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  For Ellen Datlow, good friend and editor through all the years and pages

  1

  OWEN SAT WITH A cup of coffee at the kitchen table and stared out the glass door that offered a view of his tiny backyard. It was surrounded at its boundary by tall fir trees, and, at its center, there was a bird feeder hanging on a shepherd’s crook, leaning easterly in the wind and wet mud. The sparrows swarmed what was left of the seed he’d put out two days earlier. While his visitors fluttered and pecked, his thoughts were of Sleeping Beauty, virulent thorns, and a turreted castle in the distance. She was dressed in azure robes, he noted, like the Virgin Mary, and her trailing golden hair had stars in it. In the background, there was a night sky with a crescent moon and stars of its own.

  The scene Owen envisioned was painted on the wall of the children’s section at the local library where he was and had been the head and only librarian for the past ten years. The painting, nearly as old as the one-story stucco building that held it, had seen better days. In the last five years the picture had become “ill,” and it was said by those who tend to the upkeep of murals that the paint was in structural peril. He had a professional in to assess the damage, and the fellow told him what it would cost to restore it. Thousands more than the library budget. Its particular illness was a kind of paint separation that began with cracks and advanced into the curling away and dropping off of paint chips. Like a plague, the problem was spreading, creeping up Sleeping Beauty’s neck toward her serene face.

  He continuously pondered how he might raise the money but knew full well that in two years, his library on the back road, nestled at the edge of the forest next to the train tracks, would be closed. Five local, small-town libraries would be gathered into one larger one, sharing a budget and a new location. Owen’s place had been built in 1948 and served the small suburban town since then. He went as a child and was enchanted by the mural above the children’s books, as was his father. For the past twenty years the town had kept the library operating out of a sense of nostalgia more than anything else.

  There were regular customers, mostly retirees, who came for books and to sit in the afternoon quiet and stare out the plate glass window on the adult side. It offered the view of a field of weeds, then a tree line of tall oaks, and, not quite obscured by the shadow of the forest, abandoned train tracks. In the evenings, in autumn, just before he’d lock up, deer would appear in the field. The town of Westwend, on the edge of the pine barrens, moved at a radically slow pace.

  This was about as far as he got in his calculations every morning while watching the birds. It was time to wash out his coffee cup and dress for work. That day it was the blue-gray suit, white shirt, no tie. The only alternative was the brown suit, white shirt, no tie. Locking the door behind him, he walked to the corner and turned left, making for town along a tree-lined sidewalk. The rain had stopped overnight but the wind was raging and the new leaves on the spring trees made a rushing noise like a rain-swollen creek.

  If Owen was anything, he was a man of habit. At 7:05 every morning, he would arrive at the Busy Bee convenience store on the corner of Voss and Green. There, he always purchased a large coffee and a buttered roll. And as always, upon entering, he waved to Helen Roan, the owner’s daughter, working behind the counter. She was just out of high school and saving money to attend a state college by the following fall. She had her sights set on being an English major. Owen admired the quixotic nature of her plan, its blatant impracticality, its vow of poverty. He’d known her since she was seven and first came to the library with her mother.

  “How are your folks?” he asked on the way to the coffee station. He took one sugar, one dollop of half-and-half (he never used a stirrer but let it slosh together on the remainder of his walk).

  “They’re good. You know, my dad’s living a life of quiet desperation; my mom, loud desperation.”

  Owen laughed. He was energized by her smile and intelligence.

  Helen held the buttered roll wrapped in wax paper. As he headed toward her, she asked, “Cigarettes today?”

  He shuddered. “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “I’m trying to lay off.”

  She put the roll on the counter and turned to the cash register. As it rang its tally, the bell on the front door also jingled. Someone entered the store and swept in between Helen and Owen. The interloper was dressed in a black jacket, pants, and boots, and nearly knocked the cup out of Owen’s hand.

  The librarian took a step back, absolutely fine with this customer being served before him. Owen never looked for a fight. He’d been in one in grade school and lost badly. Even a loud argument now was more than he cared to deal with. He heard Helen say, “Mister, you’ll have to get in line. This customer was here before you.”

  “It’s OK,” said Owen. “I’m fine.” And then something happened. He couldn’t see what it was; he just saw the expression of sick surprise on Helen’s face. Only when she backed away and put her hands out in front of her did he see the stranger’s arm come up and follow her movement. In his hand was a black revolver. Owen froze. He heard the man say, “Open the register and give me the money.” It became immediately evident Helen was in a similar state of paralysis.

  “I’m not fucking around,” said the man.

  Owen meant to jump the gunman from behind, but instead of his arms and legs moving, his mouth opened slightly and a short, strangled cry escaped. In response, the man swung his arm without turning completely around and smashed the librarian in the jaw with the butt of the gun. The attack came in a blur. The next Owen knew, he was reeling backward into a stand of snacks, and lights in his head were blinking. He staggered, tripped, and fell to the floor, snacks flying in all directions, bags popping beneath him. As he tumbled into darkness, he heard a gunshot in the distance.

