The Barrens & Others Read online

  And now Howard Weinstein had encountered two instances in which he had experienced another person's feelings.

  Or thought he had.

  That was the question. Had Dr. Johnson done a number on Howard's head? Had he planted some sort of suggestion in his subconscious and then reinforced it by sending him a severed hand?

  Or was this the real thing? A dead man's curse?

  Howard decided to take a scientific approach. The only way to prove a hypothesis was to test it in the field. He tossed off the second beer. Time to hit the town.

  As he gathered up the MacDonald's debris, he noticed a dull ache all along his right arm. He rubbed it but that didn't help. He wondered how he could have strained it. Maybe it was a result of jerking away after touching that hand this morning. No, he didn't remember any pain then. He shrugged it off, pulled on a sweater, and stepped out into the spring night.

  The air was cool and tangy with salt from the Sound. Too beautiful a night to squeeze back into the Porche, so he decided to walk the few blocks west down to the waterfront nightspots. He had only gone a few steps when he noticed that the ache in his arm was gone.

  Canterbury's was the first place he came to along the newly renovated waterfront. He stopped in here occasionally with some of his local clients. Not a bad place for lunch, but after five it turned into a meat market. If AIDS had put a damper on the swinging singles scene, you couldn't tell it here. The space around Canterbury's oval bar was smoky, noisy, and packed with yuppie types.

  Howard squeezed up to the bar and suddenly felt his knees get rubbery. He leaned against the mahogany edge and glanced at the fellow rubbing elbows with him to his right. He was downing a straight shot of something and chasing it with a few generous chugs of draft beer. There were four other shot glasses on the bar in front of him, all empty.

  Howard lurched away toward the booths at the rear of the room and felt better immediately.

  God, it's happening! It's true!

  As he moved through the crowd, he was assaulted with a complex mixture of lust, boredom, fatigue, and inebriation. It was a relief to reach the relative sanctuary of the last booth in the rear. The emotions and feelings of the room became background noise, a sensory muzak.

  But they were still there. On the way out from the city it had seemed he needed physical contact – from the garage attendant, the girl at Mickey D's – to get the sensory input. Now the feelings seemed to waft through the air.

  Howard shut his eyes and rubbed his hands over his temples. This couldn't be happening, couldn't be real. This was the stuff of Twilight Zone and Outer Limits and Tales from the Darkside. This sort of thing did not happen to Howard Weinstein in little old Monroe, Long Island.

  But he could not deny his own experience. He had felt drunk before noticing that the guy next to him was doing boilermakers.

  Or had he?

  Maybe he had unconsciously noticed the guy with the ball and the beer as he had stepped up to the bar and his mind had done the rest.

  It was all so confusing. How could he know for sure?

  "Can I get you something, Mr. Weinstein?"

  Howard looked up. A well-stacked blonde stood over him with a tray under her arm and her order pad ready. She was thirtyish with too much make-up and too-blonde hair, but on the whole not someone he'd kick out of bed. She was dressed in the standard Canterbury cocktail waitress uniform of short skirt, black stockings, and low cut Elizabethan barmaid blouse, and she was smiling.

  "How do you know my name?"

  "Why shouldn't I? You're one of the more important men in Monroe, aren't you?"

  She was interested in him. Howard couldn't read her thoughts, but he sensed her excited response to his presence. She was probably attracted to money and power and apparently he represented a modicum of both to her. There was a trace of sexual arousal and an undercurrent of anxiety as well.

  Anxiety over what? That he'd give her the cold shoudler? He tried to see if he could affect that.

  "Nice to be recognized," he said, "especially by such an attractive woman"...he craned his neck to see the name tag centered on her cleavage..."Molly."

  The anxiety all but vanished and the sexual arousal rose two notches.

  Bingo!

  He ordered a Chivas and soda. He was ready for her when she returned with the drink.

  "Looks like you'll be working late tonight, huh?"

