and
shrugged. ``Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I really do want to know.'' And there was no
lie in that.
He looked unsure for a moment longer, bent over and touched the keys inside that
strange plastic case (I felt cramps in
my legs and gut and chest as he stroked them), then straightened up again.
`Ì suppose it won't hurt you to know now,'' he said finally. `Àfter all, what harm
can it do?''
``Not a bit.''
``You're a clever boy, Clyde,'' he said, `ànd you're perfectly right --writers very
rarely plunge all the way into the
worlds they've created, and when they do I think they end up doing it strictly in
their heads, while their bodies vegetate
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
in some mental asylum. Most of us are content simply to be tourists in the country of
our imaginations. Certainly that
was the case with me. I'm not a fast writer--composition has always been torture for
me, I think I told you that--but I
managed five Clyde Umney books in ten years, each more successful than the last. In
1983 I left my job as regional
manager for a big insurance company and started to write full-time. I had a wife I
loved, a little boy that kicked the sun
out of bed every morning and put it to bed every night--that's how it seemed to me,
anyway--and I didn't think life
could get any better.''
He shifted in the overstuffed client's chair, moved his hand, and I saw the cigarette
burn Ardis McGill had put in the
over-stuffed arm was also gone. He voiced a bitterly cold laugh.
`Ànd I was right,'' he said. `Ìt couldn't get any better, but it could get a whole
hell of a lot worse. And did. About
three months after I started How Like a Fallen Angel, Danny--our little boy--fell out
of a swing in the park and
bashed his head. Cold-conked himself, in your parlance.''
A brief smile, every bit as cold and bitter as the laugh had been, crossed his face.
It came and went at the speed of grief.
``He bled a lot--you've seen enough head-wounds in your time to know how they are--and
it scared the crap out of
Linda, but the doctors were good and it did turn out to be only a concussion; they got
him stabilized and gave him a pint
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
of blood to make up for what he'd lost. Maybe they didn't have to--and that haunts me -but they did. The real
problem wasn't with his head, you see; it was with that pint of blood. It was infected
with AIDS.''
``Come again?''
`Ìt's something you can thank your God you don't know about,'' Landry said. `Ìt
doesn't exist in your time, Clyde. It
won't show up until the mid-seventies. Like Aramis cologne.''
``What does it do?''
`Èats away at your immune system until the whole thing collapses like the wonderful
one-hoss shay. Then every bug
circling around out there, from cancer to chicken pox, rushes in and has a party.''
``Good Christ!''
His smile came and went like a cramp. `Ìf you say so. AIDS is primarily a sexually
transmitted disease, but every now
and then it pops up in the blood supply. I suppose you could say my kid won big in a
very unlucky version of la lotería.''
`Ì'm sorry,'' I said, and although I was scared to death of this thin man with the
tired face, I meant it. Losing a kid to
something like that . . . what could be worse? Probably something, yeah--there's
always something--but you'd have to
sit down and think about it, wouldn't you?
``Thanks,'' he said. ``Thanks, Clyde. It went fast for him, at least. He fell out of
the swing in May. The first purple
blotches--Kaposi's sarcoma--showed up in time for his birthday in September. He died
on March 18, 1991. And
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
maybe he didn't suffer as much as some of them do, but he suffered. Oh yes, he
suffered.''
I didn't have the slightest idea what Kaposi's sarcoma was, either, and decided I
didn't want to
shrugged. ``Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I really do want to know.'' And there was no
lie in that.
He looked unsure for a moment longer, bent over and touched the keys inside that
strange plastic case (I felt cramps in
my legs and gut and chest as he stroked them), then straightened up again.
`Ì suppose it won't hurt you to know now,'' he said finally. `Àfter all, what harm
can it do?''
``Not a bit.''
``You're a clever boy, Clyde,'' he said, `ànd you're perfectly right --writers very
rarely plunge all the way into the
worlds they've created, and when they do I think they end up doing it strictly in
their heads, while their bodies vegetate
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
in some mental asylum. Most of us are content simply to be tourists in the country of
our imaginations. Certainly that
was the case with me. I'm not a fast writer--composition has always been torture for
me, I think I told you that--but I
managed five Clyde Umney books in ten years, each more successful than the last. In
1983 I left my job as regional
manager for a big insurance company and started to write full-time. I had a wife I
loved, a little boy that kicked the sun
out of bed every morning and put it to bed every night--that's how it seemed to me,
anyway--and I didn't think life
could get any better.''
He shifted in the overstuffed client's chair, moved his hand, and I saw the cigarette
burn Ardis McGill had put in the
over-stuffed arm was also gone. He voiced a bitterly cold laugh.
`Ànd I was right,'' he said. `Ìt couldn't get any better, but it could get a whole
hell of a lot worse. And did. About
three months after I started How Like a Fallen Angel, Danny--our little boy--fell out
of a swing in the park and
bashed his head. Cold-conked himself, in your parlance.''
A brief smile, every bit as cold and bitter as the laugh had been, crossed his face.
It came and went at the speed of grief.
``He bled a lot--you've seen enough head-wounds in your time to know how they are--and
it scared the crap out of
Linda, but the doctors were good and it did turn out to be only a concussion; they got
him stabilized and gave him a pint
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
of blood to make up for what he'd lost. Maybe they didn't have to--and that haunts me -but they did. The real
problem wasn't with his head, you see; it was with that pint of blood. It was infected
with AIDS.''
``Come again?''
`Ìt's something you can thank your God you don't know about,'' Landry said. `Ìt
doesn't exist in your time, Clyde. It
won't show up until the mid-seventies. Like Aramis cologne.''
``What does it do?''
`Èats away at your immune system until the whole thing collapses like the wonderful
one-hoss shay. Then every bug
circling around out there, from cancer to chicken pox, rushes in and has a party.''
``Good Christ!''
His smile came and went like a cramp. `Ìf you say so. AIDS is primarily a sexually
transmitted disease, but every now
and then it pops up in the blood supply. I suppose you could say my kid won big in a
very unlucky version of la lotería.''
`Ì'm sorry,'' I said, and although I was scared to death of this thin man with the
tired face, I meant it. Losing a kid to
something like that . . . what could be worse? Probably something, yeah--there's
always something--but you'd have to
sit down and think about it, wouldn't you?
``Thanks,'' he said. ``Thanks, Clyde. It went fast for him, at least. He fell out of
the swing in May. The first purple
blotches--Kaposi's sarcoma--showed up in time for his birthday in September. He died
on March 18, 1991. And
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
maybe he didn't suffer as much as some of them do, but he suffered. Oh yes, he
suffered.''
I didn't have the slightest idea what Kaposi's sarcoma was, either, and decided I
didn't want to
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