Wildwood Road (11 page)

Not masks,
he thought.

Sympathy touched him, pity for them, and curiosity about what sort of affliction caused something like that. But sympathy had not been his first reaction. In the moment when he had realized that they shared their deformity with the other man he had seen—the moment when he'd realized they were looking at him—the first emotion to reach his heart had been fear. It passed and was quickly forgotten, but a trace of it lingered beneath other feelings.

He tried to make sense of their features, of what he was seeing, and somehow he could not. It seemed difficult to focus on their faces. His attention seemed to want to shift, to pull back and take in their entire forms, those shapeless coats and hunched shoulders.

His vision blurred and he reached up to rub at his eyes, the engine purring and the radio moving on to something with a thumping backbeat. He smelled exhaust fumes. Traffic was frozen.

When he looked again, they were gone. Just like Scooter. Just like that lost girl.

The traffic started to move again.

Car horns blared.

Michael forced himself to drive, breathing slowly, wondering about what had been done to him Saturday night, when the effects would wear off.

If
they would wear off.

T
EDDY
P
OLITO COULD NEVER GET
comfortable in the chair in front of his desk. Maybe it was ergonomics and maybe it was just that he had a hard time focusing on his work. He fidgeted a lot, sitting up straight, then slumping back down. It was one of those typical office chairs, metal arms painted black, black fabric covering the seat and back. Most everything else in the office was a comfort to him, from the photograph of his wife in the silver frame on his desk to the spider plant in the corner to the old-fashioned green glass banker’s lamp he had had with him since college. But that fucking chair did him in every goddamned day.

You're fat, Teddy
, he thought.
You can't get comfortable because you're fat.
And there was that, true enough. But he did not think it was just his weight that made him so uncomfortable, put him in constant motion. It certainly didn't help, though, especially with the pain in his back.

The new Liz Phair played quietly in his computer's CD drive. He didn't dare have it any louder. His door was closed, but if anyone came in he did not want to have to listen to complaints about some of the more ribald lyrics Liz came up with.

He sat back in the chair, stretching, popping the muscles in his neck with a twist, and then just stared at the computer screen. As his mind worked, he tapped a pen against the edge of the desk in a rapid one-two rhythm.

Most days, he didn't have a clue why he couldn't get comfortable in his chair, why he had such a hard time focusing on his work. Today, though, he knew exactly what was unsettling him. Michael had come in late for work, and more than a little. He had muttered an apology to anyone who asked him about it, but hadn't even offered an excuse for why he was late. The guy had looked pale, even a bit shaky.

At his desk, now, Teddy closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. He had grown up with a father who drank far too much; when he had looked at Dansky this morning, images had flashed through Teddy's mind. Ugly images. Shattered bottles and empty cans and bruises on his mother's face. The truth was, Michael Dansky looked a hell of a lot like a man who either had a vicious hangover, or someone who badly needed a drink. Either option spelled trouble.

With a sigh, he stood up and stretched his back. One of these days he was really going to get serious about losing weight. Getting into shape. What he needed was a nice little heart attack to motivate him. Nothing serious, just something troubling. Something to scare the hell out of him.

These morbid thoughts were his way of distracting him from what was really bothering him at the moment. He glanced out through the clear glass that bordered the door to his office. The beehive was at work. Garth was making the rounds with the mail cart. Paul Krakow, the big boss, was standing in the midst of the bullpen of cubicles that made up the lion's share of the production, sales, and accounting departments. There were some junior copywriters and designers out there as well. At the moment, the distinguished older gentleman who had started the agency was engaged in an animated conversation with Heather Vostroff, a recent hire. Heather was a talented girl, a designer with her eye on Dansky's office, and his job.

No wonder she was sucking up to the boss.

Not that Paul Krakow minded. She was feeding him charm and sex appeal like candy, and he was gobbling it up.

“Michael, you idiot,” he whispered to his otherwise empty office. “Don't fuck this up.”

