The Road to Amber (5 page)

“Nobody’s been here this morning. Nobody’s been out and back in. You miss your folks. It’s natural you have these dreams around your birthday.”

“And I get presents.”

“Hard for us to know, since you weren’t with us last year.”

“Well, it’s true. Morrie always gives me something. Dad could have told you.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s strange that Morris has never gotten in touch with us.”

“He travels a lot.”

She turned away, began making French toast.

“Just don’t mention him around Matt.”

“Why not?”

“Because I asked you not to, okay?”

I nodded when she glanced my way.

The doorbell rang that afternoon, and when I opened the door it was there: a bike with a paint job so dark and shiny that it looked like a series of black mirrors. I couldn’t find a manufacturer’s name on it, just a silver-edged plate on the handlebar post in the shape of a small black heart. The note tied to the bar said, “Happy Birthday, David. His name is Dorel. Treat him well and he will serve you well.—M.”

It was a long time before I knew exactly what that meant. But the first thing I did, of course—after removing the tag and handing it to Uncle Matt—was to take it down the steps, mount, and ride off.

“Dorel,” I said softly. “He told me you’re called Dorel.” Was it my imagination, or did a brief vibration pass through that midnight frame just then?

Everything Morrie gave me had a special character to it—like the Magic Kit I had gotten last year, with the Indian Rope Trick I never used (I’m not a good climber) and the Five-Minute Time Warp which I never found any use for. I keep it in my pocket.

“My name’s David,” I continued. “You’re beautiful and you’re fast and you’re easy to steer. I like you a lot.”

It was as if I were going downhill all the way to the corner and back.

When I parked Dorel on the porch again, Uncle Matt was waiting right inside the door. “I just heard on the news,” he said, “that the night watchman at the mall was found dead this morning, of a heart attack.”

“I know,” I said. “I told Aunt Rose about it earlier.”

“How did you know about it?”

“I was there, before the mall opened, with Morrie. He got us in, and I picked out the kind of bike I wanted.”

“How did he get you in?”

“Uh, I don’t really remember the details.”

Uncle Matt scratched his chin through his beard and narrowed his gray eyes behind his thick glasses. They looked a lot like my eyes, and—I suddenly remembered—my dad’s.

“What’s he look like, anyway—your godfather?” he asked.

“I shrugged. It was hard to remember just what he looked like. “Kind of thin. He has dark hair, I think. And a real nice voice. Makes you want to do whatever he says.”

“That’s all?”

“I guess so.”

“Damn! That’s no description, David. That could be almost anybody.”

“I’m sorry.”

He reached out and squeezed my shoulder as I began to draw back.

“I didn’t mean to yell at you,” he said. “It’s just that the whole business is kind of—unusual. Not to speak ill of my own brother, but it’s no secret that your father was a heavy drinker. Especially there at the end. It’s why your mother left him. Probably what killed him, too.”

I nodded. I’d heard—or overheard—all this before.

“He told a bizarre story of the way he met your godfather. Sounded like something a paranoid Trotskyite drunk might come up with, and I didn’t believe a word of it. Still don’t.”

I stared at him. I knew what a paranoid was, also. And two out of three wasn’t bad.

“I don’t remember the story,” I said, “if I ever knew.”

Uncle Matt sighed, and told me the tale.

My father met Morrie at a crossroads, pursuant to a dream. He’d dreamed that a voice came to him out of a thundercloud limned with lightning, and it said, “I am God. You have alienated everyone close to you and I pity you. I shall stand for your son in my own church and make him happy in life.”

My father said, “You give to the rich and leave the poor working stiffs to hunger. I do not want you for my son’s godfather.” And there was a clap of thunder and the cloud went away, and the earth split and a flame rose up out ofthe crack and a voice spoke from it, saying, “I am Satan. Have me. I will make him rich. I will see that he gets on well in the world.”

My father said, “You are the Prince of Bullshitters. I do not want you either, for I do not trust you.” And fire flared, and Satan was gone, also. Later then he was halfway to wakefulness, a shadowy figure passed near and told him, “When you awaken walk outside. Stop at the first crossroads you come to. I will meet you there.”

