stay open all night . He decided to forget about it and just keep driving when suddenly he saw a wizened little old man walking up the steps to the front door of the church. It was Mr. Durlowski, the sexton. Tom pulled over to the curb, parked, and got out of his car.
"Hi,” he said quietly, approaching the old man cautiously, not wishing to startle him or perhaps give the impression he was up to no good. “I know it's very late, but..."
"If you want to see a priest, they've all gone to bed,” said Mr. Durlowski. His stern appearance was merely a façade; he was in fact a kindly, quite soft-spoken little fellow whose slightly high-pitched voice bore a faint trace of an old New York accent. “Now, if this is an emergency, I'll wake one up, otherwise, can't this wait ‘til morning?"
"Oh, I really don't want to see a priest. I just thought that I could go inside for a moment,” said Tom, gesturing to the church.
"Well, all right, but just for a minute or two—it is awfully late, you know.” Mr. Durlowski took out his keys and opened the lock to the big wooden door at the front of the church. He held the door open for Tom and nodded.
"Thank you,” said Tom as he went inside.
Mr. Durlowski followed him, closing the door behind him. “Thanks,” Tom repeated. “I really appreciate this.” The two of them started walking down the center aisle and toward the altar.
"You know, I had already locked up at eleven, as usual,” said Mr. Durlowski, whispering, “but I had to come back to take care of something that just came up.” He reached the altar and genuflected; then he turned to Tom and smiled. “So, I guess you were just lucky tonight."
Tom genuflected and said nothing. Luck
y?How many people show up at a church after midnight in the middle of the week when they are feeling lucky? "
Mr. Durlowski shrugged, immediately recognizing the rather obvious irony. “Okay, well you can stay for a bit, but let me know before you leave, so I can lock up.” He walked up onto the altar and disappeared through the side door to the sacristy.
Tom now walked over to the bank of votive candles in front of the statue of St. Thaddeus. He slid a bill into the donation slot and lit a candle, then knelt down in prayer. He silently recited the words he remembered from an old prayer card, imploring St. Thaddeus’ intercession for what seemed now to be a hopeless cause: that somehow she and he might wake up tomorrow and that all of this would have just gone away, that Carole would once again be a healthy young woman with a long life in front of her.
When he had finished his prayer to St. Thaddeus he blessed himself and got up, walked over to the first pew and sat down. He now began to pray directly to The Almighty. I can't keep asking for favors like this, can I?he thought, feeling guilty and slightly ashamed of himself.Please God! Just let me know what's right—and give me the strength to do it. That's really all anybody has any right to ask! He tried to sort through the myriad thoughts that were bombarding his brain all at once. He leaned back against the hard wooden pew and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then another.Try to focus, he told himself, as fatigue threatened to overwhelm him. This had been a staggeringly draining day, emotionally and physically, and he was at the point of complete exhaustion.
TFRoot - The Elixer Page 20