remember and reexperience her li fe as a continuou s movie-like event. There were only bits of punctuation here and
there — the kiss, the jam, the dried flowers — which, when assembled, made Janet who she was — yet there seemed to be no divine logic behind the assemblage. Or any flow. All those bits were merely . . .
bits. But there had to be logic. How could the small, chubby child of 1940 imagine that one day she'd be in Florid a seeing her own daugh ter launched into outer space? Tiny li tt le Sarah, who was set to circle the Earth hundr eds of times. We didn ' t even think about outer space in 1939. Space didn ' t exist yet.
She removed a black felt Sharpie pen from her purse, and wrote the word 'laryngi tis' on a folded piece of paper. For the remainder of the day she wouldn ' t have to speak to anybody she didn ' t want to.
I wonder if Howie is going to be late? No — Howie's not the late type.
02
Wade sat on the lock-up's sunburn t concrete stoop sift ing through the grab bag of possessions returned to him from his overnigh t captors: sunglasses a size too small so they never fell from his head — a wallet
containing four IDs (tw o real: Nevada and British Columbi a; tw o fakes: Missouri and Quebec) along with a badly pho tocopied U.S. hundr ed; a Pittsburgh Steelers Bic ligh ter ( Where did that come from?) and the
keys to a rental Pontiac Sunfire, still in the lot of the previous evening 's bar. His clothes were more blood - splattered than not. At first the blood had been syrupy and had made his clothes turn clammy, rubbery.
Then, when Wade was asleep in his cell, the blood converted his denim pants and cott on shir t into a skin of beef jerky.
This is not a state in which one defends God ligh tly. Where's Howie?
Wade removed a smoo th rock he'd found a decade before while hitchhiking on a Kansas freeway — his
good luck charm; three minu tes after he'd found it he was picked up by the disenchanted wife of a major league baseball player, who went on to be his meal ticket for the latter years of his thir ties.
Honk-honk 'Hey there, bro ther-in-law! '
Howie called from across the lot where he'd parked his orange VW microbus beside a chain-link fence and a flowering pink oleander hedge.
Christ. Howie's going to be chipper. I hate chipper. Wade walked toward him. 'Yeah, hi, Howie. Get me out of this dump.'
'Righ t, pardner. Hey, I see a bit of mess on your shir t.'
'Blood, Howie. It 's harmless. And it 's not mine — it 's from the meathead who hassled me last nigh t.' Inside the vehicle, hot like a bakery, Howie turned on the igni tion. The air-condi tioning blasted on full,
shoo ting a freezing moldy fist into the car interior. Wade slapped the butt on down. 'Christ, Howie, I don ' t want to get Legionn aire's disease from your blood y van.'
'Just trying to help, mon frère, mon frère. Nothing lurking in the vents of this baby.'
'Also, Howie, I'm not going to walk into some swank hotel looking like a tampon. I have to clean up first. Drive me to the Brunswicks' place.' Howie was staying with the family of Sarah's Mission Commander,
Gordon Brunswick.
'I can wash up there and you can lend me some clothes.'
Howie was taken aback. 'The Brunswicks' — what? Sarah didn ' t say anything abou t driving you to the Brunswicks.'
'You have a probl em?'
'Problem? No. Not at all.' Howie looked panged.
'Howie, just take me there, I'll shower, I'll borro w some clothes, then you can drop me off at my car. You have to pick up my mother at 9:30.'
'No need to be testy, Wade.'
'Have you ever spent a nigh t in jail, Howie?'
Howie seemed almost flattered to be asked this. 'Well, I can' t say that I . . .'
'Drive, Howie.'
They drove for fifteen minu tes and arrived at the subdivision home of the Brunswick family — an
astronaut clan as different from the Drummond family as heaven is from earth. Childr en in NASA T-shir ts were on the fron t lawn looking at the moon, visible in the daytime,
there — the kiss, the jam, the dried flowers — which, when assembled, made Janet who she was — yet there seemed to be no divine logic behind the assemblage. Or any flow. All those bits were merely . . .
bits. But there had to be logic. How could the small, chubby child of 1940 imagine that one day she'd be in Florid a seeing her own daugh ter launched into outer space? Tiny li tt le Sarah, who was set to circle the Earth hundr eds of times. We didn ' t even think about outer space in 1939. Space didn ' t exist yet.
She removed a black felt Sharpie pen from her purse, and wrote the word 'laryngi tis' on a folded piece of paper. For the remainder of the day she wouldn ' t have to speak to anybody she didn ' t want to.
I wonder if Howie is going to be late? No — Howie's not the late type.
02
Wade sat on the lock-up's sunburn t concrete stoop sift ing through the grab bag of possessions returned to him from his overnigh t captors: sunglasses a size too small so they never fell from his head — a wallet
containing four IDs (tw o real: Nevada and British Columbi a; tw o fakes: Missouri and Quebec) along with a badly pho tocopied U.S. hundr ed; a Pittsburgh Steelers Bic ligh ter ( Where did that come from?) and the
keys to a rental Pontiac Sunfire, still in the lot of the previous evening 's bar. His clothes were more blood - splattered than not. At first the blood had been syrupy and had made his clothes turn clammy, rubbery.
Then, when Wade was asleep in his cell, the blood converted his denim pants and cott on shir t into a skin of beef jerky.
This is not a state in which one defends God ligh tly. Where's Howie?
Wade removed a smoo th rock he'd found a decade before while hitchhiking on a Kansas freeway — his
good luck charm; three minu tes after he'd found it he was picked up by the disenchanted wife of a major league baseball player, who went on to be his meal ticket for the latter years of his thir ties.
Honk-honk 'Hey there, bro ther-in-law! '
Howie called from across the lot where he'd parked his orange VW microbus beside a chain-link fence and a flowering pink oleander hedge.
Christ. Howie's going to be chipper. I hate chipper. Wade walked toward him. 'Yeah, hi, Howie. Get me out of this dump.'
'Righ t, pardner. Hey, I see a bit of mess on your shir t.'
'Blood, Howie. It 's harmless. And it 's not mine — it 's from the meathead who hassled me last nigh t.' Inside the vehicle, hot like a bakery, Howie turned on the igni tion. The air-condi tioning blasted on full,
shoo ting a freezing moldy fist into the car interior. Wade slapped the butt on down. 'Christ, Howie, I don ' t want to get Legionn aire's disease from your blood y van.'
'Just trying to help, mon frère, mon frère. Nothing lurking in the vents of this baby.'
'Also, Howie, I'm not going to walk into some swank hotel looking like a tampon. I have to clean up first. Drive me to the Brunswicks' place.' Howie was staying with the family of Sarah's Mission Commander,
Gordon Brunswick.
'I can wash up there and you can lend me some clothes.'
Howie was taken aback. 'The Brunswicks' — what? Sarah didn ' t say anything abou t driving you to the Brunswicks.'
'You have a probl em?'
'Problem? No. Not at all.' Howie looked panged.
'Howie, just take me there, I'll shower, I'll borro w some clothes, then you can drop me off at my car. You have to pick up my mother at 9:30.'
'No need to be testy, Wade.'
'Have you ever spent a nigh t in jail, Howie?'
Howie seemed almost flattered to be asked this. 'Well, I can' t say that I . . .'
'Drive, Howie.'
They drove for fifteen minu tes and arrived at the subdivision home of the Brunswick family — an
astronaut clan as different from the Drummond family as heaven is from earth. Childr en in NASA T-shir ts were on the fron t lawn looking at the moon, visible in the daytime,
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