Poe's children: the new horror : an anthology - By Peter Straub Page 0,98

you a photograph of him then, but it might be better just knowing he’ll be fine and will live a very contented life. Because of what you did for him here.” He pointed to the second drawing. “Do you want to see the photograph of him?”

I was tempted but finally said no. “Just tell me if he’ll be a pilot.”

Thursday crossed his arms. “He’ll be captain of a Concorde flying the Paris-to-Caracas route. One day his plane will be hijacked, but your Adam will do something so clever and heroic that he single-handedly will save the plane and the passengers. A genuinely heroic act. There’ll even be a cover story about him in Time magazine titled ‘Maybe There Are Still Heroes.’ He held up the drawing. “Your son. Because of this.”

“What about my getting divorced?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, I do.”

He took another piece of folded paper out of his pocket along with the nub of a pencil. “Draw a pear.”

“A pear?”

“Yes. Draw a picture of a pear, then I can tell you.”

I took the pencil and smoothed the paper on the table. “I don’t understand any of this, Mr. Thursday.”

A pear. A fat bottom and a half-so-fat top. A stem. A little cross-hatching to give it shadow and depth. One pear.

I handed it to him and he barely gave it a glance before folding it and putting it in another pocket.

“There will be a divorce because you will leave your husband, not vice versa, as you fear.”

“But why would I do that?”

“Because Frank Elkin is coming for you.”

I think if I had married Frank Elkin I would have been all right. I certainly loved him enough. But besides loving me, too, he also loved parachuting. One day he jumped, pulled his rip cord, but nothing happened. How long ago was that, twenty years? Twenty-four?

“Frank Elkin is dead.”

“He is, but you can change that.”

The apartment was empty when we got back. Thursday said he would keep it empty until we finished what we had to do. In the bedroom I took my sketchbook out of the table beside the bed. That familiar gray and red cover. I remembered the day I’d bought it and paid for it with new coins. Somehow every coin I handed the salesgirl was gleaming like gold and silver. I was romantic enough to take that as a good omen.

In the living room again, I handed my book to Mr. Thursday, who took it from me without comment.

“Sit down.”

“What will happen to the children?”

“If you want, the court will award them to you. You can prove your husband is an alcoholic and incapable of caring for them.”

“But Willy doesn’t drink!”

“You can change that.”

“How? How can I change all these things? What do you mean?”

He opened the sketchbook and whipped quickly through it, not stopping or slowing anywhere. When he’d finished, he looked at me. “Somewhere in this book you’ve drawn pictures of God. I can’t tell you which ones they are, but I just checked and they’re here. Some people have this talent. Some have been able to write God, others can compose Him in music. I’m not talking about people like Tolstoy or Beethoven, either. They were only great artists.

“You know the sadness of detail, using your phrase. That is what makes you capable of transcendence.

“For the rest of your life, if you choose, I will come sometimes and ask you to do a drawing. Like the pear today. I’ll ask for things like that, as well as copies of certain of the works in your sketchbook. I can say that your book is full of astounding work, Mrs. Becker. There are at least three different important drawings of God, one I’ve never even seen. Other things, too. We need this book and we need you, but unfortunately I cannot tell you more than that. Even if I were to show you which of your work is…transcendent, you wouldn’t understand what I was talking about.

“You can do things we can’t and vice versa. For us, bringing Frank Elkin back from the dead is no problem. Or saving your son.” He held up my book with both hands. “But we can’t do this, and that is why we need you.”

“What if I were to say no?”

“We keep our word. Your son will still become a pilot, but you will sink deeper into your meager life until you will realize even more than now you’ve been suffocating in it for years.”

“And if I give you the