Crosstalk

  —LEWIS CARROLL, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  I don’t understand, Briddey said, looking around at the Reading Room in wonder. She’d been wrong about the drone of the reading voices sounding like a murmuring stream. It was warmer and more pleasant, like the drone of bees in a garden. How do the books—?

  It’s not the books, C.B. said, though I thought that, too, the first time I encountered it. It’s the thoughts of the people reading them. Reading’s an entirely different process from ordinary thinking. It’s more rhythmic and focused, and it screens out all extraneous thoughts. And—if there are enough people reading—everybody else’s, too.

  But how—?

  I discovered it by accident. I’d come here to do some research to try to find out what was causing the voices in my head. He smiled at her. People always say books can be a refuge, and they’re definitely right.

  “Refuge” was the right word. Her heart had stopped thudding for the first time since the voices started in the theater.

  Which is why I brought you here, C.B. said. The readers’ll screen them while we get your defenses up.

  But I thought that the readers were the defenses.

  They’re one of them, and, luckily, one that’s almost always available. There’s hardly any time of day or night when people aren’t reading, so if the voices start to overwhelm you, you can come here or go to the public library or a bookstore or Starbucks. And if that’s out, you can do the reading yourself.

  But I thought you said audiobooks didn’t work.

  They don’t. What’s screening the voices is the synaptic patterns of the readers. So you need to either read yourself or listen to an actual person reading. Preferably something Victorian, with nice, long, droning sentences. Like this, he said, and began reading from the book in front of him: “But a case more trying by far to the nerves is to discover some mysterious companionship when intuition, sensation, memory, analogy, testimony, probability, induction—every kind of evidence in the logician’s list—have united to persuade consciousness that it is quite in isolation.”

  That’s Hardy, he said, who works great, and so does Dickens—and Anthony Trollope and Wilkie Collins. Nothing too boring, though. If your mind starts to wander, it won’t work, so no Henry James. Or Silas Marner. What you need is Barchester Towers or Our Mutual Friend. Download them to your phone so you’ll have them with you all the time. And brush up on “The Highwayman.”

  And the songs you told me about.

  Exactly. But all those are just stopgap measures. What you really need are permanent defenses. He glanced at his watch.

  Briddey reached automatically for her phone to see what time it was and then remembered that C.B. still had it. She glanced over at the clock behind the reference desk: nine forty-five. And the library closed at ten thirty. That gave them less than an hour.

  So we need to get busy, C.B. said. The first step is to put up your perimeter. It’ll do on a permanent basis what the readers’ voices are doing right now. You know those baffles you see along highways? The ones that keep the traffic noise down to a dull roar for the people who were dumb enough to build houses next to a major road? You’re going to erect the same kind of thing, only inside your head. He glanced across the room at the various readers. You need to look like you’re reading, by the way. We’re supposed to be studying.

  Sorry, Briddey said, and hastily bent her head over her book.

  It’s okay. Nobody’s looking at us right now. But the librarian will be back soon, and we don’t want her getting suspicious. He propped his chin on his hand and bent his head over his own book, looking for all the world like he was reading intently. The first thing you need to do is envision a fence, he said.

  Like a highway baffle.

  Not necessarily. It can be any kind of fence: a computer firewall or one of those invisible electronic dog barriers or the Great Wall of China—anything at all so long as you believe it will keep the voices out.

  As long as I believe? she said, looking up at C.B. The voices are real, not something I imagined! They’re—

  The fence is real, too, C.B. said, his eyes never moving from his book. And so was the railing you were hanging onto back at the theater. And the woodland path you envisioned when Verrick was talking about establishing a neural pathway.

  But—

  The voices are telepathic signals to the brain. They cause synapses to be fired, just like auditory signals. Well, the fence is signals causing synapses to fire, too, only in this case they inhibit the signal uptake receptors.

  I thought you said we didn’t have the inhibitor gene.

  We don’t. We have to manufacture our own inhibitors. They don’t work as well as the real thing, and they take more energy and more concentration to sustain, but they can still protect you.

  So you’re saying I have to visualize inhibiting the uptake receptors?

  Yes, but you have to visualize it in images that make sense to you. Concrete, everyday images, like the railing you visualized at the theater.

  She thought of the wet, black iron railing she had clung to. But it wasn’t strong enough, she thought. If C.B. hadn’t come and rescued her, the water would have come pouring through it and over the top—

  So you need to put up something that is strong enough, C.B. said. How about a levee? Or a dike?

  A dike, Briddey thought eagerly. Like the ones in Holland. But dikes got holes in them. That little Dutch boy had had to stick his finger in the dike to keep the water from squirting through—

  Sorry, C.B. said. I should have told you it needs to be something you don’t associate with collapsing or being breached. I made that mistake myself the first time. I envisioned a castle wall—

  A castle—?

  I know, he said, embarrassed. I was thirteen, okay? Anyway, it had ramparts and a drawbridge and boiling oil. Perfectly safe—except for all those movies I’d watched that had battering rams and catapults. And mobs of peasants carrying torches.

  So what did you switch to?