  He could feel her excitement swell. "Not necessarily. It's still the off season so it's not really crazy yet. When the tables are kinda slow like tonight I can usually get off early if I ask."

  "Why don't you ask. I've got no plans for the evening. Maybe we could think of something to do together."

  Her sexual arousal zoomed.

  "Sounds good to me," she said with a smile and a wink.

  Howard leaned back and sipped his scotch as he watched the gentle sway of her retreating butt.

  So easy! Like having all the answers to a test before you sat down to take it.

  This was a curse?

  *

  What a night!

  Howard walked along the waterfront through the morning mist. He was still a little weak-kneed. He'd had loads of women over the years, plenty of one-night stands, even an all-nighter with a couple of pros. But never, never anything like what he had experienced last night.

  As soon as they had got to Molly's apartment and begun the foreplay, he had found himself tapped into her feelings. He could sense her excitement, her pleasure – he was more than just aware of it, he was actually experiencing it himself. He could tell when he was going too fast or not fast enough. He found he could toy with her, tantalize her, bring her to peaks but keep her from going over the top. Finally he brought her to an Everest and leaped off with her. Her climax fused into his and the results were shattering. She was left gasping but he was utterly speechless.

  And that had only been the first time.

  Molly had finally fallen asleep telling him he was the greatest lover in the world, really meaning it. Howard had drifted off with her, thinking it wouldn't be bad if that message got around to all the attractive single women in town. Not bad at all.

  He had awakened early and Molly had wanted him to stay but he had begged off. He was catching a new emotion from her: She was starting to get lovey-dovey feelings for him – or at least thought she was. And why not? Decent looks, money, power, and a great lover to boot.

  What's not to love?

  Those feelings tripped off sirens and red lights for Howard. Uh-uh. No love. Just good times and fun and stay loose. Love meant trouble. Women started thinking of marriage then.

  He felt her hurt and disappointment as he left, trailing vague promises of getting together again real soon. But he couldn't go home just yet. He was too excited, too exhilarated. This was great! This was fantastic! The possibilities were endless. He walked on, exploring them in his mind.

  A siren broke into his thoughts. He looked around and found he was in front of Monroe Community Hospital. An ambulance was racing up the road. As it neared, he felt a growing pressure in his chest. His breath clogged in his throat as the pain became a great lead weight, crushing his sternum. Then, as the ambulance passed and pulled into the approach to the emergency entrance, the pain receded.

  Whoever was in that ambulance was having a heart attack. Howard was sure of it. He watched as the ambulance attendants carried someone into the emergency room on a stretcher. Heart attack. No doubt about it. Just one more bit of proof on the side of this so-called curse Dr. Johnson had laid on him. And it would be so easy to confirm. Just go up to the reception desk and ask: Did the ambulance get here with my uncle yet? The man with the chest pain?

  He started across the lawn toward the four-story brick structure. As he neared it however, he began to feel nauseous and week. His head pounded, his abdomen burned, ached, cramped, and just plain hurt. Every joint, every bone in his body hurt. He began to wheeze, his vision blurred. It all got worse with eah step closer to the hosp
ital but he forced himself on until he reached the emergency entrance and opened the door.

  ...pain... fear... pain... hope... pain... grief... pain... rage... pain... despair... pain... joy... pain... pain... pain... pain...

  Like a physical assault from a Mongolian horde, like a massive torrent from a sundered damn, like ground zero at Hiroshima, the mental and physical agony flooded over Howard, sending him reeling and stumbling back across the driveway to the grass where he crumbled to his knees and crawled as fast as he could away from the hospital. Anyone watching him would have assumed he was drunk but he didn't care. He had to get away from that building.

  He felt almost himself again by the time he reached the sidewalk. He sat on the curb, weak and nauseous, swearing he would never go near another hospital again.

  It seemed there were drawbacks to this little power of his after all. But nothing he couldn't handle, nothing he couldn't ovecome. The advantages were too enormous!