“Who are you?” my father asked.

“I am he who makes all equal,” came the reply, “in a most democratic fashion.” And my father got up, dressed, went out into the darkness, and waited at the crossroads. There he met Morris, and he invited him to be my godfather, for he said that one who had him for a friend would lack nothing.

“Do you know what that means?” Uncle Matt asked me.

“Yeah. It’s a good thing that he went to the crossroads, or I wouldn’t have my bike.”

He stared at me for several moments. “Rose and I weren’t present at your christening. We’d had a disagreement with Sam earlier. So neither of us got to meet Morris.”

“I know.”

“The next time you see him, tell him it had nothing to do with him, or with you. Tell him we wish he’d stop by sometime.”

“You will get to see him,” I told him. “He says everyone does. I’ll ask him to name a date next time—”

“Never mind,” he said, suddenly.

Later, that evening, after my birthday party, I went out on my new bike again. Lacking an address for a thank-you note, I resolved to go visit Morrie and say it aloud. In the past, when I’d wanted to see him between birthdays I would wander about trying to figure out how to do it and before long I always encountered him—most recently as part of the crowd at an auto accident, and once at the beach, where I was watching the guard give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a guy. This time, though, I’d go in style.

I pedaled hard till I got to the outskirts of town, coasted downhill to a wooded area, turned onto an old logging road now mainly used by hunters, fishermen, hikers, and kids from the high school following dances and movies. It was darker down here than it was up on the hill, and I bore to the left, coming onto a long, winding stretch under summer foliage.

“Dorel,” I said, ”I’m really happy with you, and I want to go and thank Morrie for such a great birthday present. I don’t know where to find him but I’ve got a feeling you do. I’d like you to help me get to him—now.”

A throbbing seemed to begin within the dark vehicle, and as we rounded the next corner a kind of stroboscopic effect began. At first It seemed that it might simply have been from the angle of the light and the trees’ spacing. But after a while each period of darkness seemed more intense, lasted a little longer; and each time the light returned it came more dimly, carne for a shorter bit of time.

Soon, I coasted down a dark tunnel—for I noted that I need no longer pedal but only steer in the direction of a distant light which now came into view. Dorel vibrated, and we picked up speed. After a time, the light grew brighter and I entered a gallery of stalactites and still pools. The place was a blaze of light, for there were candles everywhere I looked on every ledge, in every niche, atop every flat surface They varied in size, they burned with a still intensity. There were no drafts here, save for the rush of air from my own passage, and we were slowing, slowing… I put my foot down, halted, and stared. I had never seen so many candles before in my life.

“Thanks, Dorel,” I whispered.

I set the kickstand and walked about. There were tunnels leading in all directions from the grotto, all of them blazing for as far as I could see with multitudes of candles. Every now and then a burnt-down candle stub would glitter and go out. Shadows darted about these like black butterflies as they died.

Wandering, I was suddenly concerned about finding my way back out. I halted and looked about for Dorel. Once I was back upon my bike, I was sute I could retrace my route.

A shadow glided around boulder, plinth, stalactite. It was my bike, with my godfather seated upon it and pedaling slowly, grinning. He wore what appeared to be a dark cloak. He waved and made his way in my direction.

“How good of you to come and visit,” he called out.

“Wanted to say thanks for the present,” I told him. “Dorel’s really neat.”

“Glad you like him.” He drew up before me, braked, and dismounted, setting the stand.

“I never knew a bike to have a name before.”

He ran a bony finger along the handlebars.

“He is something that owes me a great debt. He is paying it off in this fashion,” he said. “Would you care for a cup of tea or hot chocolate?”

“I’d like a hot chocolate,” I said.

He led me around a corner and into a niche where a slab of stone bore a red-and-white calico tablecloth. Two cups and saucers were laid upon it, along with napkins and spoons. Sounds of classical music were in the air, and I could not determine their source. We seated ourselves and he reached for a carafe which stood within a wire frame above one of the ubiquitous candles. Raising it, he filled our cups.

