Chapter 11--Softly and Tenderly

Softly and Gently

Dante leaned into a curve as the subway careened down the tracks, faster than a roller coaster.  Darkness and light alternated in the tunnel, and the train's interior flickered between substance and shadow.  Musty scents lingered in the air, a reliquary for other lost souls who had preceded him on this journey.

         Dante couldn't remember descending the stairs from his kitchen.  He couldn't remember how he came to be again in the subway, this time naked as a newborn babe.  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  The past didn't matter.  It no longer existed.  The future didn't exist, either.  Just the now existed, with a ruthless, tedious tenacity.

         A retro song crooned above the rush of the wheels on the tracks, a boy band warbling Dream, Dream, Dream over and over again.  The words incanted memories of Jesse that smoldered in his mind.  According to the boys in the band, any time he wanted to summon Jesse's charms, all he had to do was dream.  In dreams, only in dreams, he could taste those lips of wine anytime.  Dreaming your life away, they implored.

         But he didn't need a boy band to remind him of the nightmare that his life had become. 

         Indifferent, the train rushed on.

         An eternity later, moments later, the train eased to a stop and the doors sluiced opened.  Dante stepped onto the platform, the same downtown platform as before. The same light at the end of the tunnel buzzed and flickered.  The same dingy, gray tiles lined the tube-like interior.  The same aqua sign read DOWNTOWN.  Even Clark leaned next to the phone booth, smoking a cigarette.  The same dark curl, an echo of Jesse, hung over his brow.

         But the station was different, too.

         Two musicians, wearing tuxedos, toyed with their instruments at the far end of the platform, under that flickering light.  One sat at a grand piano, flipping through sheet music.  The other tuned his violin.

         A faint, nebulous specter hovered beyond the turnstile, shrouded in shadow.  The turnstile was somehow different, too. Baptismal fonts, like those in Momma's church, marked the gateway instead of the featureless steel posts of memory.

         The scents were different, as well.  A sweet, citrusy, pine-like aroma mixed with something smoky. He'd smelled that before.  Maybe when Momma's priest started a mass?  Latin and Greek phrases, all jumbled together, danced at the edges of his mind.  Dominus, kyrie.  A mish-mash of sound and fury signifying…something?  Or nothing.

         The pianist stroked his keyboard, and gentle chords filled the station.  The violin picked up the plaintive melody, and Dante recognized the hymn.  Words suffused his soul as they played.

         

Softly and tenderly Jesse is calling
Calling for you and for me
See on the portals He's waiting and watching
Watching for you and for me

         At the phrase, "on the portals," the specter at the turnstile coalesced.  It was Jesse, wearing only a pure white loincloth.  He floated, mid-air, next to where Dante recalled seeing the Italian graffiti.  Wounds gaped on his body, stigmata blossomed on his hands and feet, and an ugly gash cleaved his throat.  He spread his arms and opened his lips in a bloody smile.

         The relentless hymn continued.

Come home, come home
Ye who are weary come home
Earnestly, tenderly Jesse is calling
Calling, "O sinner come home"

         Dante took a hesitant step toward his beloved, then another.  Home.  That was what he longed for, what he'd never had.

         At his third step, the station wavered and turned hazy, insubstantial, like a desert mirage.  The music warbled, as if he were hearing it while drowning.

****

         A needle pricked the inside of his elbow, and he looked down.  An IV hung from his arm.   

         Two grim-faced policemen knelt over his suddenly prone body.  One touched an ice-cold stethoscope to his chest.  No.  They weren't policemen.  One of them wore a nametag that read, "Mary M., EMT."  What were EMTs doing here?

         A hand stroked his forehead.  Rickie's hand.  His voice murmured, "Stay with me, Dante.  Breathe. Everything's going to be all right."

         Of course everything was going to be all right.  He was going home. 

         Boris peered at him with a liquid, emerald gaze, sniffed at his fingers, then nuzzled his palm. 

         Mary M. said, "We've got him back, at least for now.  We need to transport him."

         Rickie's voice trembled. "Can I ride with him in the ambulance?"

         The other EMT, a beefy black man, said, "Sure.  Keep doing what you've been doing.  Tell him you care for him.  Keep him awake.  It helps."

         "I do care for him."  Rickie squeezed Dante's hand. He whispered in Dante's ear, his warm breath heating the flesh. "You're important, and not just to me.  Stay with me.  The best is yet to be. Grow old with me. I'll be there for you.  I promise."

         The world  faded for a moment, for an eternity. Then it returned with the wail of a siren and his muscles screaming in agony.  Mary M. held two paddles, one in each hand and peered at an oscilloscope.  "He's back again.  That was close."

         Rickie hovered nearby, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Stay with us, Dante.  Please stay with us. You belong here, with your friends. With me."

***

         The ambulence vanished and the subway platform returned.  The music returned, too, once again firm and sure.  A brilliant light, an alluring light, glared from behind where Jesse stood.  The violin played on.

         Ye who are weary, come home.

         Jesse beckoned.  The light beckoned. Its irresistible glow drew him forward.  But Rickie's words echoed in his head. He mattered, at least to one person. That was something, wasn't it?  What would happen to poor Boris without him?  A warm hand stroked Dante's brow.  Rickie's hand. The best is yet to be, he'd said.  I'll be there for you, he'd promised. 

         Dante relaxed to the inevitable, whatever it might be.  Jesse, the light, the music, and the station itself all faded to nothingness. Softly and tenderly, peace at last caressed him.

         In those final moments, right before he slept, his dream ceased.