Fade. Part 8

"Then something will call you to the fader. I have no proof it will happen but I believe it will. Something called Theophile to me on the farm in Canada. Something called me to you this year. I was in Lincoln, Nebraska, hitchhiking across the plains, on a dusty road, everything flat, heading north. And it came to me that you were beginning to fade. How did I know? I can't tell you, but I knew. And I walked back to town, boarded a train, and headed east. Used the fade to board and then to avoid the conductors. And I got here just in time."

"What do you mean-just in time."

"Because it was beginning to work in you, Paul. Whether you know it or not. Think back now-do you remember times when unexplained things happened to you? Blackouts, maybe? Strange feelings? Fainting spells?"

I thought of the battle of Moccasin Pond and how I had stumbled and fallen while the hooded guard pursued me. The flash of pain, the cold. Most of all, the mystery of why the guard had not seen me as I lay on the beach only a few feet away from him in the bright moonlight. At the time, I had thought that he was too drunk to have noticed me. Now I realized I had faded, maybe for the first time. Later, Omer LaBatt chased me through the alleys of Frenchtown and almost caught me in Mrs. Dolbier's backyard. Mrs. Dolbier had concentrated her attack only on Omer LaBatt. No doubt I had faded from her sight. Now the memories came rapidly -a series of baffling episodes a year before when my father took me to Dr. Goldstein after I had fainted twice, once in the library while I searched for books with my cousin Jules, another time when my father found me lying on the floor in the shed, where I had apparently fallen and bruised my head. Dr. Goldstein found nothing wrong with me but had prescribed certain tonics while my mother fed me cod-liver oil in huge spoonfuls, alternating the foul, fish-tasting stuff with a concoction called Father John's Medicine, which tasted somewhat better but was thick and difficult to swallow.

I did not tell him any of these incidents. As he looked at me with sympathetic eyes, I felt that he knew what I had been going through anyway.

"Poor Paul," he said.

In the Meadow on a September evening as we sat on the identical bench where my aunt Rosanna had guided my hand to her breast, I asked him: "What about you, Uncle Adelard?"

"What about me?" he answered, surprised, as if he could not be of the slightest interest to anyone.

"You and the fade. How's it been for you?"

"It's hard to judge by what's happened to me, Paul. In fact, I have avoided talking about my experiences because I want you to learn on your own. We are different people. What happened to me might not happen to you. You have your own life to live."

His voice held a tone of finality and I sensed that he was being purposely evasive. I pressed on, however. What did I have to lose?

"But there must be something you can tell me," I said. "How you've used the fade. If it's been good or bad. Something to guide me ..." I thought of Mr. Dondier in the back room with Theresa Terrault and how my first adventure with the fade had left me shaken and disillusioned.

"All right," he said, sighing with resignation. "I only use the fade when it's absolutely necessary. I never use it for my own pleasure. I use it to survive. When I'm hungry on the road and have run out of money. Once, a friend of mine was in trouble and I used the fade to help him. Someday maybe I can tell you more. For now, be satisfied with this. I've told you some of the rules. I've told you all that I know about bringing on the fade and sending it away. For the rest, you have to learn by yourself, Paul. Let your instincts guide you. Your instincts are good. Use the fade in a good way. I think that's the most important thing of all."

We walked by St. Jude's Convent one evening after supper, and watched the nuns in pairs strolling the grounds in their black-and-white habits, their rosary beads in their hands.

"You know, Paul," my uncle mused, "I sometimes wonder why the fade was given to us, the Moreauxs. Modest people. Peasants in France, farmers in Canada. Me, a drifter. Maybe with you, it will be different. You belong to a generation that will be educated. Maybe you represent a new beginning...."

The sun had dropped behind the church, throwing long shadows across the convent and the nuns in prayer. They seemed to have disappeared into the shadows.

"And I sometimes wonder, Paul," he said, "what might have happened if the fade had been given to the wrong people. Evil men, unscrupulous. More than that-I often hate to think of the future, what might happen with the next generation after you, if there will be an evil fader who will use it for terrible purposes...."

