We love getting stuff.
I got to go. I’ll write more later, but I might be out of touch for a while. Call Mom, okay?
Jeremy
Myron read it again and then again, but the words didn’t change. The e-mail, like most of Jeremy’s, said nothing. He didn’t like that “out of touch” part. He thought about parenting, how he had missed so much of it, all of it really, and how this kid, his son, fit into his life now. It was working, he thought, at least for Jeremy. But it was hard. The kid was the biggest what-could-have-been, the biggest if-only-I’d-known, and most of the time, it just plain hurt.
Still staring at the message, Myron heard his cell phone. He cursed under his breath, but this time the caller ID told him it was the divine Ms. Ali Wilder.
Myron smiled as he answered it. “Stallion Services,” he said.
“Sheesh, suppose it was one of my kids on the phone.”
“I’d pretend to be a horse seller,” he said.
“A horse seller?”
“Whatever they call people who sell horses.”
“What time is your flight?”
“Four o’clock.”
“You busy?”
“Why?”
“The kids will be out of the house for the next hour.”
“Whoa,” he said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Are you suggesting a little righteous nookie?”
“I am.” Then: “Righteous?”
“It’ll take me some time to get there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it’ll have to be a quickie.”
“Isn’t that your specialty?” she said.
“Now that hurt.”
“Only kidding. Stallion.”
He brayed. “That’s horse-speak for ‘I’m on my way.’ ”
“Righteous,” she said.
But when he knocked on her door, Erin answered it. “Hey, Myron.”
“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed.
He glanced behind her. Ali shrugged a sorry at him.
Myron stepped inside. Erin ran upstairs. Ali came closer. “She got in late and didn’t feel like going to drama club.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“We could stand in a corner and neck,” she said.
“Can I cop a feel?”
“You better.”
He smiled.
“What?” she said.
“I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Something Esperanza said to me yesterday,” Myron said. “Men tracht und Gott lacht.”
“Is that German?”
“Yiddish.”
“What does it mean?”
“Man plans, God laughs.”
She repeated it. “I like that.”
“Me too,” he said.
He hugged her then. Over her shoulder, he saw Erin at the top of the stairs. She was not smiling. Myron’s eyes met hers and again he thought about Aimee, about how the night had swallowed her whole, and about the promise he had sworn to keep.
CHAPTER 10
Myron had time before his flight.
He grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks in the center of town. The barista who took his order had the trademark sullen attitude. As he handed Myron the drink, lifting it to the counter as though it were the weight of the world, the door behind them opened with a bang. The barista rolled his eyes as they entered.
There were six of them today, trudging in as though through deep snow, heads down, a variety of shakes. They sniffled and touched their faces. The four men were unshaven. The two women smelled like cat piss.
They were mental patients. For real. They spent most nights at Essex Pines, a psychiatric facility in the neighboring town. Their leader—wherever they walked, he stayed in front—was named Larry Kidwell. His group spent most days wandering through town. Livingstonites referred to them as the Town Crazies. Myron uncharitably thought of them as a bizarre rock group: Lithium Larry and the Medicated Five.
Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.
“Hey, Myron,” he said too loudly.
“What’s happening, Larry?”
“Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”
Myron nodded. “I hear you.”
Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of his Indiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.
Myron started heading for the door. “Take it easy, Larry.”
“You too, Myron.” He reached out to shake Myron’s hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes—wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes—on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry’s. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.
“The next planet,” Larry whispered, “it might be yours. Yours alone.”
“That’s great to know, thanks.”
“No!” Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. “The planet. It’s slither moon. It’s out to get you, you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t ignore this.”
He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man’s agitation.
“It’s okay, Larry.”
“Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither.”
The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry’s tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He’d been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father’s alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.
Then it all came apart.
What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry’s life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone wrong.
The doctor’s diagnosis: a chemical imbalance.
Who knows how you get cancer? It was the same thing with Larry. He simply had a mental disease. It started as mild OCD, then became more severe, and then, try as they might, no one could stop his slide. By his sophomore year Larry was setting up rat traps so he could eat them. He became delusional. He dropped out of Yale. Then there were suicide attempts and major hallucinations and problems of all sorts. Larry broke into someone’s house because the “Clyzets from planet three hundred twenty-six” were trying to lay a nest there. The family was home at the time.