With the board back in place the room was dark. The dawn found its way through the planks here and there, needle-thin rays spotlighting dancing dust motes, but they barely penetrated the dark. This did not bother Simon. He did not need much light to see. He took down the suitcase, put it on the desk, and opened it. Inside was a small painting in a gilt frame. It was a family group: a man, a woman with a baby in her arms, and a small child. The varnish was cracked and old. Beneath the painting was soil, dark dry soil almost as flyaway as the dust of the room. Simon ran his fingers through it and sighed. This was his sleep; the soil of his homeland. The earth he would have rested in for eternity, if he had truly died, still had the power to bestow a little of that peace. It was a taste of that death, perhaps. It restored him. Without it he would waste away to nothing and become a shriveled thing, unable to move, unable to feed, but still unable to die. An undead hell.
He raised the painting to his lips and kissed it softly, then replaced it in the suitcase, closed the case, and flicked the catches shut. He needed rest but not the comalike trance that sometimes took him. He could always tell when that was coming. It took a big feed; a human feed. Now he just needed a dormant period to recharge, so to speak. He lifted the suitcase off the large desk and slid it into the cubbyhole beneath. He crawled in after it. He curled, encircling the case, and wrapped his arms around it, clutching it as if it were treasure.
He lay there, eyes open, staring beyond the room, beyond the school. Before he leapt into the dream, he thought of the girl again briefly. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Pale as the milk of death, thin and sharp like pain.” And he drifted out to the stars.
3
Zoë
Zoë left the library early. It was no use sitting there doing nothing. She had stared at the wall, out the window, and at the clock; anything but write. Her fresh notebook page had become a mass of scribbled-out false starts. At this rate she would have nothing to show Mrs. Muir tomorrow in their critique session.
I want to write something beautiful about my mother, she thought. But it had all come out so trite, and she knew it. She wanted to write something important that spat in death’s teeth. The trouble was, she didn’t want Mrs. Muir to know about her mother. She didn’t want her to say, “Poor thing,” or something awful about God’s will like that idiot woman next door, so what she ended up with was something less than honest, and dishonest poetry didn’t work. But I can’t write about anything else if I can’t write about Mom, Zoë thought. She’s the most important thing. God! I’m really blowing school. It was as close to being a perfect class as she could imagine, this independent-study business, yet if she continued like this it would be a waste of the quarter. I can’t start screwing up in school, she thought. Mom has enough worries.
“Damn!” she muttered as she fumbled with her locker. It always stuck. She felt like kicking the stupid thing. Yet she just stood there glaring at it.
“It won’t melt, no matter how long you stare at it,” came a voice at her side.
“Lorraine! You snuck up quietly.”
“You’ve got to sneak about when you cut as many classes as I do.”
“Again?”
“Well, what’s the use? I’m moving, aren’t I? Right in the middle of the semester. And I’ll start somewhere else right in the middle of their semester. I might as well give it up until after Christmas. Anyhow, it was worth it to see you use your X-ray vision.”
Zoë smiled, yet was sad as she watched Lorraine work magic on the locker door. Who would make her laugh when Lorraine left? Who else would blithely ignore her requests for peace and quiet and drag her to a party anyway?
“Come to the bathroom with me,” Lorraine said as Zoë stashed her books and got out her lunch. “It’s between shifts, so we might even be able to breathe in there.” They headed for the bathroom nearest the cafeteria. “I’m sorry about last night,” Lorraine said as she barreled through the swinging doors of the bathroom.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” said Zoë behind her, surprised. Could she dare hope that Lorraine was ready to talk? They stood in front of the mirrors, and Lorraine pulled out a comb and tried to arrange her impossible auburn curls. “You’d think they’d replace these damn mirrors,” she said angrily. “They’re all cracked.” Then she stopped the pretense of combing and turned to face Zoë, who saw her friend’s face change suddenly. Uh-oh, Zoë thought.
“Zoë, I don’t want to move,” Lorraine barely got out before she started to cry fierce tears. “I won’t have any friends. I’ll have to start all over.” Zoë’s hopes plunged. She’d thought they were going to talk about her. It almost made her cry, too, but she held Lorraine, rubbed her back, and uttered an occasional “There, there.” Inside, she was lost. How can I help you, she thought, when I can’t even help myself? It was disturbing. Lorraine was the strong one. She didn’t do this. The world was topsy-turvy again.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Lorraine after a while. “I’ve no right to feel this way. I’m only moving. But you …” She sobbed again.
She can’t say it, Zoë thought. We both know what she means, and she can’t say it. It isn’t your pity I want, she thought, and almost pushed her friend away, but stopped herself. Lorraine really did care. It wasn’t her fault that people didn’t know how to talk about death. Not Dad, not the neighbors, not Mom’s friends. Death’s partner was silence. Tenderness for her friend ov
erwhelmed her dismay. “You nerd. You know you can always tell me how you feel. Usually nothing, including me, can stop you.”
“But I feel so selfish.”
You always are anyway, Zoë realized, but never on purpose. It was just the way Lorraine was. Zoë could almost take comfort in the familiarity of it. She gently shook her friend. “What will I do without you?”
That brought on more tears. “I’ll miss you so much, Zoë.”
They stood for a while, holding each other. It was rare that Lorraine let herself be fragile. After her mother left she was too afraid of breaking for good. At least that was what Zoë had guessed from watching her. We’ll have another thing in common now, Zoë thought, but at least you’ll be able to visit your mother. There was bitterness in this thought. She stroked Lorraine’s hair in an attempt to atone. This was a moment when she could slip gently past Lorraine’s guard. I’m afraid, too, she prepared to say. I’m afraid my mother will die, and my father will grieve forever, and I’ll always be alone, because you’re going too.
But there was a bell ringing somewhere, and second-period lunch was signaled. Damn, damn, damn, Zoë thought.
The door burst open, and a group of girls crowded in, already distributing cigarettes. Lorraine pushed Zoë away and hastily splashed water on her face. A blonde with garish makeup stood staring at them with her lit cigarette in a carefully poised hand.
“You guys queer or somethin’?” she asked jeeringly.
“Piss off, Morgan,” said Lorraine, putting her arm around Zoë protectively. “You know, you could break your wrist holding a cigarette like that,” and Zoë found herself being swept out of the bathroom. Things were back to normal.
In the cafeteria they sat at their usual table near the back door. “I’m going to get a death-burger,” Lorraine said after checking her purse, and jumped up. “Hold the fort.”
Zoë smiled with wry affection at Lorraine’s tactlessness.