She was losing the gentle man she had married, whose children she had borne, whom she loved dearly. She couldn't reach him any longer, and now it had become much worse--that incident on the highway, the police bringing him home, the fuss to keep it quiet, out of the papers, the doctor putting it down to overwork because he didn't know what else to say. Brad hardly slept but spent hour after hour of the night, every night, sitting by the study window and staring, literally, into space.
"Brad, honey, please tell me what it is so I can help you!" There was a plaintive note of fear in her voice. She felt sick. "Honey, please!"
She enfolded him in her arms, but he made no effort to respond to her embrace. He sat indolently and she was reminded of pictures she had seen of mental patients, vacant-eyed, slack-jawed, trapped in mad dreams . . . dear God, no, not him, not Brad. Please, not Brad!
"Brad. Darling," she murmured, holding him, near to tears. "You've got to talk about this. You've got to tell someone. How can you go on carrying this burden all the time? You need help, Brad."
"The world needs help," he contradicted her. He began to tremble violently, his hands shaking in spasm. "I have seen the earth in all its glory, one of the chosen few. There was a purpose in that, don't you see?" His hand fastened on hers, crushing, hurting. "My purpose is clear," Brad said through clenched teeth. "I must do what I can. Let me go, Joyce.
"Go where?" she asked in terror.
"Only a few are chosen, and must obey. They have no choice--"
"Let me call Dr. Hill," Joyce said rapidly. She pried her hand free. "I'll call him now--this minute."
In a moment of lucidity, as if his thoughts had suddenly pierced a bank of fog, he said matter-of-factly, "Doctors can only be of help to the sick or the mentally ill, Joyce. I'm neither. I'm the healthiest, sanest person on this planet."
"Yes, darling," she soothed him, horribly aware that what she was doing was agreeing with a madman in order to calm him. "Of course you are." She massaged the back of his neck, which felt to her ice-cold fingers to be on fire. "But wouldn't it be better to talk to somebody? I mean, this thing that's worrying you, whatever it is, it could drive you" --she was trapped and plunged on dreadfully--"mad."
"You're right, I must do something about it," Brad agreed. Her spirits rose. "Others must know the way. I'll be guided by them. Then I'll know what to do."
"Yes, honey, that's it!" She felt reassured. "Talk to people. Tell them what the problem is--talk to Dr. Hill. There's an answer, I know it." He was coming back to her. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Brad patted her hand and got up. He was imbued with confidence. "There
Joyce moved after him, though slowly, feeling uneasily that they were agreeing about different things. She mounted the stairs, her hand gripping the rail tightly.
In the bedroom he was throwing things into a suitcase.
Joyce watched him from the doorway, her knees trembling. "B--Br --" She couldn't articulate. "Brad, what are you doing? Where are you going?"
He was totally involved in what he was doing.
"If there's an answer I'll find it."
Fear. Grief. Panic. Incomprehension. She experienced them all in the next few minutes. By then he had gone. And she knew he had gone forever, that she would never see him again.
1998
7
Cheryl Detrick emerged wearily from the long gray tunnel into the arrivals hall of Los Angeles Airport. The metal attache case dragged at her arm and she had a dull nagging ache in the small of her back. Airline seats were fine for ergonomic dolls, rotten for human beings.
She skirted a group of black youths wearing red bandannas who were playing craps on the worn green carpet, walked determinedly past an old man offering his hat for change, and tried to make it to the door without being accosted. Express bus or cab? The trip to Chicago had been paid for by Scripps, so legitimately she could charge the cab fare, though she objected to the expense: They'd take it out of her lab allocation and she needed every cent.
Oh, what the hell. She was bushed and desperate for a shower. At 6:27 there would be a mad stampede for the bus.
She was almost there, groaning inside at the thought of stepping from the air-conditioned arrivals hall--crowded with weirdos and dropouts as it was--into the late-afternoon steambath, too busy to notice the tall gangling man with thinning cottony hair until he plucked at her sleeve with a bony hand.
"Hi, Sherry, it's me! Bet you're glad to see me. I checked your return flight and decided to meet you." Gordon Mudie beamed down at her. Though married with a couple of kids, Gordon never missed even a half-chance to hang around, ever hopeful. Especially now that she was fancy-free and unattached again.
Cheryl had one question. Had he come in the car? That was settled then. Lead on, Macduff.