  He had to talk this out with somebody. Brainstorm it. But with whom. Suddenly, he smiled.

  Lydia lived in the garden apartments on the downtown fringe, a short walk from here.

  Of course!

  *

  Howard had looked like he was on drugs when Lydia opened the door to her apartment. She had been in the middle of a nice little dream of being married with two kids and no money problem when the pounding on the door had awakened her. Her brother's face had loomed large in the fish-eye peephole so she had opened up and let him in.

  That proved a mistake. Howie was absolutely manic. While she made coffee he stalked around her tiny kitchen waving his arms and talking a mile a minute. Watching him, she thought he might be on speed; listening to him, she thought he might be on acid.

  But Howie didn't do drugs.

  Which meant he had gone crazy.

  "Do you see what this means, Sis? Do you see! The possibilities are endless! Can you imagine what this will let me do at a deposition? If my questions are getting into a sensitive area, I'll know! I'll sense the defendant's fear, his anxiety, and I'll keep hitting those sore spots, pushing those secret buttons until he comes across with what I want. And even if he doesn't, I'll know where to look for the dirt. Same's true with cross-examinations in the court room. I'll know when I've hit a nerve. And speaking of court rooms, I thought of something that's even better – even better!" He stopped and pointed a finger at her. "Juries! Jury selection!"

  Lydia stirred the boiling water into the instant coffee – decaf, for sure. She didn't want to hype him up even the tiniest bit more. "Right, Howie," she said softly. "That's a good point."

  "Can you imagine how I'll be able to stack the jury box? I mean, I'll know how each juror feels about the case because I'll ask them point blank. I'll say, 'Mrs. So-and-so, how do you feel about the medical profession in general?' If I get some sort of warm glow from her, she's out, no matter what she says. But if I get anger or envy or plain old spitefulness, she's in. I can pack a jury with doctor-haters on all my malpractice cases!" He giggled. "The settlements will be astronomical!"

  "Whatever makes you happy, Howie," Lydia said. "Now why don't you sit down and drink your coffee and take it easy." She had heard about Dr. Johnson's hand winding up on his desk yesterday. The shock must have got to him. "You can lie down on my bed if you want to."

  He was staring at her.

  "You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

  "No, Howie. I just think you're feeling the strain of–"

  "Right now I'm feeling what you're feeling. Which is a lot of disbelief, a little anxiety, a little fatigue, and a little compassion. Very little compassion."

  "You don't need a crystal ball or a voodoo-hoodoo curse to figure that one out."

  "And you've got a low backache, too. Right?"

  Lydia felt a chill. Her low back did hurt. Her period was due tomorrow and her back always ached the day before.

  "Half the world's got backaches, Howie."

  "You've got to believe me, Lydia. There's got to be a way I can–" His eyes lit. "Wait a minute. I've got an idea." He began yanking the kitchen drawers open until he got to the utensils. He pulled out a paring knife and handed it to her.

  "What's this for?" she said.

  "I want you to poke yourself here and there on your body with the point–"

  "Howie, are you nuts?"

  "Not hard enough to break the skin; just enough to cause a little pain." He took the pen from the message pad by the phone and pointed to the kitchen door. "I'll be on the other side of the door there and I'll mark the spots and number them on myself with this pen."

  "This is crazy!"

  "I've got to convince you, Lydia. You're the only one in this world I trust."

  Damn him! It had been like this all their lives. He always knew what to say to get her to go along.

  "Okay."

  He got on the other side of the swinging door. Lydia put her back to it and poked the knife point at the center of her left palm. It hurt, but certainly nothing she couldn't bear.

  "That's one," said Howie from the other side of the door.

  Lydia turned her hand over and jabbed the back of her hand.

  "That's two," Howie said.

  Lucky guesses, Lydia told herself uneasily. For variety, she poked the point gently against her cheek.

