“I suppose so,” Miriam said. “It’ll be shock enough, anyway. The more contact the better.”
So the two made a chair, hand clasping wrist, wrist clasped by hand. They stooped down.
“Here, Lea,” Karen said, “sit down. Arms around our necks.”
“I can walk,” Lea said coldly. “I’m not all that tired. Don’t be silly.”
“You can’t walk where we’re going. Don’t argue. We’re behind schedule now. Sit.”
Lea folded her lips but awkwardly seated herself, clinging tightly as they stood up, lifting her from the ground.
“Okay?” Miriam asked.
“Okay,” Karen and Lea said together.
“Well?” Lea said, waiting for steps to begin.
“Well,” Karen laughed, “don’t say I didn’t warn you, but look down.”
Lea looked down. And down! And down! Down to the scurrying sparks along a faded ribbon of a road. Down to the dew-jeweled cobweb of street lights stretching out flatly below. Down to the panoramic perfection of the whole valley, glowing magically in the night. Lea stared, unbelieving, at her two feet swinging free in the air-nothing beneath them but air-the same air that brushed her hair back and tangled her eyelashes as they picked up speed. Terror caught her by the throat. Her arms convulsed around the two girls’ necks.
“Hey!” Karen strangled. “You’re choking us! You’re all right. Not so tight! Not so tight!”
“You’d better Still her,” Miriam gasped. “She can’t hear you,”
“Relax,” Karen said quietly. “Lea, relax.”
Lea felt fear leave her like a tide going out. Her arms relaxed. Her uncomprehending eyes went up to the stars and down to the lights again. She gave a little sigh and her head drooped on Karen’s shoulder.
“It did kill me,” she said. “Jumping off the bridge. Only it’s taken me a long time to die. This is just delirium before death. No wonder, with a stub of a tamarisk through my shoulder.” And her eyes closed and she went limp.
Lea lay in the silvery darkness behind her closed eyes and savored the anonymous unfeeling between sleep and waking. Quietness sang through her, a humming stillness. She felt as anonymous as a transparent seaweed floating motionless between two layers of clear water. She breathed slowly, not wanting to disturb the mirror-stillness, the transparent peace. If you breathe quickly you think, and if you think-She stirred, her eyelids fluttering, trying to stay closed, but awareness and the growing light pried them opera She lay thin and flat on the bed, trying to be another white sheet between two muslin ones. But white sheets don’t hear morning birds or smell breakfasts. She turned on her side and waited for the aching burden of life to fill her, to weigh her down, to beset her with its burning futility.
“Good morning.” Karen was perched on the window sill, reaching out with one cupped hand. “Do you know how to get a bird to notice you, short of being a crumb? I wonder if they do notice anything except food and eggs. Do they ever take a deep breath for the sheer joy of breathing?” She dusted the crumbs from her hands out the window.
“I don’t know much about birds.” Lea’s voice was thick and rusty. “Nor about joy either, I guess.” She tensed, waiting for the heavy horror to descend.
“Relax,” Karen said, turning from the window. “I’ve Stilled you.”
“You mean I’m-I’m healed?” Lea asked, trying to sort out last night’s memories.
“Oh, my, no! I’ve just switched you off onto a temporary siding. Healing is a slow thing. You have to do it yourself, you know. I can hold the spoon to your lips but you’ll have to do the swallowing.”
“What’s in the spoon?” Lea asked idly, swimming still in the unbeset peace.
“What have you to be cured of?”
“Of life.” Lea turned her face away. “Just cure me of living.”
“That line again. We could bat words back and forth all day and arrive at nowhere-besides I haven’t the time. I must leave now.” Karen’s face lighted and she spun around lightly.
“Oh, Lea! Oh, Lea!” Than, hastily: “There’s breakfast in the other room. I’m shutting you in. I’ll be back later and then-well, by than I’ll have figured out something. God bliss!” She whisked through the door but Lea heard no lock click.
Lea wandered into the other room, a restlessness replacing the usual sick inertia. She crumbled a piece of bacon between her fingers and poured a cup of coffee. She left them both untasted and wandered back into the bedroom. She fingered the strange nightgown she was wearing and then, in a sudden breathless skirl of action, stripped it off and scrambled into her own clothes.
She yanked the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. She hammered softly with her fists on the unyielding door. She hurried to the open window and sitting on the sill started to swing her legs across it. Her feet thumped into an invisible something. Startled she thrust out a hand and stubbed her fingers. She pressed both hands slowly outward and stared at them as they splayed against a something that stopped them.
She went back to the bed and stared at it. She made it up, quickly, meticulously, mitering the corners of the sheets precisely and plumping the pillow. She melted down to the edge of the bed and stared at her tightly clasped hands. Then she slid slowly down, turning and catching herself on her knees. She buried her face in her hands and whispered into the arid grief that burned her eyes, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Are You really there?”
For a long time she knelt there, feeling pressed against the barrier that confined her, the barrier that, probably because of Karen, was now an inert impersonal thing instead of the malicious agony-laden frustrating, deliberately evil creature it had been for so long.
Then suddenly, incongruously, she heard Karen’s voice. “You haven’t eaten.” Her startled head lifted. No one was in the room with her. “You haven’t eaten,” she heard the voice again, Karen’s matter-of-fact tone. “You haven’t eaten.”
