The wife was behind the man, she bent down, and the dog stopped. The man opened the door a couple of inches.
“Excuse me sir, I wonder could I use your telephone.”
“What for?”
“I’ve had an accident.”
The man was examining his face.
“Anybody hurt?”
“No. Well. I don’t know. I need help.”
“Anybody with you out there?”
“No just me.”
“Well okay, come in I guess.”
They turned on the light in the vestibule. The telephone was on a table inside the front door. The dog was black and white and sniffed at him and wagged its tail while the woman held it by the collar.
“You do look kind of scratched up,” the man said. “Where was this here accident?”
“I don’t know,” Tony Hastings said.
“You don’t?”
“I’ve been walking half the night.”
“Got lost, eh?”
“I’m a stranger here.”
“Well set down there. Get a load off. What happen, traveling alone, fall asleep at the wheel?”
“No no, my wife and child.”
“Wife and child,” the woman said. “They hurt?”
“He left them at the car,” the man said. “What you want an ambulance?”
“Not that,” Tony Hastings said. “It’s not that.” He groped for believable words to bring his nightmare into the world.
“Maybe you’d like to use the bathroom wash off,” the wife said.
“Maybe he’d like to use the telephone first,” the man said. “They’re waiting for him at the car.”
“Worse than that,” Tony Hastings said. “I can’t explain. It wasn’t an accident. Not exactly. We met these guys. My wife and child.” Come on, mathematician, explain. “They took them. I mean I’ve lost them.”
The man and his wife looked at him.
“Lost what?”
“My wife and child.”
“What do you mean, lost your wife and child?”
“We ran into these guys on the road. Thugs. Hoodlums. They forced us off the road.”
“Son of a bitch, these god damn kids,” the man said.
“It’s hard to explain. They took my wife and kid. In my car. They took me into the woods. I’ve been walking half the night. I don’t know where they are.” He felt the tears coming. “I don’t know how to find them.”
“Boy,” the man said. “How could you let them do that to you?”
He shook his head, fought them back. The man and his wife looked at each other.
“Who should he call?” the man said.
“Hamilton?” the wife said.
“He aint gonna be up yet.”
“Rouse him out?”
“You wanta rouse him outa bed for this?”
“Who’s Hamilton?”
“Sheriff.”
“Someone should be up at Grant Center,” the wife said.
“Think so? Don’t do no business until eight.”
“Jail,” the wife said. “Jail stays open all night.”
“Only the night guard. He can’t do nothing.”
“Wake Hamilton then. What good’s a sheriff sleeps all night?”
“State troopers,” the man said. “They’re open all night.”
“Why yes of course,” the wife said.
“State troopers. That’s who I’d call if you was me.”
“Okay,” Tony Hastings said. “How do I reach them?”
“Look up Pennsylvania,” the wife said.
“State troopers. Fine men, professionals. They’ll help you. They’re the best.”
“You make your call and then wash up,” the wife said. “I’ll get you something to eat. You must be worn out.”
“Sheriff don’t do nothing anyhow. State troopers, they’re the ones. The elite. The finest.”
It wasn’t friendly, it was watchful and dutiful. She went into the kitchen. The man continued to stare at Tony.
“I want to hear what you tell them cops. I can’t understand, you said they put your wife and kid in the car and drove off with them. What were they, threatening you with a gun?”
“No gun,” Tony said.
“Well damned if I can understand how you let em get away with it.”
“Damned if I can either.”
Yet he understood well enough, for it had happened to him. The hard thing would be how to make anyone else understand.
EIGHT
Susan Morrow, following Tony Hastings along the country road in the murdering dawn, wonders if she can stand what’s coming. Like Tony she assesses the possibilities. She knows what Tony does not, that there’s another compulsion in these events, the hand of Edward creating destinies. What happens to Laura and Helen depends on the kind of story it is. So while Tony struggles for hope, the reading Susan considers Edward, preparing some unbearable thing. Yet even as she fears, she encourages him, saying, Good work, Edward, you’re doing fine. She’s on edge not only for Tony’s sake but for Edward’s, wondering how he can avoid anticlimax without disaster.
Nocturnal Animals 7
Tony Hastings indoors. He sat in the rickety chair by the telephone inside the door, while the old farmer looked up the state police number. Thinking what to say, he had been thinking half the night. He thought: I must remember Tony Hastings. Mathematician, professor, organizing lectures and making everything clear. Emulate Tony Hastings. Afraid the police wouldn’t listen, if they didn’t understand, crackpot, joker, bum.
Nameless, abject, a speck of survival out of the woods. Yet already it was better, indoors, the chair, the burr of the telephone bell in his ear, the old farmer and his wife looking on.
The dark voice said, “State Police, Morgan speaking.”
Shock of having to speak, yet Tony Hastings was coming to life, organizing, who when where what why.
“Excuse me, my name is Tony Hastings. I’m a university professor from Ohio traveling through. I’m trying to find my wife and child. Mrs. Tony Hastings. Has she called in?”
Silence on the other end, Morgan trying to figure out, a bad start. “What’s your problem, professor?”
Come back to civilization, Tony. Who where when what why? Try what.
“We ran into trouble on the Interstate. I think my wife and daughter have been abducted.”
Another definite silence. “You need an ambulance?”
“No, I need help, I need help.”
The silence was conspicuous. Start with what your audience knows, state police: “We were traveling on the Interstate—”
“Hold on a moment.” He sank into the silence, not yet indoors, though excused for a second chance. He realized it was not necessary to say what he was afraid to say, though. Another man came on. “This is Sergeant Miles. Can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Tony Hastings.”
“Yes, Tony. What seems to be the problem?”
“We ran into trouble on the Interstate. I think my wife and daughter have been kidnapped.”
Again the silence, enough for Tony to notice.
“Okay Tony, relax. Let me have your name and address.”
Then, “Your wife’s name?”
“And where you are calling from?”
He looked at the old farmer. “I’m at Jack Combs’s house in Bear Valley.”
“Okay Tony, take it easy and tell me exactly what you think happened.”
Never mind the skeptical silences, the patronizing Tonies, the interjected you think, at last Tony Hastings felt safe, back in a world he knew, with organization and machinery and civilized hearts to take care and protect him from horrors. The curious old farmer and his wife, listening, were no longer not kindly, the house was warm, the growing light outside was already adding pale green to the spread of the field across the road.
He was back in the world with a story to tell, an invisible listener taking it down, and two others standing in the hall because there was no place to sit.