Before I Wake (10 page)

But there had to be a first, and he knew who it would be.

He was a huge man, nearly six and a half feet tall, and solid through the body. He carried his Bible like a shield. His face, though, was soft, open. Malleable.

The man brought his mother to Sunday Mass. They walked slowly, her arm looped in his, his Bible in his other hand. He bowed his head as he walked with her, listening to the old woman, nodding. For several weeks, the stranger walked behind them. His mother called her son Leopold, but the priests at the cathedral called him Leo.

Weekdays, Leo came to the early-morning services alone. He always smiled, and as he walked up the aisle he raised his eyes to the stained glass. A little simple, perhaps, but the stranger knew there was an inner steel in the big, soft man that the stranger could shape to his purpose.

Leo was always the first to his knees, dropping with a purity of faith and a fervor no one else matched. His belief burned in him like a torch, and the stranger could feel himself warmed by the flames.

MARY

Most days, we had dinner after our run. It helped us work up an appetite, and by the time we got to the restaurant there wasn't much of a lineup.

We had started running together not long after Simon moved in. I used to do aerobics in the afternoons, and Simon would run every morning with his male colleagues and play racquetball or squash a couple of times a week. After we moved in together, though, his friendships started to fall apart. At first people came up with excuses—The kids were sick. Sorry, slept in—but then they didn't even bother. And Simon gave up, both on them and on exercise.

After a couple of weeks of Simon being surly from the lack of exercise, I suggested that we should start running together.

“You don't run,” he said, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

“No, but I've always wanted to try it.”

“Really?” He turned to look at my face.

“Really.”

“That'd be great, Mary. It's always better if you've got someone to run with. When do you want to start?”

“How about tomorrow?”

He was reaching for the alarm clock as I interrupted him. “No way. I'm not getting up at some insane hour to run. Let's go after work. You know, when I usually go to aerobics.”

He withdrew his hand from the alarm clock, sliding it instead over my hip. “Thank you,” he said, after a moment, his voice a mere whisper.

The tone of relief, and of appreciation, warmed me.

It took a little while before I was able to keep pace with him over his usual distance, but I think I surprised him with what good shape I was in.

“That's what aerobics four times a week will do for you,” I panted after our first run, hunched over, barely able to feel my legs but refusing to let on.

Most nights, after showering, we'd retrace our route, hand in hand, the golden lights of the legislature reflecting off windows and waves.

At first we'd both felt awkward being together in public, but as summer turned to fall and beyond, we'd become comfortable. It was such a pleasure to be able to walk outside and not be afraid of who might see us.

We went to Pagliacci's on Remembrance Day. We usually went at least once a week, avoiding the weekends when you had to line up for an hour for a table. It was a Monday night, but it was a holiday for most people, and the place was packed. The walk over had been frosty.

Simon poured more wine into our glasses, sliding mine carefully toward me.

I took a sip of my wine then broached a subject I had been nervous to mention. “I was thinking that maybe we should go away for a bit.”

The idea obviously took him by surprise. “What?”

“Well, it's been so busy. I mean, today was a holiday and we were in the office for what—ten hours? And last weekend?”

“I'm not arguing the need, I'm just wondering what you had in mind.”

“I thought maybe pack up the car, go up to Tofino, get a room right on the beach. Maybe the Wickaninnish.”

He sat back, cradling his wineglass in his right hand. “Right on the beach,” he repeated. “Maybe a fireplace, whirlpool tub? When were you thinking of going? The next couple of weeks are pretty tight. What about over Christmas?”

“Can't. I told my folks I'd be up at their place from the twentieth or so. You could come too, if you like.”

“What about the weekend of December seventh? We could even head up that Wednesday afternoon, make a four-day weekend of it. I figure the firm owes us a little time.” He slipped past the invitation to spend Christmas with my family.

I didn't want to bring it up, but I had to ask. “Will you be okay leaving Sherry for a few days?”

“She's…”

He paused and I could almost hear him sifting through everything before he spoke.

“It's only for a few days. I'll let her know what's going on. Tell her when I'll be back.”

“And Karen?”

“Well.” He took another sip of his wine. “I don't think Karen's going to be too pleased about it. She always wanted to go to the Wickaninnish.”

That thought made me strangely happy.

“So. December 4?” he asked.

I nodded. “I'll make the reservations tomorrow.”

HENRY

“Well, come on,” the big man called. “Time and tide wait for no man.”

I hesitated in the doorway. The people were all staring at me.

“Okay, the rest of you, back to what you were doing,” the big man said.

As if he had flicked a switch, everyone went back to work: back to the shelves, to their tables, their heads down in their books.

“Well,” he waved me toward him. “Come on.”

I made my way through the crowded room to where he sat.

“Good, good,” he said, as he looked me over. “I was worried
there for a minute that maybe you were a bit tetched.”

“What are…what are all of you doing here?” I stammered. My mouth was not quite under my control.

“Well, reading, of course.” He laughed heartily, and I felt less afraid. He was a great bear of a man, with graying hair and beard still touched with red, his face full and rosy. His clothes were rumpled and plain; even looking directly at him I couldn't tell what he was wearing.

Static suddenly whirred over the PA system, then horns kicked in with a blast.

“And listening to music, apparently. Would you turn that down,” he bellowed. “There's people trying to hear.”

The volume fell as quickly as if he had turned the knob himself.

“Better,” he muttered. “Hot Fives. Louis Armstrong. Nineteen…twenty-seven, I believe.” He shook his head. “Great set, great set. Great man, that Satchmo.”

“Who
are
you?” I asked, completely baffled. I felt like I had just stepped into a movie or a fairy tale.

“Good question,” he answered, not answering. “I'm pleased that it wasn't the first thing you asked. Just don't ask me how I make a living and we'll get along fine.”

