The Salinger Contract by Adam Langer

thirty before we would talk and hash out what we would do if we had to move. Academic departments weren’t hiring, and even if they were, whom could we get to write recommendations on Sabine’s behalf? Dr. Ellsworth Crocker, whom I had nicknamed “The Retired COINTELPRO Mole” in one blog entry? Dr. Baynard Ruttu, who was so obsessive-compulsive he wrapped the SFP toilets in cling wrap whenever he used them, but did not remove the pee-splattered plastic upon exiting the bathroom? As for me, I was more than willing to work full-time, but journalism and publishing were dying, and who wanted to hire a one-book author with a résumé and Rolodex more than five years out of date?
    Sabine’s and my conversations were frustratingly circular. Though each night we vowed to get more rest, invariably one or both kids would awaken at six and we’d be back at the coffeemaker, rubbing the sleep out of our eyes, waiting to get the kids to school and day care before we’d go back to polishing our résumés and packing clothes and furniture to give to Goodwill.
    To deal with all the stress and uncertainty, I had been taking Hal out for unusually long morning walks. Sometimes we’d drive out to Nashville, Indiana, where we’d hike along the trails of Yellowwood Forest, sidestepping shotgun shells. Or I would drive twenty miles out of town to Spencer, and Hal would join me as I looked for salamanders and bluebirds in Hoot Woods and by McCormick’s Creek. Lately, we had been exploring the trails that circled Griffy Lake, a man-made reservoir that was good for perch fishing. The trails I chose weren’t particularly strenuous, but they were scenic and leaf-strewn, and when Hal and I walked upon them, time seemed to stop. There were raccoons, foxes, and families of deer; every so often, I would happen upon a crinoid or some other fossil that I could bring home to Ramona for her geology collection. And since I was usually the only hiker on these trails during work hours, I could spend as long as I wanted brushing Hal’s fur on a bench without being disturbed.
    One morning, I was driving our Volvo station wagon along the I-46 Bypass heading toward Griffy Lake when I noticed a silver Nissan Sentra in my rearview mirror. The bypass was a well-traveled road, and the Nissan wasn’t an unusual car—but it was following too closely and I had to take the curves and hills quickly, for fear of getting rear-ended. When I pulled into the trailhead lot and found a space, the Nissan pulled in beside me. Conner was at the wheel. He had a few days’ growth of beard and was wearing sunglasses, blue jeans, and a faded maroon Philadelphia Phillies T-shirt. He looked skinnier, and somehow menacing. As Conner got out of the car and approached, Hal pawed the back window of my car and howled. At first, I didn’t even recognize him. I figured he was either some hippie who wanted to sell me nonpasteurized milk, or a tweaker hawking meth.
    Conner took off his sunglasses and gave me a weary, dimpled smile. “Sorry to sneak up on you like that, buddy, but you’re a hard guy to track down.” He leaned in through my window. A few caresses and a scratch behind the ears, and Hal stopped barking. I should have expected Conner would be good with dogs.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I asked.
    â€œLooking for you, man,” he said. I hadn’t answered his calls and he hadn’t wanted to bother me at home with my wife and kids around. He said he had driven by my house a couple of times and, when he saw me leave and I had finished dropping off my kids at school and day care, he followed me to the nature preserve.
    â€œThat’s a little creepy,” I said.
    â€œYeah, I know,” said Conner. “Sorry about that.”
    â€œIt’s OK. You want to join Hal and me for a hike?”
    â€œSure,” he said. That way he could look down from the path to make sure no one was