The Bachman Books

crying without knowing was too much like it's-time-for-the-loony-bin stuff.

'I don't know,' he said finally.

'Charlie?'

Helplessly, he said: 'If that was part of it, how could you be so blind to the rest of it?'

'I miss him too, Bart. Still. Every day.'

Resentment again. You've got a funny way of showing it, then.

'This is no good,' he said finally. Tears were trickling down his cheeks but he had kept them out of his voice. Gentlemen, I think we've got it licked, he thought, and almost cackled. 'Not over the phone, I called to suggest lunch on Monday. Handy Andy's.'

'All right. What time?'

'It doesn't matter. I can get off work. ' The joke fell to the floor and died bloodlessly there.

'One o'clock?' she asked.

'Sure. I'll get us a table.'

'Reserve one. Don't just get there at eleven and start drinking.'

'I won't,' he said humbly, knowing he probably would.

There was a pause. There seemed nothing else to say. Faintly, almost lost in the hum of the open wire, ghostly other voices discussed ghostly other things. Then she said something that surprised him totally.

'Bart, you need to see a psychiatrist.'

'I need a what?'

'Psychiatrist. I know how that sounds, just coming out flat. But I want you to know that whatever we decide, I won't come back and live with you unless you agree. '

'Good-bye, Mary,' he said slowly. 'I'll see you on Monday.'

'Bart, you need help I can't give.'

Carefully, inserting the knife as well as he could over two miles of blind wire, he said: 'I knew that anyway. Good-bye, Mary.'

He hung up before he could hear the result and caught himself feeling glad. Game, set, and match. He threw a plastic milk pitcher across the room and caught himself feeling glad that he hadn't thrown something breakable. He opened the cupboard over the sink, yanked out the first two glasses his hands came to, and threw them on the floor. They shattered.

Baby, you fucking baby! he screamed at himself. Why don't you just hold your fucking breath until you turn fucking BLUE?

He slammed his right fist against the wall to shut out the voice and cried out at the pain. He held his wounded right in his left and stood in the middle of the floor, trembling. When he had himself under control he got a dustpan and the broom and swept the mess up, feeling scared and sullen and hung over.

December 9, 1973

He got on the turnpike, drove a hundred and fifty miles, and then drove back. He didn't dare drive any farther. It was the first gasless Sunday and all the turnpike pit stops were closed. And he didn't want to walk. See? He told himself. This is how they get shitbirds like you, Georgie. Fred? Is that really you? To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Freddy? Fuck off, buddy. On the way home he heard this public service ad on the radio:

'So you're worried about the gasoline shortage and you want to make sure that you and your family aren't caught short this winter. So now you're on your way to your neighborhood gas station with a dozen five-gallon cans. But if you're really worried about your family, you better turn around and go back home. Improper storage of gasoline is dangerous. It's also illegal, but never mind that for a minute. Consider this: When gasoline fumes mix with the air, they become explosive. And one gallon of gas has the explosive potential of twelve sticks of dynamite. Think about that before you fill those cans. And then think about your family. You see-we want you to live.

'This has been a public service announcement from WLDM. The Music People remind you to leave gasoline storage to the people who are equipped to do it properly.'

He turned off the radio, slowed down to fifty, and pulled back into the cruising lane. 'Twelve sticks of dynamite,' he said. 'Man, that's amazing.'

If he had looked into the rearview mirror, he would have seen that he was grinning.

December 10, 1973

He got to Handy Andy's at just past eleven-thirty and the headwaiter gave him a table beside the stylized batwings that led to the lounge-not a good table, but one of the few empties left as the place filled up for lunch. Handy Andy's specialized in steaks, chops, and something called the Andyburger, which looked a little like a chef's salad stuck between a huge sesame seed roll with a toothpick to hold the whole contraption together. Like all big city restaurants within executive walking distance, it went through indefinable cycles of inness and outness. Two months ago he could have come in here at noon and had his pick of tables-three months hence he might be able to do the same. To him, it had always been one of life's minor mysteries, like the incidents in the books of Charles Fort, or the instinct that always brought the swallows back to Capistrano.

He looked around quickly as he sat down, afraid he would see Vinnie Mason or Steve Ordner or some other laundry executive. But the place was stuffed with strangers. To his left, a young man was trying to persuade his girl that they could afford three days in Sun Valley this February. The rest of the room's conversation was just soft babble-soothing.

'A drink, sir?' The waiter was at his elbow.

'Scotch-rocks, please,' he said.