Charles De Lint - Dreams Underfoot

“It sours their success, makes them bitter. And usually it leads to more small deaths: depression, stress, heavy drinking or drug use, abusing their spouse or children.”

“What are you saying?” Zoe asked. “That a small death’s like disappointment?”

“More like a pain, a sorrow, an anger. It doesn’t have to be something you do to yourself. Maybe one of your parents died when you were just a kid, or you were abused as a child; that kind of trauma changes a person forever. You can’t go through such an experience and grow up to be the same person you would have been without it.”

“It sounds like you’re just talking about life,” Zoe said. “It’s got its ups and its downs; to stay sane, you’ve got to take what it hands you. Ride the punches and maybe try to leave the place in a little better shape than it was before you got there.”

What was with this conversation? Zoe thought as she was speaking.

As the No Nuns Here cut came to an end, she cued in a version of Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain”

by Faster Pussycat.

“Jesus,” Bob said as the song went out over the air. “You really have a death wish, don’t you?”

“Tell me about Gordon Wolfe.”

The man’s voice echoed in her mind as she spoke his name. I’m the bringer of small deaths.

“What’s he got to do with all of this?” she added.

Remember me the next time you die a little.

“He’s a catalyst for bad luck,” Bob said. “It’s like, being in his company—just being in proximity to him—can bring on a small death. It’s like ... do you remember that character in the L’il Abner comic strip—the one who always had a cloud hanging over his head. What was his name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Everywhere he went he brought bad luck.”

“What about him?” Zoe asked.

“Gordon Wolfe’s like that, except you don’t see the cloud. You don’t get any warning at all. I guess the worst thing is that his effects are completely random—unless he happens to take a dislike to you.

Then it’s personal.”

“A serial killer of people’s hopes,” Zoe said, half jokingly. “Exactly.”

“Oh, give me a break.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Yeah, right,” Zoe said. “You feed me a crock of shit and then expect me to—”

“I don’t think he’s human,” Bob said then.

Zoe wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting from this conversation—a confession, perhaps, or even just an apology, but it wasn’t this.

“And I don’t think you are either,” he added.

“Oh, please.”

“Why else do you think he was so attracted to you? He recognized something in you—I’m sure of it.”

Wolfe’s voice was back in her head.

I feel like I should know you.

“I think we’ve taken this about as far as it can go,” Zoe said. This time she was the one to cut the connection.

The phone’s online light immediately lit up once more. She hesitated for a long moment, then brought the handset up to her ear. “I am not bullshitting you,” Bob said.

“Look, why don’t you take it the tabloids—they’d eat it up.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried? I’d do anything to see him stopped.”

“Why?”

“Because the world’s tough enough without having something like him wandering through it, randomly shooting down people’s hopes. He’s the father of fear. You know what fear stands for? Fuck Everything And Run. You want the whole world to be like that? People screw up their lives enough on their own; they don’t need a ... a thing like Wolfe to add to their grief.”

The scariest thing, Zoe realized, was that he really sounded sincere. “So what am I then?” she asked.

“The mother of hope?”

“I don’t know. But I think you scare him.”

Zoe had to laugh. Wolfe had her so creeped out she hadn’t even been able to go to her own apartment last night, and Bob thought she was the scary one?

“Look, could we meet somewhere?” Bob said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Somewhere public. Bring along a friend—bring a dozen friends. Face to face, I know I can make you understand.”

Zoe thought about it.

“It’s important,” Bob said. “Look at it this way: if I’m a nut, you’ve got nothing to lose except some time. But if I’m right, then you’d really be—how did you put it?—leaving the world in a little better shape than it was before you got there. A lot better shape.”

“Okay,” Zoe said. “Tomorrow noon. I’ll be at the main entrance of the Williamson Street Mall.”

“Great.” Zoe started to hang up, pausing when he added: “And Zoe, cool it with the onair digs at Wolfe, would you? You don’t want to see him pissed.”

Zoe hung up.

“Your problem,” Hilary said as the two of them sat on the edge of the indoor fountain just inside the main entrance of the Williamson Street Mall, “is that you keep expecting to find a man who’s going to solve all of your problems for you.”

“Of course. Why didn’t I realize that was the problem?”

“You know,” Hilary went on, ignoring Zoe’s sarcasm. “Like who you are, where you’re going, who you want to be.”

Rupert sat on his haunches by Zoe’s knee, head leaning in towards her as she absently played with the hair on the top of his head.

“So what’re you saying?” she asked. “That I should be looking for a woman instead?”

Hilary shook her head. “You’ve got to find yourself first. Everything else’ll follow.”

“I’m not looking for a man.”

“Right.”

“Well, not actively. And besides, what’s that got to with anything?”

“Everything. You wouldn’t be in this situation, you wouldn’t have all these weird guys coming on to you, if you didn’t exude a kind of confusion about your identity. People pick up on that kind of thing, even if the signals are just subliminal. Look at yourself You’re a nice normallooking woman with terrific skin and hair and great posture. The loony squad shouldn’t be hitting on you. Who’s that actor you like so much?”

“Mel Gibson.”

“Guys like him should be hitting on you. Or at least, guys like your idolized version of him. Who knows what Gibson’s really like?”

Over an early breakfast, Zoe had laid out the whole story for her friend. Hilary had been skeptical about meeting with Bob, but when she realized that Zoe was going to keep the rendezvous, with or without her, she’d allowed herself to be talked into coming along. She’d left work early enough to return to her apartment to wake Zoe and then the two of them had taken the subway over to the Mall.

“You think this is all a waste of time, don’t you?” Zoe said. “Don’t you?”

Zoe shrugged. A young security guard walked by and eyed the three of them, his gaze lingering longest on Rupert, but he didn’t ask them to leave. Maybe he thought Rupert was a seeingeye dog, Zoe thought. Maybe he just liked the look of Hilary. Most guys did.

Hilary glanced at her watch. “He’s five minutes late. Want to bet he’s a noshow?”

But Zoe wasn’t listening to her. Her gaze was locked on the redhaired man who had just come in off the street.

“What’s the matter?” Hilary asked.

“That’s him—the redhaired guy.”

“I thought you’d never met this Bob.”

“I haven’t,” Zoe said. “That’s Gordon Wolfe.”

Or was it? Wolfe was still decked out like a highroller on the make, but there was something subtly different about him this afternoon. His carriage, his whole body language had changed.

Zoe was struck with a sudden insight. A long shiver went up her spine. It started out as a low thrum and climbed into a highpitched, almost piercing note, like Mariah Carey running through all seven of her octaves.