As James grew to understand the little creatures’ songs, he found them to be not only non-threatening, but amusing. He wondered if they were bacteria, fungus, viruses, or something else entirely. He barely knew the difference in any case.
With the crew of microscopic balladeers dangling, James idly boiled the kettle for tea. As his attention moved back and forth between the kettle and the wire, he lost track of the germs’ vibes. His first assumption was that they had just died off, but he listened again and the song was still creaking away. He looked away and deliberately occupied his mind elsewhere, and in a moment there was only silence. He punched the air. “I can switch it off!” He tried again and again, and after about twenty minutes of practice, he found he could do it at will. “Salvation! Whoo hoo!” He did a clumsy, but heartfelt, victory dance.
James returned to the mouse and tried the same trick there. This was a far more complex task; the odors were intricately woven through one another. But by simply identifying one, then eliminating it from the ensemble and then working on another, they untangled like a ball of knotted Christmas-tree lights. This was not unlike the process he had learned when he was younger, but he mastered it much more quickly now. After several hours, he had the ability to select which signals came through and which he could hold at bay, but the effort was exhausting. James didn’t care; this was light at the end of the tunnel, a major victory. Leaning against the sink, he relaxed, really relaxed, for the first time in a week.
As he sipped, James idly, and a little cruelly, stuck the end of the coat hanger into the flames of the hob. The mellow microbes instantly kicked up a ruckus. A great fluttering wave of protest arose, a howl, and then—silence. He brought them close to his face: no scent, no vibes, no music. As with the golden orbs in the hospital, James had listened in on their death throes as he’d murdered millions, maybe billions of them.
He grabbed a spray bottle of bleach. The coat hanger was shoved under the fridge, and another glob of boisterous bacteria hoisted out. He smeared them thinly across a floor tile and tuned in—same song as the first batch, a simple, stinky melody. He sprayed the cleaner on the smear and a similar screech rose up, tapering off into silence. It wasn’t as quick as the fire, but their emission was more plaintive, he thought.
Brimming with confidence, James slid the sash of a street window right up. The summer breeze, filtered by the elms, flowed in. Pine Street was an unusually clean street for Philadelphia. There were things to smell, and of course some had been seeping through the windows in small concentrations, but nothing that struck his senses bothered him at all now.
Though confident that he could move around the neighborhood, James felt that there was no point in pushing it, so he resolved to stay put for a day or two. Then it occurred to him that a brief exposure to someone like the Mancuso’s guy might be a good test of his mettle, and it wouldn’t last too long. He made a list and plucked up the phone.
“Yeah, about 4:30, Mr. Weems. You want me to bring you some nice cannolis for dessert? Special offer today.”
James was feeling brave. “Sure, why not? And some fresh fruit, too,” he added. “Just make sure it’s very fresh.”
While he waited, he rummaged through his old stuff. He barely remembered most of the pieces. Some were saved because he’d wanted to keep them; others weren’t up to his standards, and he would never sell anything he thought might tarnish his reputation. There were quite a few he felt his buyers would like.
Most of James’ work was painted on canvases two feet square or thereabouts. All were abstract, but possessed a distinctly realistic feel, almost photographic, as if the objects depicted were real. This was largely down to a quality of light play that he had struck upon and mastered. It was this feature of his work that had brought him success. Love his work or hate it, a James Weems painting commanded attention.
Flipping through the stacks, James quickly dismissed anything he wouldn’t want on a wall with his name on it. There were several worth putting aside for Gabby. He held them at arm’s length, enjoying the re-acquaintance with some nearly forgotten works. Some he had painted ten, even fifteen years before. As one after another passed his fingertips, he came across a highly detailed painting of a brick wall covered in glistening bunches of golden orbs. He pulled it out of the stack and held it tightly for a moment.
With a tiny gasp, James staggered blindly backwards until he tripped over a chair. He fell firmly onto his rear end, and never even felt it.
