Violent Dreams
Six
It was almost one AM by the time Race got back to the lodging house. It had taken him hours to stop shaking and regain some control of his mind, and even longer to overcome his paranoia and convince himself that no one was waiting for him in the bleachers. Even so, he glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, changed rides half a dozen times, and varied his route so no one could follow him.
He let himself in through the upstairs window, since it was hours past curfew, and sat down on his bed. No one else was awake, and for a change, he wasn't even sleepy. He was thankful for that, too; when he shut his eyes, he still saw it. He began to restlessly shuffle the cards and play solitaire, staring at the cards, forcing his brain to think of nothing but the numbers and colors.
He was still playing when light began to spill under the shade; he was still playing when Kloppman came upstairs and began his daily battle to get the newsies out of bed. He stopped and threw Race a sideways look; this had only ever happened once or twice before, since Race was usually careful enough to at least pretend to sleep.
Race waved good morning and gathered the cards as others began to rouse. "You look tired," Jack commented quietly, as they took their places at the sink.
"I'm okay."
"You was out late last night."
"Yeah."
"Date?"
"Card game," Race answered, not exactly lying. Solitaire was a card game.
"That all?"
"Yeah."
Jack shrugged. "All right. 'S just... You looked tireder 'n normal."
"Don' worry about it," Race answered, and splashed his face with the cold water. He hoped he sounded more upbeat than he felt, but couldn't quite get the enough spring in his step to match everyone else's. *
He couldn't sleep.
No, it wasn't even that. He wouldn't sleep. Racetrack refused to sleep; he refused to shut his eyes and try to doze, he just would not do it. He sat in the dark under the bleachers, smoking and playing solitaire in the least muddy area he could find, and refused to sleep. When he finished lunch, he'd go sell the afternoon edition, something he hadn't done all spring; that was when he'd normally try and nap. But he didn't want to sleep.
When he slept, he dreamed. Same as always. But the dreams were so much more vivid now, and they weren't fading anymore. He could remember seeing his brother get shot, he could remember the hand with the brown gloves pulling the trigger. He saw it in his mind, whenever he closed his eyes.
So he just wouldn't close his eyes. He hadn't slept regularly in years; no reason to start now.
But he was so tired.
He flipped over another few cards. It didn't matter that he was tired; he was always tired. That's what happened when a person stopped sleeping, he got tired. He had napped what, two days ago? Three? It didn't matter. He didn't need sleep anyway. He certainly didn't want it.
He played a few cards, and noticed to his surprise that he had the game won. Not officially yet, but the four aces were in place with at least a few cards on each, and he'd uncovered the rest of the piles, with only a few cards left in the deck.
So he finished the game, and finished his lunch, and went to sell papers. He could have done all three sleep-walking. *
"Racetrack?" Jack asked, nudging Race with his elbow. He'd very nearly drifted off in the booth at Tibby's.
"Hmm?" Race asked, grateful to be awoken.
"You okay? The past few days you seemed really... Tired."
"Fine," he said, and shook his head a little to clear it. He reached for Jack's soda, hoping it would wake him up the way it did for some guys, and Jack gave him a suspicious, concerned look and surrendered it. Race wanted to grin and joke and assure Jack he was fine.
But he just didn't have the energy for it. *
"They still ain't caught Lerror," Snitch reported, reading the headlines as they were written. "But some people seen 'im around Sheepshead. There's money for findin' 'im now, too. Heh, Race, maybe you'll catch 'im!"
Racetrack looked at the article and shrugged tiredly. Five days without sleep. He was used to acting more awake than he felt, but he'd never gone five full days without sleep before. He was exhausted; he ached with exhaustion. But damned if he would sleep. Damned if he'd let himself see...
"I don' feel like going to the races today," he mumbled, trying to keep pace with the rest of the guys, but finding he didn't have the energy to keep up with their morning rush.
"You serious?" Snitch demanded, then, "Can Skitts an' me take your spot for today, then?"
"Sure, whatever." Racetrack yawned. "Jus'... Jus' remember 's mine..."
