"Damn those cheaters," he said, his carotid artery swelling in rage.
"Calm down, honey. It's only a game."
"Only a game? Only a game?" He ran a hand through his dark hair, which was beginning to show the first signs of silver. "It's the Tarheels playing. Down by six with a minute left. And the Antichrist forces of St. John's are holding the ball."
Tamara almost made a remark about Robert living out a gladiatorial macho instinct by proxy, but she let it pass. There was enough friction between them lately that an innocent quip might flare into a free-for-all. Robert leaned back and took a drink of his chocolate milk. Tamara looked at him out of the corners of her eyes..
He pumped his fist as the Tarheels nailed a jumper.
Maybe if the Tarheels win, he'll be in a good mood. Maybe tonight. The Gloomies are away on vacation, even if they’re keeping in touch via long distance.
She looked at her work and the words swam without meaning. She needed a rest. From psychology. From thinking. From shu-shaaa. She put her books aside and leaned her head on Robert's shoulder.
She watched as the Tarheels made what the announcer called a "trey," and her head fell to the sofa cushion as Robert leaned forward. She put a hand on his knee and rubbed his thigh as a skinny Carolina player hit a pair of free throws.
“Comeback City, baby!” the announcer shouted.
The crowd roared as if they were at a Nazi rally. Tamara pictured that much excitement taking place as a library opened its doors or a community theater dropped the final curtain on a staging of Our Town. The suspension of disbelief was too much of a stretch. The final horn sounded on the television set and Robert was airborne, pumping his arms just like Kevin did when excited.
"The Redmen are Deadmen," Robert said, imitating the announcer. "Aw, baby!"
Tamara watched him pace excitedly for a minute as the sportscasters droned nasally about tournament brackets and Sweet Sixteens and Final Fours and seeds. Sports had its own secret language, just as psychology and academia and religion did. Just another competitive belief system, only the score was much clearer in sports.
Everyone needs their buzzwords. Even would-be clairvoyants need names for their Gloomies. Names like Shu-shaaa.
Later, in bed, Robert touched her, his palms still moist from the tension of watching the game. "How did your day go, honey?"
She smiled against the dark pillow. "Fine. No Gloomies."
"I'm glad."
"So, are you excited about Blossomfest?"
"I'm agonna buy me a Rebel flag ashtray, and maybe one of ‘em little wooden outhouses, you know the kind, what's got the hillbilly with the corncob pecker."
She laughed, surprised that she was surprised by it. Laughter sounded strangely out of place, the way their bedroom had been lately.
Robert spooned against the warm flannel of her nightgown. The night was a little damp and chilly, but she mostly wore the gown so that Robert could take it off. She hoped.
"Listen, honey. I know I've been a little distant lately,” he said. "Been worried about work and stuff, wondering if we did the right thing moving here."
"Robert, we've been over that enough. You like the station. I know it's not as demanding as a big-market FM, but it's just as important to the audience. And the kids really love it here."
"But what about you? I just feel so selfish, pulling you away from Carolina just when things were starting to happen for you."
"Things can happen at Westridge, too."
"Are you sure you're happy?"
She turned to him, close enough to feel his breath in her hair. Twin sparkles were all she could see of his eyes.
"Honey, I'm doing fine," she said. "I told you that. And you know I'm honest with you, and I trust that you're always honest with me."
There was a long heavy pause. Tamara was afraid that Robert still didn't believe her.
"Honey," he said. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you-”
SHU-SHAAA.
The Gloomies washed over her in a gray-red tide, pounding the cliffs of her mind. She sat bolt upright and listened to the dark world outside.
Crickets. A chuckling chipmunk. A dog barking down the street. There-a snapping twig.
"Something's outside, Robert."
"Honey, it's the middle of the night. Things don't move at this time of night in Windshake. It's against the laws of nature up here."
"Robert, you know me."
Robert sighed heavily and rolled out of bed. He leaned his face against the window and looked out into the woods that lined the backyard.
Robert turned and Tamara saw the black outline of his arms raise against the dim moonlit backdrop.
"Nothing there, honey," he said, the mattress squeaking as he slid under the covers.
"The Gloomies are back."
"I know," Robert muttered. "Do the bastards ever leave?"
Tamara was stung. Tears welled in her eyes. Then her pain turned to anger. The son of a bitch would not make her cry.
"You could be a little more sympathetic," she said. Her voice was cold. Her body was cold. Her heart was cold, like a shriveled dead star collapsing under the tired weight of its own gravity.
"I've been sympathetic,” Robert said. “For years. Your father's dead and you can't bring him back.”
"But it was my fault."
"No. You just had a dream. You happened to have a dream that he was hurtling through the dark in a metal tube and then it exploded into fire." Robert’s voice was flat, as if reciting an overly familiar line.
"But nobody believed me."
"It was just a dream."
"But see what happened?"
"Your father died in a car crash the next morning."
The tears tried to come back. She fought them and lost. "I tried to make him stay home," she said, her throat aching. "But he just tweaked one of my pigtails and laughed and said that he'd be fine. Only he wasn't fine. He was dead, ripped to pieces by metal and glass."
"And by bad luck. Fate. Coincidence. God's will, or whatever. It could have happened on any day, or never at all."
"But the dream."
"Premonition. You know it's fairly common. You're the psychologist, after all."
Tamara thought he said "psychologist" with the trace of a sneer.
"But what about the other times? When Kevin broke his leg?"
"We can't stop living every time you have a bad dream."
Tamara pressed her face into the pillow, drying her tears. She was afraid that the tethers were broken, that whatever connected her to Robert had snapped its mooring, that she and he were tumbling apart like lost astronauts, drifting into a nebulous gray territory. She was alone, at the mercy of the Gloomies.
The inside of her brain tingled, an itch that was beyond scratching. She wasn’t sure whether she had slipped into sleep and suffered a bad dream or if shu-shaaa was talking to her again. All she knew was that the noise was loud, a scream, as if the source of the signal had been turned up to ten and a half.
She wrapped the pillow around her head, thinking of the kids, psychological theories, her failing marriage, anything but the vibrations that shook the walls of her skull.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sylvester staggered against a garbage can, spilling refuse on the sidewalk. He couldn’t flow as quickly without sunlight, but he was determined. He left the paved street for the quieter glory of the forest.
The oaks throbbed, their mighty limbs rich with sap. He merged with the ash and poplar, the hickory and laurel, and reveled in the generous sharing of the thorns and nettles as they tore at his flesh. In the jungle of his mind, among his tangled synapses where the seratonin oozed, he was aware of the parent channeling nature’s energy through him. He was a vessel.