Alan groped for the memory. The story sounded familiar. It came back slowly, like a slide projection very gradually being brought into focus.
"Oh, yeah. Sure. They say anything else about him?"
"No. Just that he's critical."
Did I do that? Alan asked himself after he had said goodbye to Sylvia.
Had he wanted to harm the senator? Had that somehow influenced the Touch to worsen his illness rather than cure it? Or had McCready simply worked himself into such a state that he brought the crisis upon himself?
Why try to kid himself? He had felt an odd sensation in his arms before McCready collapsed. Not the usual electric pleasure. Something different. Had he brought that on or had the power itself initiated it?
He didn't know. And not knowing worried him.
He shifted in the chair, felt something crinkle in his pocket, and pulled out Mr. K's empty Camel pack. Smiling, he set it on the table. Mr. K… Alan wondered if he had really stopped smoking.
There came a click of a key in the lock of the apartment door and Chac came in, dressed in a blue work shirt and denim coveralls. He bowed to Alan, then embraced his wife. Hai brought tea for both of them. Alan accepted it with what he hoped was a gracious smile. He was swimming in tea.
He watched with amazement as Chac deftly lit an unfiltered cigarette with his deformed hands. As Alan tried to hold up his end of a halting conversation about the weather, he detected a growing murmur of voices in the hall outside the door. He was about to ask Chac about it when the Vietnamese slapped his hands on his thighs and said, "It is time!"
"Time for what?"
"Dat-tay-vao." He held out his hands to Alan. "Please?"
Was the Hour of Power on? And if so, how did Chac know? Alan shrugged. Only one way to find out.
He grasped the twisted fingers—
—and there it was again. That indescribable pleasure. Alan found something very comfortable in the Touch today. Maybe it was because Chac took its existence and effects for granted; there was no doubt to overcome, no preconceptions to butt against, no need to cover it up, just simple acceptance. And maybe it was because the Dat-tay-vao itself was back among the people who knew it best and revered it most. In a sense, the Touch had come home.
Chac raised his new hands and wrists before his eyes and flexed his slim, straight fingers. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. Speechless, he nodded his thanks to Alan, who placed an understanding hand on the older man's shoulder.
Chac stood and showed Hai, who embraced him, then went to the door and opened it.
The hall was filled with people. It looked like half of the city's Southeast Asian population was on the landing. They gasped in unison at the sight of Chac's normal, upraised hands, then broke into a babble of singsong voices, none of them speaking English.
Chac turned to him and dried his eyes. "I thank you. And I wonder if you would be so kind as to let the Dat-tay-vao heal others."
Alan didn't answer.
Why me? he wondered for the thousandth time. Why should he wind up with responsibility for the Dat-tay-vao? To decide whether to use it or not? He vaguely remembered being told that it was hurting him, that he paid a personal price every time he used it.
Do I want this?
He looked across the table at the happy little boy sitting with his grandmother, alive and well this morning instead of dead or on a respirator. He saw Chac flexing and extending his new fingers again and again. And he saw Mr. K's empty cigarette pack.
This was what it was all about: second chances. A chance to go back to when and where the illness had struck and start fresh again. Maybe that was the answer to Why me? He wanted to provide that second chance—give them all a second chance.
"Doctor?" Chac said, waiting.
"Bring them in," he told Chac. "Bring them all in."
Alan waited in anticipation as Chac went back to the door. This was going to be good. He could be up front about the Touch here. No worry about newspapers and hospital boards and conniving politicians. Just Alan, the patient, and the Dat-tay-vao.
He motioned to Chac to hurry. There would be no holding back today, no pussyfooting around. The Touch would recede in an hour and he wanted to treat as many as he could.
Chac brought the first forward: a middle-aged man with both arms locked at right angles in front of him.
"The Cong broke his elbows so that he would go through life unable to take food or drink by himself."
Alan wasted no time. He grabbed both elbows and felt the familiar shock. The man cried out as his arms straightened at the elbows for the first time in years, and then he began to swing them up and down. He fell to his knees, but Alan gently pushed him aside and motioned a limping boy forward.
On they came, in a steady stream. And as the Dat-tay-vao worked its magic on each one, Alan felt himself enveloped in an ever-deepening cloud of euphoria. The details of the room faded away. All that was left was a tunnel view of his hands and the person before him. A part of him was frightened, calling for a halt. Alan ignored it. He was at peace with himself, with his life. This was as it should be. This was what his life was about, this was what he had been born for.
He pressed on, literally pulling the people toward him and pushing them aside as soon as the pleasure flashed through him.
The haze grew thicker. And still the people came.
* * *
The flashes of ecstasy stopped coming but the haze remained. It seemed to permeate all levels of his consciousness.
Where am I?
He tried to remember but the answer wouldn't come.
Who am I?
He couldn't even think of his name. But there was another name surfacing through the haze. He reached for it, found it, and said it aloud.
"Jeffy."
He clung to the name, repeating it.
"Jeffy."
The name ignited a small flame within him. He turned his face northeast. He had to find Jeffy. Jeffy would tell him who he was.
He stood and almost fell. His left leg was weak. He called for help, and shadowy figures babbling gibberish propped him up until he was steady. As he began to walk toward the door, gentle hands tried to hold him back. He said one word: "No." The hands fell away and the figures parted to let him pass. He came to a set of stairs and paused, unsure of where his feet were. He tried to reach out for the banister with his left hand but could not raise it high enough. It was so heavy.
"Help," he said. "Jeffy."
Hands and arms lifted him and carried him down and around a number of times and finally brought him into the bright, hot sun where they set him on his feet again.
He began to walk. He knew the direction. Jeffy was like a beacon. He moved toward it.
"Jeffy."
___49.___
Sylvia
Sylvia sat on the library couch where she and Alan had made love last week and patiently listened to the noon news, waiting for further word on McCready. There was nothing new. She rose and reached to switch off the weatherman when the camera abruptly cut away from him to the anchorman.
"This just in: Senator James McCready is dead. We have just received word that the senator has died from complications of a long-standing illness. We will break into our regular programming as more details become available."