He wasn't just talking about Dansky's career, but the Newburyport Premium account. Heather Vostroff wanted Dansky's job, but there were half a dozen young writers at Krakow & Bester who would love to pick up the assignments that Teddy Polito got, and if Michael screwed up the ice-cream campaign, it might have a serious effect on Teddy's position at the agency as well.

“All right. All right,” he muttered to himself. He shook his head and opened the door.

Without pausing to speak to anyone, he moved swiftly across the main floor toward Michael's office. Krakow noticed him on the move and raised a hand to acknowledge him. Teddy smiled and waved back, nodding politely. The last thing he wanted to do was to get into a conversation with the old man today about Newburyport Premium. Bester the younger, the talentless sycophantic hack who'd gotten the job because his father was the junior partner at the place, was already breathing down the back of his neck for the first round of test ads so that the management team could discuss them.

Heartburn seared Teddy's guts and he wished he had picked up the bottle of Tums back in his office. He might not get that jaunty little cardiac event he'd been hoping for, but he damned sure was on his way to a mighty evil ulcer.

Michael's office door had been closed since he had arrived this morning. It was after eleven o'clock now and nothing had stirred from within since then. The guy was either hard at work, or asleep at his drawing table. Dansky was his friend, but Teddy reluctantly admitted to himself that he wasn't sure which of those was true.

He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door, not wanting to draw attention to himself, or to Michael's office. There was no reply from within, not even any sound that might indicate the guy was getting up to open it. Teddy felt a burning sensation at the back of his neck and reached up to scratch at it. It wasn't an itch, though. It was just his certainty that someone was watching him, that there were eyes following his trek down to Michael's office and awaiting the outcome. Maybe old man Krakow was watching him, maybe he wasn't. Teddy didn't want to go barging in on Michael, but he thought that might be better than the appearance that anything was wrong.

Or maybe you're just being paranoid.

Still, he didn't want to draw attention, so he opened the door and stepped inside. Michael was seated at his drawing table, talking on his portable headset. He was slightly hunched over, as though he was in pain, and though he was not looking at the paper on the table, his pencil scratched across it even as he spoke into the headset.

“No, today. I just . . . I'd really like to get in to see him today. It's sort of hard to explain. I'll take whatever time I . . . quarter after one is fine. Just . . . it's fine.”

Michael held up one finger to let Teddy know he'd only be another few moments. He was still pale, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that Teddy hadn't noticed before. His gaze darted around as though he were searching the corners of the room for something he'd lost. Michael seemed almost skittish, and if Teddy hadn't been almost certain it was ridiculous, he would have thought the guy looked frightened.

“Thank you. Yes, I'll be there,” Michael said. He thumbed a small button on the headset to disconnect the phone and then slung it off of his head and onto the drawing table. His pencil went down beside it and he looked up expectantly.

“Hey, Teddy. What's up?”

For a moment, Teddy had no idea how to respond. It was such a goddamned stupid question. Didn't Dansky have a clue? Wasn't Teddy's concern obvious from the expression on his face?

“Look, Michael,” he began, closing the door behind him. “I don't want to get into your business, but . . . I mean, we're friends, right? Aside from work?”

Michael frowned, but even with that he seemed distracted. Twitchy. “Yeah. Of course we are.”

Teddy let out a long breath. “Buddy, you've got me worried. You look like shit. You come in late. It's been days and I don't have even initial sketches from you on the ice-cream campaign. Gary's already been bugging me about it. The clock's ticking, and you're making me nervous.”

He blinked, realizing how all of that sounded. “But it isn't just work. I'm worried about you. I don't know what's up with you, but whatever it is—”

“Okay.” Michael held up a hand to stop him.

Knitting his brows, Teddy only stared at him.

“I . . . That was my doctor's office.”

Michael let the words hang there between them for a long moment. He'd spoken them with such gravity that Teddy began to wonder—and to worry—that whatever was going on was even more serious than he'd thought.

“I look like shit because I feel like shit.” There was a moment of hesitation, as though Michael had been about to go on, to tell him something else . . . something worse, maybe. But then he sat back in his seat and just shrugged.

