me.’
‘Who?’
Ellis winced. ‘I hoped you would know someone.’ He suggested the names of a couple of men at the office that Boggs might be willing to talk to. Then, after an exchange of vague murmuring, they hung up.
He collapsed on the sofa, and there might have been a seepage of sleep. The grandfather clock ticked unvaryingly. Then it stopped – he had forgotten to wind it. He lay in the silence, watching the busy movements of the leaves of a locust tree in the window, sweat slipping sideways down his forehead.
When Heather phoned again the ring startled him badly.
‘John called,’ she said.
‘OK.’ He would have liked to leave it at that. But he went on, ‘And?’
‘He’s –’ She laughed roughly. ‘He talked about me, mostly.’
‘He’s trying to make you feel guilty,’ Ellis said.
‘Yes. That’s what he said.’
‘He’s not serious.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘He’s horrible. He’s ridiculous,’ Ellis said.
‘He said something about the lake.’
‘What something?’
‘I don’t know. I was crying, I was yelling at him, and in there, with the crying and the yelling, he said something, a lake, the lake.’
‘We can’t just drive around to every lake in the world.’
‘There’s a camping spot where we used to go, when we were first married. He went alone a couple of times more recently. He always liked it.’
It seemed to Ellis that he knew what she meant, that Boggs had mentioned to him something about a rocky beach there. Of course Boggs could have gone anywhere, but it might be like him to go to water, to the possibilities of drama offered by water.
Ellis said that he would look there. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Should I come?’
‘Both of us together is probably not a good idea, is it?’
She offered her car, but he said he would buy one.
5.
UNDER AN AFTERNOON sky whitened by haze he walked past low houses, past square graceless apartment blocks, past gas stations, past a strip mall. An adult entertainment cabaret named Lavender. An Applebee’s. A sallow office complex with tinted windows. After a mile and a half he came to a used-car lot. He walked among Fords and Pontiacs and Buicks and Chryslers and Jeeps, disliking all of them without particular reason, until he found a grey Dodge minivan – six years old, 87,349 miles. He looked at the interior, looked at the underbody, looked at the engine then started the engine and looked at it again. Light scratches marked the hood, a crack spanned vertically the passenger-side mirror, something orange had stained the carpet behind the driver’s seat, but otherwise it appeared to be in good shape. A goateed salesman in a blue blazer with anchors stamped on its shining buttons watched. ‘You have a family? Kids?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s terrific for hauling cargo.’
‘Minivans are pretty safe,’ Ellis said. ‘You don’t see a lot of fatal accidents involving minivans. Some, but not a lot.’
‘Huh,’ said the salesman. He thumbed and twisted his anchor buttons.
‘At least I haven’t,’ Ellis said. When he had written a cheque and transacted the paperwork he sat unmoving in the driver’s seat a minute, then started the engine, let it idle, did not touch the controls but stared at them. He took out his phone and called Boggs, but Boggs did not answer. He set his hands on the steering wheel to absorb the engine’s trembling. He had not driven since coming to a stop as James Dell flew into the darkness of the street ahead. He thought about driving. In some gentler world devoid of cars and highways and stop lights and parking lots and accidents he would not need to drive. But in this world he needed to drive. When he lifted a hand it shook, but he put it to the gear shift. The minivan lurched from reverse into drive. But otherwise the process of crossing the parking lot and turning into the street was routine.
‘Human error is to be expected,’ Boggs had said, shortly after
‘Who?’
Ellis winced. ‘I hoped you would know someone.’ He suggested the names of a couple of men at the office that Boggs might be willing to talk to. Then, after an exchange of vague murmuring, they hung up.
He collapsed on the sofa, and there might have been a seepage of sleep. The grandfather clock ticked unvaryingly. Then it stopped – he had forgotten to wind it. He lay in the silence, watching the busy movements of the leaves of a locust tree in the window, sweat slipping sideways down his forehead.
When Heather phoned again the ring startled him badly.
‘John called,’ she said.
‘OK.’ He would have liked to leave it at that. But he went on, ‘And?’
‘He’s –’ She laughed roughly. ‘He talked about me, mostly.’
‘He’s trying to make you feel guilty,’ Ellis said.
‘Yes. That’s what he said.’
‘He’s not serious.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘He’s horrible. He’s ridiculous,’ Ellis said.
‘He said something about the lake.’
‘What something?’
‘I don’t know. I was crying, I was yelling at him, and in there, with the crying and the yelling, he said something, a lake, the lake.’
‘We can’t just drive around to every lake in the world.’
‘There’s a camping spot where we used to go, when we were first married. He went alone a couple of times more recently. He always liked it.’
It seemed to Ellis that he knew what she meant, that Boggs had mentioned to him something about a rocky beach there. Of course Boggs could have gone anywhere, but it might be like him to go to water, to the possibilities of drama offered by water.
Ellis said that he would look there. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Should I come?’
‘Both of us together is probably not a good idea, is it?’
She offered her car, but he said he would buy one.
5.
UNDER AN AFTERNOON sky whitened by haze he walked past low houses, past square graceless apartment blocks, past gas stations, past a strip mall. An adult entertainment cabaret named Lavender. An Applebee’s. A sallow office complex with tinted windows. After a mile and a half he came to a used-car lot. He walked among Fords and Pontiacs and Buicks and Chryslers and Jeeps, disliking all of them without particular reason, until he found a grey Dodge minivan – six years old, 87,349 miles. He looked at the interior, looked at the underbody, looked at the engine then started the engine and looked at it again. Light scratches marked the hood, a crack spanned vertically the passenger-side mirror, something orange had stained the carpet behind the driver’s seat, but otherwise it appeared to be in good shape. A goateed salesman in a blue blazer with anchors stamped on its shining buttons watched. ‘You have a family? Kids?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s terrific for hauling cargo.’
‘Minivans are pretty safe,’ Ellis said. ‘You don’t see a lot of fatal accidents involving minivans. Some, but not a lot.’
‘Huh,’ said the salesman. He thumbed and twisted his anchor buttons.
‘At least I haven’t,’ Ellis said. When he had written a cheque and transacted the paperwork he sat unmoving in the driver’s seat a minute, then started the engine, let it idle, did not touch the controls but stared at them. He took out his phone and called Boggs, but Boggs did not answer. He set his hands on the steering wheel to absorb the engine’s trembling. He had not driven since coming to a stop as James Dell flew into the darkness of the street ahead. He thought about driving. In some gentler world devoid of cars and highways and stop lights and parking lots and accidents he would not need to drive. But in this world he needed to drive. When he lifted a hand it shook, but he put it to the gear shift. The minivan lurched from reverse into drive. But otherwise the process of crossing the parking lot and turning into the street was routine.
‘Human error is to be expected,’ Boggs had said, shortly after
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