Streams of Babel

  She had loved this dead man, too. That she couldn't love me was both ludicrous and factual, and the only answers drifted into my mind in the form of a box full of videotapes—somewhere in the crawl space or the attic.

  I found the box fifteen minutes later, having crawled all the way to the back of Aleese's closet, which covered the length of the room. I staggered back to the living room and dropped it with a thud, though I knew it would be anywhere from fifteen days to fifteen years before I could look at these tapes. I sensed some deep, black horror built into what secrets they held. And I didn't know what had possessed me to drag the box out while my head was splitting. I pressed my palms to my temples as the pain grew worse, and I stumbled to the window again, reaching out for the glass.

  Oma had died in the street. Aleese made her Profound Statement of the Year later that night, and now it rushed through my head like a hissing snake: "Even the steeliest nerves will flail for a hand to grab on to when they sense death coming. That's why she ran outside."

  Three blurry figures were coming around the corner, walking slowly, going to the Ebermans', surely. I pressed my palm hard on the cold glass, feeling the urge to break through it and yell.

  But when the three got close, I stepped backward out of view. I stared from behind the drape as the Eberman brothers and Rain walked slowly toward my house, on the far side of the street. They must have walked home from the service—getting some air or relief from the crowds in the Eberman house. Rain had her shoes in her hand and walked along in black stockings that were run badly. Her father probably made her wear a dress to my service ... heels hurt her feet ... I'm an annoying nuisance ... Almost warm enough for bare feet, thank god...

  Owen walked in the middle, his arms around their shoulders, his face looking down. He was bent over in something different from anguish. Physical pain? My eyes went to Scott, his firm hand on his brother's shoulder, his determined jaw working up words obviously meant to assure him of something. A part of me wanted to run out there to get some of that reassurance, also.

  But if I ran outside, I would die in the street, too. I backed away and eased down in Oma's TV chair, somehow deciding that it was more important to make a liar out of my mother. If I died in the chair, Oma would come for me, and maybe Jeremy Brandruff Ireland would be there, all smiles, saying, "Hello there, Cora. I'm your father..."

  THIRTEEN

  OWEN EBERMAN

  MONDAY, MARCH 4, 2002

  4:22 P.M.

  THE WALK FROM the service didn't clear my head, and I couldn't wait to be home and get comatose under a blanket. I guess that catching some flu less than a day before my mother's own funeral ought to have made me insane, but it only made my numbness worse. I remembered hearing Mr. Steckerman talk sometimes about when his wife died. He would say, "My grief was complete," and I never really knew what that meant until now. It means that you could get smacked by a truck, or your house could burn down, and you couldn't possibly feel any more messed up. Whether I felt like throwing up or just slightly poisoned all over, or whether the funeral was tomorrow or in an hour—none of that mattered.

  Even being slammed with a nasty reality—I probably had what my mom had—didn't make me feel any worse. It seemed like I had one foot in an old world and one foot in a new, as we walked past Cora's house, and I wondered out loud, "Am I going to die, too?"

  Rain's laugh was part of the old world, where nobody dies around here except of old age and car accidents. Her reminder that she'd had an on-and-off battle with this flu and she was still cruising around town—that made me nod. Mom died of a strange flu because she was run-down and overworked. Rain and I are in the prime of our health.

  With the exception of where the huge puddle was in front of the Holmans', the rest of the street was lined with cars. Most were familiar, and the owners of them were probably at my house. There had been at least fifteen people there since about twenty minutes after Mom passed away—to make us feel better, and to make each other feel better, even when we weren't there. If you think I tend to be a recluse when I'm well, you haven't seen me when I'm sick. I stopped dead in my tracks, then pulled Scott and Rain behind the Endicotts' hedges.

  Rain read my mind. "Just smile and say hi, and you'll be in your room with the door shut before you know it."

  She was rubbing my arm to encourage me, but with chills it felt like thorns on my skin, and it shot more visions into my head of being accosted by ladies trying to feel my forehead and forcing me to eat this or drink that, all in my face with forks and spoons. I held on to my gut as an imagined plateful of lasagna turned to hairy spiders and cockroaches.