We fell silent then, contemplating that possibility, the awful prospect of a world dominated by a fader, using the fade to gain riches and power. Hitler in n.a.z.i Germany-the thought of an invisible Hitler in the future was too horrible to contemplate.

"Ah, Paul," Uncle Adelard said, again sensing my feelings. "I'm sorry you have to carry the burden of the fade."

"Maybe it won't be a burden, Uncle Adelard," I said. Although I didn't believe what I was saying.

One afternoon when he waited for me across from the school, he told me that he was leaving Frenchtown and Monument.

"When?"

"In a day or two. I have to say my good-byes to the family first."

"Are you ever coming back?" I asked, afraid of the answer.

We were crossing Monument Park, walking by the statues erected to honor the men of Monument who had died in the wars.

"I'll never desert you, Paul."

He had told me so much but there was still so much that I didn't know.

"I'm afraid," I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "It's scary ..."

"I know."

"I'm not going to use the fade," I declared. "I want everything to stay the same, the way it is now."

"Do you really, Paul?"

"No," I admitted, shamefaced. I thought of my longings and my desires. The books I would write, the countries I would visit. The fame I hungered for. "But I want to do things on my own." The fade couldn't write my books for me.

"Don't make any vows, Paul," my uncle said, his voice grim.

A leap of intuition made me breathless. I almost asked: Did you make a vow because of what happened to Vincent? He had said that Vincent died because of him. I could not bring myself to ask that question, though.

Instead, I asked: "Where are you going?"

"It's a big country out there. So many places I haven't seen yet. And then old friends to see again in places where I've been. They're not family but they're consolations. ..."

"Do you really want to go, Uncle Adelard?"

"Life is filled with things you don't want to do but have to do. And you find out in the end that it's not as bad as you thought. You accommodate yourself to the situation. Remember everything I've told you. Write it all down someday. Always be careful. Watch for the next fader. That's your mission, Paul, if there is a mission...."

We didn't speak alone again. He made his rounds of the family, brief visits with lots of laughter and gentle kidding. "Next time we're going to have a good-looking woman waiting for you," my uncle Victor joked, but he turned away after he said the words, and I saw the doubting in his face.

"I hope the strike will be over soon," Uncle Adelard said.

Before he left, he hugged us all, kissed the women, shook my hand with a firm grip. I found it hard to look into his eyes. "Pll be back, Paul/' he said to me as we embraced.

A week or so later, when I drew my notebook of poems from my hiding place, I found my uncle Adelard's blue bandanna, folded neatly, freshly washed and ironed, on the closet shelf.

*ith my uncle Adelard gone, the events at Silas B. consumed me completely and the fade became a part of the past summer and its witchery, along with street games and garden raids and the battle of Moccasin Pond. I learned to my delight of something that had been unknown at St. Jude's Parochial School: extracurricular activities. I joined the Eugene O'Neill Drama Club and tried out for the chorus of The Pirates o/Penzance, The Pirates o/Penzance, to be presented at Christmastime by the Silas B. Choral Group. to be presented at Christmastime by the Silas B. Choral Group.

I submitted the story I had written about the boy and his father and the shop to The Statue, The Statue, leaving it on Miss Walker's desk. She was the faculty adviser for the magazine. I had t.i.tled the story "Bruises in Paradise," pleased by the contrast of those two nouns linked uneasily by the plain preposition. leaving it on Miss Walker's desk. She was the faculty adviser for the magazine. I had t.i.tled the story "Bruises in Paradise," pleased by the contrast of those two nouns linked uneasily by the plain preposition.

One afternoon Miss Walker detained me in homeroom as the bell rang, and I waited in antic.i.p.ation as the cla.s.sroom cleared. When we were finally alone, she looked up at me, smiled, and withdrew my ma.n.u.script from her drawer. I recognized it immediately when I saw my handwriting on the t.i.tle page. I had submitted it before learning that all ma.n.u.scripts had to be typed.

"This is simply not acceptable, Moreaux," she said, still smiling.

"I didn't realize it had to be typed," I said. "I'll be taking typing next semester."

"Typing doesn't really matter," she said, her smile widening, as if amused by something she did not care to share with me. "The story itself is not acceptable, Moreaux. The subject matter is not suitable for our school magazine. Neither is the writing."

