"Oscar?"
"Hmm."
"Hey, are you all right?"
"What's that? Oh, yes, dear. I'm fine, thank you."
"You sure about that?" she asked, her eyes studying the drowsy expression of his face as if it were a painting in need of interpretation.
"Yes, yes, fine. I'm sorry. I haven't gotten much sleep lately; that's all."
In fact, in the two nights since Oscar's conscious journey to the graveyard and the park below, he'd had no more than two and a half hours of sleep, and his recently restless nature was taking a toll on his capacities. He had the strength to dress himself and move about the house, but he ate little more than bread and slices of sharp cheddar from a block he kept in the refrigerator, with no intention of preparing anything else.
"Maybe I should take off. You look like you need to lie down for awhile."
"Don't worry about me, Maddy. I'm fine. No need to trouble yourself on my account."
"Oscar."
"Yes?"
"You called me Maddy."
Oscar looked up at her, a figure looming over him, with graceful edges, dark hair, and eyes like a green flash, frozen in the wake of the setting sun. The blurred lines of her face cleared, lines that had been labeled with a name now irrelevant.
"Kate. Good lord, Kate, I'm sorry. I wish I could sleep, but every time I climb into that bed, I find myself unable to empty my mind. All I can do is think. I've thought of so many things in the past few days, too. I've answered a few riddles, just by careful rumination. I've been writing, too. Oh yes, I've been writing."
"That's great. Really. But maybe you should take a few days off, okay?"
"I don't know, Kate. I don't know how much longer I have. I don't know how much longer I can put this off."
"What? Oscar, what are you talking about?"
"Forgive me, I'm rambling again. That's just the insomnia talking. It's rather ridiculous, to tell the truth, but for a while now, I've had the feeling that I had one story left in me. One thing left to say, and then I'd be done."
"Right."
"I don't quite think you understand me, my dear, but I'm not talking about retirement. I'm not talking about settling down in one of those communities, where people my age tend to congregate when they start acting a bit peculiar. When we're finished, I believe that I will die."
She stared at him, observing every expression and slight movement, unable to turn away, unable to understand the things circulating through his brain.
"That's kind of a morbid prophecy to make, don't you think?" she said, at last.
"Well, I don't know about that. It's more of a feeling than a prophecy, really."
"What was it you called us? Latter-day Cassandra, right? Wasn't she the prophetess that no one would believe?"
"So I won't even believe myself, now--is that what you're getting at?" Oscar asked dryly, offering a brief glance of the man she'd come to know. "I just refuse to believe something so inane. Where's the harm in that?"
"You sound better already."
With his eyebrows raised curiously, he flashed a smug grin.
"Listen, I am gonna head out, though. I have class in the morning," she said.
"Do what you must, but here--"
He grabbed a bundle of papers from his desk, stacked neatly beside his typewriter, placed them in an empty folder normally intended for the short stories and assorted files and notes that he had accumulated over the years, and handed the entire package to her.
"Take this with you. I can't keep it here, not if I want to sleep."
"What is this?"
"This is everything I've written so far--bits here and there, mostly, but there is a good solid chunk I feel you could use toward the end."
She opened the flap of the folder and peered inside, flipping casually through the pages with her thumb and forefinger.
"Oscar, there must be fifty pages here," she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "When did you write all this?"
"Just in the past few days, as I said. It's surprising how much one can accomplish when one cannot sleep. Really didn't take that long, to be honest."
He could see the concern in her eyes as she skimmed the pages, her eyes darting from one line to the next before restraining herself.
"Don't worry," said Oscar with a smile. "It's all perfectly coherent. Of that I'm certain."
She opened her mouth as if to speak but could not find the words. After all, how was she supposed to tell her favorite writer, her creative idol, her friend and mentor that she suspected his work to be a documented descent into sleep-deprived lunacy?
"It's all right," he said. "I know I wasn't acting myself a few moments ago, but I assure you, I'm fine. You caught me in a rare moment of weakness."
