Mercury Man Page 3

  She stopped in front of him and looked at him as if she were measuring how put out he was. Then she reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

  “See you later, Tom. Don’t forget your key. I won’t be late. You have a good time. We’ll have a talk about your day later.”

  “Is that pan out there burning?” Reichert asked.

  “Why don’t you get up and turn the heat down,” Tom said.

  Reichert guffawed, but his mother looked worried. “It’s all right, dear,” she said. She patted his shoulder again and retreated quickly to the kitchen.

  Tom felt he was suffocating. He had started for the door when his eye caught the Heavy Metal comic lying on the floor near Reichert’s stockinged feet. He ducked back, picked up the comic without looking at Reichert, and carried it to the door. Quickly, he slipped the envelope out, dropped the comic inside the coat closet, and left the apartment.

  He walked down the stairs, grim and close to tears. It was sad that his mother had to hang out with guys like Reichert. But the A&P was a “chummy place,” as she said. She was a great worrier and she seemed to be afraid that if she wasn’t sociable she’d lose her job. Although there were other jobs around she had become a section manager at the store and got good discounts on the groceries. The location suited her well and she was afraid of changes.

  Tom knew this, but he also knew that she had lost her confidence when his father had pulled out. Apparently the passing of time since then hadn’t made much difference. He’d overheard her telling this to a friend on the phone one day. She must be lonely, he knew that, too, but he thought it was miserable to fill up the time as she did. Keeping close track of Grandpa, seeing a woman friend now and then, going out to the store parties with guys like Reichert — it wasn’t much of a life.

  He knew his mother was smart; she’d had two years at a community college, she took out interesting library books — not just the romances — and if she had to go out why couldn’t it be with lawyers or executives? He could see her in a nice suburban house, driving her own car, and doing charity work in her spare time. Or maybe selling real estate. He thought she should make up an ad for herself and put it in the companions column of the newspaper — maybe she could find a decent man that way. Of course he was ashamed to raise the issue — the notion of his mother shopping around for a man and settling down with a stranger disturbed him. They were quite happy together, despite their lack of money, and he didn’t want anything to spoil it. There were a lot of creeps out there, even worse than Reichert. If he could only work some magic and have her stay exactly as she was! He would grow older and she wouldn’t, and he would earn lots of money and give her fine things while she was still young enough to enjoy them.

  Tom walked slowly toward the postbox on the next corner. It was getting on toward that sunset time when the heat seemed to gather all its power. The old folks had disappeared; they were asleep or scrounging up dinner. A few unfortunate pedestrians struggled home from work, stopping to mop their brows or to exchange complaints about the weather. Cars rolled by in air-conditioned splendour. The cats had come out of the shade.

  At the corner by the mailbox, Tom stopped to take a last look at the envelope. Should he drop it in the box or in the trash can?

  A girl was coming toward him up Hamilton Street, a familiar figure, dressed in cotton shorts and a white T-shirt. He recognized Estella Lopez and shoved the envelope quickly in the box. He hesitated, eager to get away, although he didn’t want to be rude about it.

  “You look guilty,” she said, as he hung there, undecided, smiling weakly in response to her two-handed wave. “What’s up?”

  “Just mailing a letter — for my mom.”

  “How’s it going? I didn’t see you at the Fabricon interviews.”

  “What’s this with Fabricon? I don’t need to work at Fabricon. I work at Damato’s Diner.”

  “You might earn more at Fabricon. I’ll save enough to go visit my aunt in Puerto Rico. They’ll even set me up to make contact with kids down there. They give you lots of responsibility. It’s a new company policy.”

  Estella, not very tall, was a girl who knew how to stand still and give you her attention. Her fine glossy hair was cut short; she had smooth dark skin and very dark eyes. She looked cool despite the heat, and Tom found her quietness appealing, although he didn’t think she was much to look at. Still, it was nice to know that some girls were sensible and didn’t always have to do a routine for you. He also knew that her father, like his, had taken off some years before and left the family. She had two brothers, which made it tough for her mother, he guessed.

