The Night Tourist (11 page)

Several hours later, Jack still didn’t want to stop. On one run they had hit the bump so hard that they’d sledded all the way from Pilgrim Hill to the Harlem Meer thirty blocks north. But as the clouds thickened, Euri abandoned the sled where they had found it and they flew toward the shrieks and laughter that emanated from children on the other side of Seventy-second Street. They flew over an iron gate and into a playground bathed by the soft glow of the streetlights on Fifth Avenue. The pale forms of children dashed around them, scrambling up a rope spiderweb and pumping their legs through the air on tire swings.

Wilson was the first to spot them. “Euri! Jack!” he shouted as he flew down from a colorfully painted jungle gym. The rest of the child ghosts floated in a circle around them. “You’re here!” they cried. “You’re here!”

Euri looked pleased with her reception. “Well, we said we’d be.”

“We didn’t believe you,” said Wilson. He turned to Jack. “Euri mostly stays alone under the bridge. She goes out only by herself—”

“Wilson,” Euri interrupted. “I’m here now. Let’s go.”

They rose into the sky like a flock of birds, he and Euri at the front, the child ghosts behind them. As he flew, Jack decided that except for Cerberus, death really wasn’t as bad as Euri made it seem. At night the whole city was yours, and you could just kick up your heels and fly as high as you wanted above the skyscrapers and the city lights.

Jack looked down and caught his breath. On a giant, moonlit meadow in the middle of the park, thousands of ghosts were lounging on the snow. A living German shepherd raced around the field, barking as a child landed in the snow in front of it; then the dog looked up at the sky and darted off to chase another.

“Finn! Finnegan! What are you doing? There’s nothing there,” his owner shouted from the meadow’s edge.

Euri floated down to the ground, and, as the child ghosts flew over to the special section of the meadow reserved just for them, she pulled Jack behind her, squeezing her way up to the front of the crowd. They sat down in the snow next to a ghost with wire-framed glasses and jutting ears who was furiously scribbling in a notebook. Jack couldn’t help peeking over his shoulder.

“It’s a review,” the man said imperiously, without looking up.

“Oh,” said Jack, embarrassed that he’d been caught snooping.

“When Tennessee died in the Hotel Elysee in 1983, the majority of his talent died with him,” the man continued. “This promises to be god-awful. Far worse than
Orpheus Descending
.”

“Orpheus . . . ?”

The man gave him an impatient glance. “The last time Tennessee tried to retell the Orpheus myth, in 1957. I quote my own review,‘But it seems to this playgoer that Mr. Williams has his story less thoroughly under control this time, and his allusive style has a less sturdy foundation.’”

Jack wasn’t sure how to respond, so he turned his attention to the stage. It was large and igloo-like, fashioned entirely from snow. A gossamer curtain made of frost hung down over it.

Suddenly, the curtain rustled and a man with a mustache and dressed in a white suit floated through it. “All hail, Tennessee,” said the critic wearily. The crowd murmured with excitement and then grew silent until the only sound was the sweep of the wind across the field. The man opened his arms and began to speak in a Southern accent:

“Alone we are on this great earth,
Lonesome spirits from our birth.
Which is why when love prevails
We’ll gladly brave the darkest trails.
For example, you may have read
How Orpheus came down to the dead,
Searching for the bride he lost
Because he knew what true love cost.
But the living can’t see the side
Of the underworld bride,
Who chose to sacrifice her death,
Who traded eternity for breath.
This is her story, based on fact,
Which our humble players will reenact.
Remember spirits, with those above,
To not look back if you choose love.”

“The purple patches of poetry leave this critic cold,” declared the critic, jotting down his own words as the playwright bowed. “Tennessee should stick to prose.”

Jack shrugged. “I thought it was okay.” The critic sighed. “That, young man, is why the world needs critics.”

As the playwright floated backstage, the curtain of frost vanished, melting away in tiny bursts of silver light. Behind it, fashioned from snow, was a room covered with what looked to be scrolls of paper. A group of men pored over one of them. “The original springs and rivers of Manhattan,” said the tallest of the group. “If we dig near them, we’ll be sure to find artifacts and bones from the original Indian tribes.”

“When do we start the dig?” asked a man on the outside of the little circle.

“Tomorrow,” answered the tall man.

A new curtain of frost suddenly appeared, blocking out the little scene. Jack turned to Euri. “The map!” he whispered. “They’re talking about the Viele map!”

