Requiem for Ashes

by David Crossman

  Albert didn't know. "He's not like that," he said. He fingered his stitches and studied the boy's shadow. He had the distinct impression that if he swept the curtain aside suddenly, there wouldn't be anybody there. "Tewksbury didn't kill anyone."

  The boy blew an indecipherable comment through his nose.

  There was a brief, blessed silence. Perhaps he'd lapsed into a coma. A mild one.

  "That woman's weird, though."

  The icicles played on Albert's back again. "The one the doctor . . . ?”

  "Yeah," said the silhouette with a shudder. "I mean, like, I try to ignore her, you know? Just watch TV. It's like tryin' to ignore a ghost, or a troll, or something. I don't think she even knows I'm here. I think I'd pass out if she ever looked at me! Man!"

  He savored a delicious fear for a moment. "She just sits there. I mean, I heard you tell Doctor Williams you don't know who she is, or I wouldn't've said anything." Pause. "I'll be sittin' here and my eyes start driftin' over to her 'cause I feel like she's lookin' at me. But she don't.

  "I mean, she ain't hard to look at, you know? But she acts like some crazy person from one of them weed-whacker movies."

  Albert wanted to change the subject. "How many people are in the room?"

  "Here? Just us. Just two beds."

  The conversation lapsed. Albert felt drowsiness about to overtake him again, probably the pills.

  "The other one's real pretty," said the boy. "For an older woman. She should be here any minute. She reads mostly, you know? She talks to me sometimes." The boy's voice was getting fuzzy and hard to hear, taking the long route to Albert's brain, and rattling all the way.

  "She told me all about Tewksbury, and everything." There was a very long pause. "She said it's too bad you have to die."

  Albert's brain was too overtaken by sleep to rouse itself, despite there being something startling and terrible in the words that vibrated in his ears. Had he heard what he thought he heard, or were his roommate's words simply mingling with the speaker in a dream?

  Albert's dreams were more troubled than usual. He dreamt his head hurt. If that wasn't enough, he dreamt that he woke to find the Crazy Woman in the corner. The lights had been turned off, but the door was open and a soft light from the hall fell across her hands. Her fingers were busy with something; she was knitting long sheets of music, and humming. It took no time for Albert to realize that as the woman hummed, her hands knit the notes. Her head and shoulders were in shadows. Then she looked up. Her eyes sparkled in the darkness and fixed on him, widening, pulling the corners of her mouth back in a malevolent grin.

  She stood up, slowly. The knitting slid off her needles and each note sounded its swan song as it crashed to the floor. Suddenly she lunged at him, clutching knitting needles in each hand. He tried to scream, but could only moan. His mouth couldn't voice his terror. His body wouldn't respond to his panic.

  He awoke with a start, beaded in cold sweat with the sound of a shout dying in his ears.

  Chapter Six

  Everything was dark and quiet. Albert shot a terrified glance at the chair in the corner, but couldn't see anything. He turned on his light. The chair was empty. He realized he hadn't exhaled since he had awakened. He did now.

  There was a stirring on the other side of the curtain. Was she hiding there, ready to burst through the curtain, needles upraised with murderous intent?

  "Professor?" said a tired voice. It was the Teenager; lesser of two evils. Albert breathed again. "You okay?"

  Albert's voice cracked as he responded. "Yes." He cleared his throat. "Just a dream, I guess." Beat. "Must've had a bad dream."

  The boy's breathing suggested he was almost asleep again.

  "Did that . . . was that woman here tonight, the odd one?"

  The Teenager mumbled something; either "Yes, like always," or "My goldfish eats prunes" and dissolved into a rhythmic snore.

  Even Albert's limited understanding of marine life, such as it was, argued against the likelihood of prune-eating goldfish. The Crazy Woman, he deduced, must have been there again. His bewilderment was almost too much to bear. But he wanted a cigarette . . . and his head didn't hurt anymore. Not much.

  A police guard was sitting outside one of the doors in the hall. Albert had found a cigarette amongst his belongings and was now wandering about the corridors on enfeebled legs, an honest man in search of a light. He wore his old plaid robe and a pair of paper slippers the hospital had supplied, designed by committee.

