that didn’t induce regurgitation.
Red and black lettering, illustrated with elephants and lions, crowded the face of the circus pass. The reverse was blank. Unfolded, it measured three by five inches, the size of an index card.
As hard rain beat on a nearby window, drumming up a sound like many running feet, Josef clutched again at the railings, anchoring himself, as if he feared that he might float up and away. “Nineteen ninety-four. September fifteenth. A Thursday. Write it down.”
Standing beside the bed, Rudy took dictation, using the precise printing with which he composed recipe cards: SEPT 15, 1994, THURS.
Eyes wide and wild, like those of a rabbit in the thrall of a stalking coyote, Josef stared toward a point high on the wall opposite his bed. He seemed to see more than the wall, something beyond it. Perhaps the future.
“Warn him,” the dying man said. “For God’s sake, warn him.”
Bewildered, Rudy said, “Warn who?”
“Jimmy. Your son, Jimmy, my grandson.”
“He’s not born yet.”
“Almost. Two minutes. Warn him. Nineteen ninety-eight. January nineteenth. A Monday.”
Transfixed by the ghastly expression on his father’s face, Rudy stood with pen poised over paper.
“WRITE IT DOWN!” Josef roared. His mouth contorted so severely in the shout that his dry and peeling lower lip split. A crimson thread slowly unraveled down his chin.
“Nineteen ninety-eight,” Rudy muttered as he wrote.
“January nineteenth,” Josef repeated in a croak, his parched throat having been racked by the shout. “A Monday. Terrible day.”
“Why?”
“Terrible, terrible.”
“Why will it be terrible?” Rudy persisted.
“Two thousand two. December twenty-third. Another Monday.”
Jotting down this third date, Rudy said, “Dad, this is weird. I don’t understand.”
Josef still held tight to both steel bedrails. Suddenly he shook them violently, with such uncanny strength that the railings seemed to be coming apart at their joints, raising a clatter that would have been loud in an ordinary hospital room but that was explosive in the usually hushed intensive care unit.
At first the observing nurse rushed forward, perhaps intending to calm the patient, but the electrifying combination of fury and terror that wrenched his pallid face caused her to hesitate. When waves of thunder broke against the hospital hard enough to shake dust off the acoustic ceiling tiles, the nurse retreated, almost as if she thought Josef himself had summoned that detonation.
“WRITE IT DOWN!” he demanded.
“I wrote, I wrote,” Rudy assured him. “December 23, 2002, another Monday.”
“Two thousand three,” Josef said urgently. “The twenty-sixth of November. A Wednesday. The day before Thanksgiving.”
After recording this fourth date on the back of the circus pass, just as his father stopped shaking the bedrails, Rudy looked up and saw a fresh emotion in Josef’s face, in his eyes. The fury was gone, and the terror.
As tears welled, Josef said, “Poor Jimmy, poor Rudy.”
“Dad?”
“Poor, poor Rudy. Poor Jimmy. Where is Rudy?”
“I’m Rudy, Dad. I’m right here.”
Josef blinked, blinked, and flicked away the tears as yet another emotion gripped him, this one not easy to define. Some would have called it astonishment. Others would have said it was wonder of the pure variety that a baby might express at the first sight of any bright marvel.
After a moment, Rudy recognized it as a state more profound than wonder. This was awe, the complete yielding of the mind to something grand and formidable.
His father’s eyes shone with amazement. Across his face, expressions of delight and apprehension contested with each other.
Josef’s increasingly raspy voice fell to a whisper: “Two thousand five.”
His gaze remained fixed on another reality that apparently he found more convincing than he did this world in which he had lived for fifty-seven years.
Hand trembling now, but still printing legibly, Rudy recorded this fifth date—and waited.
“Ah,” said Joseph, as if a startling secret had been revealed.
“Dad?”
“Not this, not this,” Josef lamented.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
As curiosity outweighed her anxiety, the rattled nurse ventured closer to the bed.
A doctor entered the cubicle. “What’s going on here?”
Josef said, “Don’t trust the clown.”
The physician looked mildly offended, assuming that the patient had just questioned his medical credentials.
Leaning over the bed, trying to redirect his father’s attention from his otherworldly vision, Rudy said, “Dad, how do you know about the clown?”
“The sixteenth of April,” said Josef.
“How do you know about the clown?”
“WRITE IT DOWN,” Josef thundered even as the heavens crashed against the earth once more.
As the doctor went around to the other side of the bed, Rudy added APRIL 16 after 2005 to the fifth line on the back of the circus pass. He also printed SATURDAY when his father spoke it.
The doctor put a hand under Josef’s chin and turned his head to have a better look at his eyes.
“He isn’t who you think he is,” said Josef, not to the doctor but to his son.
“Who isn’t?” Rudy asked.
“He isn’t.”
“Who’s he?”
“Now, Josef,” the physician chided, “you know me very well. I’m Dr. Pickett.”
“Oh, the tragedy,” Josef said, voice ripe with pity, as if he were not a pastry chef but a thespian upon the Shakespearean stage.
“What tragedy?” Rudy worried.
Producing an ophthalmoscope from a pocket of his white smock, Dr. Pickett disagreed: “No tragedy here. What I see is a remarkable recovery.”
Breaking loose of the physician’s chin grip,
