‘We think it was a mistake in shipping,’ the young one said finally.
‘But you don’t know for sure, do you? Because you don’t know where it came from. Or who sent it.’
More silence. Then the older of the two repeated, ‘All things serve the Tower.’ He stood, and held out his hand. It shimmered and became a claw. Shimmered again and became a hand. ‘Give it to me, Wesley of Kentucky.’
Wesley of Kentucky didn’t have to be asked twice, although his hands were trembling so badly that he fumbled with the buckles of his briefcase for what felt like hours. At last the top sprang open, and he held the pink Kindle out to the older of the two. The creature stared at it with a crazed hunger that made Wesley feel like screaming.
‘I don’t think it works anymore, anyw—’
The creature snatched it. For one second Wesley felt its skin and understood the creature’s flesh had its own thoughts. Howling thoughts that ran along their own unknowable circuits. This time he did scream … or tried to. What actually came out was a low, choked groan.
They moved to the door, the hems of their coats making loathsome liquid chuckling sounds. The older one went out, still holding the pink Kindle in its claw-hands. The other paused for a moment to look back at Wesley. ‘You’re getting a pass. Do you understand how lucky you are?’
‘Yes,’ Wesley whispered.
‘Then say thank you.’
‘Thank you.’
It was gone without another word.
He couldn’t bring himself to sit on the sofa, or in the chair that had seemed – in the days before Ellen – to be his best friend in the world. He lay down on his bed and crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop the shudders that were whipping through him. He left the lights on because there was no sense turning them off. He felt sure he would not sleep again for weeks. Perhaps never. He’d begin to drift off, then see those greedy black eyes and hear that voice saying Do you understand how lucky you are?
No, sleep was definitely out.
And with that, consciousness ceased.
VIII – The Future Lies Ahead
Wesley slept until the music-box tinkle of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ woke him at nine o’clock the next morning. If there were dreams (of pink Kindles, drunk women in roadhouse parking lots, or low men in yellow coats), he did not remember them. All he knew was that someone was calling his cell, and it might be someone he wanted to talk to very badly.
He ran into the living room, but the ringing ceased before he could get the phone out of his briefcase. He flipped it open and saw YOU HAVE 1 NEW MESSAGE. He accessed it.
‘Hey, pal,’ Don Allman’s voice said. ‘You better check the morning paper.’
That was all.
He no longer subscribed to The Echo, but old Mrs Ridpath, his downstairs neighbor, did. He took the stairs two at a time, and there it was, sticking out of her mailbox. He reached for it, then hesitated. What if his deep sleep hadn’t been natural? What if he had been anesthetized somehow, so he could be booted into a different Ur, one where the crash had happened after all? What if Don had called to prepare him? Suppose he unfolded the paper and saw the black border that was the newspaper world’s version of funeral crepe?
‘Please,’ he whispered, unsure if it was God or that mysterious dark tower he was praying to. ‘Please let it still be my Ur.’
He took the paper in a numb hand and unfolded it. The border was there, all right, boxing in the entire front page, but it was blue rather than black.
Meerkat blue.
The photo was the biggest he’d ever seen in The Echo; it took up half of the front page, under a headline reading LADY MEERKATS TAKE BLUEGRASS, AND THE FUTURE LIES AHEAD! The team was clustered on the hardwood of Rupp Arena. Three were hoisting a shiny silver trophy. Another – it was Josie – stood on a stepladder, twirling a net over her head.
Standing in front of her team, dressed in the prim blue slacks and blue blazer she invariably wore on game days, was Ellen Silverman. She was smiling and holding up a handmade sign that read I LOVE YOU WESLEY.
Wesley thrust his hands, one still holding the newspaper, over his head and let out a yell that caused a couple of kids on the other side of the street to look around.
‘Wassup?’ one of them called.
‘Sports fan!’ Wesley called back, then raced back upstairs. He had a call to make.
Thinking of Ralph Vicinanza
On July 26, 2009, a woman named Diane Schuler left the Hunter Lake Campground in Parksville, New York, driving her 2003 Ford Windstar. She had five passengers: her five-year-old son, her two-year-old daughter, and three nieces. She seemed fine – the last person to see her at the campground swears she was alert and had no liquor on her breath – and equally fine an hour later, when she fed the kids at a Mickey D’s. Not long after that, however, she was observed vomiting beside the road. She called her husband and said she did not feel well. Then she turned onto the Taconic Parkway and drove the wrong way for nearly two miles, ignoring the horns, waves, and flashing lights of those who dodged around her. She eventually hit an SUV head-on, killing herself, all but one of her passengers (her son survived), and the three men in the SUV.
According to the toxicology reports, Schuler was processing the equivalent of ten drinks at the time of the crash, plus a large amount of marijuana. Her husband stated that his wife wasn’t a drinker, but toxicology reports don’t lie. Like Candy Rymer in the previous story, Diane Schuler was loaded to the max. Did Daniel Schuler really not know, after at least five years of marriage and a period of courtship, that his wife was a secret drinker? It’s actually possible. Abusers can be incredibly sly, and hide their addictions for a long time. They do it out of need and desperation.
What exactly happened in that car? How did she get drunk so fast, and when did she smoke the dope? What was she thinking when she refused to heed the drivers warning her that she was going the wrong way? Was it a booze and drug-fueled accident, a murder-suicide, or some weird combination of both? Only fiction can approach answers to these questions. Only through fiction can we think about the unthinkable, and perhaps obtain some sort of closure. This story is my effort to do that.
And by the way, Herman Wouk is still alive. He read a version of this story after it appeared in The Atlantic, and wrote me a nice note. Invited me to visit him, even. As a longtime fan, I was thrilled. He’s pushing a hundred now, and I’m sixty-seven. Should I live long enough, I might just take him up on the invitation.
Herman Wouk Is Still Alive
From the Portland (Maine) Press-Herald, September 19, 2010:
9 DIE IN HORRIFIC 1-95 CRASH
Spontaneous Mourning at Scene
By Ray Dugan
Less than six hours after a one-vehicle accident in the town of Fairfield took the lives of two adults and seven children, all under the age of ten, the mourning has already begun. Bouquets of wildflowers in tin cans and insulated coffee mugs ring the scorched earth; a line of nine crosses has been placed in the picnic area of the adjacent rest area at Mile 109. At the site where the bodies of the two youngest children were found, an anonymous sign, words spray-painted on a piece of bedsheet, has been erected. It reads, ANGELS GATHER HERE.
I.
BRENDA HITS PICK-3 FOR $2,700 AND RESISTS HER FIRST IMPULSE.