Part 11 (1/2)

Croyd went out that afternoon and bought a Dumont television set with a sixteen-inch screen, paid cash, and arranged for its delivery to Ridgewood. He visited with Bentley then, but declined a somewhat-risky-sounding job because of his apparent lack of special talent this time around. Actually, it was a good excuse. He didn't really want to work anyway, to take a chance on getting screwed up-physically or with the law-this close to the wedding.

He had dinner with Bentley in an Italian restaurant, and they sat for several hours afterward over a bottle of Chianti, talking shop and looking ahead as Bentley tried to explain to him the value of long-range solvency and getting respectable one day-a thing he'd never quite managed himself.

He walked most of the night after that, to practice studying buildings for their weak points, to think about his changed family. Sometime after midnight, as he was pa.s.sing up Central Park West, a strong itching sensation began on his chest and spread about his entire body. After a minute, he had to halt and scratch himself violently. Allergies were becoming very fas.h.i.+onable about this time, and he wondered whether his new incarnation had brought him a sensitivity to something in the park.

He turned west at the first opportunity and left the area as quickly as possible. After about ten minutes the itching waned. Within a half-hour it had vanished completely. His hands and face felt as if they were chapped, however.

At about four in the morning he stopped in an all-night diner off Times Square, where he ate slowly and steadily and read a copy of Time Time magazine which someone had left in a booth. It's medical section contained an article on suicide among jokers, which depressed him considerably. The quotations it contained reminded him of things he had heard said by many people with whom he was acquainted, causing him to wonder whether any of them were among the inter- viewees. He understood the feelings too well, though he could not share them fully, knowing that no matter what he drew he would always be dealt a new wild card the next time around-and that more often than not it was an ace. magazine which someone had left in a booth. It's medical section contained an article on suicide among jokers, which depressed him considerably. The quotations it contained reminded him of things he had heard said by many people with whom he was acquainted, causing him to wonder whether any of them were among the inter- viewees. He understood the feelings too well, though he could not share them fully, knowing that no matter what he drew he would always be dealt a new wild card the next time around-and that more often than not it was an ace.

All of his joints creaked when he rose, and he felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. His feet felt swollen, also.

He returned home before daybreak, feeling feverish. In the bathroom, he soaked a washcloth to hold against his forehead. He noted in the mirror that his face seemed swollen. He sat in the easy chair in his bedroom until he heard Carl and Claudia moving about. When he rose to join them for breakfast his limbs felt leaden, and his joints creaked again as he descended the stairway.

Claudia, slim and blond, embraced him when he entered the kitchen. Then she studied his new face.

”You look tired, Croyd,” she said.

”Don't say that,” he responded. ”I can't get tired this soon. It's two days till your wedding, and I'm going to make it.”

”You can rest without sleeping, though, can't you?”

He nodded.

”Then, take it easy. I know it must be hard. . . . Come on, let's eat.”

As they were sipping their coffee, Carl asked, ”You want to come into the office with me, see the setup I've got now?”

”Another time,” Croyd answered. ”I've got some errands.”

”Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”

”Maybe so.”

Carl left shortly after that. Claudia refilled Croyd's cup.

”We hardly see you anymore,” she said.

”Yeah. Well, you know how it is. I sleep-sometimes months. When I wake up I'm not always real pretty. Other times, I have to hustle to pay the bills.”

”We've appreciated it,” she said. ”It's hard to understand. You're the baby, but you look like a grown man. You act like one. You didn't get your full share of being a kid.”

He smiled.

”So what are you-an old lady? Here you are just seventeen, and you're getting married.”

She smiled back.

”He's a nice guy, Croyd. I know we're going to be happy.”

”Good. I hope so. Listen, if you ever want to reach me I'm going to give you the name of a place where you can leave a message. I can't always be prompt, though.”

”I understand. What is it that you do, anyway?”

”I've been in and out of a lot of different businesses. Right now I'm between jobs. I'm taking it easy this time, for your wedding. What's he like, anyhow?”

”Oh, very respectable and proper. Went to Princeton. Was a captain in the Army.”

”Europe? The Pacific?”

”Was.h.i.+ngton.”

”Oh. Well-connected.”

She nodded.

”Old family,” she said.

”Well. . . . Good,” he said. ”You know I wish you happiness.”

She rose and embraced him again.

”I've missed you,” she said.

”Me, too.”

”I've got errands to run, too, now. I'll see you later.”

”Yes.”

”You take it easy today.”

When she left he stretched his arms as far as they would go, trying to relieve the ache in his shoulders. His s.h.i.+rt tore down the back as he did this. He looked in the hall mirror. His shoulders were wider today than they had been yesterday. In fact, his entire body looked wider, huskier. He returned to his room and stripped. Most of his torso was covered with a red rash. Just looking at it made him want to scratch, but he restrained himself. Instead, he filled the bathtub and soaked in it for a long while. The water level had lowered itself visibly by the time he got out. When he studied himself in the bathroom mirror he seemed even larger. Could he have absorbed some of the water through his skin? At any rate, the inflammation seemed to have vanished, though his skin was still rough in those areas where it had been prominent.

He dressed himself in clothing he had left from an earlier time when he had been larger. Then he went out and rode the subways to the clothing store he had visited the previous day. There, he re-outfitted himself completely and rode back, feeling vaguely nauseous as the car jounced and swayed. He noted that his hands looked dry and rough. When he rubbed them, flakes of dead skin fell off like dandruff.

After he left the subway he walked on until he came to the Sarzannos' apartment building. The woman who opened the door was not Joe's mother, Rose, however.

”What do you want?” she asked.

”I'm looking for Joe Sarzanno,” he said.

”n.o.body here by that name. Must be someone who moved out before we moved in.”

”So you wouldn't know where they went?”