  “Looks like Fabricon is going to own this city soon, judging by the number of people they’re hiring,” Tom said. He glanced back down Morris Street, but of course it was too soon to expect his mother and Reichert to leave.

  “You want to walk me over to Pitt Park?” Estella asked. “I have to meet Maggie there. You might like to see Maggie.”

  “I don’t want to see Maggie, but I don’t mind walking you.” Anything to kill time, he thought. Anything to get them on their way. Then he could go back, eat the pizza, and watch television.

  They started out, circumventing Hollis Street, instinctively taking the shortcut through the back streets of Mechanicstown. They had both lived there nearly all their lives.

  “Maggie’s going out for cheerleading captain next year,” Estella said.

  “Cheerleading sucks and so does Maggie.”

  Estella giggled. Maggie was a beauty and Estella just assumed he would be thrilled to see her. But he hated being “set up” like that, especially with some popular girl who was sure to scorn him.

  “What do you do at Fabricon?” he asked. They were passing Swartz’s Grocery and he quickened the pace a bit. He didn’t particularly want to be spotted walking with Estella.

  “I’m building the future,” Estella said, and laughed. “You should work for them too.”

  “Yeah, sure. But what do they pay you for?”

  “I learn how their software works, how they design it, why it’s the best on the world market. I spread the word.”

  “You spread the word? What is it? A religion?”

  “It’s a good company. Pete told me they have a guy named Dr. Tarn working for them. He’s a genius of computers. He thinks the human brain is just a flesh computer.”

  The idea sounded very cold and mechanical to Tom.

  “The brain might be flesh,” he said, “but the mind is something entirely different.”

  “Actually, Pete said that the mind is just a directory for what the brain turns out. There’s no mind outside of the brain. He must have got that from Dr. Tarn.”

  “Isn’t that unreligious?”

  “Since when are you religious, Tom?”

  “I’m not. I was just asking.”

  It was cooler in the narrow streets, but even so the air was heavy, sultry, and everything seemed drenched with moisture, leaden. Tom cursed silently that he had no change to buy them each a drink. They were taking longer than they need have because they didn’t want to walk down Tweed Alley. That was where the motorcycle gangs hung out and where some kids went to buy drugs. It wasn’t a great idea to go near there unless you were in the market for something.

  They skirted the railroad tracks, Higgins lumber yard, and Scottsborough Public School, a wreck of decaying brick and mortar shut down long ago, boarded up and often vandalized. Some of the kids used to go there to fool around but rumours of giant rats cooled their ardour and cozier spots had been found.

  Tom remembered how his father used to tell him stories about rat-infested slums that burned like brushwood, and about how he had climbed the walls of the “worst firetraps in the city.” And Joe Blake had many tales about the strange things firemen came across when they investigated false alarms. His father had always been a great storyteller. He had never made himself out to be a hero, either, although he had at least one medal for bravery.

  Tom wondered
if his dad missed telling those stories after he ran out on the family and his mother refused ever to see him again. He knew his mother was justifiably angry, but there was a gap there, and nothing, or no one, had come along to fill it.

  After a while they came out onto a street of low apartment buildings, weathered brick structures with brass plates around the doorways, transoms, and quaint names, like The Victoria, The Foxgrove, The Sherwood. Tom could see the tall poplars, the old maples of Pitt Park, and the dome of the ancient bathhouse rising above the hedges and the iron fences.

  It’s time to turn back, he thought. The chip wagon near the entrance was where the kids hung out and he didn’t want to show up with Estella — they might start kidding him about being sweet on her. He told her he should be taking off.

  “At least get a drink before you cut out,” she suggested. “You’ll collapse from dehydration otherwise.”

  He shrugged. The drinking fountain was in a small square that enclosed a mini playground and allowed entrance to one end of the park. They weren’t likely to meet anyone there. There was no sign of the beautiful Maggie, either.

