alerted insomnia, brought all the busy thoughts, the renegade remorses and guilts and recriminations. The trick was just to close his eyes. Sometimes he slept.
Not this time. This time, as soon as he closed his eyes, the hysterical, repetitive whimpers of a Botwobble accosted him. He closed his eyes tighter, and the noise increased. Finally, he got up and went down the hall to Raymond’s room.
The door was open.
Raymond lay propped amid pillows on his back in a rumpled bed, the trashed warren of some animal that fed on bags of Cheetos and cream soda. He had stopped crying but his eyes were wet and there was dried blood in his mustache. He still wore his brown suit jacket, now rucked up behind his head like a cape. His blue dress shirt had worked out of his pants to reveal his smooth, white belly. His bare feet stuck out of his trouser cuffs with the starkness of true tragedy. Although, Harry reminded himself, nothing really tragic had happened here. One crazy person had gotten in the way of another crazy person, that’s all.
The shriek of the Botwobble filled the room. It did not come from the bed, where Raymond lay as still as a drugged Buddha. The sound seemed to come from the far corner of the room, an unlighted corner beyond a small, snack-cluttered writing desk. Harry edged cautiously into the room and peered into the corner. There it was. The little yellow toy, Raymond’s precious Botwobble, bounced on a folding chair, expanding and contracting hysterically, whistling its thin lament to an indifferent universe.
Harry stumbled backward, banging against the door.
Raymond blinked and sat up.
“Oh,” Raymond said. “Gosh.”
The Botwobble stopped squeaking, rolling off the chair and hitting the floor with a final eek before resuming its inanimate status.
“That Melanie is really mean,” Raymond said, rubbing his eyes.
Harry said nothing. He stared at the Botwobble.
He closed his eyes, accosted by a sudden, vicious vertigo.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the darkness of the car.
Is it gone ? he wondered.
The sky was beginning to lighten—my God, was it dawn?—and he could see Emily, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and regular. He reached out and touched her shoulder.
Her eyes opened instantly.
“It’s okay,” Harry said. “I think it’s gone.”
He patted her shoulder, then said, “I’m going to start the car. Let’s see if we can find Raymond and the others.”
Harry climbed into the front seat and slipped behind the steering wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine caught immediately. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at Emily. “Here we go,” he said.
Helen’s car was a big luxury cruiser. Accustomed to his own small, responsive Mazda, Harry found it took some getting used to. It was like driving a boat.
He turned right onto a dirt road and bounced over deep ruts and the prehistoric prints of tractor wheels. Harry looked in the rearview mirror to see if Emily was still upright. She was. Her eyes were wide and unreadable.
A busted fence jittered past on Harry’s right, silver planks brought down by neglect. A large black crow shouted from a leaning fence post before heaving itself into the air and flapping off across the field toward the trees.
Harry could see the sun as though it were burning fiercely behind gray cheesecloth. He could feel the heat there too, preparing to roll out another suffocating carpet of dust and burning chaff.
The field was empty. They came to the trees. Here the dirt road was reclaimed by weeds. A hundred yards into the forest, the road grew confused, opened onto a wide, grassy circle as though attempting to get its bearings, shot narrowly to the left, and ended abruptly in a snarl of dusty shrubs, scrub pine, dogwood, hackberry.
Harry turned the engine off and climbed out of the car. He listened. The only sound that came to his ears was the thin, two-note cry of some bored or feebleminded bird.
Harry
Not this time. This time, as soon as he closed his eyes, the hysterical, repetitive whimpers of a Botwobble accosted him. He closed his eyes tighter, and the noise increased. Finally, he got up and went down the hall to Raymond’s room.
The door was open.
Raymond lay propped amid pillows on his back in a rumpled bed, the trashed warren of some animal that fed on bags of Cheetos and cream soda. He had stopped crying but his eyes were wet and there was dried blood in his mustache. He still wore his brown suit jacket, now rucked up behind his head like a cape. His blue dress shirt had worked out of his pants to reveal his smooth, white belly. His bare feet stuck out of his trouser cuffs with the starkness of true tragedy. Although, Harry reminded himself, nothing really tragic had happened here. One crazy person had gotten in the way of another crazy person, that’s all.
The shriek of the Botwobble filled the room. It did not come from the bed, where Raymond lay as still as a drugged Buddha. The sound seemed to come from the far corner of the room, an unlighted corner beyond a small, snack-cluttered writing desk. Harry edged cautiously into the room and peered into the corner. There it was. The little yellow toy, Raymond’s precious Botwobble, bounced on a folding chair, expanding and contracting hysterically, whistling its thin lament to an indifferent universe.
Harry stumbled backward, banging against the door.
Raymond blinked and sat up.
“Oh,” Raymond said. “Gosh.”
The Botwobble stopped squeaking, rolling off the chair and hitting the floor with a final eek before resuming its inanimate status.
“That Melanie is really mean,” Raymond said, rubbing his eyes.
Harry said nothing. He stared at the Botwobble.
He closed his eyes, accosted by a sudden, vicious vertigo.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the darkness of the car.
Is it gone ? he wondered.
The sky was beginning to lighten—my God, was it dawn?—and he could see Emily, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and regular. He reached out and touched her shoulder.
Her eyes opened instantly.
“It’s okay,” Harry said. “I think it’s gone.”
He patted her shoulder, then said, “I’m going to start the car. Let’s see if we can find Raymond and the others.”
Harry climbed into the front seat and slipped behind the steering wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine caught immediately. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at Emily. “Here we go,” he said.
Helen’s car was a big luxury cruiser. Accustomed to his own small, responsive Mazda, Harry found it took some getting used to. It was like driving a boat.
He turned right onto a dirt road and bounced over deep ruts and the prehistoric prints of tractor wheels. Harry looked in the rearview mirror to see if Emily was still upright. She was. Her eyes were wide and unreadable.
A busted fence jittered past on Harry’s right, silver planks brought down by neglect. A large black crow shouted from a leaning fence post before heaving itself into the air and flapping off across the field toward the trees.
Harry could see the sun as though it were burning fiercely behind gray cheesecloth. He could feel the heat there too, preparing to roll out another suffocating carpet of dust and burning chaff.
The field was empty. They came to the trees. Here the dirt road was reclaimed by weeds. A hundred yards into the forest, the road grew confused, opened onto a wide, grassy circle as though attempting to get its bearings, shot narrowly to the left, and ended abruptly in a snarl of dusty shrubs, scrub pine, dogwood, hackberry.
Harry turned the engine off and climbed out of the car. He listened. The only sound that came to his ears was the thin, two-note cry of some bored or feebleminded bird.
Harry
Similar Books
