2.
The reporters stood up and crowded forward when Johnny stepped through the swing doors and into the west lobby. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of blue jeans that were too big for him. His face was pale but composed. The scars from the tendon operations stoodout clearly on his neck. Flashbulbs popped warm fire at him and made him wince. Questions were babbled.
'Here! Here !' Sam Weizak shouted. 'This is a convalescent patient! He wants to make a brief statement and he will answer some of your questions, but only if you behave in an orderly fashion! Now fall back and let him breathe!'
Two sets of TV light bars flashed on, bathing the lobby in an unearthly glare. Doctors and nurses had gathered by the lounge doorway to watch. Johnny winced away from the lights, wondering if this was what they meant by the limelight. He felt as if all of it might be a dream.
'Who're you?' one of the reporters yelled at Weizak.
'I am Samuel Weizak, this young man's doctor, and that name is spelled with two X's.'
There was general laughter and the mood eased a little. 'Johnny, you feel all right?' Weizak asked. It was early evening, and his sudden insight that Eileen Magown's kitchen was catching fire seemed distant and unimportant, the memory of a memory.
'Sure,' he said.
'What's your statement?' one of the reporters called.
'Well,' Johnny said, 'it's this. My physical therapist is a woman named Eileen Magown. She's a very nice lady, and she's been helping me get my strength back. I was in an accident, you see, and ...' One of the TV cameras moved in, goggling at him blankly, throwing him off-stride for a moment '... and I got pretty weak. My muscles sort of collapsed. We were in the physical therapy room this morning, just finishing up, and I got the feeling that her house was on fire. That is, to be more specific ...' Jesus) you sound like an ass**le! 'I felt that she had forgotten to turn off her stove and that the curtains in the kitchen were about to catch fire. So we just went and called the fire department and that's all there was to it.'
There was a moment's gaping pause as they digested that - I sort of got the feeling, and that's all there was to it - and then the barrage of questions came again, everything mixed together into a meaningless stew of human voices. Johnny looked around helplessly, feeling disoriented and vulnerable.
'One at a time!' Weizak yelled. 'Raise your hands! Were you never schoolchildren?'
Hands waved, and Johnny pointed at David Bright.
'Would you call this a psychic experience, Johnny?'
'I would call it a feeling,' Johnny answered. 'I was doing situps and I finished. Miss Magown took my hand to help me up and I just knew.'
He pointed at someone else.
'Mel Allen, Portland Sunday Telegram, Mr. Smith. Was it like a picture? A picture in your head?'
'No, not at all,' Johnny said, but he was not really able to remember what it had been like.
'Has this happened to you before, Johnny?' A young woman in a slacksuit asked.
'Yes, a few times.'
'Can you tell us about the other incidents?'
'No, I'd rather not.'
One of the TV reporters raised his hand and Johnny nodded at him. 'Did you have any of these flashes before your accident and the resulting coma, Mr. Smith?'
Johnny hesitated.
The room seemed very still. The TV lights were warm on his face, like a tropical sun. 'No,' he said.
Another barrage of questions. Johnny looked helplessly at Weizak again.
'Stop! Stop!' He bellowed. He looked at Johnny as the roar subsided. 'You are done, Johnny?'
'I'll answer two more questions,' Johnny said. 'Then... really. . it's been a long day for me ... yes, Ma'am?'
He was pointing to a stout woman who had wedged herself in between two young reporters. 'Mr. Smith,' she said in a loud, carrying, tubalike voice, 'who will be the Democrats' nominee for president next year?'
'I can't tell you that,' Johnny said, honestly surprised at the question. 'How could I tell you that?'
More hands were raised. Johnny pointed to a tall, sober-faced man in a dark suit. He took one step forward. There was something prim and coiled about him.
'Mr. Smith, I'm Roger Dussault, from the Lewiston Sun, and I would like to know if you have any idea why you should have such an extraordinary ability as this ... if indeed you do. Why you, Mr. Smith?'
Johnny cleared his throat. 'As I understand your question ... you're asking me to justify something I don't understand. I can't do that.'
'Not justify, Mr. Smith. Just explain.'
He thinks I'm hoaxing them. Or trying.
Weizak stepped up beside Johnny. 'I wonder if I might answer that,' he said. 'Or at least attempt to explain why it cannot be answered.'
'Are you psychic, too?' Dussault asked coldly.