Dean Wesley Smith - Slowboat Man

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DEAN WESLEY SMITH

IN THE SHADE OF THE SLOWBOAT MAN

In the last year. Dean Wesley Smith has sold ten novels. Spiderman: Carnage in

New York from Ace/Boulevard is one of the first to appear in print.

He has also sold a large number of short stories. His most recent for F&SF,

"Jukebox Gifts" (January, 1995), made the preliminary Nebula ballot.

He returns with a tender tale of love abandoned, but not forgotten.

OVER THE LONG YEARS I HAD grown used to the sweet smell of blood, to the sharp

taste of disgust, to the wide-eyed look of lust. But the tight, small room of

the nursing home covered me in new sensations like a mad mother covering her

sleeping young child tenderly with a blanket before pressing a pillow hard

over

the face.

I eased the heavy door closed and stood silently for a moments, my clutch

purse

tight against my chest. One hospital bed, a small metal dresser, and an

aluminum

walker were all the furniture. The green drapes were slightly open on the

window

and I silently moved to stand in the beam of silver moonlight cutting the

night.

I wanted more than anything else to run. But I calmed myself, took a deep

breath, and worked to pull in and study my surroundings as I would on any

night

on any city street.

As with all of the cesspools of humanity the smell was the most overwhelming

detail. The odor of human rot filled the building and the room, not so much

different from a dead animal beside the road on a hot summer's day. Death and

nature doing their work. But in this building in this small room, the natural

work was disguised by layer after layer of biting poison antiseptic. I suppose

it was meant to clean the smell of death away so as not to disturb the

sensitive

living who visited from the fresh air outside. But instead of clearing, the

two

smells combined to form a thick aroma that filled my mouth with disgust.

I blocked the smell and focused my attention on the form in the bed.

John, my dear, sweet Slowboat Man, my husband once, lay under the white sheet

the room's only bed. His frame shrunken from the robust, healthy man I

remembered from so many short years ago. He smelled of piss and decay. His

face,

rough with old skin and white whiskers, seemed to fight an enemy unseen on the

battleground of this tiny room. He jerked, then moaned softly, his labored

breathing working to pull enough air to get to the next breath.

I moved to him, my ex-husband, my Slowboat Man, and lightly brushed his

wrinkled

forehead to ease his sleep. I used to do that as we lay together in our

featherbed. I would need him to sleep so that I could go out and feed on the

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Dean Wesley Smith - Slowboat Man

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