The Salinger Contract by Adam Langer Page A

following him.
    â€œWho’s following you?” I asked. “That Dex Dunford guy?”
    â€œOr Pavel,” he said. “Probably nobody, probably it’s OK, but who knows—I don’t feel sure about anything anymore.”

18
    U sually, when I was walking Hal, I chose the easiest hiking trails, the ones with lots of benches for rest, contemplation, occasional dog grooming, and all-too-frequent self-assessment, a practice that lately hadn’t been leading anywhere useful. Here I was in a nowhere town with one book and two kids and a life story that was interesting only because I didn’t really know the details of it. The stories in Nine Fathers were fairly dull in and of themselves; what made each story interesting to me was the fact that it could have been true.
    Still, having grown up as the only child of a single mom who rarely ever came home before ten at night, I cherished my admittedly boring family life—a house, a wife, two kids, and a dog in south central Indiana. But I had never really thought too hard about what it would take to maintain that life. Lately, whenever I tried to justify my existence, Jack Lemmon squared off poorly against Alec Baldwin in the Glengarry Glen Ross of my mind— “Good father? Family man? Fuck you. Go home and play with your kids.” Still, my harsh judgment of myself hadn’t yet led me to change my habits, hadn’t led me to, say, finish writing a story for once, or opt for a “rugged” instead of an “easy” or “moderate” trail.
    But with Conner there, I felt self-conscious about my lack of athleticism, and so I opted for the moderate-to-difficult Overlook Trail, which wound upward along a steep and rocky path, then snaked over the sprawling roots of oak trees before ending at a muddy bluff that looked out over the narrow, gray lake and the fishing boats upon it. The walk was challenging, but as long as I could hang on to the dog’s leash and the strong animal could help pull me over some of the steeper turns, I felt steady. Occasionally, Conner asked if I needed a hand or if I wanted to rest for a bit, and even though I did, I said of course not; I walked these trails all the time.
    â€œI hope I’m not flattering myself too much, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, buddy,” Conner said once we had reached the highest point of the trail. “But the more I think about it, the more I think you and I have a lot in common.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œYou know I feel a kinship with you,” he said. “You’re like the only person I can talk to and trust. I realize that now.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, though I didn’t really understand why that was. Probably because I had written a flattering article about him.
    â€œSo you flew in all the way from Pennsylvania to see me and tell me that?”
    â€œNah,” he said, “I had to fly into Chicago again; you’re sort of on my way home.”
    â€œYou saw Dex?” I asked.
    â€œYup.”
    â€œYou write that book for him?”
    â€œIn a way.”
    â€œEverything go OK?”
    Conner choked out a bitter laugh. “I wouldn’t say that.” He stopped walking for a few moments. He rubbed his face until his cheeks turned bright red under his beard. “Goddamn, man,” he said. “Goddamn.”
    Conner was looking a little shaky, and sat down on the warped, rickety bench. I sat beside him.
    â€œWell,” I said, “at least you can feel safe that no one’s following us or listening to us all the way up here.”
    â€œYou can never be sure, ever,” said Conner. “I know that now, my friend.”
    â€œThen are you sure you wanna be telling me about everything?” I asked. “Won’t Dex make you give back all the money if he finds out you told me? Wasn’t that what he said?”
    â€œIt’s different with you,”