Mercury Man (14 page)

He flipped off the TV, picked up the phone, and heard the voice of his grandfather barking at him: “Well, where's my drawing?”

He tried to answer, hesitated, and mumbled the words. “I — I'm just getting down to it. It was so hot I fell asleep.”

“Are you OK? You don't sound very good. Listen, remember what I said. We can't do anything without that drawing.”

“I know.”

“Did you call Fabricon?”

“Uh, no. I thought I'd do the drawing first.”

“Well, do it! Remember, no nonsense now. It doesn't have to be perfect and you don't have to be Picasso. Just put that mug's face on paper for me.”

“Sure, Grandpa. Don't worry.” He could almost feel his grandfather's energy coming over the phone and charging him up.

“I need it tonight. I wish you weren't taking so long. Your mother will be home any time now, won't she?”

“I know. That's why I didn't start.”

“Do it right away. It will only take minutes. Bring it here after dinner.”

“Sure, Grandpa.”

But as soon as he hung up the phone, when the contact with his grandfather's voice was broken, Tom could feel his energy draining away again. He hadn't
even thought to ask old Jack if he'd learned anything about Fabricon. Disgusted with himself, he flopped on the couch again and lay there, staring at his sketch pad and pencils. He knew he couldn't begin to sketch right now. He reached for the TV remote, fingering the buttons, and hating himself as he did so.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

Tom got up slowly. He felt a rush of panic — one of the kids, the last thing he needed! He couldn't face anyone; he wouldn't open it.

He stood looking around the apartment, at the familiar battered furniture, the worn rug, at his own baby and toddler photos, glimpses of a lost past that his mother had arranged in a Woolworth's frame on the table. How could he pretend not to be there, to make himself invisible, as he longed to be? These walls seemed much too flimsy to protect him from the world out there.

There was another knock, then the muffled growl of a man's voice.

Could it be the stranger? But he'd said he wouldn't contact them before their meeting with Tarn. Could it be somebody from Fabricon?

Tom hesitated. Another knock, then a voice that he recognized. He moved quickly to the door and threw it open.

Mr. Rivera, the janitor, stood there shaking his grey, grizzled head.

“What's with it, you don't answer the door? You sleeping or something?” He wiped his forehead with
the back of a gnarled hand. “Whew! It's hot in here. Why doesn't your mother buy a fan?”

Tom didn't answer. Mr. Rivera shrugged his shoulders, set his broom aside, reached into one pocket, and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“This came for you … looks like medicine. You sick or something?”

Tom shook his head. He held up the parcel: it was very light and neatly wrapped with string. Pasted on it was a company label on which his name had been carefully typed. He stared hard at the label, not quite believing his eyes when he took the company's name in.

Mr. Rivera grabbed at his broom and made his way slowly down the stairs, muttering to himself as he went. “This heat … everybody sleeping … misery!”

Tom cradled the parcel in his hands. The building around him seemed suddenly to shed its rough walls, its raw smells, its filth and decay. His hair stood up a bit on the back of his neck, and he felt as if he were turning in space, peering out of some secret room at a blue horizon that was infinite and yet familiar.

In tiny letters, the label on the parcel read: “MERCURY ENTERPRISES, 221 HARBOUR STREET, WEST HOPE.”

Tom slammed the apartment door, raced into his bedroom, and tore the parcel open. He tossed aside the loose string and ripped paper, then opened up the small cardboard box he found inside.

A faint and delicate perfume seemed to invade the room. In the box was a piece of printed paper, stamped
with a symbol he vaguely recognized — two snakes twisting around a wand. Beneath this image were some hand-printed words that seemed even more familiar but that he didn't precisely understand.

Ad astra per aspera
, the words read.

Tom folded the paper carefully and hid it in one of his dresser drawers. He saw that there was something else in the box, a worn cardboard insert, clipped to which was what looked like an old-fashioned tie pin.

He pulled it out, only to find it wasn't a pin but a ring, a gold ring, cheaply made and tarnished a little, with a one-size-fits-all adjustable band. There was a small catch on one side of the ring. Tom flipped the catch and found that the inside was hollow.