"Yeah, sure. Hey, Skittery!" he yelled and bounded off to catch his partner while Racetrack fell in line. *
"Did ya catch 'im?" Mush asked wryly, as Snitch and Skitts arrived home for the night. He nudged Race with his elbow and laughed; Race managed a half-hearted smile, but even that was almost too much effort for him. He just wanted to collapse...
But as much as he wanted to, he wanted to keep his tentative grip on his sanity even more. And that grip felt like it was slipping, slowly, every hour...
"Nah," Skittery answered. "Snitch says he seen 'im, but wasn' sure."
"Problem is, there ain't no good pictures of 'im!" Snitch answered, annoyed to have a substantial reward possibly get away from under his nose. "Can't catch a guy if you don' know what he looks like. You know what I'd like to do? Find that Verdi kid, if he's alive, an' bring him ta Sheepshead. Don' ya think he'd know if he saw 'im? Better 'n anyone else would."
"Yeah, I guess," Skittery answered, rolling his eyes. He'd heard about almost nothing else all day.
"What? It could work."
"Yeah, sure, but how you gonna find the kid?" Jack asked from the staircase where he was sitting and smoking. "He's prob'ly dead anyway."
"I dunno, thought maybe we could try sellin' aroun' where they used ta live--see if maybe he haunts the ol' neighborhood or whatever. Scene a' the crime an' all that."
"But why would a kid go back to where he'd been tortured, dumbass?"
"Awww, I dunno. It was jus' a thought. Maybe go ta his parents' house, then, see if he hangs aroun' there."
"Obviously he don't, don't you think they'd a' found him by now if he did?" Blink put in, stepping over Jack on his way down the stairs. He was off to meet Hannah for the evening.
"Yeah, sure, but it ain't like anyone's seen 'im. Maybe he don't look like when he was a kid, I mean, there's a big difference between ten an' seventeen. His own parents prob'ly wouldn' even recognize 'im!" Snitch said stubbornly.
Parents, Racetrack thought vaguely, almost too tired to think. The poor kid's got parents... where ever he is... parents and a dead brother.
Race swallowed hard, the conversation about the missing Verdi kid making him think more than he wanted to. He wished everyone would just shut up; he wished the police would just catch Lerror already, so the papers would stop writing about him. So that Race could stop thinking of him, and the poor tortured kid who'd lost a brother, just like he had...
Just like I did.
Race felt sick and he wanted to bolt as the debate continued around him; it seemed like everyone had something to say, but Race couldn't really keep track of it. He was feeling so oddly dizzy, like he couldn't focus on anything he saw or heard. Finally Snitch nudged his arm. "Well, Race?" he demanded. "Whaddaya think?"
"What?"
"What do you think?" Snitch said again, more slowly. "Christ, you been outta it lately. You think Verdi's still alive, or what?"
"I dunno," Race answered. "Prob'ly not." It amazed him he'd even gotten the sentence out. He's probably dead like his brother and like my brother... He clutched at the table suddenly, his hands shaking fiercely and so dizzy and scared and nauseated that he couldn't even pretend he looked normal anymore. All he could do was fight to stay conscious...
"See, I told you!" Skittery crowed triumphantly, but Race didn't hear it. He also didn't see it when Jack stood up and made his way over to where Race was shaking, an abandoned game of solitaire in front of him.
"You been playin' lots a' solitaire lately," he commented, offering Race the end of the cigarette.
"Yeah," Race agreed, his voice cracking, ignoring the cigarette. It was all he could do to pretend he was okay; maybe if he didn't hold his hand up where Jack could see it, Jack wouldn't see how much it was shaking... He glanced down at the game; he'd almost forgotten he was playing.
"You okay? Everyone's startin' ta notice that you'se a bit... Off."
"I ain't off," Race answered, fighting to get the words out. He hated Jack for making him talk; the fact that it was because Jack was worried didn't even register. "Jus' tired. You know I don' sleep at night." There. Maybe that would satisfy him, maybe Jack would leave him alone so he could shake and pretend it was fine and that he wasn't about to pass out...
"Yeah, but usually you at least looks like you does. Things gettin' worse or what?"