Eight
First there was a shuffling noise, then a dull, languid bumping at the door. James steeled himself and twisted the knob, only half convinced he was ready.
“Hey, Mr. Weems. How are ya?” the Mancuso’s guy wheezed. “Got your order right here.”
The man’s B.O. could have knocked a vulture off a sewage truck. James squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.
“All your foodstuffs, in this box here. You got your baked goods in this bag here.” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then smeared it on his trouser leg. “That’ll be a hunnerd and two fifty-five, please.”
James handed over the cash as he sifted through the manifold ribbons of scent. He could make out a sweet smell rising above the others, and once again came that strong, but fleeting feeling that this man was very ill.
“Are you feeling all right? You look a little peaked,” James said.
The guy mopped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, and adopted a philosophical tone. “Hey, who feels ‘good’? Life is not meant to be comfortable, ya know?” Cough! “Life’s a bitch.”
“Uh, yeah, you’re right. Sure,” James agreed. Even considering the heat outside, the pallid man’s sweat output was phenomenal. “That’s a pretty nasty cough. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“Ha-ha, you sound like my wife. Life’s a bitch, then ya marry one, ya know?” He coughed again as he fumbled with his change purse.
“I’m not married,” James said.
“Smart kid. You enjoy yourself, ya know?” He pointed at James’ nose and winked. “While you’re young.”
James could sense the illness deep within himself now, as if he’d captured a little part of it. It rattled like balls on a pool table, relentlessly clicking over and over, the balls bouncing in cycles and then changing, adopting new patterns. He was suddenly overcome with a desire to help this doomed person, but he simply didn’t know how. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Mancuso’s guy offered the change, and James simply took it and said nothing.
“Hey, thanks for the order, see ya soon.” A few indigestion tablets went from his fist to his mouth as he turned the corner, and Mancuso’s guy descended the stairs, humming some old Dean Martin tune. James carried the groceries inside and fell back against the door. He’d virtually looked straight into the man and watched as his body was disassembled by invaders. It had left him rattled. While a modicum of control over whatever this thing was had returned, clearly this was bigger, as well as more powerful and active, than it had ever been before. He sat for a long time until the feeling passed and the ghosts of the microbes evaporated; then he unpacked. In the spirit of moving forward, he’d ordered fresh produce: bell peppers and cheeses, both quite boisterous, but he was able to handle them, though still wobbly and uncertain of his direction—like a child taking his first steps.
Dinner in the oven, James dressed. Only a week before, he’d mostly relied on a bathrobe and boxers that had been soaked in bleach. More progress.
Gabby breezed up forty-five minutes late, and flounced through James’ door with her ruffled paisley skirt swept like a rudder. She gave him a tight hug. If she was emitting anything James might have detected, her smoky herbal cloud of cologne exterminated it as it escaped.
“James! You look great!”
“So do you, doll.” She grimaced, but refused the bait. She always did.
They chatted, and Gabby brought James up to speed on their friends and acquaintances back in New York. “Bruce is living off the generosity of
a cracked and much older female ‘patron’,” “Sally’s in rehab,” and the like. He feigned interest, but she noticed he was somewhere else. “What’s up, Mr. Mopey? Someone take your favorite toy?”
James brushed it aside. “No, no. Just been feeling a little punk since I got out of the hospital, is all.”
“Unh huh, okay. You might fool some with that crap, but this is Gabby.” She scrunched her mouth to one side and squinted one eye. “What’s going on?”
The urge to tell Gabby was strong. James would tell anyone who would listen, but she was a little more open-minded than most. A little too open, if anything.
He motioned towards the table. “Let’s eat.” Sparkling crystal goblets and his best silver—all of which had had at least two rides through the dishwasher—a crisp, fresh linen tablecloth; he’d made an effort. Candlelight bounced off the deep forest-green walls. A bit of be-bop played lightly. Charlie Parker’s long-dead lips blew little note-bubbles through the speakers and bounced them up the walls.
