laughing wildly, Gardener included. When he was able, he said: 'The crackers are fine. Really.' And they were. He ate slowly at first, tentatively, monitoring his works closely for signs of rebellion. There were none and he began to eat faster and faster, until he was gobbling the crackers in big handfuls, his stomach snarling and yapping.
When had he last eaten? He didn't know. It was lost in the blackout. He did know from previous experience that he never ate much when he was busy trying to drink up the world - and a lot of what he tried to eat either ended up in his lap or down his shirt. That made him think of the big greasy pizza he had eaten - tried to eat - Thanksgiving evening, 1980. The night he had shot Nora through the cheeks.
- or you could have severed one or both optic nerves! Nora's lawyer suddenly shouted furiously at him inside his head. Partial or total blindness! Paralysis! Death! All that bullet had to do was chip one tooth to go flying off in any direction, any damned direction at all! Just one! And don't sit there and try any bullshit like how you didn't mean to kill her, either. You shoot a person in the head, what else are you trying to do?
The depression came rolling back - big, black, and a mile high. Should have killed yourself, Gard. Shouldn't have waited.
Bobbi's in trouble.
Well, maybe so. But getting help from a guy like you is like hiring a pyromaniac to fix the oil-burner.
Shut up.
You're wasted, Gard. Fried. What that kid back there on the beach would undoubtedly call a burnout.
'Mister, you sure you're all right?' the girl asked. Her hair was red, cut punkily short. Her legs went approximately up to her chin.
'Yeah,' he said. 'Did I look not all right?'
'For a minute there you looked terrible,' she answered gravely. That made him grin - not what she'd said but the solemnity with which she'd said it - and she grinned back, relieved.
He looked out the window and saw they were headed north on the Maine Turnpike - only up to mile thirty-six, so he couldn't have slept too long. The feathery mackerel scales of two hours ago were beginning to merge into a toneless gray that promised rain by afternoon - before he got to Haven, it would probably be dark and he would be soaked.
After hanging up the telephone at the Mobil station, he had stripped off his socks and tossed them into the wastecan on one of the gasoline islands. Then he walked over to Route 1 northbound in his bare feet and stood on the shoulder, old totebag in one hand, the thumb of his other out and cocked north.
Twenty minutes later this van had come along - a fairly new Dodge Caravel with Delaware plates. A pair of electric guitars, their necks crossed like swords, were painted on the side, along with the name of the group inside: THE EDDIE PARKER BAND. It pulled over and Gardener ran to it, panting, totebag banging his leg, headache pulsing white-hot pain into the left side of his head. In spite of the pain, he had been amused by the slogan carefully lettered across the van's back doors: IF EDDIE's ROCKIN', DON'T COME KNOCKIN'.
Now, sitting on the floor in back and reminding himself not to turn around quickly and thump the snare drum again, Gardener saw the Old Orchard exit coming up. At the same time, the first drops of rain hit the windshield.
'Listen,' Eddie said, pulling over, 'I hate to leave you off like this. It's starting to rain and you don't even have any fuckin' shoes.'
'I'll be all right.'
'You don't look so all right,' the girl in the cutoffs said softly.
Eddie whipped off his hat (DON'T BLAME ME; I VOTED FOR HOWARD THE DUCK written over the visor) and said: 'Cough up, you guys.' Wallets appeared; change jingled in jeans pockets.
'No! Hey, thanks, but no!' Gardener felt hot blood rush into his cheeks and burn there. Not embarrassment but outright shame. Somewhere inside him he felt a strong painful thud - it didn't rattle his teeth or bones. It was, he thought, his soul taking some final fall. It sounded melodramatic as bell. As for how it felt ... well, it just felt real. That was the horrible part about it. Just ... real. Okay, he thought. That's what it feels like. All your life you've heard people