undergrowth. The family dog began yapping before I was even halfway up the drive.
When I pulled up, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I wish you were younger or I were older.” She was all coppery hair and heartbroken smile. Egan had been a fool.
“Or you were shorter or I were taller.”
“We’re a pair.” Then, “You know what I’m doing, don’t you?”
“Stalling for time before you have to go inside.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“What scares you the most, facing your parents or being alone in your room?”
“Being alone. Because I’m going to fall apart.”
“Maybe that’s what you need,” I said.
“Falling apart. Then when you wake up you’ll be stronger.”
“Rita could’ve stopped him tonight. This is her fault, you know.”
“Kiddo,” I said, not up for another flaying of her romantic rival, “it’s time for you to go inside.”
I drove around for an hour. This time Saturday night there would still be kids out cruising.
The hard drunks would be done for the night, passed out or punched out or puked out. Only the melancholy ones would be left. They’d had dates and the dates had to be home at midnight and now they were cruising alone, melancholy for the girls they’d just dropped off, because they loved them so damned much; or melancholy because they were so damned afraid they would lose them, secretly reviewing all their inadequacies and just
hoping the girls never found out about them for themselves.
They would hit the highway and turn up the rock and roll and let the moon shine on them with its ancient solitary soothing truths.
The local Tv stations always signed off at midnight, even on weekends. Nothing’s lonelier than the keen of a test pattern.
I climbed into bed shortly after one, read six pages, and fell thankfully into a deep and dreamless sleep. I went through all the usual tussles with the cats, Tasha deciding at some point during the night to examine my face the way a dermatologist would, her purring almost as loud as her snoring; little Crystal head-butting my arm so I’d give her a sleepy scratch; and Tess biting my foot when I made the mistake of trying to move it so I could get comfortable. I’d slept with my boyhood dog for years so I knew all about how to sleep with, around, and through the experience of pets in the same bed.
It was darktime when the phone woke me. No particular time or place or world. Just darktime.
My weary hand reaching out for the telephone on the nightstand. My weary ear feeling the cold receiver against it. My weary mind trying to make sense of the words. He or she was stingy with words. A regular haiku master. I say he or she because it was either a female talking through a handkerchief or a male talking through a handkerchief and sliding his voice up an octave, not quite falsetto.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
No emotion. No elaboration.
“You hear me? It wasn’t an accident.”
Thirteen
Next morning, I went out there even though there was no reason to do it. I went up to the edge of the crevice where the bridge had ripped away and I just stood there. It was a cool, sunny, autumn Sunday and even this far away from the center of town you could hear the bells of the Catholic church. The red limestone wall on the opposite side of the river was like a bulletin board of bits and pieces of Egan’s Merc, bits and pieces that were strewn everywhere. A chrome headlight rim, bent and busted, caught the sunlight. A foot-long length of tire was somehow adhered to the wall. What appeared to be a section of bumper stuck straight out. The front of the car
had left an outline in the limestone. Parts of the display were oily from impact. There were violent rents and deep gouges but they didn’t leave any discernible pattern.
I had no idea what I was looking for.
Maybe I wasn’t looking for anything. Maybe that phone call had made me suspicious enough to come out here, even though the chances were it was a
When I pulled up, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I wish you were younger or I were older.” She was all coppery hair and heartbroken smile. Egan had been a fool.
“Or you were shorter or I were taller.”
“We’re a pair.” Then, “You know what I’m doing, don’t you?”
“Stalling for time before you have to go inside.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“What scares you the most, facing your parents or being alone in your room?”
“Being alone. Because I’m going to fall apart.”
“Maybe that’s what you need,” I said.
“Falling apart. Then when you wake up you’ll be stronger.”
“Rita could’ve stopped him tonight. This is her fault, you know.”
“Kiddo,” I said, not up for another flaying of her romantic rival, “it’s time for you to go inside.”
I drove around for an hour. This time Saturday night there would still be kids out cruising.
The hard drunks would be done for the night, passed out or punched out or puked out. Only the melancholy ones would be left. They’d had dates and the dates had to be home at midnight and now they were cruising alone, melancholy for the girls they’d just dropped off, because they loved them so damned much; or melancholy because they were so damned afraid they would lose them, secretly reviewing all their inadequacies and just
hoping the girls never found out about them for themselves.
They would hit the highway and turn up the rock and roll and let the moon shine on them with its ancient solitary soothing truths.
The local Tv stations always signed off at midnight, even on weekends. Nothing’s lonelier than the keen of a test pattern.
I climbed into bed shortly after one, read six pages, and fell thankfully into a deep and dreamless sleep. I went through all the usual tussles with the cats, Tasha deciding at some point during the night to examine my face the way a dermatologist would, her purring almost as loud as her snoring; little Crystal head-butting my arm so I’d give her a sleepy scratch; and Tess biting my foot when I made the mistake of trying to move it so I could get comfortable. I’d slept with my boyhood dog for years so I knew all about how to sleep with, around, and through the experience of pets in the same bed.
It was darktime when the phone woke me. No particular time or place or world. Just darktime.
My weary hand reaching out for the telephone on the nightstand. My weary ear feeling the cold receiver against it. My weary mind trying to make sense of the words. He or she was stingy with words. A regular haiku master. I say he or she because it was either a female talking through a handkerchief or a male talking through a handkerchief and sliding his voice up an octave, not quite falsetto.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
No emotion. No elaboration.
“You hear me? It wasn’t an accident.”
Thirteen
Next morning, I went out there even though there was no reason to do it. I went up to the edge of the crevice where the bridge had ripped away and I just stood there. It was a cool, sunny, autumn Sunday and even this far away from the center of town you could hear the bells of the Catholic church. The red limestone wall on the opposite side of the river was like a bulletin board of bits and pieces of Egan’s Merc, bits and pieces that were strewn everywhere. A chrome headlight rim, bent and busted, caught the sunlight. A foot-long length of tire was somehow adhered to the wall. What appeared to be a section of bumper stuck straight out. The front of the car
had left an outline in the limestone. Parts of the display were oily from impact. There were violent rents and deep gouges but they didn’t leave any discernible pattern.
I had no idea what I was looking for.
Maybe I wasn’t looking for anything. Maybe that phone call had made me suspicious enough to come out here, even though the chances were it was a
Similar Books
