Book of Souls

He drove over to Mamaroneck Avenue, the main commercial drag, and parked the car at a meter near Main Street. It was a bleak, wet, miserable night and the street wasn’t busy. Ahead of him, he saw the only cheerfully lit-up building, the new Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and he headed for it, his collar up against the rain.

The bar was up at the top of the high-rise, on the forty-second floor, and Will settled into an armchair and took in the spaceship view. To the south, Manhattan was a finger of pinpoint lights floating in the darkness. The bar wasn’t busy. He ordered a Johnnie Walker. He promised himself he wouldn’t go overboard.

An hour and three drinks later, he wasn’t drunk but he wasn’t exactly sober either. He was vaguely aware that a group of three middle-aged women across the room were fixated on him and that the waitress was awfully attentive. Typical. He got it all the time, and he usually milked it, but tonight he was in no mood.

In a way, he had been hopelessly naïve to think he could have signed a secrecy agreement and walked away from the Library without being saddled by its knowledge and a slave to its fate. He had tried to ignore it, live his life without thinking about the ball and chain of predestination, and he had been successful for a while, until Spence and Kenyon rolled into town on their bus.

Now he was in it up to his eyeballs, suffocated by the realization that Isabelle and her grandfather had to die because he had to visit them. And Spence had to persuade him to go to England. And Will had

to retire because of the Doomsday case. And Shackleton had to steal the database and perpetrate his crimes. And Will had to be his college roommate. And Will had to have the athletic skills and brains to get into Harvard. And Will’s alcohol-wicked father had to get it up and be able to perform the night he was conceived. And so on, and so on.

It was enough to make you crazy, or at least make you drink.

He stopped at three and paid the bill. He was overcome by an urge to hurry back to the house, lumber into bed noisily enough to wake Nancy, hold her in his arms, tell her again how sorry he was and how much he cherished her and maybe, if she wanted, make love, make absolution. He trotted back to the car and ten minutes later he was creeping back into the warm and cozy Lipinski house.

He sat on the edge of the bed undressing, the raindrops pinging the roof. Philly was peaceful in his crib. He slid under the sheets and put his hand on Nancy ’s thigh. It was warm and smooth. His head was swimming. He ought to let her sleep, but he wanted her. “ Nancy?” She didn’t stir. “Honey?”

He gave her a little squeeze but she didn’t respond. Then another squeeze. Then, a shake. Nothing!

Alarmed, he sat up and turned on the light. She was on her side and didn’t wake up to the harsh glare of the overhead fixture. He rolled her over onto her back. She was breathing shallowly. Her cheeks were red. Cherry red.

That’s when he noticed his own brain was operating slowly, not a drunkenness, a sluggishness, like gears that were clogged with gritty sludge. With all his might he yelled, “Gas!” and forced himself off the bed to open both windows wide.

He threw himself over the side of his son’s crib and picked him up. He was limp, his skin like shiny red plastic. “Joseph!” he screamed. “Mary!”

He began to give Philly mouth-to-mouth while he ran down the stairs. In the front hall he grabbed a phone, threw open the front door then put the infant on the rough welcome mat. He fell to his knees. In between chest-expanding breaths into his son’s little nose and mouth, he called 911.

Then, he made a desperate decision. He left the baby on the mat and ran back inside for Nancy, screaming for her at the top of his lungs, like a man who was trying to wake the dead.

WILL HEARD HIS NAME. The voice was coming from far away. Or was it close but whispered? Either way, it caused him to snap from a disturbingly light sleep to the reality of the moment: a hospital room streaming with daylight.

At the instant of wakening he was uncertain whether he was patient or visitor, in the bed or beside it, having his hand held or holding someone’s.

Then, with a blink, it came back.

He was holding Nancy ’s hand, and she was staring up into his bloodshot eyes and pitifully squeezing his thick fingers. “Will?”

“Hey.” He wanted to cry.

He could see the confusion on her face. The flashing, beeping ICU machinery didn’t make sense to her.

“You’re in the hospital,” he said. “You’re going to be okay.”

“What happened?” She was hoarse. The intubation tube had been removed only a few hours earlier.

“Carbon monoxide.”

She looked wild. “Where’s Philly?”

He squeezed her hand tightly. “He’s okay. He came out of it fast. He’s a little fighter. He’s in the pediatric wing. I’ve been shuttling back and forth.”

Then, “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

He squeezed her hand again, and said, “I’m sorry, honey. They didn’t wake up.”