Why was she smiling as she was devastating my life?

"I would suggest this," she said, voice flat and decisive. "Concentrate on your studies this year. The transition from parochial school to public school is difficult enough. You have another transition next year when you leave here and enter high school. I understand that you have tried out for the chorus in The Pirates of Penzance. The Pirates of Penzance. I would suggest that you withdraw from that. Your marks come first...." I would suggest that you withdraw from that. Your marks come first...."

The smile was frozen now. And so were those blue eyes. No softness at all in those blue eyes. Blue ice, those eyes.

I tore my eyes away from that smile and looked at the floor. Saw my shoes with the rubber soles my father had attached with liquid cement, scuff marks visible although I had polished them vigorously. I thought of what Jules had said: You 're a Canuck, Paul, and nothing you write will ever be good enough. You 're a Canuck, Paul, and nothing you write will ever be good enough. Despite Miss Walker's remarks, I refused to believe that Jules was right. I raised my eyes to Miss Walker. She was leafing through the ma.n.u.script, nose wrinkled now, as if an odor rose from the pages. Despite Miss Walker's remarks, I refused to believe that Jules was right. I raised my eyes to Miss Walker. She was leafing through the ma.n.u.script, nose wrinkled now, as if an odor rose from the pages.

"I want to be a writer," I said, aware that my voice trembled. "I know I have a lot to learn-"

"Maybe you'll be a writer someday, Moreaux," she said, looking up, "but you must have other priorities at this time in your life. Your first priority is to study. Later, there will be time to write...."

Stumbling out of the cla.s.sroom, running through the corridor, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill onto my cheeks, I tore around a second-floor corner and b.u.mped resoundingly into someone coming the other way. My books exploded out of my hands and the pages of the ma.n.u.script flew through the air and descended like giant, soiled snowflakes to the floor.

"Hey, what's the rush?"

Emerson Winslow stood there, brushing back that blond lock of hair, wearing a green sweater, the same soft material as the beige.

"No rush," I muttered as I bent down to retrieve the spilled books and pages. He joined me, dropping to one knee. " 'Bruises in Paradise,' " he read aloud as he picked up the t.i.tle page. " 'By Paul Moreaux ...' " He glanced at me curiously. "Are you a writer, Paul?"

"I thought I was," I said. "Until Miss Walker rejected it. It's not good enough for The Statue. The Statue."

"Do you you think it's good enough?" he asked. think it's good enough?" he asked.

"I've got a lot to learn," I said. "Priorities."

"You didn't answer my question," he said, smiling that lazy smile.

"Okay, yes, I think it's good enough for The Statue. The Statue." My voice sounded firm and strong. But was it good enough, after all?

Emerson Winslow shrugged, an elegant movement that reminded me of British fliers in The Great War movies who flew to their deaths with what-the-h.e.l.l smiles, their white silk scarves flowing in the breeze. "That's all that counts, then," he said.

As I a.s.sembled the pages he asked, carelessly: "Goin' anywhere special?" As if the answer did not matter.

"No," I said. The bleak streets of Frenchtown suddenly had no appeal for me, all those forlorn three-deckers and the shops.

"Come on," he said, walking ahead, glancing over his shoulder. I followed him. After all, he was carrying three of my books.

The house he lived in towered above the others in that North Side neighborhood, a white turreted house like those I had seen only in the movies. Birds splashed in a birdbath in the center of the lawn. In the driveway, a man in a black uniform lovingly polished a gleaming maroon sports car. As we approached, he looked up at Emerson Winslow and said: "Afternoon, sir." I had never heard someone my age called sir sir before. The man was old enough to be Emerson's grandfather, with graying hair and mild blue eyes. before. The man was old enough to be Emerson's grandfather, with graying hair and mild blue eyes.

"h.e.l.lo, Riley," Emerson said. "This is my friend, Paul Moreaux...."

"That's a beautiful car," I said.

"It's a pleasure to care for," Riley said. He didn't miss a stroke as we chatted.

