Cracks
“How about that splotch on the left of the dresser? See that?”
“What?”
“The black spot over there. If you’ll look at it in a close-up, you’ll see cracks.”
“It’s just a bare wall, sir.”
He could hear his pulse. Leinster headed to the doorway and knocked out a can of tuna on his way out of the store.
A speeding police car drove past; its siren rang like a rampaging wild bird.
Fumbling for change inside his pockets, he spilled the pictures in the phone booth. He quickly collected them at his feet while he waited for Boyd to answer the phone.
“It’s me, Tom,” he said, breathlessly.
“Oh, I’m on my way home.” Boyd answered. Leinster heard Sheila’s favorite Whitney Houston song from Boyd’s end. Probably the car stereo. “What’s up?”
“I’m at the 51st street. In front of 7-Eleven. I need to show you some pictures. It’s about the cracks.”
“How about tomorrow? I’m driving home.”
Leinster could tell that Boyd was distracted. “Is Beth there with you?” That could explain the Whitney Houston.
“Nah, she won’t be home ’til 9. Overtime. You know how fashion editors are. They think they can rule the world with features about stupid two-thousand-dollar shoes.”
“I never knew you like Whitney Houston.”
“I, what?”
“That song you’re listening to!”
“Oh, Dylan. He’s okay,” Boyd said. Then the music stopped. “I turned it off in case it’s bothering you.” Leinster detected a smile in his voice.
“But you were just listening to…Never mind! Just drive over here. Please. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I just need you to look at some pictures.”
~*~
“That’s just a blank wall, Tom,” Boyd was looking at him as he said this.
Leinster believed him, although he could see the cracks on the picture leering at him and his helplessness. And he was sure of one thing: the cracks would still be there when he got home.
He did not want to confront those cracks. He did not want to entertain the possibility that he was hallucinating. Perhaps, he was the only one who could see those cracks for a reason. Maybe, they were signs. Maybe, he would die soon. Maybe, the world was round and the sun was a great ball of fire. Leinster wanted to laugh. Other people saw ghosts all the time, so why should he be spared?
How would you know if you were crazy?
He could sense that Boyd was studying him again, thinking of new medication to prescribe or a series of sessions to talk him out of things so they would sound as if they had happened to another person. Boyd was always a psychiatrist at heart, never mind that Leinster never agreed to be examined in a professional capacity. He had never questioned Boyd’s motivations before; Leinster had known him for years and was best man during Boyd’s wedding. As Boyd approached his car, something about him nagged at Leinster.
“I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Don’t even suggest it, Tom. I know what you’ve been through and I can read you like a book.”
“Can you?”
“Don’t take that goddamn tone on me. I’m your friend.”