  Now my grief was complete. "I can't," I said.

  "You got a headache?" Scott asked. He'd already told me that people in shock run fevers, and that he'd expected me to feel like hurling after seeing that bloody foot soldier in the photo. I'm not a blood person. But still, he was making me jumpy.

  "No! But one might start if I have to sit with a thousand people and fake normal and eat casserole, and..." I stopped, realizing how I sounded. "What is wrong with me? Why can't I just feel normal in a crowd of nice people who are only trying to help?"

  Scott mumbled something about no one liking to be around people when they felt sick. But he'd already told me to savor each moment of our house being full of people, because in about a week, this level of compassion would be gone, and we'd be expected to get a grip.

  Rain tugged on my arm, and it caused an "equal and opposite reaction," according to Newton's laws of motion, and I jerked away from her and started walking back up the street.

  She caught up. "Where are you going?"

  I halted briefly, staring at Cora Holman's house, and that's when I knew I was having a nervous breakdown, the real thing. The place looked good, inviting. The fact that the grass was mostly weeds and bald patches with no shrubs, and the house was peeling paint—it helped. The puddle out front almost cordoned it off from the rest of the street, and the place seemed to be calling my name: Welcome! Come be where it's quiet!

  The girl was aloof, but I didn't think she had it in her to be nasty. She would let me sit in the quiet and be sad with her, and, definitely, she would not impose food and drinks on my baking flesh.

  But then, my sanity popped up—or maybe I should call it my small streak of normalcy. I'd had long talks with Rain about my abnormal tendencies, like some days wishing I were home-schooled. She also heard me confess to saying silent prayers before anything and everything—from the top of a football game, to the end of the evening news, with all its murdered, convicted, sentenced, and dying people. In one junior psych assignment, I read about some psychologist guy blathering on about people like me having a "God complex."

  Usually, Rain's answer was that I was perfectly normal and to quit worrying about myself, and every once in a while she said something that totally was outstanding. Like before this one college interview, she said without thinking, "Just avoid all your natural instincts and you'll do fine!"

  "Come on. You want to go see Cora?" Scott asked.

  I walked backward. "No! Why would I want to see Cora?"

  I plopped down behind the Endicotts' hedges, trying to ignore my cold sweats. Rain's stockings were now full of holes, because she'd walked from the church with her heeled shoes in her hand. She was going to catch her death.

  "This is crazy," I muttered. "I am full-throttle nuts."

  "Will you cut yourself a break, please? Whatever you think this week—this month—it's all right," she said.

  A sigh sounded above Scott's suede lace-up shoes that he almost never wore. "I always thought the best thing about getting out of high school would be going off to college and playing football. Well, that didn't happen, but it's okay. Because there's something even better about getting out of high school. You quit giving a shit what other people think. You guys sit here, and while you're being utterly petrified of Little Miss Perfect, I will go make sure she is all right."

  He strolled across the stre
et, tried to jump the puddle, and missed, cursing over one soggy suede shoe. But then he just knocked on Cora Holman's door. After a minute, she still hadn't answered, so he opened the door, stepped right in, then closed it behind him. Rain and I gawked at each other, and I felt as dumb as she looked.

  FOURTEEN

  SCOTT EBERMAN

  MONDAY, MARCH 4, 2002

  4:37 P.M.

  TRUTHFULLY, I WASN'T thrilled about trying another can-opener routine on Cora Holman. I was too worried about Owen. I kept telling myself his queasiness and fever could be stress, though I found that hard to believe.

  But I forced myself up to the door with the thoughts that were keeping me going lately—keep checking on Rain, make it a point to check on Cora, read all my CDC memos, finally, and figure out what had really happened to Mom.

  I didn't want to put off checking on Cora. As I had said good - bye to her at the altar, her please - leave - me - alone shtick had almost lacked the please part. I had gone to hug her, but she had her left hand on my shoulder and her right hand stuck out to me. So, I shook hands and listened to her overly gracious prattle about how nice it was for us to come. She turned back to the minister without giving me a chance to say more than "See you tomorrow."

