It was easy.
He put the candy in a bowl by the front door, and went into his study. He turned on his computer, but didn’t open any of the work-files scattered across the desktop. He opened the calendar function instead, and called up the following year. The date numbers were in black, except for holidays and appointments. Those were in red. Scott had marked only one appointment for next year: May 3rd. The notation, also in red, consisted of a single word: ZERO. When he deleted it, May 3rd turned black again. He selected March 31st, and typed ZERO in the square. That now looked to him like the day when he would run out of weight, unless the rate of loss kept speeding up. Which might happen. In the meantime, however, he intended to enjoy life. Scott felt he owed it to himself. After all, how many people with a terminal condition could say they felt absolutely fine? Sometimes he thought of a saying Nora had brought home from her AA meetings: the past is history, the future’s a mystery.
It seemed to fit his current situation pretty well.
He got his first costumed customers around four o’clock, and the last ones just past sunset. There were ghosts and goblins, superheroes and stormtroopers. One child was amusingly got up as a blue and white post office box, with his eyes peeking out through the slot. Scott gave most of the kids two of the mini-sized candybars, but the mailbox got three, because he was the best. The younger children were accompanied by their parents. The latecomers, a bit older, were mostly on their own.
The last pair, a boy-girl combo who were supposed to be—maybe—Hansel and Gretel, showed up at just after six thirty. Scott gave them each a couple of treats so they wouldn’t trick him (around nine or ten, they didn’t look particularly tricksy), and asked if they’d seen any others in the neighborhood.
“Nope,” the boy said, “I think we’re the last ones.” He elbowed the girl. “She kept wanting to fix her hair.”
“What did you get up the street?” Scott asked, pointing to the house where McComb and Donaldson lived. “Anything nice?” It had just occurred to him that Missy might have created some special Halloween treats, chocolate-dipped carrot sticks, or something of that ilk.
The little girl’s eyes went round. “Our mother told us not to go there, because those aren’t nice ladies.”
“They’re lesbeans,” the boy amplified. “Daddy said so.”
“Ah,” Scott said. “Lesbeans. I see. You kids get home safe, now. Stay on the sidewalks.”
They went on their way, toting their sacks of sugary treats. Scott closed his door and looked into the candy bowl. It was still half full. He thought he’d gotten sixteen or maybe eighteen customers. He wondered how many McComb and Donaldson had gotten. He wondered if they had gotten any.
He went into the living room, turned on the news, saw video of kids trick-or-treating in Portland, and then turned it off again.
Not-nice ladies, he thought. Lesbeans. Daddy said so.
An idea came to him then, the way his coolest ideas sometimes did: almost completely formed, needing nothing but a few tweaks and a little polish. Cool ideas weren’t necessarily good ideas, of course, but he intended to follow up on this one and find out.
“Treat yourself,” he said, and laughed. “Treat yourself before you dry up and disappear. Why not? Just why the fuck not?”
Scott walked into the Castle Rock Rec at nine the next morning with a five-dollar bill in his hand. Sitting at the Turkey Trot 12K sign-up table were Mike Badalamente and Ronnie Briggs, the Public Works guy Scott had last seen in Patsy’s. Behind them, in the gymnasium, a morning league was playing pick-up basketball, shirts versus skins.
“Hey, Scotty!” Ronnie said. “How’re you doing, m’man?”
“Fine,” Scott said. “You?”
“Pert!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Just as pert as ever I could be, although they cut my hours at the PW. Haven’t seen you at Thursday night poker lately.”
“Been working pretty hard, Ronnie. Big project.”
“Well, you know what, about that thing in Patsy’s…” Ronnie looked embarrassed. “Man, I’m sorry about that. Trevor Yount, he’s got a big mouth, and nobody likes to shut him up when he goes on one of his rants. Apt to get a bust nose for your trouble if you try it.”
“That’s all right, water under the bridge. Hey, Mike, can I sign up for the race?”
“You bet,” Mike said. “The more the merrier. You can keep me company at the back of the pack, along with the kids, the old, and the out of shape. We’ve even got a blind guy this year. Going to run with his service dog, he says.”
Ronnie leaned over the table and patted Scott’s front porch. “And don’t worry about this, Scotty my boy, they’ve got EMTs at each 3K mark, and two at the finish line. If you vapor lock, they’ll kick-start you.”
“Good to know.”
Scott paid his five dollars and signed a waiver stating the town of Castle Rock would not be held responsible for any accidents or medical problems he might incur during the seven-and-a-half-mile race. Ronnie scrawled a receipt; Mike gave him a map of the racecourse and a number placard. “Just pull off the backing and stick it to your shirt before the race. Give your name to one of the starters so they can check you off and you’re good to go.”
The number he’d been assigned, Scott saw, was 371, and this was still over three weeks before the big race. He whistled. “You’re off to a good start, especially if these are all adult entry fees.”
“They’re not,” Mike said, “but most are, and if this is like last year, we’ll end up having eight or nine hundred running. They come from all over New England. God knows why, but our piddling little Turkey Trot has somehow become a big deal. My kids would say it’s gone viral.”
“Scenery,” Ronnie said. “That’s what brings em. Plus the hills, especially Hunter’s. And accourse the winner gets to light the Christmas tree in the town square.”
“The Rec has all the concessions along the route,” Mike said. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s the beauty part. We’re talking a lot of hotdogs, popcorn, soda, and hot chocolate.”
“No beer, though,” Ronnie said sadly. “They voted it down again this year. Just like the casino.”
And the lesbeans, Scott thought. The town voted down the lesbeans, too. Just not at the ballot box. The town motto seems to be if you can’t keep it on the down-low, then out you must go.
“Is Deirdre McComb still planning to run?” Scott asked.
“Oh, you bet,” Mike said. “And she’s got her old number. 19. We saved it for her special.”
Scott took Thanksgiving dinner with Bob and Myra Ellis, plus two of their five grown children—the ones who lived within driving distance. Scott had two helpings of everything, then joined the kids in a spirited game of tag in the Ellises’ large backyard.
“He’ll have a heart attack, running around after all that food,” Myra said.
“I don’t think so,” Doctor Bob said. “He’s prepping for the big race tomorrow.”
“If he tries anything more than just jogging in that 12K, he will have a heart attack,” Myra said, watching Scott chase down one of her laughing grandchildren. “I swan, men in middle age lose all their sense.”
Scott went home tired and happy and looking forward to the Turkey Trot the next day. Before bed, he got on the scale and observed without much surprise that he was down to 141. He wasn’t losing two pounds a day yet, not quite, but that would come. He turned on his computer and slid Zero Day back to March 15th. He was afraid—it would have been foolish not to be—but he was also curious. And something else. Happy? Was that it? Yes. Probably crazy, but definitely yes. Certainly he felt singled out somehow. Doctor Bob might think that was crazy, but Scott thought it was sane. Why feel bad about what you couldn’t change? Why not embrace it?