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The tires hit the ground with great force. Vic was thrown hard against the handlebars, and the twinge in her kidney became an agonized tearing sensation. Keep it shiny side up, she thought, slowing fast now, the front tire wobbling and shaking, the whole bike threatening to fling them off and go down with them. The engine screamed as the motorcycle slammed over the rutted ground. Vic had returned to the clearing in the woods where Charlie Manx had led them over into Christmasland. Grass whipped frantically against the sides of the bike.

She slowed and slowed and slowed, and the bike gasped and died. She coasted. At last the Triumph eased to a stop at the tree line, and she could safely turn her head and look back. Wayne looked with her, his arms still clenching her tightly, as if they were, even now, racing along at close to eighty miles an hour.

Across the field she saw the Shorter Way Bridge and a gusher of bats pouring out of it into the starry night. Then, almost gently, the entrance to the bridge fell backward—there was suddenly nothing behind it—and vanished before it hit the ground with a weak pop. A faint ripple spread out across the high grass.

The boy and his mother sat on the dead bike, staring. Bats shrilled softly in the dark. Vic felt very easy in her mind. She was not sure there was much of anything left in there now, except for love, and that was enough.

She drove her heel into the kick-starter. The Triumph sighed its regrets. She tried again, felt things tearing inside her, spit more blood. A third time. The kick-starter almost refused to go down, and the bike made no sound at all.

“What’s wrong with it, Mama?” Wayne asked in his new, soft, little-boy’s voice.

She wiggled the bike back and forth between her legs. It creaked gently but otherwise made no other sound. Then she understood, and laughed—a dry, weak laugh, but genuine.

“Out of gas,” she said.





COME ALL YE FAITHFUL

OCTOBER





Gunbarrel


WAYNE WOKE ON THE FIRST SUNDAY IN OCTOBER, TO THE CLASH OF church bells pealing down the block. His father was there, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What were you dreaming?” his new, almost-thin father asked him.

Wayne shook his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” he lied.

“I thought maybe you were dreaming about Mom,” New Lou said. “You were smiling.”

“I guess I must’ve been thinking about something fun.”

“Something fun? Or something good?” New Lou asked, watching him with his curious New Lou eyes—inquisitive and bright. “Because they aren’t always the same.”

“I don’t remember anymore,” Wayne told him.

Better to say that than to say he’d been dreaming about Brad McCauley and Marta Gregorski and the other children in Christmasland. Not that it was Christmasland anymore. It was just The White now. It was just the furious white static of a dead channel, and the children ran in it, playing their games. Last night’s game had been called bite-the-smallest. Wayne could still taste blood. He moved his tongue around and around inside the sticky socket of his mouth. In his dream he’d had more teeth.

“I’m taking the tow,” Lou said. “Got a piece of work needs doing. You want to come with me? You don’t have to. Tabitha could stay here with you.”

“Is she here? Did she sleep over?”

“No! No,” Lou said. He seemed genuinely surprised by the idea. “I just mean I could call her and have her come by.” His brow furrowed in concentration, and after a moment he went on, speaking more slowly. “I don’t think I’d feel okay about that right now: a sleepover. I think that would be strange . . . for everyone.”

Wayne thought the most interesting part of this statement was the “right now” part, implying that his father might feel okay about a sleepover with Ms. Tabitha Hutter at some later date, TBD.

Three nights ago they had all come out of a movie—they did that now sometimes, went to movies together—and Wayne had looked back in time to see his father take Tabitha Hutter by the elbow and kiss the corner of her mouth. The way she’d inclined her head and smiled slightly, Wayne understood that it was not their first kiss. It was too casual, too practiced. Then Tabitha had seen Wayne looking and slipped her arm free of Lou’s hand.

“It wouldn’t bother me!” Wayne said. “I know you like her. I like her, too!”

Lou said, “Wayne. Your mom . . . your mom was—I mean, saying she was my best friend doesn’t even begin to—”

“But now she’s dead. And you should be happy. You should have fun!” Wayne said.

Lou eyed him gravely—with a kind of sorrow, Wayne thought.

“Well,” Lou said. “I’m just saying, you can stay here if you want. Tabitha is right down the street. I can have her here in three minutes. You gotta love a babysitter who comes with her own Glock.”

“No. I’ll keep you company. Where did you say we’re going?”

“I didn’t,” Lou said.


TABITHA HUTTER CAME BY ANYWAY, UNANNOUNCED, BUZZING UP TO the apartment while Wayne was still in his pajamas. She did that on occasion, came by with croissants, which she said she would trade for coffee. She could’ve bought coffee, too, but she claimed she liked the way Lou made it. Wayne knew an excuse when he heard one. There wasn’t anything special about Lou’s coffee, unless you liked your brew with an aftertaste of WD-40.