grabbed an old cane-bottom chair, hobbled with it to the table, and sat down.
The four-quart crockpot held a fish and oyster stew, thick and milky and full of bits of yellow corn. The stove was turned off, and the side of the pot was little more than blood heat. But that was good. Job's throat was so sore that hot food would have been more than he could stand. He hunted around until he found a spoon. He did not bother with a dish but ate direct from the crock, cramming solids and liquid into his mouth until his stomach bulged round below his thin ribs and refused to admit another mouthful. He put down the spoon. He could eat no more to save his life.
He felt his way downstairs, hardly knowing if lights were on or off. The basement was a junkman's dream, even more crowded than the upstairs.
Job noticed nothing, except that near the bottom of the narrow stairs was an old mattress. He collapsed onto it. His bloated stomach gave a mild twinge, and then a more painful spasm. For a few moments he thought he had eaten too much and was going to lose everything. He tried to sit up. But before he could lift his head more than a few inches he was gone, swallowed by a sleep so deep and close to death itself that Sammy, checking a few hours later, had to listen and look hard to be sure that the uninvited guest was still a living, breathing boy.
* * *
The basement of the house had no windows. It was thick-walled and quiet, holding its temperature night and day close to seventy-five degrees.
For the first twelve hours Job did not move or dream. In the next half-day he ran a temperature, tossing on the mattress in semi-delirium. Occasionally he knew where he was, lying in Sammy's cellar. But most of the time he was in Cloak House and the streets around it, with Father Bonifant and Laga and Nurse Calder and Colonel della Porta and Skip Tolson, all jumbled up together. In one terrible dream he woke inside the incinerator itself, surrounded by and tangled with dead boys. When they felt the heat they awoke to awful, twitching life. He broke loose and crawled away from them, across red-hot plates that seared his hands and made the blood boil in his veins. He screamed in agony and tried to lift smoking palms that stuck to the glowing metal.
"Hey, you," said a tenor voice. Job was being shaken, violently. "You wanna stay in my house, you don't make so mucha that damn noise."
It was Sammy, gripping him in strong, sinewy arms. Job gasped and shivered.
"Dreaming." Clotted tongue, thick head. He was still half in his dream, heart pounding wild within his chest.
"Hold quiet." Sammy had lifted Job's arm and was holding a black square instrument over his right wrist.
Job sat up, stared blank-faced at grimy walls and felt-wrapped pipes. He did not remember coming here. "Is it morning?"
"Evening. You slept round."
"Professor Buckler—"
"No professor." Sammy was peering through a glass panel in the middle of the instrument. "Sweet Jesus. You been jaded. Whyn't you tell me?" The musical voice rose an octave. "Tonight, the professor come an' explain. Or you go."
Sammy turned and ran up the steps, lithe as a snake. Job followed, slowly. On the way he took a first good look at the house. It was narrow, no more than fifteen feet from wall to papered wall. Piled boxes, high as Job's head, left a four-foot tunnel through the center. Job lifted the lid of one. It was crammed with wigs and toupees, of all colors. The next held women's hats, feathered and plumed and pom-pommed and in every style that Job could imagine. A third was filled with coat hangers.
The stairs were steep and narrow. By the time Job reached the second floor he was breathing hard and his legs were wobbly. There was no sign of Sammy. Job went into the kitchen and found the same crockpot simmering on the portable stove. He helped himself, and ten minutes later had the strength to climb more bare wooden stairs. The third floor was like another kitchen, except that there were two
The four-quart crockpot held a fish and oyster stew, thick and milky and full of bits of yellow corn. The stove was turned off, and the side of the pot was little more than blood heat. But that was good. Job's throat was so sore that hot food would have been more than he could stand. He hunted around until he found a spoon. He did not bother with a dish but ate direct from the crock, cramming solids and liquid into his mouth until his stomach bulged round below his thin ribs and refused to admit another mouthful. He put down the spoon. He could eat no more to save his life.
He felt his way downstairs, hardly knowing if lights were on or off. The basement was a junkman's dream, even more crowded than the upstairs.
Job noticed nothing, except that near the bottom of the narrow stairs was an old mattress. He collapsed onto it. His bloated stomach gave a mild twinge, and then a more painful spasm. For a few moments he thought he had eaten too much and was going to lose everything. He tried to sit up. But before he could lift his head more than a few inches he was gone, swallowed by a sleep so deep and close to death itself that Sammy, checking a few hours later, had to listen and look hard to be sure that the uninvited guest was still a living, breathing boy.
* * *
The basement of the house had no windows. It was thick-walled and quiet, holding its temperature night and day close to seventy-five degrees.
For the first twelve hours Job did not move or dream. In the next half-day he ran a temperature, tossing on the mattress in semi-delirium. Occasionally he knew where he was, lying in Sammy's cellar. But most of the time he was in Cloak House and the streets around it, with Father Bonifant and Laga and Nurse Calder and Colonel della Porta and Skip Tolson, all jumbled up together. In one terrible dream he woke inside the incinerator itself, surrounded by and tangled with dead boys. When they felt the heat they awoke to awful, twitching life. He broke loose and crawled away from them, across red-hot plates that seared his hands and made the blood boil in his veins. He screamed in agony and tried to lift smoking palms that stuck to the glowing metal.
"Hey, you," said a tenor voice. Job was being shaken, violently. "You wanna stay in my house, you don't make so mucha that damn noise."
It was Sammy, gripping him in strong, sinewy arms. Job gasped and shivered.
"Dreaming." Clotted tongue, thick head. He was still half in his dream, heart pounding wild within his chest.
"Hold quiet." Sammy had lifted Job's arm and was holding a black square instrument over his right wrist.
Job sat up, stared blank-faced at grimy walls and felt-wrapped pipes. He did not remember coming here. "Is it morning?"
"Evening. You slept round."
"Professor Buckler—"
"No professor." Sammy was peering through a glass panel in the middle of the instrument. "Sweet Jesus. You been jaded. Whyn't you tell me?" The musical voice rose an octave. "Tonight, the professor come an' explain. Or you go."
Sammy turned and ran up the steps, lithe as a snake. Job followed, slowly. On the way he took a first good look at the house. It was narrow, no more than fifteen feet from wall to papered wall. Piled boxes, high as Job's head, left a four-foot tunnel through the center. Job lifted the lid of one. It was crammed with wigs and toupees, of all colors. The next held women's hats, feathered and plumed and pom-pommed and in every style that Job could imagine. A third was filled with coat hangers.
The stairs were steep and narrow. By the time Job reached the second floor he was breathing hard and his legs were wobbly. There was no sign of Sammy. Job went into the kitchen and found the same crockpot simmering on the portable stove. He helped himself, and ten minutes later had the strength to climb more bare wooden stairs. The third floor was like another kitchen, except that there were two
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