“What?”
“You really want to see the mountains?”
“Duh.”
“You want to go with me? A week?”
“Where?”
“I’m not just talking here. I mean it. It might be risky. You might get in trouble when you get back.”
“A week?”
“Just a little secret trip in your secret life. You’ll get your camping trip. Something to keep in your pocket when you’re back in this place and forty years old and I’m dead and buried. Right? Like the pencil sharpener? We could eat at little restaurants like that one, and drive way out across the country, and survey the grounds, then turn around and bring you home? What do you say?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’ll spoil you up. And you’ll never tell anyone where we went? Swear to God?”
“Swear to God.”
“Not even your mom?”
“Not even my mom.”
“Not even Sid.”
“No way.”
“You have to swear.”
“I swear.”
“Not even your husband in forty years when I’ve been dead for practically forever?”
“Okay.”
“Cross your heart.”
She crossed her flat chest. “Hope to die.”
“Want to leave now?”
“I don’t have my stuff.”
“I’ll get you stuff.”
“You will?”
“All the useful things you’ll need. We can make a list of supplies, right?”
“What about my mom and Jessie?”
“We’ll have to talk about that.”
“I don’t think we should ask.”
“Neither do I.”
“Because they’d never let me. Maybe mom. But Jessie, never.”
“I’ll bring you back before anyone gets too worried. One week? Monday through Sunday. You won’t be gone two Mondays. Six days. Five nights.”
The girl made a crazy face, as if to say: this is crazy. As if to say: yeah.
“Did you ever stay away from home for a week?”
“Five days.”
“An uncle’s?”
“Grandma’s.”
“Out of state?”
“Michigan.”
“Detroit?”
“Holland.”
“Okay. Is this like going to Grandma’s in Holland?”
“Sort of. Not really.”
He frowned. “What if we get halfway there and you want to turn around?”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I’m going to do everything in my power to make you want to keep going.”
“Ooo. I’m scared.”
“I’m just letting you know. I’m a really smart guy.”
“Says who?”
“I do. I get to say. And you better get used to it.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, “I have all the money.”
“Oh, yeah.”
So you see, none of this was planned. This is the kind of unforeseeable map that arises one bright little city at a time. It’s about letting go of the clench in your forehead and letting your heart steer. And it isn’t as easy as it sounds.
In the hotel lobby, everything was white. The floor of bleached ceramic tiles; the high frosted ceiling supported by smooth, ash-colored marble columns. Tommie stared around as if she’d been transported to another world.
“Are you afraid?” he asked in the elevator.
“No.”
They rushed silently upward.
“Are you being honest?”
“I’ve never been anywhere like this.”
“I know.”
“Are you really rich?”
The doors opened.
“Now listen,” he said as he walked her down the corridor. She pushed the hair out of her face. Like a little woman. “This is just an intermediary step, right? This trip is not for certain. We’re going to do this in stages.” He unlocked the door with the plastic card and held it open for her. “And maybe not at all.”
The room was warm and dry and smelled of citrus and balsam and clean linen. The creamy whites of the down comforters and painted walls were softly lit. Outside the giant panes of glass the dark sky was lifting and cracking apart. Lamb and the girl stood together near the door a moment, as if the room were intended for some other couple.
“Do you want the bed by the window or by the bathroom?”
“Duh, window.” She went in.
“Good.”
He opened the armoire and turned on the television, searching the channels. “What do you like? You like cartoons?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please.”
He tossed her the remote and rezipped his jacket.
“Are we going someplace?”
“I am. To get supplies.”
“For the road?”
“Yes,” he said. “For the road.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Two days.”
“How can we make it back in five nights?”
He looked down at his hands, then moved his mouth as he counted in his head. “This is exactly why we’re doing this in stages,” he said. “So we don’t do anything stupid. It might actually be seven nights. Or ten.”
“Can’t I come with you now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Three reasons. First, because it’s warm in here. And we don’t want you getting sick. Second, I want you to be alone for an hour or so. You know how to get home from here, more or less?”
She gave him a blank look, so he opened a drawer in the little white desk and took out the binder of guest information. “Here.” He put four twenties on the desk. “That’s for a cab home. And a little extra.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“I want you to think about it. I want you to take this hour and think real hard about whether or not you should stay and wait for me. This will look a lot to other people like I’m kidnapping you. Right?”
“Oh.”
“It will. I’m fifty-four years old, and you?”
“Eleven.”
He inhaled. Christ. He’d taken her for thirteen at least. Eleven. That was closer to five years old than it was to eighteen. Her friends did not look eleven. The blond one—she could’ve been sixteen. He looked at his hands. At the floor. He did not look at her when he gave her the last reason.
“And three, here you are,” he said, “alone in a hotel room with a stranger. And eleven.”
“But you’re not a stranger.”
“Well. Maybe you feel a little funny.”
“I don’t feel funny.”
“Maybe you’re just not letting yourself feel funny. Think about all the ways this situation could make a girl your age feel. Okay? Say okay, Gary.”
“Okay, Gary.”
“And then, if you choose to stay, I want you to make this room yours. Do some rearranging. Put your shoes over there, and wash your face, and mess up the pillows. Make it like it’s your own room. So when I come back, it’ll be like you’re inviting me into your room, okay?”
“You’re weird.”
“Maybe so. But I know what I’m talking about. And if you don’t want me to come in when I get back, you can hand me my stuff and I’ll go get another room. Right?” He’d meant to sound forceful, convincing, but he was almost whispering.
“That won’t happen.”
“Just say okay, Gary.”
“Okay, Gary.”
“And if I come back and you’re gone, I’ll understand you’ve gone home. And no hard feelings, okay? It wouldn’t mean we can’t—you know—hang out. Like before. Say it: no hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings.”
“Good. Good girl.” He squinted at her. “Are all seventh graders eleven? I mean, your friends look a little old for their age.”
She shrugged. “I’ll be twelve in December.”