“You know how to impress a gal,” Gabby joked.
They chilled and chatted about the art business, mostly. When they got to coffee, she folded her fingers in front of her face and rested her nose on them.
“So let’s see a little of that James Weems genius,” she said.
“Of course.” James produced a small stack of paintings from behind a chair. “All older stuff. Some I’d forgotten completely.” One by one, he held them up. Gabby nodded approval—he had chosen well.
The painting of the golden grape-bunches was included, and he was just a little reticent to show her. Gabby noticed, stood and took it in her hands. “This one means something special?” she asked.
“It’s old—about ten years or so. I don’t even remember painting it, in fact. It’s this dream I had, well, something like a dream.”
“Hey, nothing too strange about that. You got to be gettin’ these ideas from somewhere!”
To hell with it. He had to tell someone. He poured some coffee and let it all out, starting with the hospital. Gabby soaked it all in, though his explanation was a little hard to follow. He jumped from one point to another, trying to explain without sounding psychotic. Gabby asked a few questions, which helped to keep his tale on the rails. When he’d finished, she said, “Totally incredible, Babes, some sort of astral out-of-body thing. I’m jealous.”
James grimaced.
Gabby picked up the painting and shook her head. “Yeah, explains why that one looks even more real than your other work. Maybe you had an infection when you painted it?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
Gabby went over and browsed through another pile in the hallway. “There are some similar themes here, man. Yeah, and all kind of real-looking. Not unusual for you, I know, but some of these have a kind of quality that goes straight to it. Totally Gestalt.”
James had to agree: more than a few did indeed have a certain something-or-other, but he couldn’t say what. Some resembled the golden orbs; others, corkscrews or sea urchins.
Gabby spread the canvases across the furniture until they were surrounded. “James, I think these may be the best work you have ever done. Why did you keep them?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea, Gabs. Like I told you, I barely remember most of them.” As he said it he felt a chill go through his bones, as if he had just told a lie.
“Well, whatever, babe, these are going to move—no doubt about it. You know, this is a direction you should follow.”
The idea made James visibly uncomfortable. Gabby placed her wine glass on the end table and leaned back. “Okay, spill. What is the deal here?” she said.
James heaved a sigh and told the rest of the story: the trip home from the hospital, the way he had become a prisoner of every little microscopic creature in his own home, the Mancuso’s guy.
Gabby listened intently, and when James had finished, she sat for a moment and then said, “You are one lucky man!”
James momentarily wondered if every word that had ever floated into Gabby’s ear was magically filtered to mean only what she wanted to hear.
“You have the healing gift, James.”
James threw his eyes up. Whatever this was, a gift it was not. He sensed an onslaught of New-Age wisdom coming his way.
“There are ways of seeing energies, hun. Like Kirlian photography, you know? It’s like you’re seeing the aura and all of its elements. You need to nourish this gift!”
“The last thing I want to do is give this thing any nourishment. This is not a good thing, Gabby. You don’t seem to understand what it’s been like for me.”
“Ah yeah, I know. And I do understand. It’s been rough dealing with it on your own. But you’ll grow with it and see what a positive force it can be.” Gabby reached out and held James’ hand, then rummaged through her enormous carpetbag. A necklace bearing a single yellow pendant stone emerged. “Here, let me give you this. It’s citrine, the only stone capable of dissipating all negative energy.” She placed it in his hand.
Christ, James thought, this is all I need. But he took it anyway. Gabby folded his fingers around it and looked into his eyes purposefully.
“If you open your heart, you will feel it. The citrine affects the solar plexus chakra and opens the crown chakra. It will augment your powers.”
James bit his tongue.
Nine
The local limo service was left in no doubt: the car had to be immaculate. Although James felt he could now handle the world at large on that day, the idea of dealing with it in the flesh was still intimidating.
