Part 26 (1/2)

”You should try to sleep now, Andrew.”

”No.” I shook my head. ”I don't think I can. It, it's too much like blacking out again. . .”

”Just try. Lie down. Don't worry, I'll stay with you.”

”All right.”

I put the lights out and lay down, thinking I'd never be able to sleep now -- and, as often happens when you think that, I soon became very drowsy. My father stayed in the pulpit, talking softly with me as I began to drift off.

”Father?” I asked at one point, very near the edge of sleep.

”Yes?”

”It was an accident, wasn't it?”

”Yes, it was.”

”OK,” I said, finally believing it. But then another question came to me, why and from where I don't know, and even now I can't say whether I really asked it or only dreamed that I did: ”Father?. . .

Did Andy Gage's stepfather have an accident, too?”

And to that, no answer, only the lapping of the water on the sh.o.r.es of the lake, as I slid down imperceptibly into sleep.

15.

I woke the next morning wondering for the second time whether I'd dreamed the whole thing, whether Warren Lodge's death had just been a nightmare; but an uncommon silence from the pulpit and the house told me that I hadn't, and it wasn't. When I went into the bathroom to start the morning ritual, Jake wouldn't come out to do the tooth-brus.h.i.+ng; Seferis, running through his exercise routine, twice lost count of his sit-ups; and Adam and Aunt Sam, while still insisting on their shower privileges, didn't try to wheedle extra time the way they usually did.

Even Mrs. Winslow was acting out of sorts: I came out to breakfast to find she'd fixed us a single large helping of scrambled eggs and toast. ”Oh goodness,” she exclaimed, realizing her mistake even as she set the plate down in front of me.

”It's all right,” I said. ”I don't think the others are that hungry this morning.”

”Are you sure, Andrew?”

”Yes.” In fact Adam was already objecting, but when I ignored him he quickly gave up, and n.o.body else made a peep.

Mrs. Winslow sat down to her own breakfast. We chatted while we ate, same as we always did -- about what, I honestly can't say, only that Warren Lodge was never mentioned -- and after I cleaned my plate, my father came out for his usual mug of coffee. So that much at least was normal. But still there was something else missing, and as I was getting up to go I realized what it was: Mrs. Winslow had never turned on the morning news.

”Do you think she knows?” I asked Adam.

”About what really happened yesterday?” Adam snorted. ”How could she?”

”I don't know. But --”

”She doesn't always listen to the news.”

”But today of all days, not to --”

”Probably she just doesn't want to hear about how he killed his kids for the millionth time -- you know they're going to rehash the whole story again.”

”Well. . .” I had to admit, it made sense. ”I suppose.”

”I'll tell you something else, though,” Adam added. ”You owe me a breakfast.”

”Adam. . .”

”Because I'm not upset about what happened.”

I thought he probably was upset, though. Maybe it was only that my father had warned him not to, but it seemed to me that if Adam were really happy about how Warren Lodge had died, he'd have made a lot more jokes about it.

I said good-bye to Mrs. Winslow and set off for work. Coming onto Bridge Street, I had a bad scare: I saw a green van parked out front of the Autumn Creek Cafe. It was the wrong shade of green, and it had a roof rack and chrome trim where the van that had hit Warren Lodge had had neither, but still I stopped dead when I saw it. I waited; when the van didn't fade away like a mirage, I went up to it cautiously. I put out a hand, and touched one of its side panels.

There was a tremendous crash of gla.s.s. I whirled around: a deliveryman had just dropped several racks of bottled ice teas off the back of his truck. A pa.s.sing group of kids on their way to school broke out in applause.

I bent over and vomited up most of my breakfast onto the sidewalk. This brought another wave of applause from the school kids; I half expected Adam to join in, but the pulpit was empty.

Penny was waiting in my tent when I arrived at the Factory. She looked like she wanted to have a long talk, and I tried to discourage her: I broke into a big yawn in the middle of saying h.e.l.lo, and pinched the bridge of my nose as if I had a headache.

”Are you all right?” Penny asked me.

”I didn't sleep very well,” I told her. ”Can I help you with something?”

She bit her lower lip nervously. ”I'm going to call Dr. Eddington,” she announced.

”I know. My father told me you'd decided to make an appointment. That's good news.”

”No,” Penny said. ”I mean I'm going to call him this morning -- right now. And I was wondering if. . . if you wanted to call him with me.”

”With you?”

”Well . . . I remember Dr. Grey wanted you to make an appointment with Dr. Eddington too, so I thought maybe we could both --”

”Oh,” I said. ”Oh. . . no. No thank you.” Of course I did intend to call Dr. Eddington, but right then, I didn't want to. ”I'm not ready to call him yet.”

”Oh. . .”

”Penny,” I said. ”You know it's all right. Dr. Eddington's a good person. You shouldn't be afraid to call him yourself.”

”OK,” she said. ”All right.” Her teeth came together again, not just biting her lower lip but worrying it, and I knew she was going to ask me if she could talk to my father. But neither he nor I was up for that, so I said hurriedly, ”Is there anything else?” and gestured at my desk as if I had an important project to get to. Penny, taking the hint, shook her head no.

About an hour later, feeling guilty, I went by Penny's tent to see if she was OK. She was on the phone when I poked my head in; I listened, unnoticed, until I heard Dr. Eddington's name. That's all taken care of, then, I thought to myself as I ducked out again. Penny will be in good hands now.

What I'd told her was true: Dr. Eddington was a good person, and a good doctor. I'd be calling him myself soon. . . only maybe not today. Today I didn't feel well.

In fact I felt so poorly that I decided to sneak out of work early. In the middle of the afternoon, as I returned from dumping a load of Honey Bucket waste out behind the shed, I saw Reggie Beauchamps's tow truck parked on the Factory lot. Reggie sat in the truck cab, alone, smoking a cigarette and listening to the radio, looking bored, and I thought. . . well, what I thought isn't really important. But I knew I didn't want to be there to see Julie go jumping up on him again. My head was aching for real now, and my stomach was an empty pit from throwing up breakfast and having forgotten to eat lunch, so I decided to get out of there. I snuck off the lot through a hole in the back fence so I wouldn't have to go by Reggie's truck.

Back at the Victorian, Mrs. Winslow was waiting with a freshly baked chocolate cake. As I sat in the kitchen and stuffed myself, I told Mrs. Winslow that I wasn't feeling well, and asked if she would please tell anybody who called that I wasn't available.