“Oh? What was that about kissing your breasts?”
“Well, it didn’t seem obscene ’cause I thought he was you.”
“Paige, refresh my memory—when was the last time I called you at work to talk about kissing your breasts?”
She laughed. “Well . . . never, I guess,” and when he laughed, too, she added, “but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea now and then, liven up the day a little.”
“They are very kissable.”
“Thank you.”
“So’s your tush.”
“You’ve got me blushing,” she said, and it was true.
“So’s your—”
“Now this is getting obscene,” she said.
“Yeah, but I’m the victim.”
“How do you figure?”
“You called me and pretty much demanded that I talk dirty.”
“I guess I did. Women’s liberation, you know.”
“Where will it all end?”
A disturbing possibility had occurred to Paige, but she was reluctant to express it: Perhaps the call had been from Marty, made on his car phone while he was in a fugue state similar to the one on Saturday afternoon when he’d monotonously repeated those two words into a tape recorder for seven minutes and later had no memory of it.
She suspected the same thought had just occurred to him because his sudden reticence matched hers.
At last Paige broke the silence. “What did Paul Guthridge have to say?”
“He thinks it’s probably stress.”
“Thinks?”
“He’s setting up tests for tomorrow or Wednesday.”
“But he wasn’t worried?”
“No. Or he pretended he wasn’t.”
Paul’s informal style was not reflected in the way he imparted essential information to his patients. He was always direct and to the point. Even when Charlotte had been so ill, when some doctors might have soft-pedaled the more alarming possibilities to let the parents adjust slowly to the worst-case scenario, Paul had bluntly assessed her situation with Paige and Marty. He knew that no half-truth or false optimism should ever be mistaken for compassion. If Paul didn’t appear to be more than ordinarily concerned about Marty’s condition and symptoms—that was good news.
“He gave me his spare copy of the new People,” Marty said.
“Uh-oh. You say that as if he handed you a bag of dog poop.”
“Well, it isn’t what I was hoping for.”
“It’s not as bad as you think,” she said.
“How do you know? You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“But I know you and how you are about these things.”
“In the one photo, I look like the Frankenstein monster with a bad hangover.”
“I’ve always loved Boris Karloff.”
He sighed. “I suppose I can change my name, have some plastic surgery, and move to Brazil. But before I book a flight to Rio, do you want me to pick up the kids at school?”
“I’ll get them. They’ll be an hour later today.”
“Oh, that’s right, Monday. Piano lessons.”
“We’ll be home by four-thirty,” she said. “You can show me People and spend the evening crying on my shoulder.”
“To hell with that. I’ll show you People and spend the evening kissing your breasts.”
“You’re special, Marty.”
“I love you, too, kid.”
When she hung up, Paige was smiling. He could always make her smile, even in darker moments.
She refused to think about the strange phone call, about illness or fugues or pictures that made him look like a monster.
Appreciate the moment.
She did just that for a minute or so, then called Millie on the intercom and asked her to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson.
6
In his office, he sits in the executive chair behind the desk. It is comfortable. He can almost believe he has sat in it before.
Nevertheless, he is nervous.
He switches on the computer. It is an IBM PC with substantial hard-disk storage. A good machine. He can’t remember purchasing it.
After the system runs a data-management program, the oversize screen presents him with a “Main Selection Menu” that includes eight choices, mostly word-processing software. He chooses WordPerfect 5.1, and it is loaded.
He doesn’t recall being instructed in the operation of a computer or in the use of WordPerfect. This training is cloaked in amnesiac mists, as is his training in weaponry and his uncanny familiarity with the street systems of various cities. Evidently, his superiors believed he would need to understand basic computer operation and be familiar with certain software programs in order to carry out his assignments.
The screen clears.
Ready.
In the lower right-hand corner of the blue screen, white letters and numbers tell him that he is in document one, on page one, at line one, in the tenth position.
Ready. He is ready to write a novel. His work.
He stares at the blank monitor, trying to start. Beginning is more difficult than he had expected.
He has brought a bottle of Corona from the kitchen, suspecting he might need to lubricate his thoughts. He takes a long swallow. The beer is cold, refreshing, and he knows that it is just the thing to get him going.
After finishing half the bottle, confidence renewed, he begins to type. He bangs out two words, then stops:
The man
The man what?
He stares at the screen for a minute, then types “entered the room.” But what room? In a house? An office building? What does the room look like? Who else is in it? What is this man doing in this room, why is he here? Does it have to be a room? Could he be entering a train, a plane, a graveyard?
He deletes “entered the room” and replaces it with “was tall.” So the man is tall. Does it matter that he is tall? Will tallness be important to the story? How old is he? What color are his eyes, his hair? Is he Caucasian, black, Asian? What is he wearing? As far as that goes, does it have to be a man at all? Couldn’t it be a woman? Or a child?
With these questions in mind, he clears the screen and starts the story from the beginning:
The
He stares at the screen. It is terrifyingly blank. Infinitely blanker than it was before, not just three letters blanker with the deletion of “man.” The choices to follow that simple article, “the,” are limitless, which makes the selection of the second word a great deal more daunting than he would have supposed before he sat in the black leather chair and switched on the machine.
He deletes “The.”
The screen is clear.
Ready.
He finishes the bottle of Corona. It is cold and refreshing, but it does not lubricate his thoughts.
He goes to the bookshelves and pulls off eight of the novels bearing his name, Martin Stillwater. He carries them to the desk, and for a while he sits and reads first pages, second pages, trying to kick-start his brain.
His destiny is to be Martin Stillwater. That much is perfectly clear.
He will be a good father to Charlotte and Emily.
He will be a good husband and lover to the beautiful Paige.
And he will write novels. Mystery novels.
Evidently, he has written them before, at least a dozen, so he can write them again. He simply has to re-acquire the feeling for how it is done, relearn the habit.
The screen is blank.
He puts his fingers on the keys, ready to type.
The screen is so blank. Blank, blank, blank. Mocking him.
Suspecting that he is merely inhibited by the soft persistent hum of the monitor fan and the demanding electronic-blue field of document one, page one, he switches off the computer. The resultant silence is a blessing, but the flat gray glass of the monitor is even more mocking than the blue screen; turning the machine off seems like an admission of defeat.