To Jacob, I said, “Sister Miriam says you lost your mother when you were thirteen, more than twelve years ago.”
He was sketching a boat from a high perspective.
“I’ve never lost a mother because I never really had one. But I lost a girl I loved. She meant everything to me.”
With a few lines he suggested that the sea, when fully drawn, would be gently rolling.
“She was beautiful, this girl, and beautiful in her heart. She was kind and tough, sweet and determined. Smart, she was smarter than me. And so funny.”
Jacob paused to study what he had thus far put on the paper.
“Life had been hard on this girl, Jacob, but she had enough courage for an army.”
His tongue retreated, and he bit instead on his lower lip.
“We never made love. Because of a bad thing that happened to her when she was a little girl, she wanted to wait. Wait until we could afford to be married.”
With two styles of cross-hatching, he began to give substance to the hull of the boat.
“Sometimes I thought I couldn’t wait, but then I always could. Because she gave me so much else, and everything she gave me was more than a thousand other girls could ever give. All she wanted was love with respect, respect was so important to her, and I could give her that. I don’t know what she saw in me, you know? But I could give her that much.”
The pencil whispered over the paper.
“She took four bullets in the chest and abdomen. My sweet girl, who never hurt a soul.”
The moving pencil gave Jacob comfort. I could see how he took comfort from creation.
“I killed the man who killed her, Jacob. If I had gotten there two minutes sooner, I might have killed him before he killed her.”
The pencil hesitated, but then moved on.
“We were destined to be together forever, my girl and I. We had a fortune-teller’s card that said so. And we will be…forever. This here, now—this is just an intermission between act one and act two.”
Perhaps Jacob trusts God to guide his hand and show him the very boat and the precise place on the ocean where the bell rang, so he will know it, after all, when his own time comes to float away.
“They didn’t scatter my girl’s ashes at sea. They gave them to me in an urn. A friend in my hometown keeps it safe for me.”
As the pencil whispered, Jacob murmured, “She could sing.”
“If her voice was as lovely as her face, it must have been sweet. What did she sing?”
“So pretty. Just for me. When the dark came.”
“She sang you to sleep.”
“When I woke up and the dark wasn’t gone yet, and the dark seemed so big, then she sang soft and made the dark small again.”
That is the best of all things we can do for one another: Make the dark small.
“Jacob, earlier you told me about someone called the Neverwas.”
“He’s the Neverwas, and we don’t care.”
“You said he came to see you when you were ‘full of the black.’”
“Jacob was full of the black, and the Neverwas said, ‘Let him die.’”
“So ‘full of the black’ means you were ill. Very ill. Was the man who said they should let you die—was he a doctor?”
“He was the Neverwas. That’s all he was. And we don’t care.”
I watched the graceful lines emerge from the simple pencil gripped by the stubby fingers of the short broad hand.
“Jacob, do you remember the face of the Neverwas?”
“A long time ago.” He shook his head. “A long time ago.”
Cataracts of falling snow made a blind eye of the window.
In the doorway, Romanovich tapped one finger against the face of his watch and raised his eyebrows.
We might have precious little time remaining, but I could think of nowhere better to spend it than here, where I had been sent by the medium of the once-dead Justine.
Intuition raised a question that at once seemed important to me.
“Jacob, you know my name, my full name.”
“The Odd Thomas.”
“Yes. My last name is Thomas. Do you know your last name?”
“Her name.”
“That’s right. It would be your mother’s last name, too.”
“Jennifer.”
“That’s a first name, like Jacob.”
The pencil stopped moving, as if the memory of his mother came so vividly to him that no part of his mind or heart remained free to guide his drawing.
“Jenny,” he said. “Jenny Calvino.”
“So you are Jacob Calvino.”
“Jacob Calvino,” he confirmed.
Intuition had told me that the name would be revealing, but it meant nothing to me.
Again the pencil moved, and the boat took further form, the vessel from which Jenny Calvino’s ashes had been dispersed.
As during my previous visit, a second large drawing tablet lay closed on the table. The longer I tried and dismally failed to think of questions that might extract vital information from Jacob, the more my attention was compelled toward that tablet.
If I inspected the second tablet without permission, Jacob might consider my curiosity a violation of his privacy. Offended, he might withdraw again, and give me nothing further.
On the other hand, if I asked to see the tablet and he refused permission, that avenue of inquiry would be closed off.
