[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
passing cars, of gasoline and nitric acid from exhausts, the smell of garbage
and hot food, garlic, beef, broccoli, and the faint, distinct odor of their
bedroom, powder and the oils of human bodies, and a musky whiff of the
spermicide
Cindy used with her diaphragm.
He jerked his head back, gobbling out twisted cries, his brain overwhelmed by
the sudden plunge from the universe of seeing to that of smelling. The warm
room, the lights, the furniture, the people, were in an instant ripped from
their moorings in sighted life and plunged into a madhouse of radiant odors.
The world, as he saw it, was mostly gray. Red he could see, and green, and
shades of brown. Would the blue sky be gone forever, and what of the beautiful
smooth whiteness of Cindy's breast? He experienced as deep a pang of yearning
as he had ever known. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hands.
The moment he tried to do so he fell painfully on his chin. "He's trying to
use his hands," Cindy cried. "Look at him, oh, look at him!"
"Cindy, we have to stitch ourselves together. Remember this. It's very, very
important. This is not a miracle! No, not a miracle. No. Somewhere, there is
some quite, quite rational, clear, and understandable scientific explanation "
"Oh, shut up, Monica. You're repeating yourself because it is a miracle and
you're scared. You're terrified."
"I admit I'm uneasy. This is a very unusual case and it's appropriate for me
to feel uneasy."
"Oh, yeah, I'd agree with that. Uneasy."
Bob was catching and then losing the thread of words. He was so disoriented by
his changed senses that he couldn't pay attention, no matter how hard he
tried.
It was as if his mind was going blind.
The room, he realized, stank. The odor was salty and like cold, wet hair. It
was cloying, as if made of oils, and lingered in his nose. A shiver coursed
through his body. He felt cool air against the skin on the back of his neck.
"Look at him now. His hair's standing on end."
"Is he mad? What's happening?"
"Bob "
He could not speak to them, could not tell them that their own fear was
infecting him, that he was helpless before the odor of emotions that they
couldn't smell. Every nuance of feeling created a change in odor that shafted
at once to the depths of his soul. He had no way to defend himself from this
assault, and could only suffer it, the raw march of feeling among those he
loved.
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"May I go?" A tiny little voice coming from Jodie. She was knotting her hands.
Cindy knelt to her level. "Honey, of course you can go. Monica will take you
home, there's no need to call your parents to come get you. Just as long as
you understand that this is all..." Her voice whispered away, and was replaced
by a keening as of stressed wire. Bob longed to embrace her: He knew the sound
of
Cindy in abject sorrow.
Monica took the girl by the hand and left, promising to come back as soon as
she had delivered the child.
"All a game!" Cindy shrieked as they left.
Not fifteen minutes had passed before the phone rang. Cindy snatched it up.
"Hello oh, hello Mrs. O'Neill. Yes, I'm glad she had a good time. Bob? Oh,
he's a little indisposed, you can't talk to him. You want to do what? Oh,
sure. I
guess well, of course." She hung up. "How nice. How goddamn nice! The woman's
going to bring us a covered-dish supper. She acts like we had a death in the
family."
Bob wanted to say just four precious words: "It wore off before." But he could
not speak and despised the sound of his own efforts too much to try again. He
sat on his haunches and stared helplessly at his wife.
Not long after, Monica returned. She and Cindy and Kevin sat together on the
couch. None of them spoke. Bob sank deeper and deeper into despair. The
emotion he was feeling now was loneliness. He was not a wolf, but rather a
profoundly deformed man. He was the victim of some odd psychophysical
disorder, that must be it.
And yet, in him there was something triumphant and free. He remembered the
wolf in the Central Park Zoo. What of that wolf, what was it doing right now?
Was it sleeping, dreaming only of the wild?
His own childhood dream of becoming a wolf had obviously been a true
experience.
He had swept through the backyards as a wolf. There were grass stains on his
pajamas. There were those memories, so perfect, of a wolf's movements and
ways.
Shape-shifting... it was said that witches could turn themselves into owls and
rats and hares. And the Indians didn't they have legends about it, too?
Was that poor old wolf still in its cage, or had it died and the two of them
somehow come to inhabit this same flesh?
It had looked at him, looked into him yes, actually entered him with its eyes.
That was the secret, the wolf had done it, had entered him with its eyes. And
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]