  Owen and Rain had a point: The girl was a prickly pear, coated over with the gleam of magic manners—even when she was sick. My squad doesn't call me Mr. Observant for nothing.

  She let a few people hug her after me. She didn't want me hugging her, probably realizing the too-much-body-heat would register with me. It had registered just from shaking her hand and looking into her glassy eyes.

  I could see her plainly through the window, curled up in a chair beyond the kitchen. I had no idea why she didn't respond to my loud knocking, but the door opened easily.

  Halfway through the kitchen, I got scared. She was looking right at me, almost through me, and it's not like I expect every person in town to know my name, but I sort of remembered her doing the underclassman doe-eyed look in my general direction at a lot of football games. So, I was a little suspicious of a serious problem when she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Jeremy?"

  FIFTEEN

  CORA HOLMAN

  MONDAY, MARCH 4, 2002

  4:39 P.M.

  JEREMY IRELAND APPEARED with a face so familiar, it was like I had known him for years. So, transferring the correct name of Scott Eberman to it flung me back to reality with gasps.... I must have called to him out there on the sidewalk in some psychotic moment that I can't remember. How could I do that to him?

  "Cora?" I realized it was the second time he called my name, so I tried to snap to, but I could only sit up slowly and glance at my fingers that, clutching a tissue, refused to let go of the bottom of his jacket, too. "Who's Jeremy? Is that someone I can get for you?"

  "No, he's dead." An awful silence swayed in the reverb of my truth. Six of Scott Eberman became four.

  "What are you doing sitting here by yourself? Huh? Don't you know that's not good for you?" It was a comforting tone, like Oma's: "Awww, skinned knees? Let's get them cleaned up."

  "I'm ... sorry," I stammered, still thinking I had called to him.

  "Sorry for what? Yeesh. After we get you better, we're going to find you a support group. One of those twelve-step things for the, uh, victims."

  He yanked on his jacket until I let go, then retrieved a dinette chair, spun it around in front of me, and plopped into it with his hands in his jacket pockets. He stared at my face, then my shoulders.

  "Relax. It's just me. Do you always sit like that?"

  It's just me... I would have laughed incredulously if I hadn't been pulling from a couple years back to remember how to slouch. It only made me more uncomfortable, more out of breath, so I simply hung my head between us like a puppy dog hoping to get petted.

  "Cora Holman, I would love to hug you," he said. "If anyone needs hugging, it's you. But I'm in a quandary here. I'm a paramedic, and I can imagine germ behavior most people couldn't conceive of, so ... we're going to be really practical—"

  He reached around the tissue for my wrist, rambling about wishing he had gloves. I thought he was checking my pulse, and maybe he had been, but then he was shaking my wrist, telling me to drop the tissue. I had blown my nose into it, so I shook my head.

  "...just want to see if we have Christmas colors..."

  He put some strange pressure on my wrist that made my fingers open. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and poked the tissue open on the floor rather than touching it himself. The thought roared through me: I have something serious, I have something contagious, or he wouldn't be acting like this. What killed Aleese?

  A few tears erupted. "Um, what's Christmas colors?"

  "Red and green." He stared downward, obviously not bothered by my outburst or my tissues. "But all you have is white. White is good. May all your Christmases be white."

  He reached to the box of tissues and handed me another. Then he sat there watching me, his hands stuffed in his pockets again.

  "So. What hurts?"

  I pointed a shaky finger to my eye.

  "Headache?" He reached for my eye, then thought the better of it, putting his hands back in his pockets.

  "Yes."

  "Bad?"

  All this crying actually seemed to have cut the pain way down—or maybe it was the relief of human company. It had been years since I'd been asked to describe something bothering me. I wasn't quite sure what bad was, whether I qualified...

  "Bad?" He asked louder, as if it was important for me to confess.

