James Sallis - Ghost of a Flea

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Damn.”

“Light one,” a voice says above me. Not Deborah’s this time. Have another five days passed, or just moments? I’ve no way of knowing. No landmarks here, nothing to grab hold of. “You’re lucky, Mr. Griffin.” In here becoming out there in a flood, I open my eyes. Not Deborah’s face either, unless she’s grown a soul patch, pierced an ear. On the trade wind of his breath I smell coffee, raw sugar, milk that’s just turned or is about to. “The world’s been kind enough to send you a message. A warning. You’re going to be okay. A month, six weeks from now, it’ll be like nothing’s happened. But next time …” Sincere face and brown eyes hover there over me. He’s what, mid-twenties? Sees so much of life every day, been through so little of it himself.

More white space then, as the world again shut itself down. The doctor’s face stayed up there a while, lips moving. Then it changed: grew larger, misshapen, grotesque; broke into parts and rolled away-as though in slow motion a stone had shattered a water-borne image.

When next the world washed back, Don and Jeeter were there at water’s edge, talking. Don held a pint-size plastic cup of coffee in one hand. Every few moments he’d gesture with that hand to emphasize something he was saying, then catch himself just before coffee sloshed over the top.

“Thing you have to look at,” Don was saying, “is how’s it gonna travel? Sure it looks good right now, but what about four years from now, or ten? Horseshoeing probably looked good, too, sixty or seventy years ago.”

“I hear you.” Jeeter grinned. “Whatchu think ’bout shepherding?”

“Don’t mind me,” I told them.

“All right,” Jeeter said.

“Derick’s trying to decide what he wants to be when he grows up.”

“So how you doin’, Mr. Griffin?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Worse, too,” Don said.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“You be needing anything?”

I told the boy no.

“Be okay we talk a spell, then?”

“Sure.”

“Lew may not feel like-” Don started, but I waved him mute.

Jeeter pulled a molded plastic chair lost somewhere on the road between purple and blue, one size fits none, up to the bed. When he sat, his knees came almost level with his ears.

“Don’s took me down to the library, got me a library card. Lady with sequins on her glasses tells me I can take home six books. Gotta be a million or so in there at least, and I’m walking around wondering how’m I gonna pick six books out of all those. And what about? So I’m giving thought to all this stuff I’ve wondered about, Joan of Arc, karate, old cars, the Vietnam War my old man never got over, this Langston Hughes person I’ve heard of, and suddenly I remember how Don told me you wrote some books. I go back to the lady with the sequins on her glasses and ask can she help me. Sure enough, she brings me this little stack of books. They’re pretty beat up, so I guess I’m not the only one’s looked into them, you know? I took the top six home-two of them were the same, but I didn’t know that-and I read them all that weekend.”

I glanced over at Don, still by the window. He nodded.

“Monday morning, I was there waiting when the library opened. The lady with sequins on her glasses had the day off. Young woman in a crinkly brown dress and sandals helped me that time. Her skin was white as rice, I remember. Kind of lumpy like it, too. She brought me another stack of books, some of them different, some the same. I went ahead and read them all.”

“You have a new fan, Lew,” Don said.

“I didn’t know books could be like that, Mr. Griffin. None of the ones I’d ever saw before were.”

“Thank you, Jeeter.”

“Call me Derick.”

“Derick, then. Thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever had a finer review.”

“He means it, Lew.”

“So do I.”

“I just keep reading those books over and over, Mr. Griffin, gotta been through some of them five, six times by now. Skull Meat, The Old Man, Mole. You’re writing about what I lived all my life, streets I grew up in, people I know. All of it right there. Something else going on there, too. Something I don’t understand. I don’t give up, I keep reading. But I just can’t quite get hold of it.” He grinned. “Sometimes I almos’ do.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I almost do, too.”

Dead still this morning. So still and bright with sun that you don’t notice how cold it is until you move. Then the cold’s after you with blades and saws. Deborah and I have talked all night. Now I ask her what day it is.

“Sunday.”

Now that she’d told me, I heard bells from the Baptist church down the street. It had taken me days to figure out what was odd about the sound: the bells were electronic, starting up right on pitch and ending with no aftertones, volume at a level the whole time.

“And the date?”

It had become important to me, virtually an obsession, to know these things. Just as hour upon hour I found myself watching the clock. Hands that knocked knocked knocked without entering.

“Diversion, Lew,” Deborah had told me, “misdirection. So you don’t have to face the darker time ticking away inside you.” Cold wasn’t the only thing cutting to the bone these days.

Blearily I looked down at people huddled in the bus stop across the street four floors below. They wore whatever coats they had, and most held cups of coffee. Steam leaked like breath from their cups and from grease-stained bags of food. Cold waited till people stood or changed position on the bench, then pounced. Eye turned upwards and mouths writhed in pain.

“Brought some things to help get you through all this,” Deborah had said, dipping into her backpack. I thought of Madame Butterfly (“I’ve brought a few things”) as she held up a finger: “Some favorites.” Montaigne’s essays, L’Ecume des jours. A second finger: “Also these.” Tapes of cultural programs and game shows like My Word a friend dubbed off the BBC. Third finger, with dramatic pause: “And me, of course….”

So we’d spent the night talking. About how rehearsals were going, latest reports from doctors, official confirmation that this was the coldest winter in a quarter century, when I was likely to get sprung.

“On that subject, I have a message for you from Don. He says if you try to walk out of here the way you usually do, he’ll personally come after you, rope and hog-tie you, and bring you back.”

I whistled a bar or so from Copland’s Rodeo .

“He’s serious, Lew. This is serious. You scared us.” She was stacking books and tapes neatly on the bedside table. “Rick Garces wants me to tell you to hurry up and get well because he’s got a new recipe he can’t talk anyone else into trying. Sea insects. ‘You know how picky them white boys is ’bout their food,’ he says, ‘’specially the straight ones.’ Dean Treadwell called from the school to see how you were and asked that I give you his best. The Washington Post said-I knew you had a piece due and gave them a call, hope you don’t mind-not to worry about the Fearing review, they’d wait. And your agent says call her when you get a chance. There’s a new publishing house in Scotland, run by a bunch of kids, Vicky says, but they seem to know what they’re doing, that wants to talk to you about reissuing your books.”

“Nothing from David?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lew.”

A bus pulled up below and all climbed aboard. I had to wonder if any of them even cared where the bus was headed. It was warm at least, and you could stay aboard indeterminately. The bus pulled away, leaving bus stop and street alike empty, windswept, barren. As though the whole world itself had emptied. No one left alive.