Butler, Octavia - Kindred

“You don’t believe me?”

He stared at the mud for a moment, then faced me. “You know how long you were gone?”

“A few minutes. Not long.”

“A few seconds. There were no more than ten or fifteen seconds between the time you went and the time you called my name.”

“Oh, no …” I shook my head slowly. “All that couldn’t have happened in just seconds.”

He said nothing.

“But it was real! I was there!” I caught myself, took a deep breath, and slowed down. “All right. If you told me a story like this, I prob- ably wouldn’t believe it either, but like you said, this mud came from somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“Look, what did you see? What do you think happened?”

He frowned a little, shook his head. “You vanished.” He seemed to have to force the words out. “You were here until my hand was just a couple of inches from you. Then, suddenly, you were gone. I couldn’t believe it. I just stood there. Then you were back again and on the other side of the room.”

“Do you believe it yet?”

He shrugged. “It happened. I saw it. You vanished and you reappeared. Facts.”

“I reappeared wet, muddy, and scared to death.” “Yes.”

“And I know what I saw, and what I did—my facts. They’re no crazier than yours.”

THE RIVER 17

“I don’t know what to think.”

“I’m not sure it matters what we think.” “What do you mean?”

“Well … it happened once. What if it happens again?” “No. No, I don’t think …”

“You don’t know!” I was starting to shake again. “Whatever it was, I’ve had enough of it! It almost killed me!”

“Take it easy,” he said. “Whatever happens, it’s not going to do you any good to panic yourself again.”

I moved uncomfortably, looked around. “I feel like it could happen again—like it could happen anytime. I don’t feel secure here.”

“You’re just scaring yourself.”

“No!” I turned to glare at him, and he looked so worried I turned away again. I wondered bitterly whether he was worried about my vanishing again or worried about my sanity. I still didn’t think he believed my story. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “I hope you are. Maybe I’m just like a vic- tim of robbery or rape or something—a victim who survives, but who doesn’t feel safe any more.” I shrugged. “I don’t have a name for the thing that happened to me, but I don’t feel safe any more.”

He made his voice very gentle. “If it happens again, and if it’s real, the boy’s father will know he owes you thanks. He won’t hurt you.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what could happen.” I stood up unsteadily. “Hell, I don’t blame you for humoring me.” I paused to give him a chance to deny it, but he didn’t. “I’m beginning to feel as though I’m humoring myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. As real as the whole episode was, as real as I know it was, it’s beginning to recede from me somehow. It’s becoming like something I saw on television or read about—like something I got sec- ond hand.”

“Or like a … a dream?”

I looked down at him. “You mean a hallucination.” “All right.”

“No! I know what I’m doing. I can see. I’m pulling away from it because it scares me so. But it was real.”

“Let yourself pull away from it.” He got up and took the muddy towel from me. “That sounds like the best thing you can do, whether it was real or not. Let go of it.”

The Fire

1

I tried.

I showered, washed away the mud and the brackish water, put on clean clothes, combed my hair …

“That’s a lot better,” said Kevin when he saw me. But it wasn’t.

Rufus and his parents had still not quite settled back and become the “dream” Kevin wanted them to be. They stayed with me, shadowy and threatening. They made their own limbo and held me in it. I had been afraid that the dizziness might come back while I was in the shower, afraid that I would fall and crack my skull against the tile or that I would go back to that river, wherever it was, and find myself standing naked among strangers. Or would I appear somewhere else naked and totally vulnerable?

I washed very quickly.

Then I went back to the books in the living room, but Kevin had almost finished shelving them.

“Forget about any more unpacking today,” he told me. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Go?”

“Yes, where would you like to eat? Someplace nice for your birthday.” “Here.”

“But …”

THE FIRE 19

“Here, really. I don’t want to go anywhere.” “Why not?”

I took a deep breath. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s go tomorrow.” Some- how, tomorrow would be better. I would have a night’s sleep between me and whatever had happened. And if nothing else happened, I would be able to relax a little.

“It would be good for you to get out of here for a while,” he said. “No.”

“Listen …”

“No!” Nothing was going to get me out of the house that night if I

could help it.

Kevin looked at me for a moment—I probably looked as scared as I

was—then he went to the phone and called out for chicken and shrimp.

But staying home did no good. When the food had arrived, when we were eating and I was calmer, the kitchen began to blur around me.

Again the light seemed to dim and I felt the sick dizziness. I pushed back from the table, but didn’t try to get up. I couldn’t have gotten up.

“Dana?”

I didn’t answer.

“Is it happening again?”

“I think so.” I sat very still, trying not to fall off my chair. The floor seemed farther away than it should have. I reached out for the table to steady myself, but before I could touch it, it was gone. And the distant floor seemed to darken and change. The linoleum tile became wood, par- tially carpeted. And the chair beneath me vanished.

2

When my dizziness cleared away, I found myself sitting on a small bed sheltered by a kind of abbreviated dark green canopy. Beside me was a little wooden stand containing a battered old pocket knife, several mar- bles, and a lighted candle in a metal holder. Before me was a red-haired boy. Rufus?

The boy had his back to me and hadn’t noticed me yet. He held a stick of wood in one hand and the end of the stick was charred and smoking.

20 KINDRED

Its fire had apparently been transferred to the draperies at the window. Now the boy stood watching as the flames ate their way up the heavy cloth.

For a moment, I watched too. Then I woke up, pushed the boy aside, caught the unburned upper part of the draperies and pulled them down. As they fell, they smothered some of the flames within themselves, and they exposed a half-open window. I picked them up quickly and threw them out the window.

The boy looked at me, then ran to the window and looked out. I looked out too, hoping I hadn’t thrown the burning cloth onto a porch roof or too near a wall. There was a fireplace in the room; I saw it now, too late. I could have safely thrown the draperies into it and let them burn.

It was dark outside. The sun had not set at home when I was snatched away, but here it was dark. I could see the draperies a story below, burn- ing, lighting the night only enough for us to see that they were on the ground and some distance from the nearest wall. My hasty act had done no harm. I could go home knowing that I had averted trouble for the sec- ond time.

I waited to go home.

My first trip had ended as soon as the boy was safe—had ended just in time to keep me safe. Now, though, as I waited, I realized that I wasn’t going to be that lucky again.

I didn’t feel dizzy. The room remained unblurred, undeniably real. I looked around, not knowing what to do. The fear that had followed me from home flared now. What would happen to me if I didn’t go back automatically this time? What if I was stranded here—wherever here was? I had no money, no idea how to get home.