Inside the house, books in gla.s.s cases and chandeliers, fireplaces and stately furniture polished to high gloss, a baby grand piano, floor-to-ceiling windows, like none I had ever seen in Frenchtown. Nothing in this house at all like French-town. I was overcome with the realization of my ignorance. I did not know the name of anything in this house. For instance, a magnificent desk of gleaming dark wood that I knew must be more than just a desk. That it must have not only a name, but a history. And the sofa of rich upholstery, yellow. No, not yellow, gold. And the carpet of exotic design beneath my feet. Almost in a panic, I thought: I don't know anything.

We ascended a curving stairway to the second floor, the railing shining so brightly that I dared not touch it and leave a fingerprint. In the second-floor hallway, the walls were the color of whipped cream. One of the doors opened and a girl stepped out. I blinked, looked away, the way actors do in movies, then looked at her again, a double take.

It was like seeing another version of Emerson Winslow but a feminine, more dazzling version, blond hair like a helmet of curls, green eyes dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt at some private joke.

"My twin sister," Emerson said. "Imagine going round a corner, Paul, and meeting yourself coming toward you. Only it's a girl."

He touched her shoulder lightly, just short of a caress.

"Page, this is Paul Moreaux ..."

"Hi, Paul," she said, tossing my name in the air as if it were a bright balloon.

Page? Did he actually call her Page? Was Page Page a name? a name?

I felt stupid again. Could not speak. Could not move. Felt the need to swallow but did not dare swallow because I knew it would make a terrible sound in the hallway and send me into disgrace.

"Page is the n.o.ble one of the family," Emerson said. "She's going off to boarding school. Fairfield Academy ..."

"I'm only going so you won't have to go," she said ruefully. "Daddy says one of us has to be prepared to meet the world."

She spoke the way Emerson did, carelessly, casually, as if what she was saying wasn't really important.

"I don't have to go because I don't have any talent," Emerson said teasingly. "I'm not a whiz at anything. See what you get for being a whiz, Page?"

"A whiz," she said, dismissing the description with contempt and looking at Emerson fondly, as if she thought he he was the whiz. How I wished she would look at me that way. was the whiz. How I wished she would look at me that way.

As if she could read my thoughts, she turned to me and said: "You must be something, a whiz yourself, if Emerson brought you home."

Was she teasing me? Although she was not at all like my aunt Rosanna, she had the same Rosanna quality of making me feel hot and cold at the same time, made me squirm and swallow, but all of these sensations pleasant. "Are you something, Paul?"

"Everybody's something," Emerson said, rescuing me. "Paul is a writer." He turned to me. "Page is a dancer. Ballet ..."

Page rolled her eyes at the ceiling, looked at me, and crossed her eyes clownishly. And looked beautiful doing it.

"If she weren't my sister and I didn't love her, I would hate her," Emerson said. "She's so G.o.dd.a.m.ned good at what she does. And she does everything. ..."

"Not everything," Page Winslow said, and did an unexpected and beautiful thing. She stuck out her tongue. At him. Childish and yet perfect for that moment, just as crossing her eyes had been perfect when Emerson offered her praise. We laughed, the three of us, and our laughter floated through the hallway and I marveled that I had been called a writer by Emerson Winslow, standing with him and his sister, Page, in this magnificent house.

"Be right back," Emerson said over his shoulder as he headed down the hallway and disappeared into one of the rooms, closing the door behind him.

I was alone with Page Winslow.

I didn't know what to say. Or do.

"What do you write?" she asked.

"Stories, poems," I said, trying to control my voice, hoping it would not change keys on me.

"About what?" she asked, giving me her full attention, as if my answer mattered very much to her.

"Life," I said. "What I feel, what I see. About Frenchtown where I live." I paused, wondering if I had disclosed too much, remembering Miss Walker, wondering if I was deceiving Page Winslow. Was I really a writer or only a pretender?

She wore a white pleated skirt and a V-neck sweater of such soft pastel colors they could barely be seen: lavender, blue, pink, colors of a gentle rainbow. Her hair was more than blond, almost white, and there was a touch of blushing in her cheeks. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s caused gentle roundnesses in her sweater. I didn't know where to look. Was I being a traitor to my aunt Rosanna?