Part 89 (1/2)

”Bill Clinton's president?”

”Gosh, no. He was a shoo-in for the '04 nomination, but he died of a heart attack at the convention. His wife stepped in. She's president.”

”Doing a good job?”

Harry waggled his hand. ”Not bad . . . but you can't legislate earthquakes. And that's what's going to do for us, in the end.”

Overhead, that watery ripping sound came again. I looked up. Harry didn't.

”What is that?” I asked.

”Son,” he said, ”n.o.body seems to know. The scientists argue, but in this case I think the preachers might have the straight of it. They say it's G.o.d getting ready to tear down all the works of His hands, same way that Samson tore down the Temple of the Philistines.” He drank the rest of his whisky. Thin color had bloomed in his cheeks . . . which were, as far as I could see, free of radiation sores. ”And on that one, I think they might be right.”

”Christ almighty,” I said.

He looked at me levelly. ”Heard enough history, son?”

Enough to last me a lifetime.

4.

”I have to go,” I said. ”Will you be all right?”

”Until I'm not. Same as everyone else.” He looked at me closely. ”Jake, where did you drop from? And why the h.e.l.l should I feel like I know you?”

”Maybe because we always know our good angels?”

”Bulls.h.i.+t.”

I wanted to be gone. All in all, I thought my life after the next reset was going to be much simpler. But first, because this was a good man who had suffered greatly in all three of his incarnations, I approached the mantelpiece again, and took down one of the framed pictures.

”Be careful with that,” Harry said tetchily. ”It's my family.”

”I know.” I put it in his gnarled and age-spotted hands, a black-and-white photo that had, by the faintly fuzzy look of the image, been blown up from a Kodak snap. ”Did your dad take this? I ask, because he's the only one not in it.”

He looked at me curiously, then back down at the picture. ”No,” he said. ”This was taken by a neighbor-lady in the summer of 1958. My dad and mom were separated by then.”

I wondered if the neighbor-lady had been the one I'd seen smoking a cigarette as she alternated was.h.i.+ng the family car and spraying the family dog. Somehow I was sure it had been. From far down in my mind, like a sound heard coming up from a deep well, came the chanting voices of the jump-rope girls: my old man drives a sub-ma-rine.

”He had a drinking problem. That wasn't such a big deal back then, lots of men drank too much and stayed under the same roofs with their wives, but he got mean when he drank.”

”I bet he did,” I said.

He looked at me again, more sharply, then smiled. Most of his teeth were gone, but the smile was still pleasant enough. ”I doubt if you know what you're talking about. How old are you, Jake?”

”Forty.” Although I was sure I looked older that night.

”Which means you were born in 1971.”

Actually it had been '76, but there was no way I could tell him that without discussing the five missing years that had fallen down the rabbit-hole, like Alice into Wonderland. ”Close enough,” I said. ”That photo was taken at the house on Kossuth Street.” Spoken the Derry way: Cossut.

I tapped Ellen, who was standing to the left of her mother, thinking of the grown-up version I'd spoken to on the phone-call that one Ellen 2.0. Also thinking-it was inevitable-of Ellen Dockerty, the harmonic version I'd known in Jodie.

”Can't tell from this, but she was a little carrot-top, wasn't she? A pint-sized Lucille Ball.”

Harry said nothing, only gaped.

”Did she go into comedy? Or something else? Radio or TV?”

”She does a DJ show on Province of Maine CBC,” he said faintly. ”But how . . .”

”Here's Troy . . . and Arthur, also known as Tugga . . . and here's you, with your mother's arm around you.” I smiled. ”Just the way G.o.d planned it.” If only it could stay that way. If only.

”I . . . you . . .”

”Your father was murdered, wasn't he?”

”Yes.” The cannula had come askew in his nose and he pushed it straight, his hand moving slowly, like the hand of a man who is dreaming with his eyes open. ”He was shot to death in Longview Cemetery while he was putting flowers on his parents' graves. Only a few months after this picture was taken. The police arrested a man named Bill Turcotte for it-”

Ow. I hadn't seen that one coming.

”-but he had a solid alibi and eventually they had to let him go. The killer was never caught.” He took one of my hands. ”Mister . . . son . . . Jake . . . this is crazy, but . . . were you the one who killed my father?”

”Don't be silly.” I took the picture and hung it back on the wall. ”I wasn't born until 1971, remember?”

5.

I walked slowly down Main Street, back to the ruined mill and the abandoned Quik-Flash convenience store that stood in front of it. I walked with my head down, not looking for No Nose and Moon Man and the rest of that happy band. I thought if they were still anywhere in the vicinity, they'd give me a wide berth. They thought I was crazy. Probably I was.

We're all mad here was what the Ches.h.i.+re Cat told Alice. Then he disappeared. Except for the grin, that is. As I recall, the grin stayed awhile.

I understood more now. Not everything, I doubt if even the Card Men understand everything (and after they've spent awhile on duty, they understand almost nothing), but that still didn't help me with the decision I had to make.

As I ducked under the chain, something exploded far in the distance. It didn't make me jump. I imagined there were a lot of explosions now. When people begin to lose hope, there's bound to be explosions.