“Not much,” he said. “No date or anything. You?”
“Sure, I’m in great shape,” I said. “I’m going to go pick up Roseanne and take her to Studio 2000. You can come along and hold my crutches while we dance, if you want.”
He laughed a little.
“I thought I’d come over,” I said. “Maybe you and me could see the New Year in like we used to. You know?”
“Yeah!” Arnie said. He sounded pleased by the idea—but still not quite like himself. “Watch Guy Lombardo and all that happy crappy. That’d be all right.”
I paused for a moment, not quite sure what to say. Finally I replied cautiously, “Well, maybe Dick Clark or someone. Guy Lombardo’s dead, Arnie.”
“Is he?” Arnie sounded puzzled, doubtful. “Oh. Oh, yeah, I guess he is. But Dick Clark’s hanging in there, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“I got to give it an eighty-five Dick, it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it,” Arnie said, but it wasn’t Arnie’s voice at al I. My mind made a sudden and hideously unexpected cross-connection
(best smell in the world… except maybe for pussy) and my hand tightened down convulsively on the telephone. I think I almost screamed. I wasn’t talking to Arnie; I was talking to Roland LeBay. I was talking to a dead man.
“That’s Dick, all right,” I heard myself say, as if from a distance.
“How you getting over, Dennis? Can you drive?”
“No, not yet. I thought I’d get my dad to drive me over. I paused momentarily, then plunged. “I thought maybe you could drive me back, if you got your car. Would that be okay?”
“Sure!” He sounded honestly excited. “Yeah, that’d be good, Dennis! Real good! We’ll have some laughs. Just like the old times.”
“Yes,” I said. And then—I swear to God it just popped out—I added, “Just like in the motor pool.”
“Yeah, that’s right!” Arnie replied, laughing. “Too much! See you, Dennis.”
“Right.” I said automatically. “See you.” I hung up, and I looked at the telephone, and presently I began to shudder all over. I had never been so frightened in my life as I was right then. Time passes: the mind rebuilds its defences. I think one of the reasons there is so little convincing evidence of psychic phenomena is that the mind goes to work and restructures the evidence. A little stacking is better than a lot of insanity. Later I questioned what I heard, or led myself to believe that Arnie had misunderstood my comment, but in the few moments after I put telephone down, I was sure: LeBay had gotten in him. Somehow, dead or not, LeBay was in him.
And LeBay was taking over.
New Year’s Eve was cold and crystal clear. My dad dropped me off at the Cunninghams” at quarter past seven and helped me over to the back door—crutches were not made for winter or snow-packed paths.
The Cunninghams” station wagon was gone, but Christine stood in the driveway, her bright red-and-white finish sheened with a condensation of ice-crystals. She had been released with the rest of the impounded cars only this week. Just looking at her brought on a feeling of dull dread like a headache. I did not want to ride home in that car, not tonight, not ever. I wanted my own ordinary, mass-produced Duster with its vinyl seatcovers and its dumb bumper-sticker reading MAFIA STAFF CAR.
The back porch light flicked on, and we saw Arnie cross toward the door in silhouette. He didn’t even look like Arnie. His shoulders loped; his movements seemed older. I told myself it was only imagination, my suspicions working on me, and of course I was full of bullshit… and I knew it.
He opened the door and leaned out in an old flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. “Dennis!” he said. “My man!”
“Hi, Arnie,” I said.
“Hello, Mr Guilder.”
“Hi, Arnie,” my dad said, raising one gloved hand. “How’s it been going?”
“Well, you know, not that great. But that’s all going to change, New year, new broom, out with the old shit, in with the new shit, right?”
“I guess so,” my father said, sounding a little taken aback. “Dennis, are you sure you don’t want me to come back and get you?”
I wanted that more than anything, but Arnie was looking at me and his mouth was still smiling but his eyes were flat and watchful. “No, Arnie’ll bring me home… if that rustbucket will start, that is?”
“Oh-oh, watch what you call my car,” Arnie said. “She’s very sensitive.”
“Is she?” I asked.
“She is,” Arnie said, smiling.
I turned my head and called, “Sorry, Christine.”
“That’s better.”
For a moment all three of us stood there, my father and I at the bottom of the kitchen steps. Arnie in the doorway above us, none of us apparently knowing what to say next. I felt a kind of panic—someone had to say something, or else the whole, ridiculous fiction that nothing had changed would collapse of its own weight.
“Well, okay,” my dad said at last. “You two kids stay sober. If you have more than a couple of beers, Arnie, call me.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Guilder.”
“We’ll be all right,” I said, grinning a grin that felt plastic and false. “You go on home and get your beauty sleep, Dad. You need it.”
“Oh-ho,” my father said. “Watch what you call my face. It’s very sensitive.”
He went back to the car. I stood and watched him, my crutches propped into my armpits. I watched him while he crossed behind Christine. And when he backed out of the driveway and turned toward home, I felt a little bit better.
I banged the snow off the tip of each crutch carefully while standing in the doorway. The Cunninghams” kitchen was tile-floored. A couple of near accidents had taught me that on smooth surfaces a pair of crutches with wet snow on them can turn into ice-skates.
“You really operate on those babies,” Arnie said, watching me cross the floor. He took a pack of Tiparillos from the pocket of his flannel shirt, shook one out, bit down on the white plastic mouthpiece, and lit it with his head cocked to one side. The match flame played momentarily across his cheeks like yellow streaks of paint.
“It’s a skill I’ll be glad to lose,” I said. “When did you start with the cigars?”
“Darnell’s,” he said. “I don’t smoke em in front of my mother. The smell drives her bugshit.”
He didn’t smoke like a kid who just learning the habit—he smoked like a man who has been doing it for twenty years.
“I thought I’d make popcorn,” he said. “You up for that?”
“Sure. You got any beer?”
“That’s affirmative. There’s a six-pack in the fridge and two more downstairs.”
“Great.” I sat down carefully at the kitchen table, stretching out my left leg. “Where’re your folks?”
“Went to a New Year’s Eve party at the Fassenbachs”. When’s that cast come off?”
“Maybe at the end of January, if I’m lucky.” I waved my crutches in the air and cried dramatically, “Tiny Tim walks again! God bless us, every one!”
Arnie, on his way to the stove with a deep pan, a bag of popcorn, and a bottle of Wesson Oil, laughed and shook his head. “Same old Dennis. They didn’t knock much of the stuffing out of you, you shitter.”
“You didn’t exactly overwhelm me with visits in the hospital, Arnie.”
“I brought you Thanksgiving supper—what the hell do you want, blood?”
I shrugged.
Arnie sighed. “Sometimes I think you were my good-luck charm, Dennis.”
“Off my case, hose-head.”
“No, seriously. I’ve been in hot water ever since you broke your wishbones, and I’m still in hot water. It’s a wonder I don’t look like a lobster.” He laughed heartily. It was not the sound you’d expect of a kid in trouble; it was the laugh of a man—yes, a man—who was enjoying himself tremendously, He put the pan on the stove and poured Wesson Oil over the bottom of it. His hair, shorter than it used to be and combed back in a style that was
