Doctor Sleep (The Shining #2)(73)

In the SUBJECT box at the top of the email form, Dan wrote Hello Abra. He dropped the cursor, took a deep breath, and typed four words: Tell me what’s wrong.

6

On the following Saturday afternoon, Dan was sitting in bright sunshine on one of the benches outside the ivy-covered stone building that housed the Anniston Public Library. He had a copy of the Union Leader open in front of him, and there were words on the page, but he had no idea what they said. He was too nervous.

Promptly at two o’clock, a girl in jeans rode up on her bike and lodged it in the rack at the foot of the lawn. She gave him a wave and a big smile.

So. Abra. As in Cadabra.

She was tall for her age, most of that height in her legs. Masses of curly blond hair were held back in a thick ponytail that looked ready to rebel and spray everywhere. The day was a bit chilly, and she was wearing a light jacket with ANNISTON CYCLONES screen-printed on the back. She grabbed a couple of books that were bungee-corded to the rear bumper of her bike, then ran up to him, still with that open smile. Pretty but not beautiful. Except for her wide-set blue eyes. They were beautiful.

“Uncle Dan! Gee, it’s good to see you!” And she gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. That hadn’t been in the script. Her confidence in his basic okayness was terrifying.

“Good to see you, too, Abra. Sit down.”

He had told her they would have to be careful, and Abra—a child of her culture—understood at once. They had agreed that the best thing would be to meet in the open, and there were few places in Anniston more open than the front lawn of the library, which was situated near the middle of the small downtown district.

She was looking at him with frank interest, perhaps even hunger. He could feel something like tiny fingers patting lightly at the inside of his head.

(where’s Tony?)

Dan touched a finger to his temple.

Abra smiled, and that completed her beauty, turned her into a girl who would break hearts in another four or five years.

(HI TONY!)

That was loud enough to make him wince, and he thought again of how Dick Hallorann had recoiled behind the wheel of his rental car, his eyes going momentarily blank.

(we need to talk out loud )

(okay yes)

“I’m your father’s cousin, okay? Not really an uncle, but that’s what you call me.”

“Right, right, you’re Uncle Dan. We’ll be fine as long as my mother’s best friend doesn’t come along. Her name’s Gretchen Silverlake. I think she knows our whole family tree, and there isn’t very much of it.”

Oh, great, Dan thought. The nosy best friend.

“It’s okay,” Abra said. “Her older son’s on the football team, and she never misses a Cyclones game. Almost everyone goes to the game, so stop worrying that someone will think you’re—”

She finished the sentence with a mental picture—a cartoon, really. It blossomed in an instant, crude but clear. A little girl in a dark alley was being menaced by a hulking man in a trenchcoat. The little girl’s knees were knocking together, and just before the picture faded, Dan saw a word balloon form over her head: Eeek, a freak!

“Actually not that funny.”

He made his own picture and sent it back to her: Dan Torrance in jail-stripes, being led away by two big policemen. He had never tried anything like this, and it wasn’t as good as hers, but he was delighted to find he could do it at all. Then, almost before he knew what was happening, she appropriated his picture and made it her own. Dan pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it at one of the cops, and pulled the trigger. A handkerchief with the word POW! on it shot from the barrel of the gun.

Dan stared at her, mouth open.

Abra put fisted hands to her mouth and giggled. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. We could do this all afternoon, couldn’t we? And it would be fun.”

He guessed it would also be a relief. She had spent years with a splendid ball but no one to play catch with. And of course it was the same with him. For the first time since childhood—since Hallorann—he was sending as well as receiving.

“You’re right, it would be, but now’s not the time. You need to run through this whole thing again. The email you sent only hit the high spots.”

“Where should I start?”

“How about with your last name? Since I’m your honorary uncle, I probably should know.”

That made her laugh. Dan tried to keep a straight face and couldn’t. God help him, he liked her already.

“I’m Abra Rafaella Stone,” she said. Suddenly the laughter was gone. “I just hope the lady in the hat never finds that out.”

7

They sat together on the bench outside the library for forty-five minutes, with the autumn sun warm on their faces. For the first time in her life Abra felt unconditional pleasure—joy, even—in the talent that had always puzzled and sometimes terrified her. Thanks to this man, she even had a name for it: the shining. It was a good name, a comforting name, because she had always thought of it as a dark thing.

There was plenty to talk about—volumes of notes to compare—and they had hardly gotten started when a stout fiftyish woman in a tweed skirt came over to say hello. She looked at Dan with curiosity, but not untoward curiosity.

“Hi, Mrs. Gerard. This is my uncle Dan. I had Mrs. Gerard for Language Arts last year.”