  The guard had been dozing, but at Albert's approach he sat up. Even the pleat in his trousers straightened itself out until he recognized Albert.

  "Professor!" said the guard warmly. "What'd you do to yourself?"

  It was the guard from the jailhouse, the one who had stood by the grimy window when Albert had visited Tewksbury.

  "I'm not sure." said Albert, smiling hesitantly. He wanted to say something else, but, after a moment, just repeated, "I’m not sure. Do you have a light?"

  The guard conducted a thorough search of his pockets. "I quit smoking," he said. Albert sighed. "But I might have a match. Ah, here we go!" He produced the tattered remains of a matchbook to which one bent, pathetic match clung with waning resolve - too many times through the washer. Nevertheless, Albert was past master at nursing spark and flame from recalcitrant matches and was soon drawing the tobacco's genie deeply into his scorched lungs and his brain.

  He coughed and choked and his head floated five or six inches above his shoulders for a second or two in a rush of dizziness and pain, yet the insipid smile of a true addict lay upon his lips.

  "You better not let the nurses catch you smoking in here," said the guard, with the compassion of one who remembers. "They'd haul out the thumbscrews."

  Albert pointed at the door. "Tewksbury?"

  The guard nodded. "Funny you guys being here at the same time." Albert nodded. "I feel sorry for the guy, you know?" said the guard. "Gotta be pretty low to do something like that."

  "Well," said Albert, "I guess going to jail for something you didn't do . . . something like . . . " The rest of the thought wrapped itself in silence, but the guard understood.

  "Mmm."

  "Can I go in and see him?"

  "Afraid not," said the guard. "No matter what you think . . . or I think . . . the law says he's a murderer. My job's to keep this room closed so tight only air can get in." He shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry. Orders, understand?"

  Albert nodded, said good night and shuffled the paper slippers back toward his room. Hedidn't understand. He wanted to talk to Tewksbury, even though he had no idea what to say. His thoughts were running together again. He needed sleep.

  His roommate's light was on, his shadow was sitting up on the curtain, reading.

  "Professor?" said the Shadow, putting the book down.

  Albert grunted a reply. He was too tired to negotiate the suspension bridge between generations.

  "Where've you been?" asked the Teenager with a sniff. "You shouldn't smoke. It's not just bad for you. Other people have to breathe, too."

  Albert felt genuinely guilty. The thought had never occurred to him.

  "Did you go see what's his name?"

  "I went down there," said Albert. He slipped off his slippers and got into bed. "But there's a guard. He wouldn't let me in."

  Albert's eyelids closed like sandpaper over his eyes as his head hit the pillow. He felt very strange; his thoughts weren't quite connected to the world around him. Despite his fatigue, he was suspicious of the extended silence. It filled like a water balloon over his head and finally burst.

  "I can get you in there, if you really want to," said the Boy.

  "There's a guard," said Albert.

  "So? I can still get you in there."

  Albert didn't reply. He wanted the boy to think he’d fallen asleep.

  "Don't you wanna get in?"

  Albert propped himself on an elbow and glared at the Shadow. "There's a guard," he said almost sternly. "He won
't let me in. I told you."

  "You don't watch much TV, do you, Professor?"

  "Not much."

  "If you did, you'd know there's hundreds've ways to get in somewhere . . . climbin’ through air-conditioning vents . . . except they’re never, like, big enough for people in real life. Not strong enough to hold ‘em if they were. But we could get some sleeping pills . . . or you could dress up like doctor or a nurse . . . "

  "Nurse?"

  "That’d really throw ‘em. A woman nurse. You’d have to shave your legs, at least from the knees down. Or a delivery man with flowers. Or you could climb through the window. Or . . . hey! Did you try callin’ him?”

  Albert sat up. See what he missed not watching TV? He picked up the phone and dialed the operator. "Professor Tewksbury's room, please."

  "There is no phone in that room." There was no "good-bye," the voice was just suctioned into the hiss at the other end of the line.

  "Hello?"

  Nothing. Albert hung up. "He doesn't have a phone."

