The Fading Page 11

  ‘She wasn’t your daughter then,’ Noel said softly, cutting his father off. ‘But I was still your son.’

  ‘Splitting hairs,’ John said. ‘Those girls were my family as much as you are today. You know what you did, you ran away and didn’t care who you stepped on, and it ruined an innocent woman’s life.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything, John,’ Noel said, seething with calm. ‘I can’t control it. It controls me.’

  John stomped off, barking at the gray sky. ‘Do you hear what you’re saying? You’re talking about science fiction! Comic book horseshit! You’re not Spiderman, Noel, and most kids know that by the time they turn five. Please. I brought you here today to tell you about your mother. You’re a young man. You don’t have to live your life like she did. But you have to be stronger. You have to choose which way to go. And if you don’t think there’s a choice to be made, today, right goddamn now, you are worse off than she ever was.’

  ‘Yeah, Dad? And what’s my choice? What choice do I have?’

  ‘You can choose to believe in demons and magical powers that absolve you from responsibility, that take you away from the real world with all its challenges and problems. And with it, your ability to lead a normal life, your sanity – gone. If you go that way, you will forfeit everything in favor of a sick childish fantasy and it will ruin you, I promise it will.’

  Oh, take me now, you stupid blink. Let’s show him the sick fantasy. Let’s surprise the ever-loving shit out of him and give him a massive heart attack.

  John continued on, trying to show him the light. ‘Or you can choose to face up to your mistakes and accept the damage your mother has done. You can choose to be honest with yourself, get some therapy, work hard, earn a living, have lasting friendships, and maybe one day make a family of your own. It’s not easy but it’s real. It’s real. You have more brains than me or your mother. You can do anything you want. Anything, and I will help you if you let me. It’s your choice, but there’s only one of these ways that allows you to find love, Noel. Only one that allows you to find peace inside that head of yours. Inside your heart.’

  Noel hated his father at this moment. Hated him for popping back into his life after leaving them alone for so many years. For saying these things about his mother. Hated him for the possible truth in his words and what it meant for him.

  ‘What do you want?’ John said, quieter, wrung out. ‘You want to wind up in a hospital, drugged to the gills? Isn’t some life better than that life? Don’t you want to have good things in your life? I don’t think you need a hospital. I think you are stronger than she ever was and all you need to do is choose to be your own man. Hell, you’ve managed to get this far on your own and that is admirable, but this is a wake-up call. No more, Noel. No more.’

  Noel couldn’t respond. He was crying and he didn’t trust his voice. John came back and reached for him. Noel backed away and John surprised him by lunging, stopping them both, clutching Noel tight against him.

  ‘No. Don’t hide. Let me help you. Please let me help.’

  Noel resisted but his father was stronger. He gave up, wrapped his arms around John’s ribs. The skin along his left arm felt tight, prickly and burning in fine lines.

  ‘I know you think I don’t understand,’ John said. ‘But I promise you I do.’

  ‘Okay,’ was all Noel could manage.

  ‘Okay?’

  His father’s pleading, frightened tone broke the impasse.

  ‘I’ll get some help,’ Noel said. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  They separated and looked at each other.

  John cleared his throat. ‘Okay, then let’s get the hell out of here before we freeze our balls off. What do you say?’

  They went a few steps, stamping the cold away, finding their legs again.

  ‘The Flash,’ Noel said.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Fuck Spiderman. I always wanted to be the Flash.’

  John laughed.

  In the warmth of the rental car, Noel’s thoughts returned to Julie. He hadn’t forced himself on her, he knew that. They had shared something good, for a moment. There was always something good, for a moment, before the veil descended.

  Noel hoped his father would be leaving soon, before something bad happened to him, too.

  14

  That evening, father and son dined at Boulder’s finest steakhouse, The Cork. The low, unassuming, adobe-type building was located in North Boulder, its darkened interior lit with wall torches and a large gas fireplace, where men in sport coats and women in cocktail dresses gathered for a classier, we’re-not-really-drunks version of happy hour. Cozy groups of four or five tables were tucked into various rooms, with throne chairs of fine leather strapping. The dinner menu was no longer inscribed on both faces of a large, dulled meat cleaver – as it had once been in the days when the place was still called The Cork & Cleaver and featured a cow’s face on the sign out front – but many of the dishes Noel remembered from those very rare special occasions during childhood were still on offer.

