The Touch

Alan

Alan poured himself a scotch as soon as he entered the house. It was scotch he liked, wasn't it? He sipped and decided he liked the taste. He flopped onto the couch and let his head fall back.

The ride had been an ordeal. If he hadn't had the presence of mind to write down the directions from his home to his office and back again before leaving here earlier, he'd still be driving around. His memory was shot. He couldn't think! Even in the office, when that fellow with the bamboo spine had come in, he'd had to go look it up in a textbook to find the name—Strümpell-Marie disease, also known as ankylosing spondylitis.

God, what was happening to him? Why couldn't he remember everyday things anymore? Was it related to the Dat-tay-vao, or was he getting senile? There was a name for the condition but he couldn't think of it at the moment. At least he didn't have a brain tumor—he had proof of that in black type on yellow paper from the radiology department at University Hospital.

He closed his eyes. He was tired.

When he opened them again, it was dark. He jerked upright. He couldn't have dozed off that long. A glance at his watch revealed that barely an hour and a half had passed. Then he heard a rumble of thunder and understood: A summer storm was brewing.

The front doorbell rang. Was that what had awakened him? Alan turned on the lights, then opened the door and found a man standing there. He was short and thin, wearing a Miami Dolphins jacket; he was nervously twisting a baseball cap in his hands as he looked up at Alan.

"Dr. Bulmer, could I speak to you a minute?"

He had that look, that hungry look. Alan swallowed.

"Sure. What can I do for you?"

"It's my wife, Doc. She—"

Alan had a sudden queasy feeling. "Were you over at my office?"

"Yeah. But they wouldn't let me in to see you. You see, my—"

"How did you find out where I live?"

"I followed you from the office."

My God! He hadn't even thought of that!

Alan looked beyond the man to the street. The light was rapidly being swallowed up by the storm, but the lightning flickers revealed a caravan of cars and vans and Winnebagos pulling up to the curb.

"I see you didn't come alone."

The man looked around with obvious annoyance. "A couple of other guys followed you, too. They must've told the rest. I was gonna wait till you came out, but when I saw them coming, I figured I better get to you first."

"I can't do anything for you now," Alan said. Is this what it was going to be like? People ringing his doorbell, camped on his lawn? "I told you: tomorrow at five."

"I know that. But y'see, we live in Stuart—that's a ways north of Palm Beach in Flahda—and the wife's too sick to be moved, so I was wondering if maybe you'd sorta like come down and see her." He laughed nervously. "A long-distance house call, if you know what I mean."

Despite the uneasiness that was growing by inches and yards within him, Alan couldn't help being touched by this little man who had come all the way up the coast on behalf of his sick wife.

"I don't think so," Alan said. He couldn't keep his eyes off the growing crowd outside. "At least not now."

"I'll drive you. Don't worry about that. It's just that"— his voice caught—"that she's dying and nobody seems to be able to do anything for her."

"I really can't leave here," Alan said as gently as he could. "I've got too many people here to care—"

"You're her only hope, man! I seen what you did today and if you can help those people, you can help her, I know it!"

There were people crossing the lawn toward them. Thunder rattled the windows. The sky was going to open up any minute. Alan started to close the door.

"I'm sorry, but—"

"Sorry, hell!" the man said, stepping forward and blocking the door's swing. "You're comin' with me!"

"But don't you see, I—"

"You've got to, man! I'll pay you anything you want!"

"Money has nothing to do with it." There were people on the walk, almost to the front steps. "I'm sorry," he said as he tried to push the door closed.

"No!" chorused from the man and the others directly behind him as they all leaped forward and slammed the door open, sending Alan reeling backward, off balance.

But they didn't stop at the door. In a blind, frantic rush, squeezing through the open doorway two and three at a time, eyes wild, faces desperate, hands outstretched and reaching, they came for him. Not to hurt him. He could see no malice in their eyes, but that didn't lessen his terror. There was no stopping them. They wanted to touch him, to grab him, to pull him toward their sick loved ones, or toward their cars and pickups to drive him where the needy ones waited, to use him, to own him for a minute, just a few seconds, just long enough for him to work his miracle and then he could have his freedom back and go about his business with their eternal thanks.

That was what frightened him the most—he had become a thing to them.

There were so many of them, and as they pushed and shoved at each other to get to him, he tripped and stumbled to the floor. And then some of the others around him tripped too and fell on him, driving him down, knocking the wind out of him with explosive force. More fell on top of them. Alan felt the thick fibers of the shag rug grind into his left cheek from below as someone's belly molded itself around his face from above. An elbow drove into his stomach. Frantic, he tried to cry out his pain, his fear, but he couldn't breathe.

If they didn't get off him and give him some air, he was going to suffocate!

Then everything went black.