The Face

don’t come here to talk about it. You never come here, you moron. You call me at home.”
        “I thought this would be a hoot, give you a laugh.”
        Shakily, Roman said, “Dear Jesus.”
        “You’re a Satanist,” Corky reminded him.
        “Idiot.”
        “Listen, Roman, where exactly are you? How do I get to you from here? We need to do some business.”
        “Stay right where you are.”
        “I don’t know. I’m getting a little claustrophobic. This place is beginning to spook me.”
        “ Stay right where you are! I’ll be there in two minutes.”
        “I just heard something weird. I think one of these corpses might be alive.”
        [168] “None of them is alive.”
        “I’m sure this one guy, over toward the corner, just said something.”
        “Then he said you’re an idiot.”
        “Maybe you’ve got a live one in here by mistake. I’m really starting to get creeped out.”
        “Two minutes,” Roman insisted. “You wait right where you are. Don’t come blundering out of there, drawing attention to yourself, or I’ll harvest your foreskin.”
        Roman terminated the call.
        In the vault of the unknown and penniless dead, Corky hung up the phone.
        Surveying his shrouded audience, he said, “With all humility, I could teach Channing Manheim a thing or two about acting.”
        He expected and needed no applause. A perfect performance was its own reward.

CHAPTER 25
        
        SNOW FELL ON THE CITY OF ANGELS. Unprecedented, the shepherd wind drove white flocks out of the dark meadows above the world, gently harried them between ficus trees and palms, along avenues that had never known a snowy Christmas.
        Dazzled, Ethan gazed up into the fleecy night.
        Abed in his room, he realized that the roof must have been lifted off the house by a prying wind. Snowdrifts would bury the furniture, ruin the carpet.
        Soon he would have to rise, go along the hall to his parents’ room. Dad would know what to do about the missing roof.
        First, however, Ethan wanted to enjoy this spectacle: Above him, the snowfall hung an infinite crystal chandelier, its beautiful swags of cut beads and beveled pendants in perpetual glittering movement.
        His eyelashes were frosted.
        Flakes delivered cold kisses to his face, melted on his cheeks.
        When his vision fully focused, he discovered that in truth the December night was full of raindrops, to which his troubled eyes had imparted crystalline structures and mysterious hieroglyphic forms.
        Once soft, his bed had been spellcast into blacktop.
        [170] He felt no discomfort, except that his feather pillow pressed like hard pavement against the back of his head.
        The rain on his face fell as cold as snow, imparting an equal chill to his upturned left hand.
        His right hand lay exposed, as well, but with it he could not feel the cold or the tap-and-trickle of the rain.
        He couldn’t feel his legs, either. Couldn’t move them. Could not move anything other than his head and left hand.
        If his roofless room filled with rain, and if he were unable to move, he might drown.
        In the pool of dreamy speculation on which Ethan had been drifting, sudden terror darted sharklike through the depths beneath him, rising.
        He closed his eyes to avoid seeing a bigger and more terrible truth than that the snowflakes were actually raindrops.
        Voices approached. Dad and Mom must be coming to put the roof back where it belonged, to fluff his stone pillow into comfortable plumpness once more, and to set all wrongness right.
        He surrendered himself to their loving care, and like a feather, he drifted down into darkness, toward the Land of Nod, not the Nod to which Cain had fled after killing Abel, but the Nod to which dreaming children journeyed to find adventure and from which they woke safely in the golden dawn.
        Still descending through the darkness north of Nod, he heard the words “spinal injury.”
        Opening his eyes a minute or ten minutes later, he discovered the night aswarm with pulsing-revolving red and yellow lights, and blue, as if he were in an open-air discotheque, and he knew that he would never dance again, or walk.
        To the tuneless broken songs of police-radio crackle, flanked by paramedics, Ethan glided through the rain on a gurney toward an