  Attractive waitresses with pinned-up hair and masculine dress shirts tucked into dark skirts conspired with a wandering sommelier who seemed to know half the patrons by name. He wormed his eyebrows and offered Noel the wine list as if keen to sniff out a young man deserving of a drink and one more way to gouge the old man.

  ‘Have whatever you like,’ John said, jovial from all they had accomplished in one day. After delivering the heavy speech in the park, John had spent the rest of the day cleaning Noel’s apartment and doing laundry while Noel napped.

  Noel had woken around three, apologizing for not helping.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ John had said. ‘How’s the arm?’

  ‘Stiff, hurts. But not too bad.’

  Noel showered, holding his arm in a newspaper baggie outside of the spray, and then John took him shopping for a plethora of household supplies – trash cans, toilet paper, cleaning products, shaving cream and a high-end razor with sleek disposable heads, a pack of athletic socks, honest plaid boxer shorts, a new microwave oven and, what the hell, a new 32-inch Zenith color television.

  John unloaded everything while Noel sat at his kitchen island feeling like a child invalid, then wrote a check for $2000 and told him to buy some good groceries, start eating better. Splurge on a girl, he said, and, not knowing what his father’s estimation of his social situation might be, Noel wondered if the plea was to find a date or hire a prostitute.

  ‘You don’t have to do all this,’ Noel said. ‘I have my own money.’

  ‘Overdue,’ John said. ‘I still collect a pension from Richardson’s, plus the stock. The chain went public two years ago. We’re in Brazil and Japan now.’

  ‘Awesome.’ Noel folded the check into his shirt pocket.

  John strongly insinuated there would be more checks of this nature if Noel kept his doctor’s appointments and stayed out of the emergency room. He made Noel promise to call every day. It was exhausting having a parent in his midst, but also comforting. He was grudgingly surprised and a little hurt, then, when at dinner John informed him that he was booked on an eleven o’clock flight that night. What if Noel hadn’t been able to come home from the hospital? What if he had been a drooling idiot who couldn’t stop screaming?

  ‘May I suggest a heartbreaking Malbec,’ the sommelier said to Noel. ‘Drop-shipped this week from Luigi Bosca’s eighty-five private reserve, with delicate notes of grass and anise. It pairs exquisitely with our famous teriyaki filet.’

  ‘That sounds rad,’ Noel said. ‘But a Coke sounds better.’

  ‘Low blood, low blood sugar,’ John said, and laughed a bit too heartily. ‘I’ll have the house red and some more butter to go with these rolls.’

  The sommelier nodded mournfully and left to plead his case at another table.

  They ordered the teriyaki filets, pilaf, spring greens. Beside them, a girl of twelve was celebrating her birthday with her parents and a slice of mud pie that stood at least
seven inches high and must have weighed two pounds.

  ‘Save room for one of those,’ John said.

  Halfway through their meal, a stabbing pain lanced its way through Noel’s stomach and lower, into his bowels. He broke out sweating and his arm tingled hotly. A dog-whistle ringing he knew no one else could hear bored into his ears. The gas fireplace glowed at his face like a small sun. The room spun and he knew he was either going to throw up, shit himself or pass out.

  ‘Excuse me, Dad,’ he said, sliding back his chair.

  ‘Everything all right?’ John looked up, his steak knife sawing to a halt.

  ‘It’s great,’ Noel said. ‘Be right back.’

  He hurried through a corridor of textured plaster walls and shoved the door open. He was disappointed to find the men’s room occupied by a hand-towel and mint-dealing servant standing at the center of the back wall, facing the double-sink vanity layout. The short, plump Hispanic man looked like an implant from the 1930s, with his lard-matted hair parted down the middle, a push-broom mustache, placid unseeing eyes and a white towel draped over his left forearm in horizontal salute. He did not so much as nod or blink as Noel careened past, locking himself in the far stall.

