ask. I knew more than I
wanted to already.
``You can maybe understand why it slowed me down a little on your book,'' he said.
``Can't you, Clyde?''
I nodded.
`Ì pushed on, though. Mostly because I think make-believe is a great healer. Maybe I
have to believe that. I tried to get
on with my life, too, but things kept going wrong with it--it was as if How Like a
Fallen Angel was some kind of
weird bad-luck charm that had turned me into Job. My wife went into a deep depression
following Danny's death, and I
was so concerned with her that I hardly noticed the red patches that had started
breaking out on my legs and stomach
and chest. And the itching. I knew it wasn't AIDS, and at first that was all I was
concerned with. But as time went on
and things got worse . . . have you ever had shingles, Clyde?''
Then he laughed and clapped the heel of his hand to his forehead in a what-a-dunce-Iam
gesture before I could shake
my head.
`Òf course you haven't--you've never had more than a hangover. Shingles, my shamus
friend, is a funny name for a
terrible, chronic ailment. There's some pretty good medicine available to help
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
alleviate the symptoms in my version of
Los Angeles, but it wasn't helping me much; by the end of 1991 I was in agony. Part of
it was general depression over
what had happened to Danny, of course, but most of it was the agony and the itching.
That would make an interesting
book title about a tortured writer, don't you think? The Agony and the Itching, or,
Thomas Hardy Faces Puberty.'' He
voiced a harsh, distracted little laugh.
``Whatever you say, Sam.''
`Ì say it was a season in hell. Of course it's easy to make light of it now, but by
Thanksgiving of that year it was no
joke--I was getting three hours of sleep a night, tops, and I had days when it felt
like my skin was trying to crawl right
off my body and run away like The Gingerbread Man. And I suppose that's why I didn't
see how bad it was getting with
Linda.''
I didn't know, couldn't know . . . but I did. ``She killed herself.''
He nodded. `Ìn March of 1992, on the anniversary of Daniel's death. Over two years
ago now.''
A single tear tracked down his wrinkled, prematurely aged cheek, and I had an idea
that he had gotten old in one hell of
a hurry. It was sort of awful, realizing I had been made by such a bush-league version
of God, but it also explained a
lot. My shortcomings, mainly.
``That's enough,'' he said in a voice which was blurred with anger as well as tears.
``Get to the point, you'd say. In my
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
time we say cut to the chase, but it comes to the same. I finished the book. On the
day I discovered Linda dead in
bed--the way the police are going to find Gloria Demmick later today, Clyde--I had
finished one hundred and ninety
pages of manuscript. I was up to the part where you fish Mavis's brother out of Lake
Tahoe. I came home from the
funeral three days later, fired up the word-processor, and got started right in on
page one-ninety-one. Does that shock
you?''
``No,'' I said. I thought about asking him what a word-processor might be, then
decided I didn't have to. The thing in
his lap was a word-processor, of course. Had to be.
``You're in a decided minority,'' Landry said. `Ìt shocked what few friends I had
left, shocked them plenty. Linda's
relatives thought I had all the emotion of a warthog. I didn't have the energy to
explain that I was trying to save myself.
Frog them, as Peoria would say. I grabbed my book the way a drowning man would grab a
life-ring. I grabbed you,
Clyde. My case of the shingles was still bad, and that slowed me down--to some extent
it kept me out, or I might have
gotten here sooner--but it didn't stop me. I started getting a little better-physically, at least--right around the time I
finished the book. But
wanted to already.
``You can maybe understand why it slowed me down a little on your book,'' he said.
``Can't you, Clyde?''
I nodded.
`Ì pushed on, though. Mostly because I think make-believe is a great healer. Maybe I
have to believe that. I tried to get
on with my life, too, but things kept going wrong with it--it was as if How Like a
Fallen Angel was some kind of
weird bad-luck charm that had turned me into Job. My wife went into a deep depression
following Danny's death, and I
was so concerned with her that I hardly noticed the red patches that had started
breaking out on my legs and stomach
and chest. And the itching. I knew it wasn't AIDS, and at first that was all I was
concerned with. But as time went on
and things got worse . . . have you ever had shingles, Clyde?''
Then he laughed and clapped the heel of his hand to his forehead in a what-a-dunce-Iam
gesture before I could shake
my head.
`Òf course you haven't--you've never had more than a hangover. Shingles, my shamus
friend, is a funny name for a
terrible, chronic ailment. There's some pretty good medicine available to help
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
alleviate the symptoms in my version of
Los Angeles, but it wasn't helping me much; by the end of 1991 I was in agony. Part of
it was general depression over
what had happened to Danny, of course, but most of it was the agony and the itching.
That would make an interesting
book title about a tortured writer, don't you think? The Agony and the Itching, or,
Thomas Hardy Faces Puberty.'' He
voiced a harsh, distracted little laugh.
``Whatever you say, Sam.''
`Ì say it was a season in hell. Of course it's easy to make light of it now, but by
Thanksgiving of that year it was no
joke--I was getting three hours of sleep a night, tops, and I had days when it felt
like my skin was trying to crawl right
off my body and run away like The Gingerbread Man. And I suppose that's why I didn't
see how bad it was getting with
Linda.''
I didn't know, couldn't know . . . but I did. ``She killed herself.''
He nodded. `Ìn March of 1992, on the anniversary of Daniel's death. Over two years
ago now.''
A single tear tracked down his wrinkled, prematurely aged cheek, and I had an idea
that he had gotten old in one hell of
a hurry. It was sort of awful, realizing I had been made by such a bush-league version
of God, but it also explained a
lot. My shortcomings, mainly.
``That's enough,'' he said in a voice which was blurred with anger as well as tears.
``Get to the point, you'd say. In my
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
time we say cut to the chase, but it comes to the same. I finished the book. On the
day I discovered Linda dead in
bed--the way the police are going to find Gloria Demmick later today, Clyde--I had
finished one hundred and ninety
pages of manuscript. I was up to the part where you fish Mavis's brother out of Lake
Tahoe. I came home from the
funeral three days later, fired up the word-processor, and got started right in on
page one-ninety-one. Does that shock
you?''
``No,'' I said. I thought about asking him what a word-processor might be, then
decided I didn't have to. The thing in
his lap was a word-processor, of course. Had to be.
``You're in a decided minority,'' Landry said. `Ìt shocked what few friends I had
left, shocked them plenty. Linda's
relatives thought I had all the emotion of a warthog. I didn't have the energy to
explain that I was trying to save myself.
Frog them, as Peoria would say. I grabbed my book the way a drowning man would grab a
life-ring. I grabbed you,
Clyde. My case of the shingles was still bad, and that slowed me down--to some extent
it kept me out, or I might have
gotten here sooner--but it didn't stop me. I started getting a little better-physically, at least--right around the time I
finished the book. But
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