“Shhh,” said Euri. She squeezed his hand and pointed to the stage. The curtain had disappeared, and this time the men were in what looked like a tunnel. “Look at this shard of bone,” said the tall man, bending down to pick something up. “It looks as if it’s been coated in gold.”

“Gold?” said one of the other men. “It looks like regular bone to me.”

The leader took a few steps forward, and with a shout, disappeared through the floor of the stage. The audience gasped. The rest of the men surrounded the spot where he’d vanished. “He’s fallen into some sort of shaft,” said one of them.

“Orpheus,” another shouted. “Orpheus, can you hear us? Are you okay?”

A curtain crystallized over the scene. When it melted, the leader was lying on the ground with his eyes closed. The gurgling sound of water filled the air. Slowly, he sat up and looked around. “Where am I?” he murmured to himself. “What a strange place.”

A woman floated onto the stage. “Are you okay?”

“Who are you?” he cried.

She touched his arm. “You’re alive!” she shouted in a theatrical voice.

Several ghosts in the children’s section of the audience screamed.

The man stared at her, his voice faltering. “And you’re ...?”

“Dead!” shouted several voices in the audience.

But the woman onstage didn’t echo them. “We’d better get you out of here.”

She hustled him onto his feet. But before they were able to exit the stage, an actor dressed in a Circle Line T-shirt appeared and stuck out his hand.

“What?” said the leader. “What do you want?” He riffled through his pockets, holding out their contents. “This? You want this?” He handed him the shard of bone, and then the three of them exited the stage together.

Although the night was one of the coldest since Jack had crossed over, his hands began to sweat. “Euri,” he whispered. “My mom ...that must be my mom! That’s it!

She was dead when they met! She must have come up with him.”

Euri’s eyes widened. “The date Ruby said would make sense, then. If your father brought your mother back to life, she could have come back sixteen years ago.”

Jack tugged on her sleeve to silence her. The curtain was lifting on another scene. The leader was sitting inside a tunnel, his hand clutching the woman’s ghostly one. “Your hand is so warm,” she said. “I wish you didn’t have to leave....”

“I wish you were still alive,” he replied. “The way it is now, we’re both in hell.”

“If I were still alive, we’d be the same age. What’s the point of being twenty-two forever if you’re not alive?”

“Maybe there’s a way,” he said, “to give you back your life.”

Jack noticed that Euri was leaning forward. “How?” she whispered.

A chorus of howls erupted from near the stage. The man and woman started and then stood up. Cerberus bolted onto the stage, one head continuing to bay while the other two snarled. “He really looks real,” commented Jack.

“Jack ...” Euri said, clutching his arm. “He is.”

The actors dashed off the stage without even a bow. The crowd stirred, and several child ghosts shrieked. One of the underworld guards lumbered up and began reading haltingly from a card. “This production has been suspended . . . by order of the Underworld Security Protection Team. Please stay calm . . . and do not leave the area! We have received information . . . that there is a living person . . . at this performance.”

“What should we do?” Jack whispered back. “They’re watching all the exits.”

One of the guards broke a pane of ice from the set and began reflecting the moonlight through the crowd like a search beam.

“I don’t know,” said Euri. “I’ve got to think.”

Jack ducked as the searchlight swung over his head.

“That was the worst play I’ve ever seen,” said the critic in a jovial voice. “We’ll have to find this living person just so we can thank him for putting an end to it!”

The critic turned away from his notebook and looked at Jack. “Right?!” he started to say, but instead his mouth fell open. “Well, I’ll be! You’re ...”

“Shhh!” pleaded Jack. “Don’t turn me in!”

“Duck!” cried Euri as the moonbeam flashed toward them. The critic grabbed Jack and pushed him down into the snow. As soon as the beam passed, he pulled Jack upright by his backpack and studied his face. “You have a remarkable ability to pass, young man.”

Euri grabbed Jack’s hand. “We’ve got to go.”

The critic turned his attention to Euri. “You, darling, on the other hand, are clearly dead.”

Euri’s pale ears burned red. Jack glared at the critic, but he seemed unaware of the hurt feelings he had caused. “Well then, let’s fly this place, as Shakespeare would say.” He stood up and dusted the snow off his pants. “Come on, now,” the critic said, gesturing to the two of them.