“What is that music?” I asked.

“Schubert’s Quartet in D Minor, a favorite piece of mine,” he said. “Marshmallow?”

“Yes, please.”

He added marshmallows. It was hard to see his face, the way the shadows danced about him.

“Is this where you work, Morrie, or where you live?”

He handed me my cup, leaned back, and commenced cracking his knuckles, one by one, a talent I mightily envied him.

“I do a lot of my work in the field,” he said. “But you might consider this my office, and I do keep an apartment here. Yes, it is both.”

“I see,” I said. “It’s certainly well lit.”

He chuckled. He gestured broadly, and the nearby flames flickered wildly.

“She’ll thinkit a fainting spell,” he remarked.

“Who?” I asked.

“The lady who belongs to that candle. Name’s Luisa Trujillo. She’s forty-eight years old and lives in New York City. She’s got another twenty-eight years to go.
Bueno
.”

I lowered my cup, turned slowly, and regarded the immense cavern and all of the side chambers and tunnels.

“Yes,” he said after a time. ”All there, all of them. There’s one for each of them.”

“I read that there are several billion people in the world.”

He nodded.

“Lot of wax,” he observed.

“Good chocolate,” I said.

“Thanks. The Big Ten’s really come upon bad days.”

“Huh?”

“Everything interesting’s happening in the West,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Football. You’re talking college football, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I like pro football, too. What about you?”

“I don’t know enough about it,” I said, “but I’d like to,” and he commenced telling me.

Much later, we simply sat, watching the candles flicker. At length, he refilled our cups.

“You given any thought to what you want to be when you grow up?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“Consider being a physician. You’d have a knack for it. I’d see to that,” he said. “Do you play chess?”

“No.”

“Good game, too. You ought to learn. I’ve a mind to teach you.”

“All right.”

I don’t know how long we sat there, using the squares on the tablecloth for our board. The pieces were of bone—the clean white of fresh, the almost-brown of aged, bone—which were quite elegant. As we played, I realized that I liked the game.

“A physician,” I remarked after a time.

“Yes, think about it.”

“I will,” I agreed.

* * *

And so I did. It was good to have some sort of goal. I made it a point to study extra hard for math, chemistry, and bidlogy classes. College wasn’t particularly difficult, and while I worried as to where the money for med school would come from, a distant relative died at just the right time and left me enough to take care of it.

Even after I’d gone away to college I still rode Dorel—as sleek and shiny as ever—to Morrie’s office every year on my birthday, where we drank hot chocolate, played chess, and talked football.

“You graduate in June,” he remarked. “Then you do an internship and a residency.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve thought about the area in which you would like to specialize?”

“I was thinking of dermatology. I figure nobody will ever call me in the middle of the night with a dermatological emergency.”

“Hm,” Morrie said, stirring his chocolate with a delicate bone which served us as a spoon. “When I suggested the medical profession I had something a little more basic in mind. Internal medicine, perhaps.”

A bat darted by, caught hold of Morrie’s cloak, crawling inside, and hanging upside down from a seam. I took a sip of chocolate, moved my bishop.

“A lot of hard work there,” I finally said. “Dermatologists make pretty good money.”

“Bah!” Morrie said. He moved a knight. “Check,” he added. “As an internist you will become the greatest consulting physician in the world.”

“Really?” I asked, and I studied the chess pieces.

“Yes. You will manage some miraculous-seeming cures.”

“Are you sure you’ve considered all the ramifications? If I get that good, I could be cutting into your business.”

Morrie laughed. “There is a balance between life and death, and in this we play our parts. For mine, really, is the power over life, as yours will be the power over death. Think of it as a family business.”

“All right. I’ll give it a shot,” I said. “By the way, I resign. You’ve got me in fout moves.”

“Three.”

“Whatever you say. And thanks for the present, those diagnostic tools. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

”I’m sure they’ll come in handy. Happy Birthday,” he said.

* * *

And so I went off to a big hospital in a big city in the Northwest, to do my time. I saw Morrie more than ever there. Usually, he’d stop by when I was on the night shift.