  "Yes, but ... I took Tylenol. About twenty minutes ago. Maybe it's starting to help some."

  He put his hands up emphatically, like he wanted to pull my face up to his to say something important, but he opted to drum on his knees instead.

  "Can I ask for a favor?" he said.

  "Sure."

  "My brother's outside. Can I bring him in here?"

  "Sure..." But my eyes rolled as I went through wrenching visions of trying to hold a conversation. "Truthfully, I don't want to see anyone right now—"

  "Neither does he. He's sick, too." Despite Scott's attempt at a casual expression, I saw the fuming hells behind his eyes.

  "I've got about fifty people in my house right now for him to contaminate, if Rain hasn't already done so. She's with him. I'd like to bring her in, too."

  My eyes flew around. My three-day cleaning job, which had looked so spic-and-span this morning, suddenly showed all its flaws. I hadn't cleaned the windows ... Aleese's box of videos was in the middle of the floor.

  "Cora, don't stress out. You know how badly you don't want to talk to people right now? Trust me: You'll be in there with the champ. I'll just bring Owen in, and he can lie on the couch while I run down to my house and see if Dr. O'Dell or Tom Hennessey, my boss, is in there and can come look at you guys. I'll tell Rain to keep quiet for once."

  And before I could object, he was out the door again. I sat there blinking, relieved that this headache actually did seem better, enough so that I wouldn't be moaning aloud. I knew my heart ought to be slamming—Rain Steckerman and Owen Eberman in my house? But the overwhelmed look on Scott's face melted it down to mush. He's too young for all this ... his mother is not even buried yet... and yet I sensed it kept him sane somehow, this looking out for the sick. Maybe it was good that I hadn't argued.

  Owen appeared in the doorway, then Rain, then Scott, and I could sense Owen's anxiety in his huge, stiffened frame. It flared from his blue eyes, but with something else ... relief?

  "Cora, thank you very much," he said, reminding me of Prince William taking the flowers from strangers after his mother, Princess Diana, passed away. It was sincere but awkward, wrapped in grief, that a thoughtful person wouldn't want to spew all over strangers.

  "You got one of those bad headaches?" Rain asked, drawing near to me in concern.

  I stonewalled her, again trying to decide what "bad" meant.

  "I've had two," she w
ent right on. "You feel like you're gonna die, but then it starts going away faster than other headaches I've had. Very, very weird headaches."

  "Yes. Very weird." I don't know what drove me to my feet, except that I felt like I ought to do something. "May I get you anything? Would you like tea? Ice water?"

  "How about a pair of socks?"

  Rain reached up under her skirt and stepped out of her badly run stockings right in front of Owen. She stretched and cracked her toes. Owen didn't seem to notice, and when my eyes met hers, her fingers flew to her lips as if she had done something wrong.

  I knew I occasionally had this effect on people. With all my trying not to be like Aleese, I had shot myself in the foot. I made people my age uncomfortable. Rain would have asked my questions entirely differently—You guys want soda?—instead of my prissy little tea speech. But it was too late now, so I made my way to the laundry room. I didn't wear sweat socks, but figured Rain would be happiest in a pair of Aleese's that I had just bleached and washed and, fortunately, had not yet sent to Goodwill.

  Scott had visited the bedrooms and pulled pillows off my bed. He tossed one to each of them and tossed mine on Oma's chair. He had moved Aleese's pictures over to the fireplace mantel, and Owen was flopping down in her place on the couch.

  With a finger still pointed at me, Scott said to them, "Don't let her get you anything. Don't let her be polite. Everybody, go to sleep. I'll be back."

  He stepped over Rain, who sat on the floor with a pillow in her lap, and as if his first advice would be lost on her, he said, "You keep quiet."

  And he was gone.

  I slithered into the chair and squashed the pillow into my neck slowly, not wanting to shut my eyes for fear of looking rude, but not wanting to be the first to speak. Scott surely knew his brother well. Owen said nothing. I could only see the top of his head over the pillow, but I assumed he hadn't fallen asleep that fast.