Read Online Fire Will Fall by Carol Plum-Ucci - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Plum-Ucci
Ads: Link
proximity to an amusement park. I ask Tyler the best way to do this. It seems there is no easy method. He will download lists of amusement parks and we will begin the daunting task of comparing their addresses to those of nearby convention centers and engineering firms using them as hosts. I perceive it may be a long and boring day.
TEN
SCOTT EBERMAN
SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002
10:15 A.M.
DINING ROOM
C ORA'S SLUSHY NEVER ARRIVED . Not like her. When I came out of the shower, swallowing razorblades, I could hear Alan overhead with what sounded like Mike Tiger. I thought as I got dressed of going up and starting my nagging saga for a job. But they were moving furniture or something. And I couldn't talk very well. So I put it off.
Owen had started taking the stairs down slowly. I caught up to him, laying a hand on his neck. Clammy.
"That new elevator is calling my name, bro," he said. "Got rust in my hip joints again. And I didn't get any sleep. I kept having that dream from hell."
We had decided last night that the elevator would be used only if we broke a leg. We didn't have any exercise programs due to the blood thinners we were taking, which in our case could turn a serious bruise into a fatality. We all hoped to swim in Great Bay over the summer, but that was a month away at least. The best exercise we might get some days was walking up and down these stairs.
I nudged him to continue his tale, but with hesitation. He had a few recurring doozies in the nightmare department. They all had to do with fires.
"I'm running down an avenue in some huge city, and all the skyscrapers are on fire. These explosions keep going off. They're bombs. They're, like ... bright orange."
"Maybe you're having a dream about fireworks and are just missing the point," I joked.
"Not funny. And I think it's New York. Because as I'm running, the streets come together in points. Times Square ... Herald Square ... I thought once I got out here, I'd quit having that stupid nightmare. I had it, like, ten times at St. Ann's. I wake up still smelling smoke. Do I smell like smoke to you?"
I let my eyebrows rise and drop, but I didn't bother sticking my nose up to him. "It's the antiretroviral. Throws off your sense of smell."
He stuck his nose to the crook of his elbow and sniffed anyway. After a couple of blinks and a silence that seemed pregnant with eerie suggestions, he just started his one-step-at-a-time descent again.
"We're all dreaming weird stuff," I pointed out. "Even Rain, Miss Zero Imagination."
He said nothing. It really bothered me. We were at an impasse lately. We used silence to bridge gaps where we couldn't agree on a subject. He believed in things I simply couldn't visualize—religious stuff, like an end to this world.
"Owen. If you're thinking some major, huge apocalypse is coming and you're dreaming about the shit, that's only a metaphor for what you've already been through. It's like a guy who's been hit by a car thinking he could get hit by a train. Normal thought. But not realistic."
He reached the bottom and rested his back with his hands on his knees. It reminded me of football, of when he hit the sideline after a long stint on the field. He would stand like this and huff every time. Only now, there was no equipment. He was basically skin and bones and a thin layer of muscle. He could still perspire, though. He wiped sweat off his forehead, then smelled the palm of his hand this time.
"Smoke," he said. "Honest to god—"
"Go wash your hands," I said with all the patience I could muster. "Don't be a dork. Your religious fire-and-brimstone philosophy is backing up into your meds."
"My what?" He straightened and scratched his head. Breaking fevers bring out all sorts of stuff, and his scalp itched so badly at times that he'd buzzed his hair. You could see little scratches and blotches of heat rash under his blond nubs. "I don't even know what a 'brimstone' is, okay? What is it, like, the clay stuff the Egyptians smeared
TEN
SCOTT EBERMAN
SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002
10:15 A.M.
DINING ROOM
C ORA'S SLUSHY NEVER ARRIVED . Not like her. When I came out of the shower, swallowing razorblades, I could hear Alan overhead with what sounded like Mike Tiger. I thought as I got dressed of going up and starting my nagging saga for a job. But they were moving furniture or something. And I couldn't talk very well. So I put it off.
Owen had started taking the stairs down slowly. I caught up to him, laying a hand on his neck. Clammy.
"That new elevator is calling my name, bro," he said. "Got rust in my hip joints again. And I didn't get any sleep. I kept having that dream from hell."
We had decided last night that the elevator would be used only if we broke a leg. We didn't have any exercise programs due to the blood thinners we were taking, which in our case could turn a serious bruise into a fatality. We all hoped to swim in Great Bay over the summer, but that was a month away at least. The best exercise we might get some days was walking up and down these stairs.
I nudged him to continue his tale, but with hesitation. He had a few recurring doozies in the nightmare department. They all had to do with fires.
"I'm running down an avenue in some huge city, and all the skyscrapers are on fire. These explosions keep going off. They're bombs. They're, like ... bright orange."
"Maybe you're having a dream about fireworks and are just missing the point," I joked.
"Not funny. And I think it's New York. Because as I'm running, the streets come together in points. Times Square ... Herald Square ... I thought once I got out here, I'd quit having that stupid nightmare. I had it, like, ten times at St. Ann's. I wake up still smelling smoke. Do I smell like smoke to you?"
I let my eyebrows rise and drop, but I didn't bother sticking my nose up to him. "It's the antiretroviral. Throws off your sense of smell."
He stuck his nose to the crook of his elbow and sniffed anyway. After a couple of blinks and a silence that seemed pregnant with eerie suggestions, he just started his one-step-at-a-time descent again.
"We're all dreaming weird stuff," I pointed out. "Even Rain, Miss Zero Imagination."
He said nothing. It really bothered me. We were at an impasse lately. We used silence to bridge gaps where we couldn't agree on a subject. He believed in things I simply couldn't visualize—religious stuff, like an end to this world.
"Owen. If you're thinking some major, huge apocalypse is coming and you're dreaming about the shit, that's only a metaphor for what you've already been through. It's like a guy who's been hit by a car thinking he could get hit by a train. Normal thought. But not realistic."
He reached the bottom and rested his back with his hands on his knees. It reminded me of football, of when he hit the sideline after a long stint on the field. He would stand like this and huff every time. Only now, there was no equipment. He was basically skin and bones and a thin layer of muscle. He could still perspire, though. He wiped sweat off his forehead, then smelled the palm of his hand this time.
"Smoke," he said. "Honest to god—"
"Go wash your hands," I said with all the patience I could muster. "Don't be a dork. Your religious fire-and-brimstone philosophy is backing up into your meds."
"My what?" He straightened and scratched his head. Breaking fevers bring out all sorts of stuff, and his scalp itched so badly at times that he'd buzzed his hair. You could see little scratches and blotches of heat rash under his blond nubs. "I don't even know what a 'brimstone' is, okay? What is it, like, the clay stuff the Egyptians smeared
Similar Books
