He was so nervous.
To soothe himself while he waited, he took out his crayon and drew a line across the paper place mat. He’d drawn this line several times during his trip, on napkins and hotel stationery, to remind himself of where he’d come from and where he was going. Call that his lifeline. He made a mark near the right end of the line that was September 4, 1995. Until that date, his mind had wandered up and down the line, remembering in both directions. But now he was on the tip of the line, which crept forward moment by moment. He never knew when it was going to stop. He kept doodling until the waitress returned with the tumbler of tea.
“Pretty color,” she said. “What happens then?” She nodded at the numbers Buddy had absentmindedly drawn far to the right of the line: 11 2 2016.
“No idea,” Buddy said. Suddenly he was embarrassed. He must look like a little kid. “Do you remember me?”
The waitress glanced toward the woman working the cash register. “I’m not in that line of work anymore.”
“No! I didn’t mean that! I’m so sorry. I just wondered—”
“I looked you up,” she said. “That story you told me. You really were famous once.”
“It didn’t turn out well.”
“What does?” The woman at the cash register walked into the kitchen, and the waitress seemed to relax. “So you stalking me, Buddy?” Then she quickly said, “Just kidding. It’s okay.”
Oh, but he had been stalking her, across two states and four weeks. Buddy said, “I wanted to—” What did he want? This moment was so different than he imagined. He had no memory to guide him. The script was blank.
“I just wanted to say thank you. You were very nice to me.”
“And you were a sweet kid.” She extended her hand. “I’m Carrie.”
“Carrie,” Buddy repeated, as if he hadn’t found out that name early in his search. “Glad to meet you.”
“So,” she said. “Have you decided what you want?”
26
MATTY
The World’s Most Powerful Psychic is fourteen years old. He sits on his bed in the attic bedroom, eyes closed, with an orange and white box beside him. The box is empty now. The gift, the inheritance, hangs around his neck, the steel cold against his bare chest.
He’s a little disappointed that it’s not real gold. But not too much. He runs his hand across the jagged chunk carved out by the bullet, and the dent makes him feel simultaneously more vulnerable and more mighty.
That’s a helpful state of mind, it turns out.
He rises out of his body, and keeps rising. The rooftop falls away. The treetops become a blur of orange and red. He turns in the air, wondering where he should go. South, he decides. There’s someone he’d like to check in on.
He’s not that great at Chicago geography, but simply by thinking of the place he wants to go, his ghost self finds the way. He slips into the building, then down to the basement.
Princess Pauline stands in her royal stall, chewing hay with solemn dignity. She pays no mind to the tubes running into her body, and ignores the uninvited guest hovering near her.
He floats down to look into the Plexiglas window in her side. In June it was difficult to see the artificial heart that powered her, but now he can get as close as he wants. He nudges his point of awareness forward, letting his ghost head and ghost eyes slip past the window.
The World’s Most Powerful Psychic thinks, This is the grossest thing I have ever done. Still, it’s pretty cool. The heart is far larger than he expected, a hunk of plastic nestled in the tissue of the cow. Her Highness doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion.
He feels a sense of professional camaraderie. She’s his partner in transparency; he can’t be seen, and she reveals all. “Glad you’re doing okay,” he says to her, though of course she pretends not to hear.
He levitates through the layers of cement, through plumbing and phone lines, until he’s back in the sky above Downers Grove. The sun is setting, and the clouds are glowing a peculiar shade of pink. Interesting. He zips up to see them, and then he’s inside the water vapor, blinded by white.
Higher, then. Navigation, he’s been learning, is an act of imagination.
He rises above the cloud layer. Far above him, the sky deepens from purple to black. The moon is a quarter in shadow. Somewhere on its surface is an American flag. He wonders if it’s still standing, and what it looks like up close.
In an instant, he’s there.
Acknowledgments
Many people read drafts of this book and offered advice and encouragement. My undying thanks to Liza Trombi, James Morrow, Gary Delafield, Matt Sturges, Dave Justus, Andrew Tisbert, Fleetwood Robbins, Nancy Kress, and Jack Skillingstead.
My children, now inexplicably grown up, were in my heart on every page. Thank you, Emma and Ian Gregory.
My thanks to my editor, Tim O’Connell, who saw what this book needed—and what it didn’t. It should be illegal to laugh so much while doing such hard work. Richard Arcus of Quercus and Kiara Kent at Penguin Random House Canada provided valuable notes on the penultimate draft. My agent, Seth Fishman, as well as the entire team at the Gernert Company, has been magnificent from start to finish.
There are others who helped me without knowing it. The Chicago Cubs taught me everything I needed to know about fate, faith, and suffering. You bastards broke my father’s heart year after year—until you didn’t. My thanks as well to the gullible members of Congress who funded Project Star Gate for decades, and provided so much material for this novel.
I owe an apology, however, to one of my heroes, James Randi, aka the Amazing Randi. His lifelong crusade to investigate psychics, faith healers, mediums, and frauds of all paranormal stripes inspired a story that might provide aid and comfort to the enemy. And so, though it seems ridiculous to have to say this in the twenty-first century: none of it’s real, folks. There are no mind readers, no remote viewers, no water dousers, no one who can warp kitchen utensils with the power of their mind—except in fiction. But isn’t that enough?
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Daryl Gregory is the author of Afterparty, The Devil’s Alphabet, and other novels for adults and young readers. His novella We Are All Completely Fine won the World Fantasy Award and the Shirley Jackson Award. He grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and now lives in Oakland, California.
ALSO BY DARYL GREGORY NOVELS
Pandemonium
The Devil’s Alphabet
Raising Stony Mayhall
Afterparty
We Are All Completely Fine
Harrison Squared SHORT FICTION
Unpossible and Other Stories
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2017 by Daryl Gregory
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.