“‘And it remains there to this day, trapped inside the head of a painter who once dreamed a dream of a magic man and his young apprentice.
“‘But the mask has changed, has grown more powerful as the painter grows more ill. It is stuffing itself—gorging itself—on his dreams, his images, his ideas and memories . . .
“‘Most of all, his memories . . .
“‘They say it waits for the day when the painter can fight it no longer, and it will tear through his skull and devour the world you know . . . “‘Swallow it whole . . . “‘It has given itself a name . . . “‘“Call me Gash,” it says to the darkness . . .
“‘Gash is the destroyer of all things wondrous, the eater of wishes, the mangler of joy, the killer of spirit, the ruiner of hope, the deformer of memories . . . “‘Magic never dies . . . but magic men do . . . . “‘And there is nothing so dangerous as the mad orphan called abandoned magic.’” The three actors looked at one another, then nodded.
March crushed out his cigarette, lit another. “You know Gash by another name. One you should be familiar with, seeing as how he killed your grandmother, and how your mother was always worried he’d eventually get her, as well.”
Martin opened his mouth to speak, but then Harold Russell shook his hooks and hissed, “Someone’s coming!”
Wendy stumbled into the main area and fell into the easy chair opposite Martin’s. Her face was flushed and her eyes glazed. She looked right at Martin, not seeing him, then stared at the television where March, Andrews, and Russell were saying their good-byes, promising each other that they’d get together again very soon.
“I hate these old fuckin’ movies,” Wendy said to no one in particular. “Why didn’t they make ‘em in color, anyway? Fuckin’ fuck-brains . . . .”
Martin laced his hands into a single, ten-fingered, white-knuckled fist and pressed it into his lap, rocking back and forth.
You know Gash by a different name . . .
That he did.
(Mom in the kitchen, looking around for a favorite sauce spoon: “I can’t seem to keep track of anything these days . . . must be losing my mind or coming down with—”)
The eater of wishes, the mangler of joy, the deformer of memories . . .
Alzheimer’s disease.
Saying nothing to anyone, Martin went back to his room, closed the door, and sat on his bed staring at the watercolors until Bernard came a-pummeling to announce lunch.
3
It should have surprised—if not outright petrified—Martin to discover that the third client in The Center was the large, balding black man who’d read the first part of the story to him from within the television, but by the time he sat down to lunch that first day, he was almost beyond it; too much had happened too quickly for him to fully deal with any of it, so—after taking his afternoon meds—he decided to follow his dad’s advice: He’d keep his eyes open, his ears peeled, and his ass attached. He was feeling shiny and more than willing to go along for the ride.
Wendy sat at the far end of the second table; Storyteller-Man at the far end of the first; so Martin took a spot more or less equidistant from each of them.
“You’re not making this easy,” said Storyteller-Man.
“I get a lot of complaints about that,” replied Martin, trying to figure out what sort of Mystery Meat had been used to make the hamburger. Storyteller-Man sighed, shook his head, then picked up his tray and moved down to sit across from Martin. “They’re real.” Not looking up, Martin doctored his hamburger with some salt and pepper and said, “Who’s real?” “You know. The Onlookers.”
Now Martin raised his head. “Is that what they’re called?”
“That’s what Bob named them, yes.”
“Who’s Bob?”
“I am. Well, my name’s Jerry, but I’m still . . . wait a second.” He closed his eyes and pressed his chin down against his chest, and for a moment he flickered, becoming a reverse image, a living film negative, but then pulled in a deep, hard breath and re-assumed solidity. “Sorry. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up this ruse.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What’s happening?”
Jerry raised one of his large, strong-looking hands, stopping Martin from asking further questions. “Remember how your dad was always telling people to stop yammering and get to the point? That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“How do you know what Dad used to say?”
“The same way I know that you had a short but perplexing conversation with your six-year-old self last night. The same way I know that when you tried to lose your virginity to Debbie Carver when you were fifteen you shot your wad all over her left thigh before you even got it in, and from that day on she always called you ‘Lefty’ but never told anyone why. The same way I know that you once stole ten dollars from your mom’s purse when you were sixteen to buy a couple of really rotten joints—and you always felt bad about that, didn’t you? Even though you eventually put back twenty, you always felt bad about it—and remember the way she made such a fuss over finding that twenty? ‘I must have a fairy godmother looking after me, Zeke.’ ‘Zeke’ was her nickname for you, by the way, and no one except her and you knew that. Ever. Do you want more examples or can we assume that you now understand I know things and move on?”
Martin raised his hands in surrender. “How can you be both someone named Jerry and someone named Bob?” No sooner was the question out of his mouth than he knew the answer:
R.J. Nyman.
Robert Jerome Nyman.
“But you weren’t black,” he said. “You were a short little old white guy with bad teeth, B.O., and shaky hands. I remember the shaky hands because the only time they were still was when they were holding a pencil or brush.”
“Hooray, his powers of recall aren’t completely in the crapper. Yes, that’s right—Bob is that short little old white guy; I’m the image he invented for his muse, and he calls me ‘Jerry’ because I’m as much a part of him as your right side is to you.” “Why’d he make you black?” “You got something against black folks?” “No. Just curious.”
Jerry thought about this for a moment. “I guess I believe you. To answer your question: I don’t know. I’ve only been . . . like this . . . real, I’d guess you’d say, for a little while. There’s only so much mental detritus I can sift through at any given time.”
“What are you, exactly?”
Jerry picked up his hamburger, looked at the Mystery Meat, then dropped it back onto his tray. “I’m what’s left of Bob’s lucidity, of his reason, of his creativity and intelligence. I’m what managed to escape before Gash started in on the last few courses of his feasting. I can only hold this form for so long—like when Bernie does his bed-check or Ethel comes around with the meds . . . they only think of me as being here for as long as they see me, then maybe for a few minutes or so afterward . . . I . . . uh . . . I can only be this way for short . . . wait, I said that already, didn’t I? . . . I can only be this way for short periods . . . because the closer Bob comes to death . . . .” He stopped speaking, his eyes snapping closed, his whole body locking up in pain; his face began to bulge and swell and discolor; a jagged crack appeared in the center of his forehead and split downward, chewing through his substance like a shredder through sheets of paper, consuming him, bit by bit—his arms and legs became stumps, his eyes seemed to collapse into their sockets, his chest began to implode and he flickered once again, a human film negative, and from somewhere in the center of all this came the echo of a terrified scream, then with a sudden, powerful lurch, he pressed himself against the edge of the table and again was whole.