and hungry look. He could not have sworn under oath that it was a knife, but he thought it might be.
Yes, it might very well be a knife.
His first clear evaluative thought about this experience was that the men over there looked like aliens in a movie about UFO abductions-Communion, perhaps, or Fire in the Sky. His second was that he had fallen asleep again, right here in his wing-chair, without even noticing.
That's right, Ralph-it's Just a little more rummage-sale action, probably brought on by the stress of being stabbed and helped along by that frigging pal-n-pill.
He sensed nothing frightening about the two figures on May Locher's stoop other than the long, sharp-looking thing one of them was holding.
Ralph supposed that not even your dreaming mind could do much with a couple of short bald guys wearing white tunics which looked left over from Central Casting. Also, there was nothing frightening about their behavior-nothing furtive, nothing menacing. They stood on the stoop as if they had every right to be there in the darkest, stillest hour of the morning. They were facing each other, the attitudes of their bodies and large bald heads suggesting two old friends having a sober, civilized conversation. They looked thoughtful and intelligent-the kind of space-travellers who would be more apt to say "We come in peace" than kidnap you, stick a probe up your ass, and then take notes on your reaction.
All right, so maybe this new dream's not an out-and-out nightmare.
After the last one, are you complaining?
No, of course he wasn't. Winding up on the floor once a night was plenty, thanks. Yet there was something very disquieting about this dream, just the same; it felt real in a way that his dream of Carolyn had not. This was his own living room, after all, not some weird, deserted beach he had never seen before. He was sitting in the same wing-back chair where he sat every morning, holding a cup of tea which was now almost cold in his left hand, and when he raised the fingers of his right hand to his nose, as he was doing now, he could still smell a faint whiff of soap beneath the nails... the Irish Spring he liked to use in the shower...
Ralph suddenly reached beneath his left armpit and pressed his fingers to the bandage there. The pain was immediate and intense... but the two small bald men in the white tunics stayed right where they were, on May Locher's doorstep.
It doesn't matter what you think you feel, Ralph. It can't matter, because"Fuck you!" Ralph said in a hoarse, low voice. He rose from the wing-chair, putting his cup down on the little table beside it as he did. Sleepy time slopped onto the TV Guide there. "Fuck you, this Is no dream!"
He hurried across the living room to the kitchen, pajamas flapping, old worn slippers scuffing and thumping, the place where Charlie Pickering had stuck him sending O)ut he)t little bursts of pain. He grabbed a chair and took it into the apartment's small foyer.
There was a closet here. Ralph opened its door, snapped on the light just inside, positioned the chair so he would be able to reach the closet's top shelf, and then stared an it.
The shelf was a clutter of lost or forgotten items, most of which had belonged to Carolyn. These were small things, little more than scraps, but looking at them drove away the last lingering conviction that this had to be a dream. There was an ancient bag of M amp;M's-her secret snack-food, her comfort-food. There was a lace heart, a single discarded white satin pump with a broken heel, a photo album. These things hurt a lot more than the knife-prick under his arm, but he had no time to hurt just now.
Ralph leaned forward, placing his left hand on the high, dusty shelf to balance his weight, then began to shuffle through the junk with his right hand, all the while praying that the kitchen chair wouldn't take a notion to scoot out from under him. The wound below his armpit was now throbbing outrageously, and he knew he.was going to get it bleeding again if he didn't stop the athletics soon, but...
I'm sure they're up here somewhere... well... almost sure...
He pushed aside his old fly-box and his wicker creel. There was a stack of magazines behind the creel. The one on top was an issue of Ligok with Andy Williams on the cover. Ralph