  Owen came to in a panic, ringing in his ears. There was a cop squatting next to him. “Easy, brother,” said the officer as he grabbed Owen’s left arm. “Take a few deep breaths.”

  He did as he was told, and the ringing slowly subsided. Behind it was the percussion of his racing pulse. Things beyond the immediate face of the cop revealed themselves slowly, and he watched, entranced, as reality put the jigsaw of itself back together. He saw other officers moving around. He sensed a crowd outside. In an instant he remembered what happened. “The girl behind the counter,” he said to the cop.

  There was an expression on the man’s face as if weighing some decision. “Deceased,” he finally said.

  “No. You can’t be right.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true.”

  “What?”

  “He shot her twice but not before she pushed the button letting us know there was a robbery. We got here when he was trying to get into the register. We put him down. You were out cold through the entire thing.”

  “Good lord,” said Owen, and at first didn’t realize there were tears streaming down his face. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “I’m gonna get a paramedic over here. Don’t try to stand up. Don’t move at all. We’ll get you checked out and off
to the hospital.”

  The paramedic turned out to be another kid Owen recognized from the library. He remembered first shaking hands with the boy beneath the scene of Sleeping Beauty years earlier, and recalled his name was Caleb. The young fellow took his blood pressure, shined a flashlight in his eyes, and performed a dozen other tests. Owen worked to collect himself. When the blue dots cleared from his eyes, he noticed the paramedic was trembling.

  “Did you know Helen?” They were the same age and the town was so small.

  Caleb didn’t answer. Instead, bottom lip quivering and pale as an empty page, he said, “OK. Do you have any intense pain in your back or legs? How about chest or shoulders?”

  “No.”

  “They’re bringing in the stretcher.”

  A few minutes later, he was hoisted onto a bed with wheels. He requested that they put the head of the bed up, as he had a phobia about lying flat on his back. He’d suffered attacks of sleep paralysis in his early teens, and would freak out if he found himself in that position. After adjusting the bed, the second paramedic pumped the hydraulics of the conveyance, and Owen rose to see the scene clearly for the first time. He went lightheaded—yellow police tape, the bullet-riddled front window that should have shattered, six-packs of bottled soda stacked near the register for a quick sale, leaking from their wounds onto the linoleum.

  They rolled him slowly toward the front door. The sunlight shining in made him squint and turn his head. When he did, he found he was facing the counter. Behind it he caught a glimpse of Helen—right eye, a burnt, bloody socket, left, glazed and staring, and a gaping flesh and blood blossom of a hole in her throat. Lying across her legs on his back was the gunman, none of his own wounds visible but a pool of blood beneath. Eyes closed, he appeared to simply be asleep, save for the froth on his lips and the fly on his forehead he wasn’t swatting away. Just before being blocked from the horrible sight by the second paramedic, Owen noticed a small black tattoo of a circle with a cross inside it on the gunman’s left wrist. At first, he’d thought it a second fly.

  A group of ten people, which was a crowd in Westwend, stood outside the store, peering in. When Owen came out into the sunlight, they all applauded.

  “They’re cheering for you,” said the second paramedic.

  “Why?”

  “You managed not to get killed,” Caleb whispered.

  2

  OWEN WAS TAKEN TO a hospital three towns away and was thoroughly inspected. There were long periods of waiting, punctuated by brief visits with nurses who gave shots and took him for tests. He spent lonely hours, the TV on and meaning nothing, sunk in a depression as he contemplated the loss of Helen, what it would mean to her parents and the town. It was during one of these bouts of utter sadness that he wondered what might have happened had he jumped the gunman. But there wasn’t a chance in hell he could ever have mustered the courage to do it. He’d nearly pissed his pants when he saw the gun.

  One of the doctors that came by during that long day, a psychologist, warned him never to act the hero again. “I know you wanted to make a difference, but that’s how the casualties increase. Best practice? Run in the other direction,” said the old man. He reeked of cigarette smoke. Owen realized that because of how he was found, pistol-whipped and unconscious, everyone believed he’d attempted to intercede. The relief of this realization was brief and quickly replaced by the guilt of letting people think he was heroic when he was actually a coward.

  A doctor was in the room with him talking about ordering an MRI. Owen looked out the window at the setting sun. He put his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “OK, I’m going now,” he said. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” the doctor asked. “We’d like to run a few more tests.”

  “Yeah, I’m OK. You folks took good care of me.”

  “We were considering having you stay overnight.”

  “I won’t be doing that,” he said. “Where are my clothes?”

  The mayor of Westwend, Rita Morse, had called the hospital and asked them to let her know when Owen would be released so she could send a car to take him home. The doctor went to call for Owen’s ride, and he got dressed. There were a couple of aches and pains. The snack stand had cut his left side pretty badly. There were stitches and a dressing on it. Otherwise, he really could have gone straight to his house instead of going through a day of tests.

