But now the future is past, and in the end he couldn’t see it clearly at all; it turned out so different.
‘Lisa, it’s Ian.’
‘Ian! God. Is it 1985 again? Please tell me it’s not. I’ve gotten rid of all my stonewashed jeans.’
‘No such luck.’
‘I take it from your tone this isn’t a nostalgia call.’
‘Afraid not. I was hoping you could tell me how to get hold of Jeffrey.’
‘Yeah, do you have a pen?’
‘I’ll remember it.’
The phone rings five times. Ian is about to hang up when the sixth ring is cut off and replaced by a ‘Hello?’
Ian licks his lips. His chest feels tight.
‘Hello?’
‘Jeffrey.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Jeffrey, it’s me.’
Now it’s Jeffrey’s turn to go silent. Then, finally, ‘Dad.’
Ian nods. ‘Dad,’ he says.
‘How’d you get my number?’
‘I called your mom.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I have some news.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Maggie.’ Jeffrey says nothing, so Ian continues: ‘She’s alive. I thought you should know.’
Silence from the other end of the phone but for a sound like a desert wind.
‘Jeffrey?’
‘Alive?’
‘We still haven’t got her back, but she’s alive.’
‘Really?’
‘She got to a phone day before yesterday, called for help. We’re working on finding her. But it was her and she’s alive.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I know. Hard to wrap your head around.’
‘Yeah.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Jeffrey. I know you felt like I blamed you, and I know I’ve been a crummy dad. I’m sorry for that. But it wasn’t your fault.’
Jeffrey does not respond.
‘Jeffrey?’
‘I’m here.’
‘I missed your birthday last month.’
‘You’ve missed a few.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’d like to-’
‘Listen, I’m at work. I should go.’
‘You got a job?’
‘Of course.’
Of course is right: his son is the same age Ian was when he met Lisa. He had an apartment and worked at his dad’s surf shop and had already been married and divorced. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised to learn that his son is growing up. Part of him expected Jeffrey to stay frozen in time, waiting for Ian to be ready to act once more as a father. But that just isn’t the way things work. It never was.
‘What do you do?’
‘I work on a reality TV show. One of those stupid dating shows. I’m an assistant editor. Mostly I just shuffle footage around on an AVID. But, look, I really don’t have time to talk. I’m glad you called and told me about Maggie.’
‘Okay,’ Ian says. Then: ‘Hey, remember that chess game we were playing?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Queen to b4. I promise to be much quicker about my next move.’
‘There is no next move, Dad. I put that game away years ago.’
Click.
Ian pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it. The call’s duration is on the screen: 3:53. Less than four minutes.
He should have said different things. He shouldn’t have mentioned that goddamn chess game. He should have said different things.
He drops his cigar to the ground and snuffs it out with the heel of a shoe. He pockets his phone and heads back inside, straight to his desk. He’s decided not to have lunch after all.
Maggie walks around to the back of the stairs. She sits on her haunches and looks at the darkness beneath the bottom step. She doesn’t want to reach in there. She is afraid to reach in there. She swallows and sticks her hand into the shadows. But she does not find the hand-made weapon. Her fingers brush cold concrete, nothing more. Her first thought is that Borden must have taken it. He must have taken it and hidden it from her or destroyed it or showed it to Henry who will now punish her with it. He’s going to make sure she is forever trapped in the Nightmare World, stuck here with him and the damp shadows that lay themselves over everything.
But then she remembers that Borden is not real. He is not real. He is made up, and things that are made up cannot hurt you. Not unless you let them.
But maybe Henry took it.
Maybe he knew she was up to something and came down here last night and took it. He could even now have plans to punish her. He could come down here and tie her wrists with that bloody yellow rope and hang her from the punishment hook and drag the sharp edge of that shard of plate across her softest parts, across the flesh of her stomach and throat and-
One two three four five six seven eight.
Calm down. It has to be here.
Nobody came down here last night. She would have woken up. No one came down here last night and no one took her weapon, so it has to be here.
Her fingers brush across the wooden handle. She wraps them around it and pulls it from the shadows. She gets to her feet.
It feels good in her grip. Good and solid and dangerous.
Looking out the window she sees that the sun has already moved to the other side of the house. The shadows have begun to lay themselves out on the ground like picnic blankets. Midday has come and now it is leaving. It has begun its retreat. Before, she had always dreaded the sun passing to the other side of the world. All she knows is what she can see through the basement’s sole window and she has always wanted it lighted. But now she is anticipating the night. The sinking of the sun. The sound of the front door closing with Henry on the other side. His truck’s engine rumbling to life. The sound of its tires crunching on the gravel driveway and that sound fading.
She has not seen Donald’s El Camino pull to a stop in front of his mobile home yet, which means it’s still early, but the time has to be approaching. In another hour, maybe two or three, but surely no more than that. Then she will find out whether Donald will be eating with Beatrice or alone. Usually he eats alone in his mobile home and Beatrice eats alone here, or eats at the card table down here with Maggie, and Maggie is counting on the same tonight. She doesn’t want to have to wait another day to make her escape. She wants out of here.
Now that she has tasted the air outside she cannot stand the claustrophobic prison of the Nightmare World.
She is counting on it: her escape will be tonight.
Donald will drive up to his mobile home and disappear inside. He will do whatever he does in there for several hours before coming over for a plate of food, and by then Maggie will already be gone. Beatrice will have come downstairs with a plate for her and Maggie will have been waiting beneath the stairs. By the time Donald comes over Beatrice will be lying on the concrete floor in the basement in a pool of her own blood and Maggie will be in the arms of her daddy.
She looks outside at the shadows. It’s only mid-afternoon but evening is coming.
And with it, escape.
Gripping the weapon in her hand, Maggie nods to herself.
Soon.
Diego drives north on Main Street. He’s on his way to the library on the corner of Wallace and Overhill. The librarian, Georgia Simpson, is having some trouble with Fred Paulson’s kid. Junior’s apparently passed out drunk in the children’s section and Georgia doesn’t want to go anywhere near him. He’s got puke on his boots and down the front of his shirt. Diego doesn’t blame her for wanting nothing to do with him. He’s dreading having to deal with the little shit himself. He’s so useless his own dad won’t hire him, so Junior simply wanders around getting drunk and causing trouble.