  They crossed the street. The smell of shrubbery was pleasant, the air much cooler.

  The square was only fifty yards further on. They turned in and saw a mother swinging a child, some children playing ball, two old men on a bench mulling over their chess moves. On another bench a figure was lying hunched up — it was a guy wearing only shorts and a T-shirt and looking like he was bushed or asleep or pretty drunk. Tom was surprised — layabouts weren’t a usual sight in the park because the police didn’t tolerate them. There was a lot of civic pride in West Hope’s boast that all its parks and playgrounds were safe.

  “I’m dying of thirst,” Estella said.

  “Too bad I don’t have any money,” Tom explained.

  “The water fountain is just fine.”

  The water rose and trickled in the stone basin, one of those things that had been there forever, it seemed.

  They drank in turn and Tom splashed his face and arms with the water. It felt good. Children shouted and ran past. He drank more, and, still bent over, caught a glimpse of the figure stretched on the bench. Something caught his attention. The sleeper swung his arms away from his head and Tom saw to his astonishment that it was Jeff Parker.

  “Jeez, look! It’s Jeff.”

  Estella took a step toward the park bench where he pointed. “He doesn’t look good — and you know how he runs. Maybe it’s heat exhaustion. Let’s check it out!”

  They walked hurriedly past the shouting children. As they approached the bench Jeff swung his body up, letting his legs dangle down. He looked relaxed, and as they came nearer he smiled.

  “You OK, Jeff?” Tom said. “We saw you lying there like a corpse.”

  “Hey, I’ m not dead yet, man. I’ve just seen the light, that’s all. Can’t stay in motion the whole time. Got to use the head computer too, you know.”

  Tom stopped in his tracks. There was a lazy swing to his sentences that made it sound like anyone but Jeff. His eyes seemed to have a slight glaze. He must have been smoking pot, Tom decided — but Jeff? He just didn’t do the stuff. And what was this talk about a head computer? This didn’t sound like Jeff at all!

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” Tom asked.

  “Sure am, Little Red Riding Hood. How was Grandpa doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “I saw you running earlier,” Estella said. “How did it go?”

  “It went just fine. I ran into Pete Halloran. Pete offered to run with me too, but I didn’t think he could stick it in this heat. Then he took me over to Fabricon. He introduced me to some cool people there. What a place!”

  “It’s the wave of the future,” Estella said. “Everybody wants to work for Fabricon.”

  “I wish you’d told me about it sooner,” Jeff said. “I’m going to do some promoting for them. It means giving up a bit of running time, but hell, man, the money’s terrific and it’s my future I have to think of.”

  “Are you crazy? You’ve already got a great future. What about all those scholarships?” Tom could hardly contain himself. “Is everybody crazy? This Fabricon’s turning the town upside down. It’s like an infection!”

  Jeff looked at Estella and smiled. “What’s with this guy, anyway? Don’t he know where it’s at? Why don’t you take him over there, baby? He should see this operation with his own eyes.”

  Estella nodded and reached out for Tom. “You should come with us.” It was as if she wanted to lead him straight to Fabricon. He shook his head and backed off quickly.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go now!” Tom looked from one to the other, stunned by their odd expressions, their knowing glances. It was as if they shared a secret that he was denied — and he didn’t like it.

  “See you soon!” he shouted and began to jog back toward the park gate. Their shouted greetings trailed after him, but he didn’t turn around.

  He moved quickly past the old men at their chess game on the bench, past the screaming children. He ducked around a young woman walking a spaniel. He could feel his body, tense and a little tired, begin to relax. The sunlight on the trees was dazzling. The traffic up ahead had thinned out. Just another evening in the city.

