“I’m your father’s cousin, okay? Not really an uncle, but that’s what you call me.”
“Right, right, you’re Uncle Dan. We’ll be fine as long as my mother’s best friend doesn’t come along. Her name’s Gretchen Silverlake. I think she knows our whole family tree, and there isn’t very much of it.”
Oh, great, Dan thought. The nosy best friend.
“It’s okay,” Abra said. “Her older son’s on the football team, and she never misses a Cyclones game. Almost everyone goes to the game, so stop worrying that someone will think you’re—”
She finished the sentence with a mental picture—a cartoon, really. It blossomed in an instant, crude but clear. A little girl in a dark alley was being menaced by a hulking man in a trenchcoat. The little girl’s knees were knocking together, and just before the picture faded, Dan saw a word balloon form over her head: Eeek, a freak!
“Actually not that funny.”
He made his own picture and sent it back to her: Dan Torrance in jail-stripes, being led away by two big policemen. He had never tried anything like this, and it wasn’t as good as hers, but he was delighted to find he could do it at all. Then, almost before he knew what was happening, she appropriated his picture and made it her own. Dan pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it at one of the cops, and pulled the trigger. A handkerchief with the word POW! on it shot from the barrel of the gun.
Dan stared at her, mouth open.
Abra put fisted hands to her mouth and giggled. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. We could do this all afternoon, couldn’t we? And it would be fun.”
He guessed it would also be a relief. She had spent years with a splendid ball but no one to play catch with. And of course it was the same with him. For the first time since childhood—since Hallorann—he was sending as well as receiving.
“You’re right, it would be, but now’s not the time. You need to run through this whole thing again. The email you sent only hit the high spots.”
“Where should I start?”
“How about with your last name? Since I’m your honorary uncle, I probably should know.”
That made her laugh. Dan tried to keep a straight face and couldn’t. God help him, he liked her already.
“I’m Abra Rafaella Stone,” she said. Suddenly the laughter was gone. “I just hope the lady in the hat never finds that out.”
7
They sat together on the bench outside the library for forty-five minutes, with the autumn sun warm on their faces. For the first time in her life Abra felt unconditional pleasure—joy, even—in the talent that had always puzzled and sometimes terrified her. Thanks to this man, she even had a name for it: the shining. It was a good name, a comforting name, because she had always thought of it as a dark thing.
There was plenty to talk about—volumes of notes to compare—and they had hardly gotten started when a stout fiftyish woman in a tweed skirt came over to say hello. She looked at Dan with curiosity, but not untoward curiosity.
“Hi, Mrs. Gerard. This is my uncle Dan. I had Mrs. Gerard for Language Arts last year.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Dan Torrance.”
Mrs. Gerard took his offered hand and gave it a single no-nonsense pump. Abra could feel Dan—Uncle Dan—relaxing. That was good.
“Are you in the area, Mr. Torrance?”
“Just down the road, in Frazier. I work in the hospice there. Helen Rivington House?”
“Ah. That’s good work you do. Abra, have you read The Fixer yet? The Malamud novel I recommended?”
Abra looked glum. “It’s on my Nook—I got a gift card for my birthday—but I haven’t started it yet. It looks hard.”
“You’re ready for hard things,” Mrs. Gerard said. “More than ready. High school will be here sooner than you think, and then college. I suggest you get started today. Nice to have met you, Mr. Torrance. You have an extremely smart niece. But Abra—with brains comes responsibility.” She tapped Abra’s temple to emphasize this point, then mounted the library steps and went inside.
She turned to Dan. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“So far, so good,” Dan agreed. “Of course, if she talks to your parents . . .”
“She won’t. Mom’s in Boston, helping with my momo. She’s got cancer.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it. Is Momo your”
( grandmother)
( great-grandmother)
“Besides,” Abra said, “we’re not really lying about you being my uncle. In science last year, Mr. Staley told us that all