  A white picket fence. You never see one of those being smashed with a battering ram.

  No, seriously, she said. What’s your barrier now?

  He didn’t answer.

  C.B?

  Still no answer, and when she stole a glance at him, he’d looked up from his book and was staring blindly at the window behind her.

  C.B.? she called again, and he seemed to come to himself.

  Sorry, he said. I got distracted by the book. What did you ask?

  What your barrier is now.

  Oh. After the castle, I decided the maximum-security prison route was the best way to go, so long as I avoided watching prison-break movies. You know, chain-link fences, razor wire, searchlights, dogs.

  But chain-link fences won’t keep out water either.

  True. Maybe you should—

  He stopped again, and when Briddey sneaked a glance at him, he was looking over at the double doors. Was the librarian coming back?

  No, I don’t think so, he said. Hang on. I need to check something. Read your book.

  She obediently dropped her eyes to the page. “It might reasonably have been supposed that she was listening to the wind,” she read. And what was he listening to? The voices, obviously. But how could he stand to? They were so drowningly loud and clamoring. It would be like voluntarily walking into a howling storm. Unless this perimeter he wanted her to build somehow tamed them, because he didn’t look frightened or even braced to face the blast. He was gazing blindly ahead of him, like he had before.

  And what was it he needed to check? C.B.? she said, but he didn’t answer—or even seem to be aware of her having said anything.

  He’s somewhere else altogether, she thought. Or else he’s concentrating on keeping the voices from overwhelming him. And she certainly didn’t want to distract him from that. She needed to keep quiet and read her book.

  “The wind, indeed, seemed made for the scene as the scene seemed made for the hour…”
she read. “What was heard there could be heard nowhere else.”

  Which is why she should be in a library instead of out on the moors, C.B. said. He looked up from his book to grin at her. Sorry about that. For a minute I thought I heard the librarian coming, but she’s not.

  And he knew that because he could hear her individual thoughts, just as he’d heard Kathleen’s. And the nurse’s. But how? The voices were a maelstrom of words and emotions. How had he been able to pick a single voice out from the rest?

  It’s an acquired skill, C.B. said.

  Can you teach me how to do it? Briddey asked.

  Yes, but not till after we’ve gotten your basic defenses in place. We don’t have much time.

  She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock. Only half an hour till closing.

  Exactly, he said. So okay, you need a barrier that water can’t get through. How about Hoover Dam?

  I don’t know what it looks like, she said. I mean, I know it’s big and made of concrete, but that’s all.

  That won’t work, then. You need to be able to visualize it in detail. How about a seawall?

  I don’t know what that looks like either. Would a brick wall do?

  Like the one in Tennyson’s “Flower in the Crannied Wall” or the one the bad guy builds in Poe’s “Cask of Amontillado”? he asked, then grinned ruefully. Sorry, I spend a lot of time in libraries. A brick wall it is. And proceeded to take her through every detail of how it looked, from the exact color of the bricks to the thickness of the mortar between them.

  The more details, the more real it is to you, he said, and the better it can withstand the voi— He stopped in mid-word and listened again for a second. The librarian’s coming.

  Briddey fought the impulse to look up. She heard the door open. Okay, C.B. said, look up casually at the door and then go back to reading.

  Briddey did, trying to think how she’d act if she really was studying and wondering if they were fooling the librarian.

  Yep, C.B. said, though she’s thinking you must really be in danger of flunking out to be here with a nerd like me on a Saturday night. Let’s give it a minute. Keep reading.

  Okay, Briddey said, and concentrated on the page. “So low was an individual sound from these,” she read, “that a combination of hundreds only just emerged from silence—”

  And let’s hope that the voices are that quiet after I get the wall built, she thought, though she didn’t see how an imaginary wall could keep anything out, let alone the voices.

  Where’s your faith in me, darlin’? C.B. said in a brogue nearly as broad as Aunt Oona’s, and Briddey glanced up at him and then abruptly down again.

  Sorry, she said. I keep forgetting I’m not supposed to look at you.

  It’s okay. The librarian’s forgotten about us. It’s one of the other librarians’ birthday, and she’s busy thinking about the party after work. She’s worried she didn’t buy a big enough sheet cake. He turned the page of his book. Describe your brick wall to me.

  Briddey did, trying to focus on exactly how it looked, to make it as real as the room they were in, the table they were sitting at, but C.B. kept glancing worriedly at his watch.

  The library was going to close at ten thirty. When it did, they’d have to go back out into the darkness, and it was four blocks to his car. If she didn’t have her perimeter up by then, or if it didn’t work…Visualizing a brick wall here, in the safety of the Reading Room, was one thing. But droning and safe as the readers’ voices were, she could hear the other voices waiting beyond them, like falls ahead on a river. She glanced involuntarily over at the windows and the darkness beyond them.

  Put your left hand under the table, C.B. said, and when she did, he took it and held it tightly, resting it on his knee. Better?

  Yes, she said gratefully. But I can’t hang on to you forever.

  Sure you can. Now tell me again what your wall looks like.

  She described it to him, imagining it there in front of her, standing impenetrable between her and the voices, comfortingly solid and watertight.