Coming clean to Gabby had been liberating. Simply having someone else know and accept his story had halved James’ load. Apart from that, though, she had not been particularly helpful. He had never subscribed to what he liked to call “witch-crap”. Gabby knew this, but in her view anyone with such an attitude was a gift from the universe, a challenge, a mind to open. “My mind is a bit more open than I would like at this point, thanks,” he’d joked.
Traffic was slow, a crawl in some spots. The people on the streets—most of them looked just fine, but it was sobering to imagine that if he rolled down his window, some of them would bear the mark of death.
James’ mother hadn’t been too surprised when he’d called. “That’s fine, dear,” she’d said, “but I have to leave tonight for a conference in Duluth. Maybe you could stop by my office instead?”
The prospect of bumping into one of Karen’s cancer patients didn’t appeal. “Um, any chance we could meet somewhere else?” he’d asked.
And Karen knew the reason, of course. Her heart sank, but she kept her tone light. “The cafeteria?”
“No, I don’t want to eat; I just need to talk. And there’s something I want to show you.”
“Well, I’ll need to eat. Do you know the coffee shop on Samson? The one by the Art Institute, with the red awnings?”
~* * *~
Stepping out of the car brought on a fairly heavy bombardment, but James coped, and confidence was at least half the battle. The pavement buzzed with activity, but in the short walk to the entrance, he tuned out most of the tracked dog feces and other shoe-mobilized detritus.
The coffee shop was much better. Picking the cleanest corner of the chic cafe, he sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. It gave him the opportunity to do some people-watching, or more accurately, watching the other patrons’ flora and fauna. Most of the customers and staff had some kind of glow or other: something infecting their sinuses, their feet, their armpits. All industriously working away. That was it. That was what he was sensing: the noise of industry. The individual beats of each group built a larger harmony, like the music of a busy city center, with its traffic, sirens, and construction noise. He relaxed and took in the show, more concerned now about surviving his mother than a day out.
Karen showed up late, and a little breathless. “Hello, Jimmy.” She leaned over to give him a peck, then settled herself and scrutinized his face. “So what
’s going on? This is a bit melodramatic, isn’t it? You found a girl you’re going to marry or something?”
James had been rehearsing ways to broach the subject, but in the end, just blurted it out. “Eh, no, Mom, nothing like that. It’s the old ‘problem’.”
“Ah, sweetie.”
“No, listen, Mom; it’s not what you think. When I was in the hospital last week, I had some dreams.”
“We’ve been here before, Jimmy. You remember?” Karen replied. She absently began to grope in her bag for a cigarette, though she’d quit years before.
“No, Mom, you have to listen to me this time.” He thrust his hands out and tipped his half-empty cup, sending streaks of cold coffee across the table. Karen grabbed a napkin and mopped.
“Mother, listen.” Karen slumped back in her chair and resigned herself. “It’s different now. I don’t know how, but I can see diseases. I always could.”
“But James—”
He smartly raised his hand. “Anh, anh! I was never crazy, Mom. I could always do this. It’s just when I was a kid, I couldn’t stand up for myself. I couldn’t prove it.” He took a few breaths and lowered his voice. “When I was in the hospital, I could see my own infection. I could see it grow while I dreamt. I could nearly reach out and touch it. Then it just vanished when they gave me antibiotics. I saw this, I know it.”
Karen fingered the fork in front of her, staring at it as she rocked it on the curve of the tines and bumped the handle against the sugar bowl. “We all see crazy things in our dreams, dear.”
“But I know I was looking at my own infection. I am that sure of it,” James said, snapping his fingers.
“But, dear, that is the very nature of this problem. You can’t prove it because there is nothing to prove. What you’re suggesting is simply impossible, honey.”
James picked a parcel up off the seat beside him and said, “This time, I have proof.” He pulled off the cloth it was wrapped in, and rested it on the table against the wall. Karen stared blankly.
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