  Standing out front of the hospital in the cool evening, he managed to bum a cigarette off a nervous-looking middle-aged woman who told him her husband had been in a car accident. She even lit the smoke for him with shaking hands before returning inside. The cigarette tasted of her grief. He threw it on the ground and took deep breaths of fresh air. Eventually, a police car from Westwend pulled up. The window came down and the officer waved to him. Owen knew the cop from him bringing his kids to the library.

  The first thing he did upon arriving home was to find the bottle of bourbon in the kitchen cabinet and make himself a drink—ice and a little water—his usual. Then he sat at the table with his drink and wept for a good half hour. Eventually, he dried his eyes and forced himself to think of other things. He decided to go to work the next day, which was a decision not to have another bourbon. He had a sense he had to get back to himself, knowing the day’s impact had been fierce enough to blow him off course for the rest of his life.

  Until then, he’d never really considered the life he’d made in Westwend to be all it was cracked up to be, but after what he’d been through, he now thought of it as very sweet. He’d inherited his parents’ house, free of charge. He was working in his hometown, in a job that utilized his college degrees. He had no lover or spouse to care for or about. No relatives in close proximity. The people who came to the library were pleasant enough, and some he liked immensely. He had time to read and to think in peace. He wondered if there would ever be anything important to him beside those things.

  He finished his bourbon, and felt almost relaxed. An image of Helen smiling at him was trying to edge its way into his thoughts. He fought it and kept it at bay. “I’m exhausted,” he said aloud. Getting to his feet, he leaned against the table before pushing off and heading for the bedroom. His clothes fell where they would. Almost asleep, he managed to slip into a pair of blue gym shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

  The cool sheet, the marsh-like mattress, the familiar rough army blanket, caused him to sigh with comfort. He curled up on his side, a classic fetal position, and closed his eyes. As soon as he was in the dark, he sensed the stirring of dreams at the edges of his consciousness. The promise of oblivion came on and rid him of the tension of grief and fear. He was nearly out when the gash on his left side announced it was going to make a nuisance of itself. Eventually, the pain forced him onto his back just before sleep.

  He came to. It was dark. He closed his eyes to see if he could return to his dreams and realized he was lying on his back, something he always made an effort not to do. He felt a sense of panic and tried to roll onto his right side. Although his command to himself was clear, and he seemed completely awake, he remained inert. He tried to wiggle his toes and couldn’t. His breathing became erratic. A state of paralysis encased his entire body. He cried out, not even thinking who might hear him, but his voice was stunted and filtered down to a bark-like whisper.

  He hadn’t experienced it since he was sixteen, but he knew what was happening. Immediately, he controlled his breathing—in for a four count, hold for eight, and then exhale. It was clear to him now, he was awake in a dream, not that it was enough to allow him to turn on his side, which he wanted more than anything in the world. It came back to him from twenty plus years earlier. His method of escape was to concentrate on his left pinky finger and try to get it to move ever so slightly. If he could just get that going, he could spread the movement through his body and break free from sleep. His pinky didn’t respond. He switched to his big toe.

  He wasted energy trying to move, exerting his will. His
exhaustion finally stopped him from struggling within and he rested. Time passed, and then he felt something different happening. Not sure what it was, he wondered if he was dying. His body, though still paralyzed, was flooded with a strange sensation of lightness as he slowly slipped the clutches of gravity and floated toward the ceiling. Fear rose in him and he flailed his arms. Miraculously, they moved, and so did his legs. He was hovering in midair. Somehow, without even thinking to do it, he turned so he was looking down at his bed and his sleeping body. The scene was lit by a pale blue glow emanating from him.

  At this point, he knew he should have been really frightened, but he felt not the least bit of worry. He noticed that his body, asleep in the bed below him, was breathing peacefully, and he gave himself over completely to the will of whatever was taking him up. The ceiling was no barrier in his ethereal state, and he rose through it, through the attic. He saw the moon shining in the attic window.

  Then he found himself on the sidewalk in front of his house in his gym shorts and T-shirt—no shoes. The wind was as high as it had been the previous morning on his way to the library. It rustled the trees and sounded like running water. Owen’s hair was tossed in the gale, and he knew he should have felt colder in such meager clothes. He looked down and could see through himself, just barely. Holding up his left hand, he saw the outline of the full moon through it. For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been a ghost.

  And yet he could smell the spring night, heard the insects buzzing at the streetlight two houses down. Creepers sang and a night bird, far off, cried shrilly. A dog barked. He looked around and saw the living room light on in his next-door neighbor’s house. Mrs. Hultz, seventy-five, who’d lived there his entire life, had recently confided in him that she never slept anymore. Instead, she drank gin and watched old mystery movies all night. Up the street, he saw the Blims’ dog, Hecate, a mad Sheltie—in silhouette by moonlight—shitting on the Rogerses’ lawn. Music came from some house, Nat King Cole, singing “Too Young.” Owen took a few steps and felt as if he were gliding along the sidewalk. The movement was strange but pleasant for its unexpected lightness.