  "No problem. I just figured out a way!"

  Albert lay back down. He didn't want to hear it. "Tell me tomorrow."

  "We need a diversion," said the Teenager. "I know! I could go out in the hall and throw a fit, like something's wrong!"

  Albert must be nearly asleep again, the silhouette was making less sense than usual. "Then what?"

  "'Then, when the guard and everyone come to help me you slip into Tewksbury's room!"

  "It wouldn't work," Albert proclaimed. "People always need help in a hospital. Nobody would pay any attention."

  "Yeah, they would," said the boy. "I got a secret weapon."

  Even the shadow grinned.

  "Crazy," said Albert, or maybe he just thought it loudly. He went to sleep.

  It was late morning when Albert awoke again. As he came to his senses he heard a familiar voice. Just a few words and a tag note of polite laughter . . . but enough. It was Miss Bjork, talking to the teenager.

  He felt instantly unkempt. He sat up and tucked the covers under his chin. He could feel his whiskers growing and knew his hair was pointing more directions than Scarecrow at the crossroads.

  As he reached to smooth it down, his hand hit the bed tray, sending a water glass to the floor.

  The splinters hadn't settled before Miss Bjork appeared.

  "Most people prefer an alarm clock."

  Albert's embarrassment segued into bewilderment. Miss Bjork was smiling as if she had a sense of humor; it must be her day off.

  She sat beside him on the bed and calmly rang the nurse's bell. "We were worried there, for a while."

  "We?"

  Miss Bjork looked at her nails. “I was worried," she said.

  When she looked at him again, Albert's interior telegraph system went haywire. What was it his roommate had said last night? Something terrible something . . . he remembered. Was it just a dream? And why was she here? And why didn't she look like a lawyer anymore? The teenager's description of Miss Bjork came to mind, unbidden. Immediately on its heels was Tewksbury's pointed appraisal. Albert could feel himself blush. What was happening to him? He put his hand on his heart so she wouldn't see it beating through the sheets.

  Miss Bjork had developed an easy familiarity as a result of her visits, but already she was realizing it was much easier communing with Albert when he was asleep. The nurse appeared and began cleaning up the glass. Albert stuttered an apology.

  "Don't worry about it. Professor," said the nurse. "Two-thirds of being a nurse is cleaning up after patients." She tipped the dustpan into a plastic bag and stood up. "The other third we're cleaning up after the doctors." She smiled with her mouth, but not with her eyes. "How're we doing today?"

  "Better," said Albert. His tongue tasted awful. He covered his mouth with his hand. "Better."

  There was a sudden cry and the cascading crash of a loaded table being knocked over. Miss Bjork and the nurse disappeared behind the curtain followed by a doctor and an orderly who ran in from the hall. Albert leaned forward breathlessly.

  In the rush to make space, the curtain was swept aside and Albert saw the Boy for the first time. He was being lifted back into bed. His left leg was missing from the knee down.

  He was pale and lean with bright red hair and freckles. About fourteen or fifteen. Smaller than his shadow had suggested. He winced with grim determination as the nurse drew the sheet over him. Albert's heart was in his throat until the boy tossed him a mischievous glance and winked.

  Albert was stunned. A well of sympathetic mist was stillborn on his lids. This was the boy's secret. A diversionwould work! It was all he could do to keep from laughing.

  Once the clamor subsided, Miss Bjork put the screen in place and was about to resume her seat at Albert's side when the doctor placed a preemptory hand on her shoulder.

  "I think we've had enough excitement for one morning." He said. "Let's let the Professor and our young friend get some rest."

  "But I . . . "

  "You can come back this afternoon," said the doctor, extending his arm toward the door.

  Miss Bjork looked furtively at Albert as she was conducted gently from the room. "I've got something to tell you," she said. "You'll never guess . . . "

  Albert had no doubt of that.

  "This afternoon," the doctor said sharply then, softening his demeanor. "They need their rest."

  Once the room was cleared, class segued from diversionary tactics to lock-picking, 101. Jeremy Ash re-situated himself in his wheelchair, tucking his good leg under the stub.