  Noel fell against the wall, closing his eyes. It wasn’t a nature call. His entire body was trembling. The sweat on his face and back had turned to ice. He placed his right hand over his tripping heart. What was this? Nerves, exhaustion, a reaction to the stress of trying to present himself well in front of a man he hadn’t seen in a decade and who happened to be his father. It would all be over soon, this day, this night. Then he could go home and sleep for twenty hours. He concentrated on the restaurant sounds coming through the walls, clinking plates in the kitchen, the murmuring guests, the lone peel of raucous laughter from the now-inebriated bar crowd.

  The door banged open. The restaurant’s speakeasy din pierced the tiled room and just as quickly ceased as the door shut. Someone else was in the bathroom now, and somehow Noel knew he had been followed.

  Two or three footsteps moved slowly toward him, business heels clacking on the floor, and there was a judgmental intake of breath: tsk-tsk-tsk … like somebody’s grandmother catching a child in the act of stealing a cookie. Noel didn’t know how he knew, but was sure the admonishment was coming from the butler attendant with the towel draped over his arm.

  ‘Evening, Carlos,’ a man with a helium voice said. ‘How the patrons treating you tonight?’

  Carlos, if that was the attendant’s name, did not answer. The crackle of a urine stream melting bar ice echoed off porcelain and filled the room.

  The interloper sighed. ‘Whattsa matter, hombre, el gato got your tongue?’

  Noel raised the back of his head from the wall and opened his eyes, as if staring at the inside of the stall would allow him to better hear the exchange.

  A disgusted string of muted Spanish issued forth.

  ‘What was that?’ the high voice said, testy and daring. ‘Wha’d you say to me, you dirty little kumquat?’

  ‘Voy a chupar la polla por cincuenta centavos.’

  Whatever this was, it earned a round of high-pitched laughter. ‘Is that right? Maybe I’ll suck your cock for fifty cents. How’d you like that, shortstack? Talk to Bobby about getting you a raise, but first you take care of el chorizo, eh?’

  ‘Chenga a tu madre, bastardo,’ Carlos hissed.

  The urinal flushed. More slow footsteps crossing the room. A strained silence, followed by a single smack of flesh, very like a palm slapping a cheek. Carlos grunted. The high-voiced man tittered, released another sigh of pleasure.

  Then … nothing. A minute passed. No one spoke or moved.

  Noel leaned down and peered under the stall. Carlos the bathroom attendant’s feet were in the same spot as when Noel entered, and another pair of shoes – polished black and white spats draped with cuffed charcoal trousers – were standing nearly toe to toe with them. What the hell were they doing? Kissing, he thought, until the whispering began.

  Easy, easy. We’re not alone, Carlos said, his Spanish-accented English as careful as it was quiet. He’s in there.

  Who, the kid? his tormentor turned conspirator said.

  Si, papi.

  Well, what are you waiting for? You want to stand here all night with a face like that? We have places to go.

  Let him be for now, Carlos whispered. Can’t you see he’s been through enough? I have seen this before. He is broken.

  Oh, dear God. They were talking about him? Noel covered his mouth and could feel their heads turning to watch the stall.

  I want my face, the high-pitched man said. Tell him I need my face!

  If you push him now, you will kill him. The others feel we should allow him to grow stronger.

  And then what? the high-pitched man whined. How am I supposed to go around looking like this?

  You have waited a long time. Waiting a little more won’t kill you, Carlos said. When he is well, we will all grow stronger with him. There is no question he will learn to fade, and when he does he will open doors for us. Many, many doors.

  This was madness. He had to get out of here. Noel reached for the metal tab locking him in, but just then a series of slapping footsteps came racing at him and a great weight slammed into the partition, shaking the entire stall.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Noel cried, backing into the toilet.

  Fists pounded the wall as another stream of profanity-laced Spanish poured out, berating him, accusing him of something he couldn’t understand.

  Noel choked on the word ‘Help!’

  The pummeling stopped. The verbal assault stopped.

