Over the next couple of days, I would grab Horace’s newspaper and take it to school and, instead of studying, I read the newspaper from front page to last, looking for anything that might give me a clue as to what was happening with Mr. Samson’s quest. I wondered what good a billion dollars was in a world of unimaginable cruelty and terror, but men like Mogart have imaginations different than mine. For example, if I had been Mogart, it would have never occurred to me to hire somebody like my uncle Farrell to steal the most powerful weapon that ever existed.
I missed Uncle Farrell. I missed the little apartment and the frozen dinners. I missed the way he wet his big lips and even all his lectures about getting ahead in the world. He was just trying to help me, to show me I didn’t have to end up like him. It hit me that he loved me, and I was the only family he had left.
To take my mind off things, I checked out a book from the library called The Once and Future King, about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I couldn’t get through it, so I rented this old movie called Excalibur with a bunch of English actors I had never heard of.
Arthur was this kind of goofy kid, actually, a squire to his brother Fey, toting around his sword and taking care of Fey’s horse and his armor, kind of his lackey, not even a knight. Nobody believed this kid could actually pull the Sword from the Stone, until Arthur did it and told them, “If you would be knights and follow a king, then follow me!”
Then he became king, built Camelot, and gathered his knights around the Round Table. Everything was great until his best knight, Lancelot, got together with his queen, Guinevere, and Arthur’s bastard son, Mordred, came to take everything over.
There’s a big, bloody battle at the end. Arthur kills Mordred, who sort of kills Arthur too, but it’s confusing because they show Arthur being taken over the sea by three angel-looking women in white robes. One of the knights picks up Excalibur and throws it into this big lake, where the Lady of the Lake kind of floats up to grab it.
That last part confused me. I wondered how Mr. Samson and his knights ended up with the sword if the Lady took it after Arthur left. If I ever saw Mr. Samson again, I was going to ask him about that.
I don’t know if it was that movie, which I saw about forty-nine times, that made me have the dreams. I always fell asleep while the credits rolled, and I would dream of a gleaming white castle on a mountainside, and from its rampart flew triangular flags of black and gold, and inside its outer wall a thousand knights were mustered in full armor. They carried long black swords and their faces were painted black and their expressions were terrible as they fought some guys who had breached the outer wall, men with flowing hair in brown robes, and their faces were covered with mud and grimly set. The men in robes followed a man with golden hair and somehow I knew this man was Mr. Samson, though in my dream he looked different than I remembered him. They were about ten against a thousand, they had no hope, but they fought until the last man fell, and this last man was the knight with the golden hair.
I woke after that dream with the word “Játiva” on my lips. I went to the school library and found Játiva in the atlas. It was a town in Spain, like Mr. Samson said, right at this mountain called Monte Bernisa.
I had another dream too, a terrible dream, the kind that makes you wish you could wake up. I was far above a great plain or field and saw a vast army, row upon row of blank-faced soldiers marching, stretching as far as I could see, a million or more men, and the tramp of their feet was like thunder. Warplanes screamed overhead, lines of tanks rumbled over the field, and the night sky was lit up from the concussions of long-range missiles. Before this army, on a dark horse, rode a big man holding Excalibur, his face hidden in shadow, and as the jets screamed overhead, he raised the Sword in defiance, and from the army behind him came a cry that drowned out the sound of the bombs.
The man leaped from the horse, brought the Sword high over his head, and slammed it into the ground. Brilliant white light exploded from that spot and planes fell burning from the sky, tanks erupted into flame, and whole divisions of his foes were consumed in fire or fled screaming from the flood of light.
The light slowly died away, and then I was walking in a wasteland of broken concrete, uprooted, leafless trees, crushed and twisted cars with their hazard lights blinking. Ash floated everywhere, clinging to my hair and making me cough. I was looking for someone, calling a name, but I couldn’t hear who I was calling for. I was desperate to find whoever it was; if I could just find them, everything would be all right. But I always woke up without finding them.
13
After Mogart took the Sword, my life followed the same pattern. I would stay up late watching the news or Excalibur, stumble off to school after two or three hours of sleep filled with bad dreams, read the newspaper in class, then come home and go straight to my room to wait for the beginning of the end of the world.
At supper, the Tuttles would start in on me.
“Look at you!” Horace shouted one night. “You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you mope around all day with your nose glued to the television screen or the newspaper—what’s the matter with you, you big-headed palooka?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it has something to do with my uncle dying.”
“Dear,” Betty said to Horace. “Maybe you shouldn’t bring up little Alfred’s uncle.”
“First of all, this kid is anything but little, and second of all, I didn’t bring up his uncle, he did!”
And he yelled, his pinched face puckered with rage: “Your problem is self-pity! You think you’re the only person on earth who’s ever lost somebody? The world is full of pain, Alfred, pain and big losers, and you’ve got to make up your mind to be a winner!”
“Like you?” I asked.
“Oh,” Betty gasped. “Oh, oh, oh!”
“That’s your other problem!” Horace screamed. “No gratitude! At least you’ve got a roof over your head and food for your big self! A lot of people in this world don’t even have that!”
And I couldn’t take any more. I left him sitting there, his thin lips moving silently, and locked myself in the bedroom. This got my roomies going, a thirteen-year-old greasy-haired thug named Dexter and his ten-year-old brother, Lester, who was also a thug, only not registering as high as Dexter on the thug-o-meter. They pounded on the door and yelled that it was their room too. I just turned the volume up on the news and pretended I didn’t hear them. Then Dexter began to shout he was going to cut me; he was going to cut me bad; and that reminded me of the scar on my thumb, which was an inch long and white as dental floss. Sometimes it ached and sometimes it burned and sometimes it just throbbed and tingled. I developed this nervous habit of running my index finger along it, feeling the little indent in my flesh, especially when I was nervous or thought I was going crazy.