If she panicked, she and Young Rembrandt were going to be in serious trouble.
But I’m not going to. I didn’t get out of that deathbox this morning just to panic now. I’ll be goddamned if I will.
She reached down and took one of Patrick’s hands-the one that wasn’t clutching his picture. It was very cold.
“Do you think the angels will come to save us again, Mama?” he asked in a voice that quivered slightly.
“Nah,” she said. “I think this time we better do it ourselves.
But we can do that. I mean, we’re all right now, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” he said, but then slumped against her. She had a terrible moment when she was sure he had fainted and she’d have to carry him from the Civic Center in her arms, but then he straightened up again.
“My books was on the floor,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave without my books, especially the one about the boy who can’t take off his hat.
Are we leaving, Mama?”
“Yes. As soon as people stop running around. There’ll be lights in the halls, ones that run on batteries, even though the ones in here are out. When I say, we’re going to get up and walk-walk-up the steps to the door. I’m not going to carry you, but I’m going to walk right behind you with both my hands on your shoulders. Do you understand, Pat?”
“Yes, Mama.” No questions. No blubbering. just his books, thrust into her hands for safekeeping. He held onto the picture himself.
She gave him a quick hug and kissed his cheek.
They waited in their seats five minutes by her slow count to three hundred. She sensed that most of their immediate neighbors were gone before she got to a hundred and fifty, but she made herself wait. She could now see a little, enough for her to believe that something was burning fiercely outside, but on the far side of the building. That was very lucky. She could hear the warble-wail of approaching police cars, ambulances, and fire-trucks.
Sonia got to her feet. “Come on. Keep right in front of me.”
Pat Danville stepped into the aisle with his mother’s hands pressed firmly down on his shoulders. He led her up the steps toward the dim yellow lights which marked the north balcony corridor, stopping only once as the dark shape of a running man hurtled toward them.
His mother’s hands tightened on his shoulders as she yanked him aside.
“Goddam right-to-lifers!” the running man cried, “Fucking selfrighteous turds I’d like to kill them all!”
Then he was gone and Pat began walking up the stairs again. She felt a calmness in him now, a centered lack of fear, that touched her heart with love, and with some queer darkness, as well. He was so different, her son, so special… but the world did not love people like that, The world tried to root them out, like tares from a garden.
They emerged at last into the corridor. A few deeply shocked people wandered back and forth, eyes dazed and mouths agape, like zombies in a horror movie. Sonia hardly glanced at them, just got Pat moving toward the stairs. Three minutes later they exited into the fireshot night perfectly unscathed, and upon all the levels of the universe, matters both Random and Purposeful resumed their ordained courses. Worlds which had trembled for a moment in their orbits now steadied, and in one of those worlds, in a desert that was the apotheosis of all deserts, a man named Roland turned over in his bedroll and slept easily once again beneath the alien constellations.
Across town, in Strawford Park, the door of the Portosan marked MEN blew open. Lois Chasse and Ralph Roberts came flying out backward in a haze of smoke, clutching each other. From within came the sound of the Cherokee hitting and then the plastique exploding. There was a flash of white light and the toilet’s blue walls bulged outward, as if some giant had hammered them with his fists.
A second later they heard the explosion all over again; this time it came rolling across the open air. The second version was fainter, but somehow more real.
Lois’s feet stuttered and she thumped to the grass of the lower hillside with a cry which was partly relief. Ralph landed beside her, then pushed himself up to a sitting position. He stared unbelievingly at the Civic Center, where a fist of fire was now clenched on the horizon. A purple lump the size of a doorknob was rising on his forehead, where Ed had hit him. His left side still throbbed, but he thought maybe the ribs in there were only sprung, not broken.
[“Lois, are you all right?” She looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then began to feel at her face and neck and shoulders.
There was something so perfectly, sweetly Our Lois about this examination that Ralph laughed. He couldn’t help it. Lois smiled tentatively back at him.
[“I think I’m fine. In fact, I’m quite sure I am.”] [“What were you doing there? You could have been killed."’] Lois, appearing somewhat rejuvenated (Ralph guessed that the handy wino had had something to do with that) looked him in the eye.
[“I may be old-fashioned, Ralph, but if you think I’m going to spend the next twenty years or so far’ntting and fluttering like the heroine’s best friend in those Regency romances my friend was always reading, you better pick another woman to chum around with.”] He gaped for a moment, then pulled her to her feet and hugged her. Lois hugged back. She was incredibly warm, incredibly there, Ralph reflected for a moment on the similarities between loneliness and insomnia-how they were both insidious, cumulative, and divisive, the friends of despair and the enemies of love-and then he pushed those thoughts aside and kissed her.
Clotho and Lachesis, who had been standing at the top of the hill and looking as anxious as workmen who have wagered their Christmas bonuses on a prizefight underdog, now rushed down to where Ralph and Lois stood with their foreheads once more pressed together, looking into each other’s eyes like lovestruck teenagers.
From the far side of the Barrens, the sound of sirens rose like voices heard in uneasy dreams. The pillar of fire which marked the grave of Ed Deepneau’s obsession was now too bright to look at without squinting. Ralph could hear the faint sound of cars exploding, and he thought of his car, sitting abandoned somewhere out in the williwags.
He decided that was okay. He was too old to drive.
Clotho: [Are you both all right?]
Ralph: [“We’re fine, Lois reeled me in. She saved my life.”]
Lachesis: [yes. We saw her go in. It was very brave.] Also very perplexing, right, Mr. L.? Ralph thought. You saw it and you admire it… but I don’t think you have any idea of how or why she could bring herself to do it. I think that, to you and your friend, the concept Of rescue must seem almost as foreign as the idea of love.
For the first time, Ralph felt a kind of pity for the little bald doctors, and understood the central irony of their lives: they were aware that the Short-Timers whose existences they had been sent to prune lived powerful inner lives, but they did not in the least comprehend the reality of those lives, the emotions which drove them, which of the actions-sometimes noble, sometimes foolish suited-Mr. C. and Mr. L. had studied their Short-Time charges as certain rich but timid Englishmen had studied the maps brought back by the explorers of the Victorian Age, explorers who had in many cases been funded by these same rich but timid men. With their clipped nails and soft fingers the philanthropists had traced paper rivers upon which they would never ride and paper jungles through which they would never safari. They lived in fearful perplexity and passed it off as imagination.
Clotho and Lachesis had drafted them, and had used them with a certain crude effectiveness, hut they understood neither the joy of risk nor the sorrow of loss-the best they had been able to manage in the way of emotion was a nagging fear that Ralph and Lois would try to take on the Crimson King’s pet research chemist directly and be swatted like elderly flies for their pains. The little bald doctors lived long lives, but Ralph suspected that, brilliant dragonfly auras notwithstanding, they were gray lives. He looked at their unlined, oddly childish faces from the safe haven of Lois’s arms and remembered how terrified of them he had been when he had first seen them coming out of May Locher’s house in the early hours of the morning. Terror, he had since discovered, could not survive mere acquaintanceship, let alone knowledge, and now he had some of both.