"I jus' ain't got the energy to pretend this week. It's... the damn weather..."
"Race, the weather's been gorgeous this week, an' the sellin' 's been great. So don' lie, jus' tell me what I can do ta help, awright?"
"Ain't nothin' you can do, Jack." Race slid his hand across the table, began to sweep the cards into a pile to shuffle.
"Jus'... Jus' let me know if there is. We can't have you go crazy, now, can we?"
"I ain't crazy," Racetrack answered, defensive despite everything. His sanity was all he had left, he realized; damned if he'd let that go without a fight. So he gathered up the cards from the solitaire game; he didn't remember if he had been winning or losing, and he didn't care. He shuffled the deck. It helped a little. "I ain't," he said again.
"Sure thing, Race. Whatever you say. Jus' try an' get some sleep tonight, awright?"
"Yeah," Race answered, lying easily. It was certainly easier than telling the truth. The hell I'll sleep tonight, he told himself. Better exhausted than asleep.
But he couldn't help it. Four days without shutting his eyes; it was out of his control. He fought against it, too tired to even realize how strange it was that he was trying not to sleep when he'd spent years desperately trying to sleep. But he didn't want it. He didn't want any more dreams.
But...
He clutched the cards desperately, even as people started to go to bed; he sat cross-legged on his bunk and played in the dark. He won another game, then lost three, then won again. He was improving, he realized; even as much as he played he didn't usually win one out of four games. He'd have been impressed with himself, but he was too tired. His mind only had the energy to focus on one thing, on the cards in front of him.
I'm not crazy, he told himself firmly, shuffling the deck. I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not...
It was like a mantra. He was so scared he was crazy and that was causing all of this. What if they found out? What if they locked him up somewhere?
Somewhere like the hellish basement he was trying desperately to avoid remembering?
...not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy.
He lay out another hand of solitaire and wondered what time it was. He was usually pretty good at guessing the time in the middle of the night, but wasn't used to being quite this exhausted, and it had thrown him off entirely. Crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm...
He glanced up from the cards and around the room. Blink was still out. It couldn't be too late, then. Which was rotten to realize; he really wanted it to be late. He wanted to get the night over with as soon as possible. It was just as likely he'd fall asleep during the day as the night, now, but it felt so much easier to sleep at night, when it was dark and quiet... At least if he went to the races, there'd be enough noise to keep him alert.
Not that he'd go to the races, not with Thomas Lerror walking around down there, wearing brown gloves. Not that he was certain it was Lerror he'd seen in the tracks, or Lerror he'd seen in his nightmares, but it was an awfully big coincidence that he started remembering things and having dreams just as Lerror became news. And he remembered having an older brother, now, and that the brother died.
It was an awfully big coincidence.
He shuffled the cards some more, and didn't think about it. Not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy.
He lay out a hand of solitaire.
Not crazy, I'm... Not... Crazy. I'm not, I'm... I'm crazy...
He swallowed hard and shook the mantra from his mind. The more he repeated it, the more he would have sounded crazy to anyone who knew what he was thinking. Only someone totally crazy would have tried so hard to convince himself he was sane, and Racetrack refused to be crazy.
His eyelids felt so heavy. He desperately wanted to shut them for just a minute, but couldn't let himself.
Parents, he remembered. I got parents... If that's me I got parents, but I can't be sure if it's me...
But he didn't want to think about it.
Almost angrily--he didn't have the energy to be angry--he played a card. He began to narrate the game to himself, making himself concentrate on it. Nothing else could get past his iron wall of cards; the solitary confinement he'd created. Nothing.
Nothing but sleep.
He began to drift off; the solitaire game became more distant, and he forced himself back to wakefulness. King on empty space; Queen on King; there's a whole pile there with a Jack at the back that I can move, flip over the card. Nothing. From the deck, then. Ten. Damn, I already have the Jack covered.
But his narrative became less descriptive as time went on. Black four, red five... Ace. Two, three, four. Queen of hearts... Jack of spades... Ten, nine, eight...
And then was gone. He stopped playing. He kept his eyes open. But it didn't matter, because he was asleep with open eyes.