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"I'm fine." It was grist for a very sick joke . . . Sure, I'll tell you about my kidbright, healthy, strong, does well in school, easy to get along with, plays piano, hits a mean ball. Ate the family cat the other night but, hey, nobody's perfect, right? "Just a little tired." |
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"What time'd you get in?" |
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She glanced at the clock. "It's almost eight. You better wake him." They had a nine o'clock appointment with Mitch Tojian at Emerson. |
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He tried again to latch onto the explanation that it was really all a freak nightmarea conspiracy of anxiety and guilt. A dream so wretchedly vivid that he could not distinguish imaginary sensory input from the real thing. On rare occasions he had had such dreams, though none so awful. Dreams in which even the test pinch hurts; dreams you'd bet your life were real; dreams without that nice little aisle where you stand and watch, knowing it's just a movie playing on the inside of your skull. Maybe last night was one of those . . . |
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Anything but this unbearable awakeness. |
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Or maybe he had dream-walked the whole scene, including the toiletgone through the motions of cleaning up the backyard while totally asleep. He had read about such things, some kind of autohypnosis pressed into action by psychic stress. He'd unraveled the hose and washed away imagined carnage. And right now Daisy was out there in Magog stalking moles. |
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When he reached the landing, he looked at the photo of the toddler in the milk mustache and tried to let the image fill the dread swelling in him. |
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He peaked through the keyhole. Black. The venetian blinds were down, the curtain drawn. He turned the knob gently, pushed open the door. |
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His first awareness was the high-pitched electronic beeping of Matty's alarm clock. He always set it for seven-thirty and never slept through it. |
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Second, was the inert hump under the spread. |
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Matty did not stir as Calvin moved into the room. Nor had he moved from the position he was in eight hours ago. And still breathing that deep-throated, wet snoring . . . |
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