"Are you sure? I could stick around for awhile, if you need me to. Are you hungry? I could pick up some takeout--"
"I'm fine, dear. In fact, I'm confident that once you take that damned fragmented manuscript far, far away from me, I'll finally settle down and catch up on my lost sleep."
"Okay, if you say so."
"There is one more thing," he said, his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet hers.
"Name it."
"This may sound mad, and you'll have reason to think me senile once more, but as I said, I've been thinking about many things in the past few days. If you should find a young man at your door in the middle of the night, clad in flannel pajamas, wake him. Do whatever you can to wake him."
She said nothing.
"I did warn you, you know. Please just take this as cryptic advice, and if a moment like that ever comes, heed it."
"Why? What'll happen?"
"I don't know," he replied with a laugh. "That's what I'd like to find out."
"In that case, I'll do it."
He knew that at this point, she was merely patronizing him, but she'd gotten the message, at least, and that was all that mattered. If by some strange chance she found herself in that particular situation, she would know what had to be done.
She said a polite goodbye and left Oscar to his own devices. As the door clicked shut, he felt that a weight had been lifted from him. He immediately lay himself across the thick cushions of the couch, his head buried in one pillowing armrest and his bare feet dangling off the other, and closed his eyes. He could feel it waiting for him, closing in, like opening the door to a familiar face, and he slept the sleep of the just. He slept the sleep of the soul.
As Kate made her journey home, she began to realize something that made her rather ill at ease. The world may have taken the purpose out of Oscar Bruges' life, but her novel--that idea that was supposed to have given him new purpose--came with a very high price. Oscar was right, she understood as she absently flipped through the partial manuscript he had sent with her. This story was going to kill him. She, no matter how indirectly, was going to kill him.
She closed the folder and stared at it, bound in her hands like a book of fate she was doomed to carry for all eternity. Arresting the feelings of grief and guilt that towered expectedly over her conscience, she was left with only hope--the hope that someday, this would all be worth it.
"Hmm."
"Hey, are you all right?"
"What's that? Oh, yes, dear. I'm fine, thank you."
"You sure about that?" she asked, her eyes studying the drowsy expression of his face as if it were a painting in need of interpretation.
"Yes, yes, fine. I'm sorry. I haven't gotten much sleep lately; that's all."
In fact, in the two nights since Oscar's conscious journey to the graveyard and the park below, he'd had no more than two and a half hours of sleep, and his recently restless nature was taking a toll on his capacities. He had the strength to dress himself and move about the house, but he ate little more than bread and slices of sharp cheddar from a block he kept in the refrigerator, with no intention of preparing anything else.
"Maybe I should take off. You look like you need to lie down for awhile."
"Don't worry about me, Maddy. I'm fine. No need to trouble yourself on my account."
"Oscar."
"Yes?"
"You called me Maddy."
Oscar looked up at her, a figure looming over him, with graceful edges, dark hair, and eyes like a green flash, frozen in the wake of the setting sun. The blurred lines of her face cleared, lines that had been labeled with a name now irrelevant.
"Kate. Good lord, Kate, I'm sorry. I wish I could sleep, but every time I climb into that bed, I find myself unable to empty my mind. All I can do is think. I've thought of so many things in the past few days, too. I've answered a few riddles, just by careful rumination. I've been writing, too. Oh yes, I've been writing."
"That's great. Really. But maybe you should take a few days off, okay?"
"I don't know, Kate. I don't know how much longer I have. I don't know how much longer I can put this off."
"What? Oscar, what are you talking about?"
"Forgive me, I'm rambling again. That's just the insomnia talking. It's rather ridiculous, to tell the truth, but for a while now, I've had the feeling that I had one story left in me. One thing left to say, and then I'd be done."
"Right."
"I don't quite think you understand me, my dear, but I'm not talking about retirement. I'm not talking about settling down in one of those communities, where people my age tend to congregate when they start acting a bit peculiar. When we're finished, I believe that I will die."