  Normal! Everything as usual! And yet something wasn’t quite right. There was too much of Fabricon in the air and in the heads of his friends. What could it mean? He ran, hoping that when he got there the apartment would be empty. He needed time to be alone, to think. To figure out what was going on in West Hope — and whether the problem was his or everybody else’s.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Shadow Knows

  Tom returned home to find the apartment empty. For a while he sat aimlessly in the heat, staring at the walls, peering out the window. He ate the pizza and drank gallons of water, all the time wondering whether there was something really wrong with this Fabricon business or whether he was just imagining a lot of crazy things. Nothing much happened in West Hope; all the kids were planning to make it somewhere else, just serving time until they could escape the place. Meanwhile, why not latch onto something good, why not take a job where the action was?

  Maybe it was the same old story. Maybe his friends were just smart and he was the one who was slow off the mark, the one who held back. He felt suddenly left out and miserable, but at the same time grimly determined. He would make it, despite the odds. He would get out of this apartment, out of this city. Yet right now he couldn’t think of what to do. He didn’t really have anyone to confide in.

  He took one last look out the window. It was dark and not much cooler. Voices sounded from the pavement below, a fire engine whined in the distance. He wondered if his mother was having a good time. How could she, with a guy like Reichert?

  A terrible thought struck him then. Suppose his mother really liked Reichert? Suppose she even married him? They would settle down and she would be stuck forever at the supermarket. Or she would have another child — Reichert’s child — and he would have to leave — but then with Reichert hanging around, he would have to leave anyway.

  Tom couldn’t bear to think about that possibility any longer. He turned on the television and flipped through the channels. There was nothing to settle on, so he surfed endlessly up and down, the remote clutched in his right hand, a magic wand without any magic.

  He felt guilty as he did so. “Why don’t you read a book sometime,” his mother would say. “You watch too much television. You’re becoming a couch potato and you’ll end up like Paddy Watson.” (Paddy Watson, a high school friend of Tom’s mother’s, had grown fat watching television. He did nothing else. It was television and junk food all the way. “Vicarious living,” Tom’s mother called it. “You’re there but you’re not there.” But Paddy had suffered a heart attack and was having to make a few feeble efforts now to get his body in motion, to get off the couch and do something.)

  After a while Tom got tired and went to bed. As he lay in the dark his
body, his soul, seemed to cry out for something. But he wasn’t listening. He was listening for his mother’s footsteps in the hall, her key in the lock.

  Later, half-swamped by crazy dreams, he heard voices, whispers, but he was too tired to get up. Then suddenly there was light, a show of dawn at the window. He lay waiting for his mother’s alarm to go off. It did and he heard her stirring about, coughing, then water running and the kitchen radio at low volume. He knew she would be coming in to say goodbye to him and he steeled himself.

  “Did you have a good time?” he growled, as she bent over the bed to kiss him goodbye.

  “It was fun,” she told him, her voice cool and contained. “But I’m sorry you and I didn’t have a chance to talk.”

  He didn’t say anything. Her perfume seemed to hover in the stuffy air. He pulled the covers more tightly around his body and waited. A few minutes passed. Noises in the kitchen and living room. It sounded as if she might be going.

  “Have a good day,” he called out.

  “You too, darling.”

  When he heard the door shut he dragged himself up and struggled to the window, wiping the sleep out of his eyes at every step. He watched her walk down toward Hollis Street, then he went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water in his face, fetched a bottle of cold orange juice from the fridge, and nearly emptied it.

  He made himself an omelette — it was something he did well — and ate it while he flipped the television channels. He stopped at a show that was featuring famous comic book and pulp heroes and villains. Some smart-assed professor guy was talking about The Shadow, Lamont Cranston, “who clouds men’s minds so that they cannot see him.” The professor only had thirty seconds or so to make his point, but he did it pretty well.

  “The Shadow is a symbolic figure,” he said. “He understands evil and can deal with it because he’s part of it. He acknowledges his own capacity for crime. He walks on the dark side to find the light. The villains can’t see him because he looks too much like them. He’s really their dark side turning against them.”