NOS4A2(121)

“There is plenty of fun to be had in the back of this old car! You could not find more fun on four wheels!”

He had a plate in one hand, scrambled eggs and bacon and toast. In the other was a glass of orange juice.

“You will be glad to know there is nothing whatsoever healthy about this meal! It is all butter and salt and cholesterol. Even the orange juice is bad for you. It is actually something called ‘orange drink.’ I have never taken a vitamin in my life, though, and I have lived to a very advanced age. Happiness will do more for you than any wonder drug the apothecaries can invent!”

Wayne sat down on the rear couch. Manx opened the door, leaned in, and offered him the plate and the juice. Wayne noticed he had not been provided with a fork. Manx might carry on as if they were best friends, but he was not about to provide his passenger with a stabby weapon . . . a simple, perfectly clear reminder that Wayne was not a pal but a prisoner. Wayne took the plate—and then Manx climbed into the backseat to sit beside him.

Manx had said that hell was not too hot for the sort of men who fiddled with children, but Wayne readied himself, expected to be touched now. Manx would reach between Wayne’s legs, ask him if he ever played with his fiddlestick.

When Manx made his move, Wayne was ready to fight, and lose, and be molested. He would throw his breakfast at the guy. He would bite.

It wouldn’t matter. If Manx wanted to pull Wayne’s pants down and do . . . do whatever—he would do it. He was bigger. It was that simple. Wayne would do his best to live through it. He would pretend his body belonged to someone else and would think about the avalanche he had seen with his father. He would imagine being buried in snow with a kind of quiet relief. Someday he would be buried somewhere (sooner rather than later, he thought), and it wouldn’t matter anymore what Manx had done to him. He just hoped his mother never found out. She was so unhappy already, had fought so hard not to be crazy, not to be drunk, he couldn’t stand to imagine he would be the source of any more pain for her.

But Manx did not touch him. He sighed and stretched out his legs.

“I see you have already picked an ornament to hang up when we arrive at Christmasland,” Manx said. “To mark your passage into that world.”

Wayne glanced at his right hand and was surprised to see he was holding that sleepy moon again, running his thumb over the curve of it. He had no memory of taking it from his pocket.

“My daughters brought little angels to mark the end of their journey,” Manx said in a distant, musing voice. “Take care of it, Wayne. Guard it as if it were your own life!”

He clapped Wayne on the back and nodded toward the front of the car. Wayne followed his gaze . . . and saw that he was looking at the open glove compartment. At the phone.

“Did you really think you were going to hide something from me?” Manx asked. “Here in this car?”

It didn’t seem like the kind of question that required an answer.

Manx crossed his arms tightly over his chest, almost as if giving himself a hug. He was smiling to himself. He didn’t look angry at all.

“Hiding something in this car is as bad as putting it in the pocket of my coat. I am bound to notice. Not that I can blame you for trying! Any boy would try. You should eat those eggs. They will get cold.”

Wayne found himself struggling not to cry. He threw his moon on the floor.

“Here! Here! Do not be sad! I can’t stand for any child to be unhappy! Would it make you feel better to talk to your mother?”

Wayne blinked. A single tear splatted on a greasy piece of bacon. The thought of hearing his mother’s voice set off a small explosion inside Wayne’s body, a throb of need.

He nodded.

“Do you know what would make me feel better? If you told me about this woman who brought all the news stories to your mother. If you will scratch my back, I will scratch yours!”

“I don’t believe you,” Wayne whispered. “You won’t call her. No matter what I do.”

Manx looked over the divider, into the front seat.

The glove compartment snapped shut with a loud clack! It was so surprising that Wayne almost dumped his plate of eggs.

The drawer beneath the front driver’s seat slid open all by itself, almost without sound.

The phone rested in it.

Wayne stared at it, his breathing shallow, effortful.

“I have not told you a lie yet,” Manx said. “But I understand that you would be reluctant to trust me. Here is the thing: You know I will not give you the phone if you don’t tell me about your mother’s visitor. I will put it on the floor of this garage and back my car over it. That will be fun! To be honest, I think cell phones were invented by the devil. Now, think if you did tell me what I want to know. One way or another, you will have learned something important. If I do not let you call your mother, you will have learned I am a big fat liar and you will never have to trust me again about anything. But if I do let you call her, then you will know I am as good as my word.”

Wayne said, “But I don’t know anything about Maggie Leigh that you don’t know.”

“Well, now you have told me her name. See! The learning process has already begun.”

Wayne cringed, feeling he had just committed an unforgivable betrayal.

“Ms. Leigh said something that frightened your mother. What was it? Tell me and I will let you call your mother right this instant!”