  "Very funny," Howie said, "but I'm not writing on my face."

  The words so startled her that the knife slipped from her grasp. As she grabbed for it, the blade sliced into her index finger.

  "Hey!" Howie said, pushing through the door. "You weren't supposed to cut yourself!"

  "It was an acc–" And then she realized. "My God, you knew!" She sucked her bleeding finger. He knew!

  "Of course I knew. As a matter of fact, for an instant in there I actually saw the cut on my finger. Look here. Even drew it for you. See?"

  Lydia did see: A half-inch crescent was drawn in ink across the pad of Howie's right index finger, perfectly matching the bloody one on her own.

  Suddenly Lydia was weak. She lowered herself into a chair. "My God, Howie, it's really true, isn't it?"

  "Sure is." He stood over her, beaming. "And I'm going to milk it dry." He turned and started toward the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Back to the condo. I need some sleep, and I've got a lot of thinking to do. Don't make any plans for dinner tonight. I'm treating. Lobster and champagne at Memison's."

  "Aren't we generous."

  "Make reservations for two."

  And then he was gone. Lydia sat there trying to accept the fact that something that simply didn't happen in real life was happening in hers.

  *

  On the way home, Howard kept well away from the hospital. As he walked he realized that the courtroom was small potatoes, just a springboard into politics. United States Senator Howard Weinstein. He liked the sound of that. He'd know who to trust and who to boot. And after he'd built up his power base, maybe he'd go for the White House.

  Hey, why the hell not?

  He was tempted to stop by his father's place out on Shore Drive and see what he was up to. He hadn't heard from the old man in a couple of weeks. Might be interesting to see how Dad really felt about him. And then again, it might not.

  He went straight home.

  His right arm started bothering him at the front door. The ache was worse than he remembered from last night. Just to test a theory, he walked back outside again. The pain disappeared by the time he got to the parking lot. It recurred when he returned to the condo.

  Which mean that someone nearby had a bad case of bursitis or something. So why the hell didn't the jerk do something about it?

  Howard was too tired to worry about that now. He downed a couple of shots of scotch to calm his nerves and crawled under the covers. As he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the throb in his arm, he realized that he felt a little sad. Why? Or did the emotion even originate with him? Maybe somebody else nearby was unhappy or depressed about something. W
as he getting more sensitive or what? This could get confusing.

  He pushed it all away and wrapped himself in dreams of dazzling courtroom prowess and political glory.

  *

  The pain awoke him at four in the afternoon. The aching throb in his right arm was worse than ever. He wondered if it had anything to do with touching the hand. Maybe Dr. Johnson was getting even with him after all.

  That was not a pleasant thought.

  But then why would the pain stop as soon as he left the condo? He couldn't figure this out.

  He phoned Lydia. "How about an early dinner, Sis?"

  "How early?"

  "As early as possible."

  "I made reservations for 7:30."

  "We'll change them."

  "Is something wrong, Howie?" There was a hint of real concern in her voice.

  He told her about the pain in his arm. "I've got to get out of here. That's the only time it stops."

  "Okay. Meet you there at 5:30."

  That was when the peasants ate, but the pain wouldn't allow Howard to be snooty. He took a quick shower and hurried outside before his hair had dried. Blessed relief from the pain came at the far end of the parking lot.

  *

  "I'll take that one," Howard said, pointing out a big-tailed two-pounder in Memison's live lobster tank.

  "Excellent choice, sir," the waiter said, then turned to Lydia. "And you, Miss?"

  "I'll have the fish dinner, please."

  Howard was surprised. He sensed a skittish reluctance in her. "No lobster? I thought you loved lobster!"

  She was staring at the tank. "I do. But standing here and pointing out the one I'm going to eat...somehow it's not the same. Makes me feel like some sort of executioner."

  Howard couldn't help laughing. "I swear to God you're from Mars, Sis. From Mars!"