Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

3

It should have surprised—if not outright petrified—Martin to discover that the third client in The Center was the large, balding black man who’d read the first part of the story to him from within the television, but by the time he sat down to lunch that first day, he was almost beyond it; too much had happened too quickly for him to fully deal with any of it, so—after taking his afternoon meds—he decided to follow his dad’s advice: He’d keep his eyes open, his ears peeled, and his ass attached. He was feeling shiny and more than willing to go along for the ride.

Wendy sat at the far end of the second table; Storyteller-Man at the far end of the first; so Martin took a spot more or less equidistant from each of them.

“You’re not making this easy,” said Storyteller-Man.

“I get a lot of complaints about that,” replied Martin, trying to figure out what sort of Mystery Meat had been used to make the hamburger. Storyteller-Man sighed, shook his head, then picked up his tray and moved down to sit across from Martin. “They’re real.” Not looking up, Martin doctored his hamburger with some salt and pepper and said, “Who’s real?” “You know. The Onlookers.”

Now Martin raised his head. “Is that what they’re called?”

“That’s what Bob named them, yes.”

“Who’s Bob?”

“I am. Well, my name’s Jerry, but I’m still . . . wait a second.” He closed his eyes and pressed his chin down against his chest, and for a moment he flickered, becoming a reverse image, a living film negative, but then pulled in a deep, hard breath and re-assumed solidity. “Sorry. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up this ruse.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s happening?”

Jerry raised one of his large, strong-looking hands, stopping Martin from asking further questions. “Remember how your dad was always telling people to stop yammering and get to the point? That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“How do you know what Dad used to say?”

“The same way I know that you had a short but perplexing conversation with your six-year-old self last night. The same way I know that when you tried to lose your virginity to Debbie Carver when you were fifteen you shot your wad all over her left thigh before you even got it in, and from that day on she always called you ‘Lefty’ but never told anyone why. The same way I know that you once stole ten dollars from your mom’s purse when you were sixteen to buy a couple of really rotten joints—and you always felt bad about that, didn’t you? Even though you eventually put back twenty, you always felt bad about it—and remember the way she made such a fuss over finding that twenty? ‘I must have a fairy godmother looking after me, Zeke.’ ‘Zeke’ was her nickname for you, by the way, and no one except her and you knew that. Ever. Do you want more examples or can we assume that you now understand I know things and move on?”

Martin raised his hands in surrender. “How can you be both someone named Jerry and someone named Bob?” No sooner was the question out of his mouth than he knew the answer:

R.J. Nyman.

Robert Jerome Nyman.

“But you weren’t black,” he said. “You were a short little old white guy with bad teeth, B.O., and shaky hands. I remember the shaky hands because the only time they were still was when they were holding a pencil or brush.”

“Hooray, his powers of recall aren’t completely in the crapper. Yes, that’s right—Bob is that short little old white guy; I’m the image he invented for his muse, and he calls me ‘Jerry’ because I’m as much a part of him as your right side is to you.” “Why’d he make you black?” “You got something against black folks?” “No. Just curious.”

Jerry thought about this for a moment. “I guess I believe you. To answer your question: I don’t know. I’ve only been . . . like this . . . real, I’d guess you’d say, for a little while. There’s only so much mental detritus I can sift through at any given time.”

“What are you, exactly?”

Jerry picked up his hamburger, looked at the Mystery Meat, then dropped it back onto his tray. “I’m what’s left of Bob’s lucidity, of his reason, of his creativity and intelligence. I’m what managed to escape before Gash started in on the last few courses of his feasting. I can only hold this form for so long—like when Bernie does his bed-check or Ethel comes around with the meds . . . they only think of me as being here for as long as they see me, then maybe for a few minutes or so afterward . . . I . . . uh . . . I can only be this way for short . . . wait, I said that already, didn’t I? . . . I can only be this way for short periods . . . because the closer Bob comes to death . . . .” He stopped speaking, his eyes snapping closed, his whole body locking up in pain; his face began to bulge and swell and discolor; a jagged crack appeared in the center of his forehead and split downward, chewing through his substance like a shredder through sheets of paper, consuming him, bit by bit—his arms and legs became stumps, his eyes seemed to collapse into their sockets, his chest began to implode and he flickered once again, a human film negative, and from somewhere in the center of all this came the echo of a terrified scream, then with a sudden, powerful lurch, he pressed himself against the edge of the table and again was whole.

Martin shot a panicked glance toward Wendy, who sat facing down at her food with both eyes closed, emitting a low, deep snore, a thin string of drool trailing down from her mouth. When he turned back, Jerry was breathing heavily, gripping the sides of his lunch tray. “Are you all right?” Jerry couldn’t speak just yet, so gave his head a quick shake.

“I get it, okay?” said Martin. “I understand why you can’t stay like this for very long, why you had to . . . do that television thing like you did.”

“. . . corporeality’s a bitch . . .” whispered Jerry. “I liked it a lot better when I was just a flight of fancy. It’s easy, being a dream or manipulating electromagnetic waves. Flesh demands too much of the mind and heart. I don’t know how human beings do it.”

Martin started reaching for Jerry’s hand, thought better of it (how would it feel?), and so started to rise. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nothing. Please sit down.”

Martin complied.

“What it boils down to is this: right now Bob is lying in a dim little shit-hole of a room in the Taft Hotel in final stages of Alzheimer’s. He’ll be dead soon—maybe a day or two, maybe less—and when he dies, Gash is going to get out. Not as the disease he once was, not as Alzheimer’s, but the thing the Alzheimer’s is becoming.” Jerry closed his eyes and put a hand against his chest, pulling in three broken breaths that obviously hurt like hell. “It’s getting bad. I don’t think this is it, but it’s . . . it’s gonna be an awful one.” He opened his eyes. “You got time for one more question, then I need to go elsewhere and rally my ass.”

“Why me? Why are you—why is Bob, someone I don’t know—why are you coming to me?”

“Because you were kind. Because you did more for him that day than you remember. Because he thought of you as a friend. And because, in his last moments of lucidity, before the dementia got its hooks in all the way, he called on some superhuman reserve of will that I still can’t comprehend and managed to do two things: help me to escape, and remember you.” He pressed his hands against his eyes and pulled in a strained breath. “Listen, I gotta boogie-two-shoes for a little while. You stick around here . . . something tells me it’s going to get real interesting . . . .”

And with a flicker, he was gone.

When Ethel came out from the nurses’ station five minutes later, she found Wendy passed out at the table and Martin sitting in front of two trays of half-eaten food.

“My, my, aren’t you the one with an appetite?” she said to him.

Looking at her, Martin thought: Would she remember Jerry if I said something? Then decided, what the hell, he had nothing to lose: “Jerry couldn’t finish his, so he said I could have it.”

Ethel stared at him, blinking as if trying to remember something, then gave a slow nod of her head. “Oh, right, Jerry. I guess he’s still not . . . feeling well . . . .”

“He didn’t look too good to me,” Martin replied.

Ethel seemed about to say something else Jerry-related, then looked at Wendy, blinked again—I should take care of this, yes, that’s what I came out here for—and walked over to the unconscious girl.

Martin finished off his food, then what was left on Jerry’s tray.

If things were only about to get interesting, he was going to need all the energy he could store away against the effects of the drugs.