“Hello, Ralph.”
“Hello, Holly.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Not so well. I had the dream about the worms. How about you?”
“Last night was fine. I watched a movie on my computer and corked right off. When Harry Met Sally. That one always makes me laugh.”
“Good. That’s good. What are you working on?”
“Mostly it’s the same old same old.” Her voice brightened. “But I found a runaway from Tampa in a youth hostel. Her mom has been looking for her for six months. I talked to her and she’s going home. She says she’ll give it one more try even though she hates her mother’s boyfriend.”
“I suppose you gave her bus fare.”
“Well . . .”
“You know she’s probably smoking it up right now in some bumblefuck’s crash pad, don’t you?”
“They don’t always do that, Ralph. You have to—”
“I know. I have to believe.”
“Yes.”
Silence for a moment in the connection between his place in the world and hers.
“Ralph . . .”
He waited.
“Those . . . those things that came out of him . . . they never touched either one of us. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said. “I think my dreams mostly have to do with a cantaloupe I cut open when I was a kid, and what was inside. I told you about that, right?”
“Yes.”
He could hear the smile in her voice and smiled in return, as if she were in the room with him. “Of course I did, probably more than once. Sometimes I think I’m losing it.”
“Not at all. Next time we talk, it will be me calling you, after I dream he’s in my closet with Brady Hartsfield’s face. And you’ll be the one to say you slept fine.”
He knew it was true, because it had already happened.
“What you’re feeling . . . and I’m feeling . . . that’s normal. Reality is thin ice, but most people skate on it their whole lives and never fall through until the very end. We did fall through, but we helped each other out. We’re still helping each other.”
You’re helping me more, Ralph thought. You may have your problems, Holly, but you’re better at this than I am. Far better.
“And you’re all right?” he asked her. “I mean, really?”
“Yes. Really. And you will be.”
“Message received. Call me if you hear the ice cracking under your feet.”
“Of course,” she said. “And you’ll do the same. It’s how we go on.”
From downstairs, Jeannie called, “Breakfast in ten, honey!”
“I’ve got to go,” Ralph said. “Thanks for being there.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Be safe. Wait for the dreams to end.”
“I will.”
“Goodbye, Ralph.”
“Goodbye.”
He paused and added, “I love you, Holly,” but not until he ended the call. It was the way he always did it, knowing if he actually said it to her, she would be embarrassed and tongue-tied. He went into the bathroom to shave. He was in his middle age now, and the first speckles of gray had begun to show in the stubble he covered with Barbasol, but it was his face, the one his wife and son knew and loved. It would be his face forever, and that was good.
That was good.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thanks are due to Russ Dorr, my able research assistant, and also to a father and son team, Warren and Daniel Silver, who helped me with the legal aspects of this story. They were uniquely qualified to do so, as Warren spent much of his life as a defense attorney in Maine, and his son, although now in private practice, has had a distinguished career as a prosecutor in New York. Thanks to Chris Lotts, who knew about el cuco and las luchadoras; thanks to my daughter, Naomi, who hunted down the children’s book about “el cucuy.” Thanks to Nan Graham, Susan Moldow, and Roz Lippel of Scribner; thanks to Philippa Pride at Hodder & Stoughton. Special thanks to Katherine “Katie” Monaghan, who read the first hundred or so pages of this story on an airplane, while we were on tour, and wanted more. A writer of fiction never hears more encouraging words than those.
Thanks, as always, to my wife. I love you, Tabby.
A final word, this about the setting. Oklahoma is a wonderful state, and I met wonderful people there. Some of those wonderful people will say I got a lot wrong, and probably I did; you have to be in a place for years before you get the flavor just right. I did the best I could. For the rest, you must forgive me. Flint City and Cap City are, of course, fictional.