He held the ring up and saw his face in the small convex mirror set inside. As he moved the ring, a few objects in the room were visible around him, but his head appeared oddly distanced and disembodied, like one of those “phantom doubles” of themselves that the heroes of fantasy stories sometimes encountered.

He was puzzled — and thrilled.

He hurried to the phone and dialled his grandfather's number. Jack answered almost immediately.

“Tom! I was expecting you. Where are you?”

“I'm still at the apartment, but I'm coming right over. I have to ask you something right away. Do you know what
ad astra per aspera
means?”

“Hang on, let me write that down. Hmmm … seems to me you should know what that one means. But if you want an exact translation of the Latin, I can look it up.
Why don't I do that and tell you when you get here? Are you coming now? Have you got the drawing?”

“I'm bringing it with me, Grandpa.”

Within minutes, Tom had carefully hidden away the half-torn wrappings and the tiny printed paper with the Latin phrase. He fitted the ring to his finger, squeezing the band a little to get it tight, and then, feeling much better, he began to sketch.

His hands moved, everything seemed easy and natural, and as he worked he felt the image growing strong and sure at his fingertips. With many deft, bold strokes he slowly evoked on the white page the face of the man who had pursued him.

After a while he realized that he had finished. He held the sketch at arm's length. The stranger's intense gaze seemed to fix on him. He nodded with satisfaction, flipped the pad shut, and found his door key.

It was well after six. His mother might be home at any minute. He wanted to get out of there, and he wouldn't bother to leave a message.

Racing along Morris Street, he was thinking,
How did the ring get to me? Mercury Man Comics shut down long ago. The kids would think I've lost my mind, but I've got the ring — some kind of magic
is
happening. This is crazy, but at least something's happening, I'm sure of it! But who sent it? Have I found some kind of porthole at last?

Arriving at his grandfather's, he slipped the ring in his pocket before he handed over the sketchbook and listened to Jack sing his praises.

“Now that's more like it! I wondered if you were ever going to finish it! But it's good, Tommy boy, it's damned good. I never understood why you didn't keep up with your sketching!”

Jack slapped him heartily on the back, then held the picture up once again and stared at it.

“Today I talked to a couple of old buddies down at
The Clarion
. There's a cop I know who might help, too. I'm hoping we can pinpoint this guy and find out what his game is. I'm also working on Fabricon's corporate history. You never got through to them to set up the appointment?”

“Tomorrow, for sure.”

“Good! Anyway I found the translation of that Latin for you.
Ad astra per aspera
. It means, approximately,
Along rough paths to the stars
. I'm surprised you didn't remember it. Didn't you do a prize essay on that theme in first year high?”

“Oh, I remembered the essay all right, but I forgot the Latin words.”

“It's what they call a tag, or saying, I guess. Means that you sometimes have to go through the mill to get a sight of something better. I always regretted I never learned any Latin. Sailed into Pireaus so many times that I picked up quite a bit of Greek, though. Hung out in a taverna or two in my time.”

Jack sighed. “God! Sometimes I wish I had a deck under my feet again! I'd love to show you some of those great ports of call I used to anchor in. Hobart, Tasmania — now there's a harbour. Beats Naples any day! You're
coming over here tomorrow afternoon? Good! I may have a few leads by then.”

Before Tom left, though, he had one more question. He drew a picture for Captain Sandalls: a staff with crossed figures of serpents and wings at the top.

“Does that remind you of anything, Grandpa? I've seen it before in your collection, and other places, too, but I can't exactly remember what it is. I think you once told me it had something to do with the old Western Union telegraph company.”

“Heck, that's an easy one. That's the staff of the Roman god Mercury. The messenger of the gods, you know. Always around when something new was about to happen. Remember the comics I showed you the other day?”

“Sure,
Mercury Man
.”

“Just one of the cases where the comics used those old Roman gods. Fine fellow, Mercury — I always had a sneaking liking for that thief!”

“Thief? I thought he was supposed to be a good guy.”