  I think I’ve got it down now, she said when she’d finished, but he shook his head.

  It’s not just a question of getting it down. You’ve got to be able to visualize it without thinking. It’s like when you’re learning to type or drive a car. It’s got to become automatic.

  He took her through her wall’s appearance three more times, and then said, Okay, I’m going to let go of your hand, and you’re going to hear the voices. As soon as you do, I want you to think of your wall. Ready?

  No, she thought.

  It’s okay. You’ve got the readers, and I’m right here. And you’ve got your brick wall. Nothing can get through it. Ready? And don’t nod. You’re supposed to be reading. Keep your eyes on your book. And think about your wall.

  I’m ready, she said, clenching her hand into a fist under the table to keep from grabbing for him as he pulled his hand away.

  Don’t look over at the windows, she told herself. Look at your book, and heard the droning buzz of the voices begin to swell into a noisy clamor: …got to study…the antebellum South was governed by the idea…if I flunk out, my father…as X approaches plus or minus infinity…subjunctive tense…

  They can’t get past the wall, she told herself firmly, staring at the book, at the bricks, red and rough-cast and standing solidly between her and the voices—

  Good, C.B. said, taking her hand. Okay, try it again. And this time I’m not going to tell you when I’m letting go.

  Okay, she said, taking a deep breath, and began reading. “Suddenly, on the barrow, there mingled with all this wild rhetoric of night a sound.”

  I’m not sure this is what I should be reading, she thought, and C.B. let go of her hand.

  The voices roared in: …Carolinian dynasty…reduction of sulfuric acid…never remember all this crap…basis of tort reform…fucking stupid class!

  Think of the wall, she told herself, gritting her teeth, and immediately saw it standing there, keeping the voices out.

  The next time was even easier, and by the third try she wasn’t even giving the voices a chance to speak before the wall was in place, stopping them.

  Very good, C.B. said. He glanced at the clock and shut his book. Okay, we’ve gotta go.

  Go? she said, looking over at the clock: 10:10. I thought you said the library was open till ten thirty.

  It is, he said, reaching over to close her book.

  But I’m not ready. Envisioning the voices safely behind the brick wall was one thing here in the brightly lit Reading Room, but outside, in the darkness with them…Can’t we stay till they close? she pleaded.

  Yes, but not here. Pick up your book and push back your chair. He gathered up the other books. “You want to go get some sushi or something?” he said aloud.

  The librarian looked up and over at them. “Sorry,” he mouthed at the librarian and repeated the question to Briddey in a whisper, adding silently, Say you can’t, that you’re meeting your boyfriend.

  “I can’t,” she whispered, standing up and pushing her chair in. “I’m sorry, I promised my boyfriend—”

  C.B. steered her toward the door past the librarian, saying disappointedly, “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” as he opened one of the double doors for her. “I just thought—”

  “I’m really sorry,” she said as she went through.

  “Where are you meeting him?” C.B. asked as the door swung shut behind them. “Do you need a ride?”

  Do I? Briddey asked.

  No, he said, leading her in the opposite direction from which they’d come.

  Where are we going? she asked.

  For starters, the bathroom, he said, stopping in front of a door marked Women and taking her book from her. We may not get another chance for awhile. I’ll meet you out here.

  Briddey stared at the door, paralyzed, thinking of the ladies’ room at the theater, of the mirror and the sinks and herself, crouching back under the counter to
get away from the voices. You want me to go in there by myself?

  You’re not by yourself, C.B. said. You’ve got a nice, solid brick wall to protect you. And Gilligan. And Billie Joe.

  I know, but—

  And we’re still within range of the Reading Room. Listen, he ordered, and he was right. She could still hear the beelike hum of the students’ reading. But that could cease any time now, as they stopped reading and prepared to go home.

  Do you want me to come in with you? C.B. asked. Mentally, I mean? It wouldn’t be the first ladies’ room I’ve been in. Or bedroom. Or back seat. You would be amazed at some of the things I’ve had to listen to. Bathrooms are nothing. I’ve—

  No, thanks, I can do this on my own, she said hastily.

  Good, he said. You’ll be fine. I’ll meet you back here in a sec. He disappeared into the men’s room.

  I can do this, Briddey told herself, pushing the door open. She had to. The only alternative was the humiliation of having him accompany her in here. If he wasn’t doing that anyway.

  He’s right, she thought. Telepathy’s a terrible idea. She fixed her mind firmly on her brick wall, reciting for good measure, “Yellow moons, green clovers, Tallahatchie Bridge…,” till she was safely back outside the bathroom.

  C.B. was waiting for her, looking at his watch. He immediately handed her the stack of books, put his hand on her elbow, and walked her rapidly back toward the stairs down to the main floor.

  I thought you said we were staying here at the library, she said, the panic beginning to beat against her rib cage again as she thought of the darkness outside and the endless blocks to the car.

  We are, he said, opening the door to the stairway and ushering her inside.

  Then where are we going?

  The stacks, he said, and turned to grin at her.

  “But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy, lie further off.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  The stacks? Briddey repeated.