Thief Of Souls

Drew finished off the last few chunks of kung pao chicken, as he watched Michael.

“Tough day at the Dog?” he asked.

“Not in the mood,” Michael answered.

Drew picked up the remote, muting the annoying blasts of laughter from the sitcom he was watching, and Michael closed his eyes, listening to the rain on the skylight.

“You know, you oughta quit the Dog,” suggested Drew, “and spend some time out, you know? I hear Wendy Holt’s got it bad for you. Hey, if you ask her out, I’ll ask her friend, what’s-her-name. Sound like a plan?”

“No.” Michael closed his eyes tighter and tried to sink farther into the sofa. The rain was sliced by a crosswind, and its tattered edges pummeled the win­dow.

“C’mon, what’s wrong with you anyway? You’re starting to make me feel depressed.”

Michael still had nothing to say.

“Hey, talk or I walk,” said Drew, '’Cause I’m not hanging unless I know why you’re pissed.”

Michael turned to Drew. Although he never had had a brother, he suspected Drew was what a brother might be like on a good day. Michael wasn’t gifted with words, but he didn’t want his silent storming to send Drew packing.

“My brain got a little fried before I moved here,” Michael began. “And now I don’t . . . feel things the way I’m supposed to. Certain things I can feel so in­tensely, you can’t imagine, but the things I want to feel—the things I need to feel—I get nothing but dead air.”

Drew shook his head sadly. “Drugs’ll do that to you, man. Saute your brain, and leave you impotent to boot.”

Michael dug his fingertips into the arm of the sofa, pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t talk to you. You have no clue what I mean.”

Michael propelled himself gut the back door, into the downpour, but Drew followed, and although Michael tried to run, Drew was faster. They were both drenched by the time Drew caught up with him and grabbed his arm, angrily forcing him to turn around.

“I don’t know what bolt you busted in your head,” shouted Drew, “but whatever it is, it’s not worth getting struck by lightning.”

Michael laughed ruefully. “Trust me, I won’t,” he said, and then added, “You might, though.”

“Yeah, well, screw you too.”

“Listen, you don’t know enough about me to help me with this.”

“I know enough,” said Drew. “I know about base­ball. Y’ever play baseball?”

“Huh?” It was a non sequitur so far out of. . . well, left field, that it caught Michael off guard. “What are your lips flapping about?”

“You heard me,” said Drew. “Baseball. Did you ever play?”

The rain suddenly stopped, leaving the wet beach in a low-pressure silence.

“Once in a while.”

“Yeah, well, my grandfather played baseball,” con­tinued Drew. “So did my father: Now my brother plays in college, my sister’s captain of her goddamn T-ball league, and for all I know, my mother was a slow-pitch softball star. So all my life, baseball oozes out of my parents’ ears like friggin’ earwax, but the thing is, I don’t feel the game. Sure, I played Little League. I’ve sat and watched it on TV. We’ve got season tickets at Edison Field for God’s sake! But I still don’t feel what my family feels. No matter how much I want to, no matter how much I kick my ass to enjoy it, all I can feel is bored. When my friends talk baseball, I pretend like I care, all the time smelling my own bullshit.”

Drew stared Michael in the eye, determined to ham­mer his point home.

Michael shook his head. “Drew, that’s really pa­thetic.”

“All I’m saying is that you don’t have a monopoly on feeling disconnected.”

Michael looked down. The rain had left pockmarks on the sand like the face of the moon.

“So how about you?” asked Drew. “What’s your pa­thetic story?”

Michael considered it, and realized that letting Drew in on the Big Picture was something he had to do; something he needed to do, because he couldn’t bear being alone with it anymore.

“Maybe it’s better if I just show you,” answered Mi­chael.

Michael turned his eyes to the thick clouds that hid the evening stars, and prepared for a demonstration.

There were no good feelings left in him just then, so instead he let the faces’ of the shards fill his mind. One by one he opened his memory to the terrible beasts they had harbored, turning each of them into untouchables in their own way. He imagined himself as he had been then: lascivious and lecherous; consumed by lust. As he thought about it, fear filled him and became an icy wind. Up above, the clouds began to boil, and in an instant the wind shredded them apart, dividing the clouds north and south. They peeled back like a curtain until they were gone, and all that was left were the stars, the moon, and the cold.

When it was done, Michael turned to Drew. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see Drew’s eyes wide with disbelief.

“Sorry. I guess I should have prepared you for it.”

But Drew wasn’t looking at him. Drew was looking past him, to the sea, where the pounding waves had suddenly taken on a new, furious sound. “Michael,” he said pointing toward the ocean, “MICHAEL!” he screamed.

Michael spun to see a gaping mouth bearing down on him, teeth sharp as daggers, as if some new beast were leaping up from the depths to devour him.

***

Lourdes saw it more clearly. Drenched from the downpour but undeterred, she had spent over an hour searching for Michael’s home in Newport Beach. The streets were confusingly arranged, and although people were happy to give directions, Lourdes found herself wandering up and down one blind alley after another.

Finally she had resorted to walking along the beach, for she knew from the single letter Michael had sent her that he had a beachfront home. She put her trust in her own ability to feel his presence.

In the aftermath of the storm, the moon made an appearance, and the waves gleamed its blue light. Lourdes imagined she saw shapes in the foam, like huge sleek serpents. But there was nothing imaginary about it. The shapes hurled themselves from the water, skidding on the sands. Huge things with shiny black eyes. Lourdes backed away from the edge of the surf, then screamed as a shark lunged at her from the surf, mouth open, gills flaring. It hit her like a car skidding to a stop, and she fell over its slick body, a dorsal fin digging into her side. Suddenly there was another, and another. She scrambled to her feet, and ran from the beached sharks as their jaws gnashed futilely at the sand. Only when she got far enough away from shore and her own screaming stopped, did she hear two other voices screaming: two boys far off, running from the writhing frenzy of beached beasts. She had heard enough of Michael’s screams before, to recognize them now, and she ran across the beach toward him.

***

Michael and Drew dragged themselves away from the waterline and watched the sharks die.

“Did you do this, too?” Drew asked weakly.

“No!” said Michael. “I couldn’t have!”

They stood up to look at the shoreline. “Tiger sharks,” said Drew. “I think this one’s a great white.”

But it wasn’t only sharks. There were swordfish, and marlins, deep-sea groupers . . .

“Man,” said Drew. “It’s like mass aquacide.” ,

And he was right—it was as if a conglomerate of great fish had chosen to end their lives in a single cha­otic lunge. But it isn’t chaotic at all, is it? thought Michael. The way they’re lined up, it’s almost orderly.

Orderly?. . .

“Michael!” It took a moment for him to recognize her voice. It no longer seemed wrapped in cotton, the way it had sounded when she was fat. “Michael, it’s me.”

She ran to him and pulled him close in her strong arms, planting a kiss on his cold lips.

“Lourdes?”

“Who’s she?” asked Drew.