Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

Martin complied. “I’m only doing this because you bought an extra coffee for me.”

“And providing you don’t piss me off, I’ll buy an extra one for you tomorrow, as well.” Her tone was light but her eyes were serious. “Listen to me, Martin; it has been my experience that most people who seriously attempt suicide don’t do it because their spirit has been crushed in some single, massive, cataclysmic blow, but rather because it has bled to death from thousands of small scratches they weren’t even aware of. You’re right to insist that dealing with the death of your parents and the incredible hole it left in your life isn’t what drove you toward your decision; it was however, I think—and excuse my resorting to a tired cliché—the straw that broke the camel’s back. If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else—a really bad night at work, a flat tire, burning your dinner, an obnoxious telemarketer, who knows? It’s not necessarily the thing itself—it’s everything that has led up its suddenly taking on this profound, symbolic significance that you’d never attribute to it under everyday circumstances. Do you understand?” “You’re pretty good at this. Ever think of doing it professionally?” Dr. Hayes sat back. “Does that mean you agree?” “Yeah . . . yeah, it does.”

“Good. Now I’ll make a deal with you. I’ve got a really busy day waiting for me when I walk out that door, and I could use an extra half-hour, so I’ll meet you halfway about your not feeling like talking to me anymore: if you will tell me, to the best of your recollection, where you were and what you were doing when you first made the decision to start planning your own death, we’ll call it a day and take up at that point tomorrow, all right?”

“What’re you going to do with that extra half-hour, just out of curiosity?”

“Nothing. I am going to do nothing . I am going to sit in my car and listen to a classic rock station while eating something that’s bad for me that I plan on picking up at the first choke-burger drive-thru joint I pass on the way. And I will love Every. Minute. Of. It.”

“Damn, that sounds great.”

“It will be.”

“Far be it from me to keep a person from a higher cholesterol count.”

Dr. Hayes smiled, put down her pen (she’d filled both sides of the file cover with notes, anyway), folded her hands, and said: “So, what were you doing?”

Martin thought about, then answered her question, surprised at how easily and quickly it came out, surprised even more with how much he realized while telling it to her, and found that he actually felt a little better once he finished. Dr. Hayes seemed equally pleased, and promised to bring a croissant along with the coffee tomorrow morning before she thanked him for a good session and went on her way.

It was ten-thirty. He had ninety minutes to himself. What to do, what to do?

He leaned forward to turn on the television, remembered what he’d seen the last time he tried to watch something, and decided to take a stroll around the gym, instead.

The stroll took all of ten minutes and lost its appeal in a hurry; the gym itself was less than half the size of a standard basketball court, and had only one window, a single basketball hoop, several folded risers, and a bunch of folded tables. Even though Martin had turned on the lights before entering (almost falling down the four stairs, which he’d forgotten about), the place was still awfully dim. It was the middle of the morning; there ought to be more light. Maybe it would look brighter at night. He could come back this evening and check.

Something to look forward to.

He went back to the main area and browsed through the movie selection, found a copy of The Best Years of Our Lives (Dad’s favorite movie), and was getting ready to put it in the VCR when he noticed a watercolor painting that was hanging on the wall among the children’s drawings.

It was a painting of a large, dark, Richardsonian-Romanesque gothic building—an old school, perhaps— complete with turrets and a belfry.

Two things immediately registered: he’d seen this building before, and recently, and damned if it didn’t look like it had been painted by the same guy who’d done the watercolor he owned.

Looking over at the nurses’ station to make sure no one was watching him, Martin took the watercolor from the wall and went back to his room. True to her word, Amber had returned his painting, leaning it on the desktop. Martin grabbed it and sat down, holding the two paintings side by side.

It didn’t take an expert to recognize that the style of both paintings was exactly the same—all you had to do was look at the signature in the lower right-hand corner: R.J. Nyman .

Martin Tyler was not a man who put a lot of stock in meaningful coincidence, having experienced so little of it during his lifetime, and anytime he did encounter something that might be chalked up to it, he did then what he did now: shook his head and came up with a reasonable explanation: Okay, so the same guy painted both of these; so what? It doesn’t mean anything. The guy told you that he made part of his living doing this, painting watercolors of local landmarks and buildings. Stands to reason that he’d do a lot of them, and that one of them would end up here.

This almost worked, until it dawned on him where he’d seen this other gothic nightmare of a building.

Rising to his feet, he walked over to the only window in his room and looked out through the streaked glass and wire mesh to the building across the street, whose sign declared it to be Miller Middle School, a building that would be right at home in a Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, or Bela Lugosi fright-fest.

Martin would have dismissed this as another so what? had it not been for the things standing at various spots across the length of the roof; near the edge, atop the turrets, above and even inside the belfry, at least a dozen of the camera-creatures similar to the one from the other night milled about, hopping to and fro, beaks and wings working furiously, all of them turning in his direction at once and freezing as if challenging him to a stare-down.

Martin backed away, not looking away from the sight until he nearly fell over the chair.

It’s the drugs , he told himself. That has to be it; you’re still wonky from the meds and your brain is just dredging up this same weird crap like it did last night.

Setting the watercolors on the desk, he took a deep breath, released it slowly, and looked back.

The camera-creatures were still staring at him, only now their brass eyes were opening, and from each set emerged a bright golden light, the beams crisscrossing until it appeared the top of the school was encased in a giant, shimmering web of gold.

Easy there, sport , he told himself. There’s an quick way to prove that you’re still hallucinating. Opening the door of his room, Martin leaned out into the hallway and called, “Bernard?” The attendant came out of the nurses’ station right away. “Something wrong? You okay there, bud?” “Could you come in here for a minute, please?” Bernard approached him slowly. “What’s going on, Martin?” Ethel and Amber stood at the door, watching.

Think fast, sport; don’t make this any worse. “I was just wondering about this building across the street.” “The school?” asked Bernard. “Yeah . . . I was wondering if it’s the same building in this picture I found hanging on the wall out there.” Bernard came into the room. Martin handed him the watercolor. “It looks like this is the same building. Is it?” Bernard looked out the window, as did Martin. The creatures were still there, but if Bernard saw them, he gave no indication.