“Well, he was. But he didn't care how he made things happen, I guess.”

Tom walked home slowly, elated by what he had heard. He needed some time to think, and the ring and the Mercury symbol were at the centre of his thoughts.

As soon as he was out of sight, he slipped the gold band back on his finger, a little ashamed of not telling his grandfather about it, but glad all the same that he hadn't. Not that the old man wouldn't have understood — it would have tickled him mightily, almost as if
Tom had literally stolen a page from one of his treasured comic books. Yet he knew, for reasons he couldn't fathom, that telling his grandfather would be a mistake. He needed to sort out his own thoughts, to figure out where the ring had come from and why its arrival made him feel suddenly happy and powerful.

When he got to his building he stopped at the ground floor and knocked on Mr. Rivera's door.

The grizzled old man stumbled into the hallway. He didn't seem very glad to see him. The air smelled of chillies and Mr. Rivera's breath reeked of booze.

“The parcel,” Tom said, “thanks for bringing it up.” He offered him a dollar, but the old man waved his hands violently, as if he had been mortally insulted.

“You keep your money, I don't need it. I don't have to take money from kids. Not yet, anyway!”

He seemed almost ready to spit in disgust at the thought, but then turned away abruptly, just before Tom got out his question.

“Sorry, but I wanted to know — I mean you didn't mention — did the postman bring this today?”

Mr. Rivera stopped and half-turned. He seemed puzzled by the question.

“Postman? No, no. Not postman. I don't touch postman stuff. Girl brought it. Pretty girl. She didn't say nothing.” He pointed to his lips. “Maybe from drugstore, huh?”

Before disappearing into his apartment, Mr. Rivera waved his hand in the direction of the corner pharmacy, some three blocks away.

“Must be from that drugstore. I got to go now.”

Tom doubted that Mr. Rivera's guess was right, though. The only pretty “girl” he had ever seen working in the drugstore was older than his mother.

But now he had at least part of the explanation, for the Mercury Man wrapper he had carefully stashed in his dresser drawer bore just the slightest odour of a delicate and unfamiliar perfume.

Ad astra per aspera
, Tom thought, and climbed the stairs slowly, one by one.

Tom opened his eyes, and his sweating body told him that the heat had not abated, although the sunlight suggested it was already late morning. He sensed by the hollow silence of the apartment that he was alone. It was Saturday but his mother must have gone out somewhere.

He dragged himself up and started for the bathroom, but stopped suddenly and slid open the top drawer of his small dresser. The ring was right where he had concealed it, under his spring report card. He smiled to himself — a ridiculous ring, but a real mystery — delivered by some girl and actually for him! He slipped it onto the second finger of his right hand and suddenly felt alive: life had changed, he'd been given sight of a secret — something he couldn't guess but was surely well worth exploring.

In the living room he looked around, rubbing his eyes. A sheet of paper had been pinned to the doorway:

Tom — Going out for breakfast with Chuck. Thought you might like to go with us to a softball game tomorrow. Lots of interesting people there and free eats! How about it? — Love from Mom

      
By the way, Dr. Tarn called from Fabricon. Sorry, I almost forgot. I was just going out the door. He wants you to call him right away. I told him you were asleep and he said call when you wake up. Didn't know you applied for a job there. Good luck!

In her usual careless way, she had scrawled a barely readable telephone number at the bottom of the paper. Tom shook his head, groaned, crumpled the note, and tossed it on the floor. His mother was priceless! Desperate for him to “do something” but not willing to wake him up when an executive called. She was so out of it! If she didn't think all the time about Reichert she might notice what was going on around her!

Tom splashed water in his face, rubbed his eyes with a towel, and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. How was he going to handle the weekend? A series of images flashed through his mind: he saw himself at the company softball game, holding up his ring to make Reichert and the others disappear; he imagined himself and his grandfather trapped in some vault at Fabricon, only he knew that with the ring he would find the way
out; he was having coffee at Damato's and a beautiful girl was quietly explaining to him why she had brought him the ring in the first place …