Jacob’s last name was not revelatory, as I had thought it would be, but in this case, I did not think that intuition would fail me. The tablet seemed almost to glow, almost to be floating above the table, the most vivid thing in the room, hyper-real.
I slid the tablet in front of me, and Jacob either did not notice or did not care.
When I turned back the cover, I found a drawing of this room’s only window. Pressed to the glass was a kaleidoscope of bones, which he had rendered in exquisite detail.
Sensing that I had found something alarming, Romanovich took a step into the room.
I raised one hand to warn him to stop, but then held up the drawing so he could see it.
When I turned the page, I found another depiction of the beast at the same window, though in this one, the bones formed a pattern different from the first.
Either the thing had clung to the window long enough for Jacob to draw it in great detail, which I doubted, or he had a photographic memory.
The third drawing was of a robed figure wearing a necklace of human teeth and bones: Death as I had seen him in the bell tower, with pale hands and without a face.
As I was about to show this drawing to Romanovich, three bodachs slunk into the room, and I closed the tablet.
CHAPTER 43
EITHER NOT INTERESTED IN ME OR PRETENDING no interest, the three sinister shapes gathered around Jacob.
Their hands were fingerless, as devoid of detail as were their faces and forms. Yet they were more suggestive of paws—or the webbed extremities of amphibians—than of hands.
As Jacob worked, oblivious of his spirit visitors, they appeared to stroke his cheeks. Quivering with excitement, the specters traced the curve of his thick neck and kneaded his heavy shoulders.
Bodachs appear to experience this world with some if not all of the usual five senses, perhaps also with a sixth sense of their own, but they have no effect on things here. If a hundred were to rush past in a pack, they would make no sound, create no slightest draft.
They seemed to thrill to a radiance produced by Jacob that was invisible to me, perhaps his life force, knowing that soon it would be torn from him. When eventually the violence comes, the pending horror that has drawn them, they will shudder and spasm and swoon in ecstasy.
Previously, I have had reason to suspect that they might not be spirits. I sometimes wonder if they are instead time travelers who return to the past not physically but in virtual bodies.
If our current barbaric world spirals into greater corruption and brutality, our descendants may becom
e so cruel and so morally perverse that they cross time to watch us suffer, bearing orgasmic witness to the bloodbaths from which their sick civilization grew.
In truth, that is a few small steps down from current audiences’ fascination with the wall-to-wall disaster coverage, bloody murder stories, and relentless fear-mongering that comprise TV news.
These descendants of ours would surely look like us and would be able to pass for us if they journeyed here in their real bodies. Therefore, the creepy bodach form, the virtual body, might be a reflection of their twisted, diseased souls.
One of these three prowled on all fours around the room, and sprang onto the bed, where it seemed to sniff the sheets.
As if it were smoke drawn by a draft, another bodach slithered through a crack under the bathroom door. I don’t know what it did in there, but for sure it didn’t take a potty break.
They don’t pass through walls and closed doors, as the lingering dead can do. They must have the crack, the chink, the open keyhole.
While they have no mass and should not be affected by gravity, the bodachs do not fly. They climb and descend stairs three or four at a time, in a lope, but never glide through the air as do movie ghosts. I have seen them race in frenzied packs, as swift as panthers but limited by the contours of the land.
They seem to be bound by some—but not all—rules of our world.
From the doorway, Romanovich said, “Is something wrong?”
I shook my head and subtly made a zip-your-lips gesture, which any real librarian should at once understand.
Although surreptitiously watching the bodachs, I pretended to be interested only in Jacob’s drawing of a boat at sea.
In all my life, I have encountered just one other person who could see bodachs, a six-year-old English boy. Moments after he had spoken aloud of these dark presences, within their hearing, he had been crushed by a runaway truck.
According to the Pico Mundo coroner, the driver of the truck had suffered a massive stroke and had collapsed against the steering wheel.
Yeah, right. And the sun comes up every morning by sheer chance, and mere coincidence explains why darkness follows sunset.
After the bodachs departed Room 14, I said to Romanovich, “For a minute there, we weren’t alone.”
I opened the tablet to the third drawing and stared at faceless Death festooned with human teeth. The following pages were blank.
When I turned the tablet to face Jacob and put it on the table near him, he did not glance at it, but remained fixated on his work.
“Jacob, where did you see this thing?”
He did not reply, and I hoped that he had not gone away from me again.