universe,” Wiley told her, and kissed her button nose. As best he could, he concealed what was almost a sickness of fear. In the other universe they had Ayers water, he’d seen bottles among peoples’ provisions in the church.
But how had Kelsey known about it? How indeed, unless the wall that separated the two human universes was also breaking down, just as he had feared it would, and hell was getting closer fast.
They all went into the kitchen, and he turned on the radio and he and Brooke made breakfast. His mind was completely focused on one thing-how had Kelsey known? What might be about to happen?
“You’re staring,” she said.
He shook his head. “Don’t be mad at me.”
“No.”
“It’s not even a big deal in physics. Parallel universes are real.”
“I’m sure they are. I’m also sure that they don’t cause people-just generally speaking, I mean-to leap around naked in their backyards. Your appointment with Crutchfield is at eight-thirty, so you’d better get rolling.”
“Eight-thirty? You’re kidding.”
She looked at him, and the fire in her eyes actually reassured him. He wanted to feel like somebody was in control, because he was not in control.
He gobbled down the last of his eggs and went up to dress. Maybe this would be actually be good, maybe all that was happening here was that he was losing his grip-which, frankly, would be a hell of a lot better than what he feared.
Moving fast, he managed get to town just in time.
As he drove along the familiar streets, he kept expecting to see little knots of tragic people, but all he did see was a small Kansas community in its mild prosperity, a gentle bustle in the streets, even a recent addition, the Starbucks. Nobody seemed strange, nobody had a vacant look.
He drove past Third Street Methodist. The church was closed, but it looked perfectly normal. Sylvester was on the walkway with a trowel, turning soil in a flower bed. Wiley slowed down and waved. “Hey there, Syl.”
Syl waved back. Nothing unusual.
Of course not, you fool. Things are fine in this universe-for now.
When he arrived at Crutchfield’s office, which was a walk-up above the Danforth Meat Market, one of the few small businesses hanging on in downtown, it was twenty to nine. “Sorry I’m late, Marla.”
“Brooke says you’ve gone around the bend.”
“That would be true.”
“Then I’ll remind you that I’ve got Mace.”
He’d come on to the girl with the porcelain skin and the bright green eyes. But all in fun, of course. He would never cheat on Brooke. But with that black hair and that creamy skin, Marla did inspire.
Crutchfield looked normal, also. White hair, tiny glasses, a sense of therapeutic fog clinging to him.
“So you were capering around in the back yard naked. What say we start there?”
“Look, I’ve got-oh, Christ. I’ve got something happening that I can’t even begin to understand.”
“I think Brooke is having exactly the same problem.”
“It feels to me as if something enormous is happening that has to do with what I am writing, and it is not good, this huge thing, but I cannot stop writing about it even if I want to. I’m a sort of infernal machine.”
“You’re a machine?”
“Not in control of my own body. Not channeling, it’s not like that. I sit there and I type. Automatic typing. I’ve abandoned my Corona and I’m just working on the computer. But the book isn’t mine. I can write without thinking. Read, watch TV, close my eyes, it doesn’t matter. My fingers just type away on their own.”
“If your work isn’t yours, whose would it be?”
“That’s a hell of a good question. The answer is, I have no idea.”
“But you’re not involved in the writing?”
“Well, I am, of course, sort of. In the sense that I can see their world, hear their voices. Shit! You moron. Moron!”
“I’m a moron?”
“I’m a moron! You don’t tell a shrink you hear voices.”
“The voices don’t want you to
But how had Kelsey known about it? How indeed, unless the wall that separated the two human universes was also breaking down, just as he had feared it would, and hell was getting closer fast.
They all went into the kitchen, and he turned on the radio and he and Brooke made breakfast. His mind was completely focused on one thing-how had Kelsey known? What might be about to happen?
“You’re staring,” she said.
He shook his head. “Don’t be mad at me.”
“No.”
“It’s not even a big deal in physics. Parallel universes are real.”
“I’m sure they are. I’m also sure that they don’t cause people-just generally speaking, I mean-to leap around naked in their backyards. Your appointment with Crutchfield is at eight-thirty, so you’d better get rolling.”
“Eight-thirty? You’re kidding.”
She looked at him, and the fire in her eyes actually reassured him. He wanted to feel like somebody was in control, because he was not in control.
He gobbled down the last of his eggs and went up to dress. Maybe this would be actually be good, maybe all that was happening here was that he was losing his grip-which, frankly, would be a hell of a lot better than what he feared.
Moving fast, he managed get to town just in time.
As he drove along the familiar streets, he kept expecting to see little knots of tragic people, but all he did see was a small Kansas community in its mild prosperity, a gentle bustle in the streets, even a recent addition, the Starbucks. Nobody seemed strange, nobody had a vacant look.
He drove past Third Street Methodist. The church was closed, but it looked perfectly normal. Sylvester was on the walkway with a trowel, turning soil in a flower bed. Wiley slowed down and waved. “Hey there, Syl.”
Syl waved back. Nothing unusual.
Of course not, you fool. Things are fine in this universe-for now.
When he arrived at Crutchfield’s office, which was a walk-up above the Danforth Meat Market, one of the few small businesses hanging on in downtown, it was twenty to nine. “Sorry I’m late, Marla.”
“Brooke says you’ve gone around the bend.”
“That would be true.”
“Then I’ll remind you that I’ve got Mace.”
He’d come on to the girl with the porcelain skin and the bright green eyes. But all in fun, of course. He would never cheat on Brooke. But with that black hair and that creamy skin, Marla did inspire.
Crutchfield looked normal, also. White hair, tiny glasses, a sense of therapeutic fog clinging to him.
“So you were capering around in the back yard naked. What say we start there?”
“Look, I’ve got-oh, Christ. I’ve got something happening that I can’t even begin to understand.”
“I think Brooke is having exactly the same problem.”
“It feels to me as if something enormous is happening that has to do with what I am writing, and it is not good, this huge thing, but I cannot stop writing about it even if I want to. I’m a sort of infernal machine.”
“You’re a machine?”
“Not in control of my own body. Not channeling, it’s not like that. I sit there and I type. Automatic typing. I’ve abandoned my Corona and I’m just working on the computer. But the book isn’t mine. I can write without thinking. Read, watch TV, close my eyes, it doesn’t matter. My fingers just type away on their own.”
“If your work isn’t yours, whose would it be?”
“That’s a hell of a good question. The answer is, I have no idea.”
“But you’re not involved in the writing?”
“Well, I am, of course, sort of. In the sense that I can see their world, hear their voices. Shit! You moron. Moron!”
“I’m a moron?”
“I’m a moron! You don’t tell a shrink you hear voices.”
“The voices don’t want you to
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