Terror of Beauty

Night Journey

Oh, yes," Edelman said.

"I know Burt. We played handball a couple of times. I had dinner with him and Carrie last Thanksgiving. In their apartment."

They'd seemed close friends, before he sensed a deliberate distancing, and Burt finally told him, flat out, that Carrie was weary of Edelman's moods and preoccupations.

He'd seen nothing more of them after that, though he thought he might still have a key to their place, from an earlier time when thry were called away unexpectedly and asked him to water their copious plants.

"Yeah. Well!... thanks again." She was plainly interested in terminating the conversation.

Edelman wondered if he'd somehow put a foot wrong, but he could find nothing wrong in the words he'd spoken.

He made a show of stepping past her, as if it had always been his intent to continue toward Central Park.

"You're welcome. See you again." He watched her go up the steps into the shadow of the lobby, waited five minutes before going in himself.

Sanchez watched with raised eyebrows from his place at the end of the long green hose.

He shrugged, dropped his voice to be sure no one but his companion heard.

"That Mr. Edelman," he said.

"An odd one."

The girl just nodded. Everyone knew that.

Saturday Edelman was up before the summer sun poke up above the eastern skyline.

He put on the jogging outfit he'd not worn in over a year.

It struck him as the least conspicuous outfit for what he had in mind.

He went down to the lobby-no sign of Sanchez this

early- and out onto 75th.

He walked over to Columbus bought a newspaper from the vendor just opening as he got there.

He returned half the length of the block, remaining on the opposite side, leaned against one of the Wrought iron railings below a tall, old brownstone,

opened the paper.

He waited.

He had to move three times to avoid arousing suspicion.

He was running out of places, on that short, residential street, where he could lounge inconspicuously and still be in line of sight to his doorway.

After two and a half hours his mounting impatience was rewarded.

She came out, dressed much as he was, turned right, began to jog along 75th toward Columbus.

He followed.

It was a glorious, glorious day.

She went through an unstructured routine, jogging, stopping, looking in little shops along Columbus and the side streets, jogging some more.

Edelman had no trouble keeping up with her.

He even went in a couple of the shops, boldness overwhelming him.

He tested how close he could get to her, how reckless without her seeing him.

He was getting one of those headaches, danger -sign headaches, playing this game of cat and mouse.

He ignored it, concentrating on her, on ways he might get to know her, become ...intimnate with her.

In one of those little shops Edelman found the second miracle.

The moon was full, framed in the open window of

Edelman's small living room.

He sat in a chair positioned carefully in the long rectangle of pale white light spilling across his battered brown rug.

Not even a wristwatch.

Breezes from the park cool on bare skin.

The city shedding the heat of the day.

He breathed slowly, evenly, despite the headache squatting just behind his eyes, the foolishness he felt.

He could have picked up something for the headache at DeVere, during his visit that afternoon.

But he'd had more consuming matters on his mind.

Now, he hardly even remembered the stop, or its purpose.

He reread the old book open across his thighs. He'd recognized the title in the bookstore she'd gone into, on 68th just off Columbus.

He was amazed to see it.

David Sinclair - Edelman's favorite fantasy writer until he'd actually meet him at the Dallas Fantasy Fair-never wrote a story without mentioning it in some context.

Edelman never knew it was real book.

Nocture. it was called, The Book of Night Journeying.

He'd thought that a silly phrase. "Is it about going to the bathroom?"

He'd asked once, trying to sound worldly at club meeting.

It wasn't. It was about miracles. It was about power Odd that the clerk in the store had not known what she had. what she was letting Edelman purchase.

Edelman read the fine, narrow print-surprisingly easy to read in the moonlight-listening to the clock on the mantelpiece, waiting for the last chimne of midnight.

The clock chimed.

One-Two-Three-

Edelman stood up. Four-Five-Six-

A long stride toward the window. Seven-Eight--

Nine-

Step up onto the ledge. No one on the street looking up at the naked man. No one pointing. No police whistle blowing.

Ten-Eleven-Twelve

A long, deep breath. Whisper the words from the book.

Heart pounding, he stepped off the ledge.

It was like stepping onto a firm mattress; some give, but he did not plummet to the pavement three stories below.

The book had not lied. Standing naked in midair over

Central Park West, Edelman wondered how he could ever

have believed the words in those fine, tiny lines, but..

The book had not lied! He was a phantom-yet soomething more than a phantom. Real in one sense, unreal in another.

He looked up, turning to face the side of the building, to see the windows of the topmost floor.

Her windows.

The motion caused him to rise. He drifted up. A little faster than the elevator, past windows dark and light, four, five,six floors.

He s stopped outside her bedroom windows.

He knew the layout of the apartment on the top floor, knew in which room she'd be sleeping.

The window was open. He stepped onto the ledge, into the room, into a rectangle of moonlight very much like the one in his own room.

It fell on a pale, uncarpeted floor.

The room was large, spare.

The decor was not as Edelman remembered, not at all the Richardsons' style.

It was just thesort of room he'd imagined for Rachel.

Low dressing table of modern design against the wall to the left.

Rest of the room dominated by the huge double bed.

Mosquito netting draped about the head of the bed, box spring resting on the floor, without legs.

Sound of an air conditioner whirring- Odd, he thought, with the window open.

She was nude on the bed. Uncovered. Indirect moonlight bounced from the white walls, played elusive luminescence over the hills and hollows ofher form.

Dark hair spread over white pillow, perspiration a subtle sheen over her naked body.

Edelman felt his phantom form responding as surely as flesh and blood.

His manhood rose.

He crossed around the foot of the bed, knelt down to look at her sleeping face.

Beautiful. More beautiful than he'd ever dreamed. Skin tanned, without the pale swatches a bathing

suit would leave.

Breasts full, lolling on her chest as she lay on her back, undulating slightly with each deep breath.

Edelman looked down the length of her: smooth, hard muscle of her solar plexus.

She lay with one leg drawn slightly up and over the other.

Moonlight threw deep shadow down the long muscle of her thigh.

He reached out a hand, touched her face. Smooth under his palm.

Again the book had not lied, the sensation as perfect as if it were his true physical self occupying this space by her bedside,

He stroked her face, ran his hand along the curve of her jaw, the muscles of her neck. Drew a fingertip down the line of her sternum, tracing the valley between her pectoral muscles.

Cupped her left breast, reaching across her chest to lift it in his hand then he saw it stiffen.

"Just like the book says! She can feel me, respond to me, but she won't wake up. Because I'm nothing more than a dream to her"

He muttered to himself.

Edelman start bent to kiss her, certain he felt her lips respond to his, so slightly in sleep.