NOS4A2(144)

“I’m sorry,” Vic said to the dead man.

She couldn’t fight it, had to cry. She had never been what anyone would call a crying woman, but in some moments tears were the only reasonable response. To weep was a kind of luxury; the dead felt no loss, wept for no one and nothing.

Vic stroked the man’s cheek again and touched a thumb to his lips, and that was when she saw the sheet of paper, mashed up and shoved into his mouth.

The dead man looked at her pleadingly.

Vic said, “Okay, friend,” and plucked the paper out of the dead man’s mouth. She did it without any disgust. The dead man had faced a bad end here, had faced it alone, had been used, and hurt, and discarded. Whatever the dead man had wanted to say, Vic wanted to listen, even if she was too late for it to do any good.

The note was written in smudged pencil, with a shaky hand. The scrap of paper was a torn shred of Christmas wrapping.

My head is clear enuff to write. Only time in days. The essentials:

? I am Nathan Demeter of Brandenburg, KY

? Was held by Bing Partridge

? Works for a man named Manks

? I have a daughter, Michelle, who is beautiful and kind. Thank God the car took me, not her. Make sure she reads the following:

I love you girl. He can’t hurt me too bad because when I close my eyes I see you.

It is all right to cry but don’t give up on laughter.

Don’t give up on happiness.

You need both. I had both.

Love you kid—your father



Vic read it while sitting against the dead man and was careful not to cry on it.

After a time she swiped at her face with the backs of her hands. She looked up the stairs. The thought of how she had come down them produced a brief but intense sensation of dizziness. It amazed her that she had gone down them and lived. She had come down a lot quicker than she was going to go up. The left knee was throbbing furiously now, stabs of white pain shooting from it in rhythm with her pulse.

She thought she had all the time in the world to make it up the stairs, but halfway to the top the phone began to ring again. Vic hesitated, listening to the brash clang of hammer on bell. Then she began to hop, clutching the handrail and hardly touching her left foot to the floor. I’m a little Dutch girl, dressed in blue. Here are the things I like to do, sang a piping little-girl voice in her mind, chanting a hopscotch song that Vic had not thought of in decades.

She reached the top step and went through the door into blinding, overpowering sunlight. The world was so bright it made her woozy. The phone rang again, going off for the third or fourth time. Pretty soon whoever was calling would quit.

Vic grabbed for the black phone, hanging from the wall just to the right of the basement door. She held the doorframe in her left hand, realized only absently that she was still holding the note from Nathan Demeter. She put the receiver to her ear.

“My Lord, Bing,” said Charlie Manx. “Where have you been? I have been calling and calling. I was beginning to worry you had done something rash. It is not the end of the world, you know, that you are not coming with me. There may be another time, and meanwhile there are many things you can do for me. For starters you can fill me in on the latest news about our good friend Ms. McQueen. I heard a news report a while ago that she rode away from her little cottage in New Hampshire and vanished. Has there been any word of her since? What do you think she’s been up to?”

Vic swallowed air, exhaled slowly.

“Oh, she’s been all kinds of busy,” Vic said. “Most recently she’s been helping Bing redecorate his basement. I felt like it needed some color down there, so I painted the walls with the motherf*cker.”


MANX WAS SILENT JUST LONG ENOUGH FOR VIC TO WONDER IF HE HAD hung up. She was about to say his name, find out if he was still there, when he spoke again.

“Good gravy,” he said again. “Do you mean to tell me poor Bing is dead? I am sorry to hear it. We parted on unhappy terms. I feel bad about that now. He was, in many ways, a child. He did some awful things, I suppose, but you cannot blame him! He did not know any better!”

“Shut up about him. You listen to me. I want my son back, and I’m coming to get him, Manx. I’m coming, and you don’t want to be with him when I find him. Pull over. Wherever you are, pull over. Let my boy out at the side of the road, unhurt. Tell him to wait for me and that Mom will be there before he knows it. Do that and you don’t have to worry about me looking for you. I’ll let you slide. We’ll call it even.” She didn’t know if she meant it, but it sounded good.

“How did you get to Bing Partridge’s, Victoria? That is what I want to know. Was it like in Colorado that time? Did you go there on your bridge?”

“Is Wayne hurt? Is he all right? I want to talk to him. Put him on.”

“People in hell want ice water. You answer my questions and we’ll see if I answer yours. Tell me how you got to Bing’s and I will see what I can do.”

Vic trembled furiously, the beginnings of shock settling in. “You tell me first if he’s alive. God help you if he isn’t. If he isn’t, Manx, if he isn’t, what I did to Bing is nothing compared to what I’ll do to you.”

“He is well. He is a perfect little ray of sunshine! You get that, and that’s all you get for now. Tell me how you arrived at Bing’s. Was it on your motorbike? It was a bicycle in Colorado. But I suppose you have a new ride now. And did your new ride take you to your bridge? Answer me and I’ll let you speak to him.”