The Night and the Music - Lawrence Block [51]
“Fibber McGee,” Carl said.
“I don’t know why I can’t remember his name,” Bobby said languidly. “It’ll come to me. I’ll think of it yesterday.”
I said, “When she came to see you — “
“She was beautiful. Tall, slim, gorgeous eyes. A flowing dove-gray robe, a blood-red scarf at her throat. I wasn’t sure if she was real or not. I thought she might be a vision.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
“I don’t remember. She said she was there to be with me. And mostly she just sat there, where Carl’s sitting. She held my hand.”
“What else did she say?”
“That I was safe. That no one could hurt me anymore. She said — “
“Yes?”
“That I was innocent,” he said, and he sobbed and let his tears flow.
He wept freely for a few moments, then reached for a Kleenex. When he spoke again his voice was matter-of-fact, even detached. “She was here twice,” he said. “I remember now. The second time I got snotty, I really had the rag on, and I told her she didn’t have to hang around if she didn’t want to. And she said I didn’t have to hang around if I didn’t want to.
“And I said, right, I can go tap-dancing down Broadway with a rose in my teeth. And she said, no, all I have to do is let go and my spirit will soar free. And I looked at her, and I knew what she meant.”
“And?”
“She told me to let go, to give it all up, to just let go and go to the light. And I said — this is strange, you know?”
“What did you say, Bobby?”
“I said I couldn’t see the light and I wasn’t ready to go to it. And she said that was all right, that when I was ready the light would be there to guide me. She said I would know how to do it when the time came. And she talked about how to do it.”
“How?”
“By letting go. By going to the light. I don’t remember everything she said. I don’t even know for sure if all of it happened, or if I dreamed part of it. I never know anymore. Sometimes I have dreams and later they feel like part of my personal history. And sometimes I look back at my life and most of it has a veil over it, as if I never lived it at all, as if it were nothing but a dream.”
Back in his office Carl picked up another pipe and brought its blackened bowl to his nose. He said, “You asked why I called you instead of the police. Can you imagine putting Bobby through an official interrogation?”
“He seems to go in and out of lucidity.”
He nodded. “The virus penetrates the blood-brain barrier. If you survive the K-S and the opportunistic infections, the reward is dementia. Bobby is mostly clear, but some of his mental circuits are beginning to burn out. Or rust out, or clog up, or whatever it is that they do.”
“There are cops who know how to take testimony from people like that.”
“Even so. Can you see the tabloid headlines? MERCY KILLER STRIKES AIDS HOSPICE. We have a hard enough time getting by as it is. You know, whenever the press happens to mention how many dogs and cats the SPCA puts to sleep, donations drop to a trickle. Imagine what would happen to us.”
“Some people would give you more.”
He laughed. “ ‘Here’s a thousand dollars — kill ten of ‘em for me.’You could be right.”
He sniffed at the pipe again. I said, “You know, as far as I’m concerned you can go ahead and smoke that thing.”
He stared at me, then at the pipe, as if surprised to find it in his hand. “There’s no smoking anywhere in the building,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t smoke.”
“The pipes came with the office?”
He colored. “They were John’s,” he said. “We lived together. He died . . . God, it’ll be two years in November. It doesn’t seem that long.”
“I’m sorry, Carl.”
“I used to smoke cigarettes, Marlboros, but I quit ages ago. But I never minded his pipe smoke, though. I always liked the aroma. And now I’d rather smell one of his pipes than the AIDS smell. Do you know the smell I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Not everyone with AIDS has it but a lot of them do, and most sickrooms reek of it. You must have smelled it in Bobby’s room. It’s an unholy musty smell, a smell like rotted leather. I can’t stand the smell of leather