She stared at him, observing every expression and slight movement, unable to turn away, unable to understand the things circulating through his brain.
"That's kind of a morbid prophecy to make, don't you think?" she said, at last.
"Well, I don't know about that. It's more of a feeling than a prophecy, really."
"What was it you called us? Latter-day Cassandra, right? Wasn't she the prophetess that no one would believe?"
"So I won't even believe myself, now--is that what you're getting at?" Oscar asked dryly, offering a brief glance of the man she'd come to know. "I just refuse to believe something so inane. Where's the harm in that?"
"You sound better already."
With his eyebrows raised curiously, he flashed a smug grin.
"Listen, I am gonna head out, though. I have class in the morning," she said.
"Do what you must, but here--"
He grabbed a bundle of papers from his desk, stacked neatly beside his typewriter, placed them in an empty folder normally intended for the short stories and assorted files and notes that he had accumulated over the years, and handed the entire package to her.
"Take this with you. I can't keep it here, not if I want to sleep."
"What is this?"
"This is everything I've written so far--bits here and there, mostly, but there is a good solid chunk I feel you could use toward the end."
She opened the flap of the folder and peered inside, flipping casually through the pages with her thumb and forefinger.
"Oscar, there must be fifty pages here," she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "When did you write all this?"
"Just in the past few days, as I said. It's surprising how much one can accomplish when one cannot sleep. Really didn't take that long, to be honest."
He could see the concern in her eyes as she skimmed the pages, her eyes darting from one line to the next before restraining herself.
"Don't worry," said Oscar with a smile. "It's all perfectly coherent. Of that I'm certain."
She opened her mouth as if to speak but could not find the words. After all, how was she supposed to tell her favorite writer, her creative idol, her friend and mentor that she suspected his work to be a documented descent into sleep-deprived lunacy?
"It's all right," he said. "I know I wasn't acting myself a few moments ago, but I assure you, I'm fine. You caught me in a rare moment of weakness."
"Are you sure? I could stick around for awhile, if you need me to. Are you hungry? I could pick up some takeout--"
"I'm fine, dear. In fact, I'm confident that once you take that damned fragmented manuscript far, far away from me, I'll finally settle down and catch up on my lost sleep."
"Okay, if you say so."
"There is one more thing," he said, his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet hers.
"Name it."
"This may sound mad, and you'll have reason to think me senile once more, but as I said, I've been thinking about many things in the past few days. If you should find a young man at your door in the middle of the night, clad in flannel pajamas, wake him. Do whatever you can to wake him."
She said nothing.
"I did warn you, you know. Please just take this as cryptic advice, and if a moment like that ever comes, heed it."
"Why? What'll happen?"
"I don't know," he replied with a laugh. "That's what I'd like to find out."
"In that case, I'll do it."
He knew that at this point, she was merely patronizing him, but she'd gotten the message, at least, and that was all that mattered. If by some strange chance she found herself in that particular situation, she would know what had to be done.
She said a polite goodbye and left Oscar to his own devices. As the door clicked shut, he felt that a weight had been lifted from him. He immediately lay himself across the thick cushions of the couch, his head buried in one pillowing armrest and his bare feet dangling off the other, and closed his eyes. He could feel it waiting for him, closing in, like opening the door to a familiar face, and he slept the sleep of the just. He slept the sleep of the soul.
***
As Kate made her journey home, she began to realize something that made her rather ill at ease. The world may have taken the purpose out of Oscar Bruges' life, but her novel--that idea that was supposed to have given him new purpose--came with a very high price. Oscar was right, she understood as she absently flipped through the partial manuscript he had sent with her. This story was going to kill him. She, no matter how indirectly, was going to kill him.
She closed the folder and stared at it, bound in her hands like a book of fate she was doomed to carry for all eternity. Arresting the feelings of grief and guilt that towered expectedly over her conscience, she was left with only hope--the hope that someday, this would all be worth it.
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