The Book of Stanley Read Online Free Page B

“Now I seem to have special strength and, every now and then, the ability to read, well, minds.”
    Dr. Lam squinted. It was a long and ponderous squint, accompanied by a silence that unnerved Stanley.
    â€œIs it common,” Stanley said, “this delusion?”
    With a gentle clearing of his throat, the doctor picked up the phone and informed his secretary that the Moss session would run late.

 
    FIVE
    S tanley lay awake that night with his eyes closed until Frieda fell asleep. Then he waited another half-hour, for her Somnol pill to take effect.
    It was wearisome to stare at the ceiling, so Stanley turned to Frieda and willed her to be happy. She continued to frown, faintly, in her sleep. Next to the bed was a framed photograph of adolescent Charles and their black Labrador retriever, Dennis, on the beach at Skeleton Lake. He tried to move the photograph with his mind; he tried to make chunks of white paint fall from the stippled ceiling into his hand. But it seemed his powers of persuasion did not extend to inanimate objects–yet.
    When Frieda’s breathing patterns shifted, Stanley sneaked out of bed and found his swimming trunks. He put on hisgrey suit and hat, and slipped the trunks and a towel into a white plastic Planet Organic bag. Thieves and marauders never seemed to visit their neighbourhood, so Stanley did not lock the door as he left. It was a Friday evening, not yet eleven. He stood in the cool air for some time before sprinting north through his neighbourhood of identical and nearly identical bungalows and semi-bungalows, across Whyte Avenue, and past a few grimy pubs and retirement complexes. It took him no more than a couple of minutes to run several blocks, and he was feeling so untroubled he did not care who saw him.
    Dr. Lam, as it turned out, was a curious gentleman. He had asked Stanley to tell his story, very slowly, into a tape recorder. Stanley skipped over certain matters, like soiling himself.
    â€œThe voice you heard. Was it in English?” the doctor asked.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œExpand on that.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn not thinking so .”
    â€œWell…”
    â€œYou heard the voice but you didn’t hear the voice. Is that what you mean?”
    â€œThere was so much pressure in my head I couldn’t really hear it. Even though I was hearing it. Whatever the voice said, it was slow. Maybe it was a female voice. Like three or four high notes on the biggest organ in the world. But it wasn’t an organ, either.”
    â€œCan you reproduce the sound for me?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCan you try?”
    Stanley cleared his throat, attempted to find the voice.Once, when Charles was doing his master’s degree in Palo Alto, they’d gone to a karaoke bar. Charles had convinced Stanley, after several drinks, to sing “I Only Have Eyes For You.” But once he was in front of the people and the music started up, the “I am an old fool” element overpowered him and he couldn’t sing. The crowd booed him. This was how he felt now, as though Dr. Lam, despite his curiosity, would boo him.
    â€œNo. It’s a thing that shouldn’t be attempted.”
    Dr. Lam lowered the recorder. While staring intently at Stanley, he picked up his pen and twirled it on the back of his thumb.
    â€œHave you seen anything like this before, in a dying patient?”
    â€œNo. No I haven’t, Mr. Moss.”
    â€œYou don’t believe me?”
    â€œI believe you feel something has happened to you, and to the extent that it is a positive change it can only be–”
    â€œI can show you.”
    â€œShow me what?”
    Stanley remained seated for a minute. He knew he could do the handstand pushups, but this called for something new. A scene from Singin’ in the Rain popped to mind. He stood up and prepared to explain himself to Dr. Lam, but decided it would be best un-introduced. Then he