Part 5 (1/2)

He slid off the stool. Just as he was about to turn he saw the mirrored wall, pinktinted and curved. He stopped, peering. Then he almost ran out of the bar.

Cold wind went into his head.

Ridiculous. The mirror was curved, you jacka.s.s. How do you expect to see yourself in curved mirrors?

He walked past high buildings, and now past the library and stone lion he had once, long ago, named King Richard; and he did not look at the lion, because he'd always wanted to ride the lion, ever since he was a child, and he'd promised himself he would do that, but he never did.He hurried on to the subway, took the stairs by twos, and clattered across the platform in time to board the express.

It roared and thundered. Mr. Minch.e.l.l held onto the strap and kept himself from staring. No one watched him. No one even glanced at him when he pushed his way to the door and went out onto the empty platform.

He waited. Then the train was gone, and he was alone.

He walked up the stairs. It was fully night now, a soft, unshadowed darkness. He thought about the day and the strange things that were gouging into his mind and thought about all this as he turned down a familiar street which led to his familiar apartment.

The door opened.

His wife was in the kitchen, he could see. Her ap.r.o.n flashed across the arch, and back, and across. He called: ”Madge, I'm home.”

Madge did not answer. Her movements were regular. Jimmy was sitting at the table, drooling over a gla.s.s of pop, whispering to himself.

”I said--” Mr. Minch.e.l.l began.

”Jimmy, get up and go to the bathroom, you hear? I've got your water drawn.”

Jimmy promptly broke into tears. He jumped off the chair and ran past Mr. Minch.e.l.l into the bedroom. The door slammed viciously.

”Madge.”

Madge Minch.e.l.l came into the room, tired and lined and heavy. Her eyes did not waver. She went into the bedroom, and there was a silence; then a sharp slapping noise, and a yelling.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l walked to the bathroom, fighting down the small terror. He closed the door and locked it and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Ridiculous, he thought, and ridiculous and ridiculous. I am making something utterly foolish out of nothing. All I have to do is look in the miror, and--.

He held the handkerchief to his lips. It was difficult to breathe.

Then he knew that he was afraid, more so than ever before in a lifetime of being afraid, _Look at it this way, Minch.e.l.l: why_ _shouldn't_ _you vanish?_ ”Young man, just you wait until your father gets here!”

He pushed the handkerchief against his mouth and leaned on the door and gasped.

”_What do you mean, vanish?_”

_Go on, take a look. You'll see what I mean_.

He tried to swallow, couldn't. Tried to wet his lips, found that they stayed dry.

”_Lord--_”

He slitted his eyes and walked to the shaving mirror and looked in.

His mouth fell open.

The mirror reflected nothing. It held nothing. It was dull and gray and empty.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l stared at the gla.s.s, put out his hand, drew it back hastily.

He squinted. Inches away. There was a form now: vague, indistinct, featureless: but a form.

”Lord,” he said. He understood why the elevator girl hadn't seen him, and why F.J. hadn't answered him, and why the clerk at the drugstore and the bartender and Madge.

”_I'm not dead_.”

_Of course you're not dead--not that way_.

”--tan your hide, Jimmy Minch.e.l.l, when he gets home.”

Mr. Minch.e.l.l suddenly wheeled and clicked the lock. He rushed out of the steamfilled bathroom, across the room, down the stairs, into the street, into the cool night.

A block from home he slowed to a walk.

_Invisible!_ He said the word over and over, in a half-voice. He said it and tried to control the panic that pulled at his legs, and at his brain, and filled him.

_Why?_ A fat woman and a little girl pa.s.sed by. Neither of them looked up. He started to call out andchecked himself. No. That wouldn't do any good. There was no question about it now. He was invisible.

He walked on. As he did, forgotten things returned; they came and they left, too fast. He couldn't hold onto them. He could only watch, and remember. Himself as a youngster, reading: the Oz books, Tarzan, and Mr. Wells. Himself going to the University, wanting to teach, and meeting Madge; then not planning any more, and Madge changing, and all the dreams put away. For later. For the right time. And then Jimmy--little strange Jimmy, who ate filth and picked his nose and watched television, who never read books, never; Jimmy, his son, whom he would never understand.

He walked by the edge of the park now. Then on past the park, through a maze of familiar and unfamiliar neighborhoods. Walking, remembering, looking at the people and feeling pain because he knew that they could not see him, not now or ever again, because he had vanished. He walked and remembered and felt pain.

All the stagnant dreams came back. Fully. The trip to Italy he'd planned. The open sports car, bad weather be d.a.m.ned. The firsthand knowledge that would tell him whether he did or did not approve of bullfighting. The book . . .

Then something occurred to him. It occurred to Mr. Minch.e.l.l that he had not just suddenly vanished, like that, after all. No; he had been vanis.h.i.+ng gradually for a long while. Every time he said good morning to that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Diemel he got a little harder to see. Every time he put on this horrible suit he faded. The process of disappearing was set into action every time he brought his pay check home and turned it over to Madge, every time he kissed her, or listened to her vicious unending complaints, or decided against buying that novel, or punched the adding maching he hated so, or . . .

Certainly.

He had vanished for Diemel and the others in the office years ago. And for strangers right afterwards. Now even Madge and Jimmy couldn't see him. And he could barely see himself, even in a mirror.

It made terrible sense to him. _Why __shouldn't__ you disappear?_ Well, why, indeed? There wasn't any very good reason, actually. None. And this, in a nightmarish sort of a way, made it as brutally logical as a perfect tape.

Then he thought about going back to work tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

He'd have to, of course. He couldn't let Madge and Jimmy starve; and, besides, what else would he do?

It wasn't as if anything important had changed. He'd go on punching the clock and saying good morning to people who didn't see him, and he'd run the tapes and come home beat, nothing altered, and some day he'd die and that would be that.

All at once he felt tired.

He sat down on a cement step and sighed. Distantly he realized that he had come to the library.

He sat there, watching the people, feeling the tiredness seep through him, thickly.