  The toes of two small polished black work shoes protruded beneath the stall.

  Noel slid along the wall and saw a single shining black eye peering at him through the crack between the door and its frame, all pupil, twitching side to side.

  ‘What are you doing?’ high-pitch said. ‘You said leave him alone.’

  ‘I jess want to see him,’ Carlos said. ‘I wan’ him to know how much pain I am in.’

  The door lock jiggled. The Carlos eye continued to track him. Noel covered his mouth to keep from screaming.

  ‘Don’t forget about me,’ Carlos whispered. ‘Don’t listen to your father, Noel Shaker boy. You are not loco. You must be brave now. You must be brave for all of us.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Noel said. ‘I didn’t do anything to you.’

  ‘I did my job!’ high-pitch shrieked, joining Carlos to rattle the door with renewed violence. ‘Now you must do yours! Do you hear me, Shaker? I want my face! Gimme back my beautiful face!’

  ‘Stop it!’ Carlos said to his friend. Then more softly to Noel, ‘We believe very strongly in your potential, and it would be a shame if all that potential went to waste because your father filled your head with such cruel things about your kind and loving mother. You are not mentally ill—’

  The other man’s footsteps raced away from the stall. ‘Smoke! I smell smoke!’

  Carlos said, ‘Don’t listen to him!’

  High-pitch careened around the bathroom. ‘Please! Don’t leave me in here! I don’t want to die!’

  Within seconds Noel smelled smoke. Heavy, black, lung-smothering smoke that burned his eyes and tasted like chemical death. And then the heat. The room becoming an oven. The walls rattled and the roof roared as flames erupted all around him. The bathroom was at once consumed with flame and the screams of dying men.

  Noel coughed and fell to his knees, clawing blindly at the stall and bathroom walls behind him. Ceiling panels melted and dripped like wax. Globs of charred insulation rained down smoldering on him, burning his hair and through the back of his shirt. The room thrummed and light bulbs popped, and then the walls exploded.

  Noel covered his head and wished himself away, willing his bubble to shelter him from the fire. He imagined it carrying him off, not just erasing him but transporting him home, across town, to France, anywhere but here. The fire’s consuming
roar reached a pinnacle of violence and there was a suction wind pulling him from every direction at once, and then only silence.

  Noel blinked. He was still here. There was no fire. The eye in the door seam was gone. The polished black shoes were gone. The room felt hollower than before. Noel coughed twice more but already his lungs were clearing and he breathed easily, though a sour taste lingered on his tongue.

  He exited the stall, inspecting his clothes for burn marks. There weren’t any.

  No one was standing at the urinals or at the sinks sunken into the vanity. He reached for the door but his hands were blackened with soot. Greasy and smudging his cuffs. He wanted it off, now. He turned back to the vanity and ran the water, careful not to splash onto the bandaging, using the pink liquid soap and lathering thoroughly before rinsing. He tore a brown paper towel from the dispenser and looked up, into the mirror.

  Carlos the bathroom butler was standing against the wall and his face was gone. He stood perfectly still staring at Noel from ash eyes sunk inside a blackened skull, the face and nose scorched and flame-eroded beyond recognition. White teeth exposed to the roots stood out from blackened gums. The larded hair was singed into bleeding tufts. The hand attached to the arm holding the white towel was a deformed knob of burned flesh and pink bones. It was a corpse, Carlos’s charred remains standing calmly in the pristine white jacket, black trousers and polished black work shoes.

  Noel spun around, but Carlos was gone. In his place there was only a chrome-plated trash bin set into the clean white tiled wall and, beside that, the push-button hand dryer. Once again Noel was alone.

  Except that he knew he wasn’t alone. Noel knew that when he turned and looked in the mirror again, the butler with the charred face and hideous ruined lips and broiled eyes would be standing right where he was a moment ago, watching him.

  There was a fire here, he thought. Years ago. Maybe decades ago. And the ones who died in the blaze are still here. They wanted me. They are waiting for me to blink out again. And it’s going to happen again, soon. I see the dead when I am about to drop, or have already gone inside. But why? What does it do for them? What do they want me to do?