“But…”

“The real question is, who are you?”

“I…” For a moment, I considered lying. “I'm Henry. Henry Denton.”

“
Ah.
” He settled himself into his chair, gesturing for me to sit down across from him. A look of understanding filled his face. “Of course you are.”

I sat down. “What? Who
are
you? No. Why…How can you see me? I thought—”

“You could also ask why you can see us, Henry, when no one else can.”

My chest tightened. “You mean you're…People can't see you? But—”

“But why?” The big man sighed. “Not an easy question to answer. Not easy at all.” He pushed back from the table, stood up and began to pace. Behind him, there was a wall of windows and through them I could see streetlights and the lights in the buildings across the street, along with a reflection of the room. I wondered what people would see if they happened to look up. Probably nothing. An empty room in a deserted building.

“There are no easy answers,” he said. “Especially not as far as who I am.” He gestured around the room. “Who we are”—turning his gaze back to me—“Who you are.”

I pulled back. “I know who
I
am. I told you already.”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “You told me your name. That's got absolutely nothing to do with who you are.”

I guess I looked confused. I was confused.

“Let me ask you this: why are you here?” He ran one hand over and through his beard. “Why are you here, in a closed library, in the middle of the night?”

I couldn't answer. It would have meant telling him about Sherry, about what I had done.

He watched me for a moment. “Well, what about everyone else? Why do you think everyone else is here?” He set both hands on the tabletop and leaned toward me. “Why do you think
I'm
here?”

I responded without thinking. “You already told me—you're reading.”

“Clever boy.” He nodded his head, grinned a little and started pacing again. “Yes, we're here because we're reading. But why are we
here?
” This time, when he looked at me, his eyes asked a deeper question. “
That's
what we're trying to figure out.”

“You mean you don't know?”

He smiled. “You sound so disappointed. Do you know how few people know why they're anywhere? How few people ever find out? When they do, we turn them into saints. Or gurus.” He paused. “Or gods.”

“I don't understand.”

He shrugged. “Of course you don't. Most people go through their entire lives without understanding, without ever stepping out of the day-to-day to really look around. But you see, we're luckier than them. We know what we are.”

“What are you?” I asked, because he wanted me to.

“We, Henry? We're the damned,” he answered, his eyes locking on mine. “We're doing penance for our crimes. And we don't know when that penance will end.”

I looked around at the men and the stacks of books and papers. “The answer's in here?”

“The answer's in here,” he said, pointing at the books on the table in front of him. “Maybe.” His eyes twinkled, but I didn't think he was joking. “Who's your favorite author?”

The question took me by surprise. I struggled for a moment to remember the name of the person who wrote the book I had spent the day reading. “Saminger,” I said, feeling pleased with myself.

His smile was patient, and suddenly very warm. I realized that I had gotten something wrong. “Salinger. That's a good place to start. See where he takes you.”

He sat back down in his chair and opened the top book of the stack in front of him. I realized he was finished talking, that I had been given a task to do and now I was expected to do it.

“But what's…what do I call you?” I asked, before his attention disappeared into his book completely.

He looked up as if surprised to see me still standing there. He straightened, and when he spoke his voice was commanding, thick with a different accent. “You may call me…Tim.” Nearby, one of the others snickered, and Tim waited expectantly.

I was missing something.

When I didn't respond, he sagged a little. “Oh great and powerful Tim,” he said, waiting for recognition, his eyes
bright. When it still didn't come, he sagged and slumped against his chair. “Oh, for Christ's sake,” he muttered. “Monty Python?
Holy Grail?
John Cleese?”

“I don't think I've…”

He shook his head. “That's the trouble with youth today. No knowledge of the classics.” He picked up his book, opened it again to his page. “Just call me Tim,” he said as he started to read.

As I turned away, he was muttering to himself. “Great man, John Cleese. Great bit. Great bit…”

I made my way back downstairs to where Salinger was waiting for me.

RUTH

Sarah arrived just before Karen left to go to the movies the next afternoon. Jamie was sitting at the kitchen table with her. When the doorbell rang, I called out from Sherry's room, “I'll get it!”

I hadn't seen Sarah in weeks, and I was shocked at her deterioration. Her flesh sagged away from her cheekbones and her skin was crepey. She was dressed in a loose blue and purple floral-print blouse and navy slacks. She had obviously bought the clothes after she started to lose weight, but she still seemed to swim in them.

With her right hand she held the handle of a small, rolling oxygen tank, its plastic tubing snaking up, then splitting into each nostril. Her shaking left hand held a cigarette, which she pressed unsteadily to her lips.

I must have given her a look.

“Oh, give up, Ruth,” she rasped, exhaling a blue plume of smoke. “Keep your judgments to yourself.”

“I didn't say a word.” I leaned forward to give her an awkward hug. She smelled terrible, a mix of stale cigarette smoke and acrid sweat, as if she hadn't bathed in weeks. “It's good to
see you, Sarah,” I said as I pulled away. My words hung in white clouds in the chill air.

“You too, Ruthie,” she answered. “You're looking well.” She took a heavy drag off her cigarette. “And don't even try. I know I look like hell.” She blew out the smoke.

“You don't look…” She did look terrible, and she knew it. “Come on, let's go inside. I'm freezing.” I added, “You'll have to leave that out here.”

She gave me a withering look as she dropped her cigarette to the concrete stoop and ground it out with her foot. “Do I look like an idiot to you? Of course I'm not going to smoke in someone else's house. And around a patient…” She shook her head and hefted the oxygen tank up over the doorsill in a practiced, yet still uncomfortable-looking, motion.

I led her toward the kitchen.

Karen and Jamie stood up as we entered the room. “Mrs. Barrett,” I started. “This is my sister, Sarah Page. Sarah, this is Mrs. Barrett.”