“All I can say is I'm sorry. I wish my head wasn't so fucked up right now. I'm leaving early. I've got an appointment to see the doctor. And I'm going to stay home tomorrow, work from there. I swear to you, give me the weekend and I will finish not just sketches but full designs for the ideas we've talked about. I will, Teddy.”

Michael stood up and began to gather his things. His hands were shaking. “But right now . . . right now I've got to get out of here. I've got to see the doctor.”

Teddy nodded. He was sure he said something comforting, something reassuring, told Michael not to worry. Mainly, though, he was focused on staying out of the way as his friend collected the things he needed to work from home. Whatever was wrong with Michael Dansky, Teddy didn't want to catch it.

Not with Heather Vostroff brewing trouble for both of them.

An art director could work from home and show up with something brilliant, and nobody ever wondered how long it had taken him to create. It was taken for granted that art was a time-consuming process. But as a writer, he never worked from home, even though Krakow & Bester certainly would have allowed it from time to time. It was all about perception.

He stood in Michael's office and watched his friend go through the warren of cubicles, portfolio case in one hand and his jacket in the other. Only after Michael had departed did he glance down at his friend's drawing table and notice the charcoal image he had been doodling while on the phone. Shades of gray that formed the face of a little girl, the same girl Michael had drawn into his sketches on Monday.

What the hell's going on with you, Dansky?
Teddy wondered to himself. But he wasn't at all sure he wanted an answer.

T
HAT NIGHT
M
ICHAEL COULD NOT
sleep. Long after midnight he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands at rest upon his chest as though he were a corpse, set out for viewing. The room was dark save for a dim, diffuse glow from the streetlight just across the road from the Danskys’ house. His chest rose and fell, his breathing even, but his mind would not turn off.

He could not stop the echo of the things Dr. Ufland had said to him during his appointment. Michael had returned home from the doctor's office before three o'clock, and he had been hearing those words over and over since, seeing the doctor's face in his mind.

“Anything like this ever happened before, Michael? And with these enhanced olfactory episodes, the heightened smells you were talking about . . . any of your other senses behaving the same way? Have you noticed an increase in the intensity of other stimuli? Do things sound louder? Do things seem more colorful? Flowers more fragrant?”

No. No. And no. Nothing like that.

“It certainly sounds like you might have been dosed with something that caused you to have blackouts and altered your perception. Kids are brewing up all sorts of unique drugs these days. I'll run some tests, but I have to confess that their inventiveness has us behind the curve. I might not find it even if it's there. And that was Saturday night. It's unlikely it would still be affecting you now.

“As far as you seeing the girl . . . absent any of the other symptoms we've talked about, I'm fairly skeptical that there is a medical explanation for this. I will do an MRI, just to rule out a tumor, but this is so specific and individualized that I can't imagine dementia manifesting like this. We'll test as we can, but Michael, you should know that I suspect we're looking at more of a psychological issue than a physiological problem. You're obviously troubled by the episode over the weekend. Burdened with guilt about this girl you mentioned. Worrying that something might have happened to her. That may be what's causing all of this. I'm going to make an appointment for you with Helen Lee. She's an old friend, and a damn fine doctor.”

Doctor. Helen Lee wasn't just a doctor. She was a psychiatrist. And the truth was, nothing Dr. Ufland had said had surprised Michael. Intuitively, he had understood that the things that were wrong with him were too focused to be the result of some malady. The twisted part of that was, he would have expected himself to be happier at the thought that he probably didn't have a brain tumor.

But there might be worse things than a brain tumor.

Michael lay in bed next to the only woman he had ever loved, his eyes burning with exhaustion and with the sting of unshed tears. He gnawed on his lower lip. Beside him, Jillian breathed deeply, lost in slumber. He wanted to look at her, to watch her sleep. It calmed him to do that, on nights when he had trouble falling asleep. Not that it happened often. She was the one who had suffered from insomnia. Now, though, he was beginning to understand what she had gone through.