Jack hesitated. “What are you going to do? We can’t just walk out—the guards are monitoring everyone who leaves.” He pointed to the periphery of the crowd, which was ringed by a legion of guards who barked warnings at any ghost who tried to fly away.

“Well, you can’t just stay here,” said the critic. “Look!” Cerberus was dragging Clubber through the crowd, sniffing and snapping toward them.

Jack sprang to his feet along with Euri. They weaved through the crowd, following the critic toward the ring of guards. “We’ll never make it,” he whispered.

Euri squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them get you. I’ll think of something.”

They were almost at the edge of the crowd when a guard lunged toward them and grabbed Jack by his collar. “I gotcha!” he shouted. “You’re the live one!”

Jack began to struggle, but the guard’s grasp only tight-ened. Euri raised her free fist and was about to strike when the critic stepped in between her and the guard and cleared his throat. “Brooks Atkinson, former theater critic for
The New York Times
. I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” he said dryly. “The young man you’ve apprehended is the understudy for the part of the professor in tonight’s play. And this young lady”—he yanked Euri out from behind him—“is the bride.”

The guard looked back and forth from Euri to Jack. Jack could feel his grip loosen. “His eyes look alive,” he grumbled.

Atkinson gave a condescending smile. “The miracles of greasepaint.”

The guard studied Jack but still didn’t let go. “Club ... I mean Inspector Williams should see him first.”

“Look,” said Atkinson. “I’m supposed to be writing a review of the play for the
Underworld Times
, but since you and your fellows prevented me from seeing the second half, I have to interview the understudies. Now, can you please let them go so I can do my job? I’m on deadline.”

Euri smiled sweetly at the guard. “Do you want an autograph?”

The guard shook his head but let go of Jack. “I’m not into plays,” he mumbled. “I like boxing.”

“Well then, we’ll be off,” said Atkinson. Jack squeezed Euri’s hand, and they followed the critic out of the circle of guards.

“Fly, don’t walk,” the critic whispered. “And don’t look back.” As they floated away from the guards, Jack kept his eyes on the path below, which wound through the trees toward a road. He had the strange feeling that the play had continued and that he and Euri were the second act. The stage had been transported to this quiet spot above the trees. He had become Orpheus, and he needed to bring Euri back to the living world with him. “How did you get here?” the critic asked, breaking the silence.

As they flew toward the edge of the park, Jack whispered his story. But when he got to the part about the play, he raised his voice. “I know it’s about my parents!” he explained. “It makes sense. My dad went down to the underworld and fell in love with my mom and brought her back to life.”

“The asterisk could mean that Jack’s mother had died before and come back to life,” Euri added. “That’s why it frightened Edna, why she called it unnatural.”

The critic shook his head. “Listen, you’ve got quite a story, certainly better than the stage version. But it can’t be true. It’s one thing to sneak down to the underworld, like you’ve done, but it’s another to take someone whose time has passed back up with you. Even Orpheus couldn’t do it. No one can live again.”

“How do you know?” asked Euri fiercely.

Jack turned to her. She was floating in a square of moonlight, her teeth clenched.

Atkinson coughed softly. “I’m sorry, my dear. But both you and I know that death is final.”

“Wait!” said Jack. “But I figured out a way to prove it isn’t!”

“How?” asked Euri.

The critic raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s mathematical,” Jack explained. “In the play the bride said she would have been the same age as Orpheus, but she died at twenty-two.”

“You can’t treat the facts in the play as if they’re real,” Atkinson interrupted. “Besides, everyone knows this story. It’s been around for years. It’s just an urban myth.”

Euri held up her hand. “Wait, let’s hear him out.”

“My dad was born fifty-five years ago. If my mom was too, and she died at twenty-two, her name should also be on the death records from thirty-three years ago.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” said Atkinson, “but you’re simply fitting facts to your fiction. It’s impossible.”

But Euri ignored him. “Where are the death records for thirty-three years ago?” she asked.

Atkinson jotted something in his notebook, then ripped off the page and gave it to Jack. “You need to come to your senses. No one dead has ever gone back.”

Jack looked at the piece of paper.
WHITE HORSE TAVERN
it read.
567 HUDSON STREET
. The name sounded familiar, though Jack couldn’t recall where he’d heard it.

“I’m trying to save you the disappointment, but it’s clear you need to see for yourself. Ask one of the regulars. They’ll have the records there somewhere,” said Atkinson. “Now, I really am on deadline.”

With a brisk nod, the critic flew away.