CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

 

 

Not everyone was able to tell when they were in a dream; some people only part of the time; and, for Henry, it was almost never. Tonight, he had started out playing for his beloved Dodgers. He was on the bench sitting next to Karl Spooner. The Dodgers were up to bat in the bottom of the fifth, and Roy Campanella had just hit a one out home run and was returning to the bench. He sat a few feet away and was putting his gear back on. Henry knew it was a dream but didn't care. Karl was talking to him just like he was one of the guys; he was complaining how sore his right arm was because of his start the day before. Henry said to Karl, "Yeah, my neck is bothering me. Must have wrenched it when I slid into second." Karl said he thought it was great the way Henry had broken up that double play and kept the inning alive. Just then the crack of the bat caused Henry to look out into the field and see...

The window had made a cracking sound as it was buffeted by the fierce snowstorm outside. Henry glanced at his watch. It was 2:47 am. He had been asleep for only a half hour or so. He shifted around in the chair, pulled his overcoat back over him, and drifted off again. The next few hours were filled with moments: some happy, some terrifying, some just plain bizarre. The last dream was in a huge library. The stacks were, at first, like the ones he had seen when he went to Sylvia's and had found the book in her father's collection. Then he was among the books where he had hidden the journal, and he finally had been standing in a strange place filled with towers of books and magazines. They weren't on shelves but stacked and piled all about a massive room. Henry could see rows and paths that had been created among the mountains of books, and he found himself wandering through them with a feeling of helplessness. He saw a book that he suspected might contain a clue, but the hundreds of books on top of it made it too heavy for him to pull it out. Each time he tried, the stack would start to sway. He was sure that if it fell on him he would be crushed. He gave it a final pull and...

He woke up feeling like he had been crushed by a stack of books. His head was pounding, and every muscle ached from sleeping in a ball on the chair. He looked over at Luna; she was lying on her side, hugging a pillow, a little smile running across her face. Her look of calm was unsettling to Henry. She trusted him. Luna truly believed everything was going to be alright, and she was counting on him to make it happen. Henry felt a chill run through his body. Doubt started screaming in his head. Or was that the hangover? He couldn't be sure.

He got up quietly and went into the bathroom. The haggard looking man in the mirror didn't look like he played for Brooklyn. Of all the dreams the night before, that was the one that remained with him, that and something about books. He turned the faucet on, just barely, so as not to make too much noise. He splashed a bit of ice-cold water on his face. Wiping it off, he looked in the mirror again. A determined man looked back.

Luna didn't hear him leave. He went down to the desk and used the phone to order her some room service. The note she would find when they knocked would explain that he had gone back to the office. The doorman happily accepted the fin and said he would make sure she got in a cab safely.

The snow was still coming down, and the wind was fierce. The gentle, almost pretty flakes that coated the grime of the city had been replaced with icy, biting snow. It whipped down the street and stung the faces of any who ventured out. It was only a block to the front of the familiar triangular Flatiron building, but Henry was glad when he got inside. It was still pretty early, just past six, and he didn't hear anyone else milling about. Henry took the stairs.

He noticed the sound of his feet on the floor. It reminded him of the previous night, but then he heard another sound. It was a sort of rustling. A light was on in Bobby's office. Though he wasn't in the mood for the strange little man, he was curious about what he was up to at such an early hour. Henry opened the door and walked into the outer office. He was astonished.

Bobby heard the door and quickly scurried up to meet Henry. "Hey there, old buddy, how's it going today? Did you see the paper?"

"Uhm," Henry stammered as he looked around the room, "No."

"Well, it sounds like your old pal, the DA, had a little run in down the street. I wonder what he was doing in this part of town at that hour. It was right outside; he was mugged. The paper says it was some street kids. What do you think of that?"

"I don't know, Bobby," Henry said, having regained his composure. He didn't like being caught off guard, and the office had nearly knocked him to the floor. Everywhere he looked there were stacks and stacks of books, magazines, and newspapers. He looked down at Bobby with his eager, helpful face and asked, "Do you have today's paper? I haven't seen it yet."

"Oh, ya, sure, boss. I got it right here. Just a second." He scurried around a stack of books and past a table with books above and below it and stopped by a stack of newspapers that was about seven feet tall. He reached his hand into the stack and, with the deftness of a magician, swiftly pulled the paper out from near the bottom. Bobby was deceptively quick. Within what seemed like an unreasonable amount of time, he stood back in front of Henry, the newspaper in his hand. "Here you go; it is on the front page."

Henry took the paper and, sure enough, it was today's. He considered asking why it was so far down in the stack, but, though his head was pounding, he was starting to think more clearly. He realized if he asked Bobby about it, Bobby would likely answer...at length. He read the front page, and it was just as Bobby had described. The DA had been mugged but wasn't severely injured. Henry handed the paper back to Bobby who ran back and somehow replaced it in the stack.

"Well, I just stopped in to say hi. I have a lot to do, so take care," Henry said as he quickly left. The stale smell of Bobby's office was more than he could stomach at the moment, and he really just wanted to be alone and to think about his next move. The office was as he had left it. Henry hung his coat on the hook and sat down behind his desk. He leaned back, tipped his hat over his eyes, and put his feet up. He felt rough and worn out. A few minutes later he realized that he wasn't actually doing much thinking. Henry gave in to his own exhaustion, but, just before he fell into a deep sleep, the memory of his dream from earlier danced across his brain. He thought to himself how similar it had been to Bobby's office. He slept.