  "This is the kind of lock on my old room," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I've been pickin' it for years."

  "At home?" said Albert. The boy indicated the affirmative with a slight nod. "Why would you need to pick the lock to get into your own room?"

  The boy's demeanor changed suddenly. He dropped his eyes to the bobby pin that twirled between his thumb and forefinger. "I wasn't getting in."

  There was something dark in the words. A depth of tragedy that Albert couldn't fathom.

  Albert's musical dexterity proved commodious to burgling. Within half an hour he was able to perpetrate a felony in five seconds. He was proud. He'd never been proud before. Certainly not of his musical accomplishments. They were part of his physiognomy, like burps and heartbeats. But now, with a simple bobby pin, new, forbidden worlds were open to him. He was exhilarated. He beamed and the boy cheered.

  The performance went off as scripted. While on his customary rounds of the halls, Jeremy Ash upset his wheelchair and spilled himself onto the floor to the accompaniment of anguished screams. As predicted, everyone in earshot came to his aid . . . including the guard.

  Albert pressed himself to the wall and made his way against the onrushing tide of compassion to Tewksbury's room. A moment later he was inside.

  It was dark in the room. The shades were drawn, the lights off.

  "Who's there'?"

  The voice was feeble. but still recognizable as Tewksbury's.

  "It's me. Albert."

  "Albert!" cried Tewksbury.

  "Shh!" said Albert. He groped for the light switch. "Where's the light?"

  "Over here!" Tewksbury whispered sharply. "Over here, on the headboard."

  Albert felt his way to the bedside. "Where?"

  "The little round switch on the cord. Feel along the . . . "

  "I found it," said Albert. The little light over Tewksbury's head clicked on. Tewksbury flinched. The sight of the prisoner was Daguerrotyped on Albert's brain.

  Under three or four days growth of beard, Tewksbury's face was sunken and yellow. His eyes were embedded in poster-child depressions and the veins stood out on his forehead.

  His arms lay tightly at his sides and were held in place by straps of some kind. His feet, just visible at the edge of the light, were similarly bound. He was dressed in a T-shirt and light-blue boxer shorts from which his limbs protruded like hairy sticks.

  By degrees his eyes became
accustomed to the light. Albert stepped back in shock.

  "C'mere, Albert," said Tewksbury with a wag of the head. "I can't see you. C'mere."

  Albert stepped into the halo of light. "How did you get in here? What happened to you?"

  "My head," Albert stammered.

  "I can see that, you idiot. You look like a friggin' genie."

  Something of the old bravura in Tewksbury's voice was reassuring to Albert. "Forget that for a minute. Scratch me, will you?"

  "Scratch?"

  "Scratch! Scratch me . . . I feel like I'm crawling with bugs."

  Albert began to scratch Tewksbury's torso tentatively.

  "Scratch, man, scratch! Use your nails. Oh, thank you, Lord! My legs. Do my legs." Albert did his legs. "And my shoulders. Ah! That's it." He sighed. He looked five years younger. "And my back . . . get as far under as you can."

  Albert applied himself vigorously to the task and soon, under the combined influences of the physical exertion and apprehension of the criminal act, had worked up a sweat and his head was throbbing.

  "Undo my arms, Albert. I'm going to go completely crazy if I don't get out of this thing for a few minutes."

  Albert hesitated.

  "You can strap me up when you leave.”

  Having come this far, Albert was resolved against half measures. He undid Tewksbury hand and foot. The prisoner sat up and went through an awkward series of calisthenics which Albert subconsciously scored withThe Dance of the Marionettes. At the coda, Tewksbury collapsed in exhaustion.

  "I'm so weak." He massaged his arms. "How did you get in here? Isn't there a guard outside?"

  "He had to go away for a minute," said Albert, still aghast at the ruin that Archaeology had become. "He's probably back now, so just whisper."

  "But the door's locked," Tewksbury whispered.

  "I picked it," said Albert through a grin he could not contain.

  Tewksbury was dumbfounded. "You picked the lock?"

  "My roommate showed me how."

  "Your roommate?”

  Albert nodded.