A: I know, I know …
And he did know. He knew the knowledge was there waiting to come forward, welling up inside him, waiting for him to express it, verbalize it, and in that way make it real. But at the same time, he hesitated. A part of himself resisted.
T: What is the matter?
A: Let me wait a moment.
T: The time is past for waiting.
He knew that but he also knew that Brint, or whoever he was, was sitting across from him, waiting, like a predator, an enemy—he was certain of that now—but he knew also that he had to reveal everything to him, that he could not do it alone.
All he could hope for was that he could find the knowledge about himself without betraying—betraying who?
T: Tell me—tell me about this emergency with Grey.
A: Yes. I’ll tell you …
He could tell that his mother was upset, the way her hands trembled slightly as she drew him into the living room. And yet he was impressed by the calmness of her voice, the crispness of her words. She was upset, all right, but in control.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, her voice firm, as if she were commanding it to be firm. Adam thought of all the times parents assured their children that everything was fine when everything wasn’t fine but they had to play the role for the sake of the children.
“Where’s Dad?” Adam asked.
“Down at the office, taking care of a few details. We have to go away for a few days, Adam.”
“Where are we going? And why? What’s it all about?” he asked, hearing his voice rising, wishing he could be in control the way his mother was.
She took his hands and drew him into the living room. “This has happened once in a while, Adam. It’s like a fire drill at school. Or maybe a bomb scare. Anyway, Grey called an hour or so ago. He thinks that our identities may be known. He isn’t sure, chances are he’s mistaken, but he insists that precautions be taken.”
“But how does he know?”
She blew air out of her mouth, impatiently. “This is the ridiculous part of it all, Adam. Remember I told you about the Never Knows and how you always had to play it safe? Well, Grey has his Never Knows, too. He said one of his men overheard a conversation on a wiretap in which Monument was mentioned—”
“A wiretap?” But this is absurd, Adam thought, this has nothing to do with me and Amy Hertz and the Numbers and school and my father and mother.
“Yes. The Department has to keep a check on certain people. And Monument was mentioned in a conversation. A date was also mentioned. Tomorrow. Now, it could be nothing. In fact, the Monument that was being referred to might not even be us, this city. Probably it’s a real monument. But Grey thought that no chances should be taken. He suggested that we leave for a few days, take a trip, a vacation. Meanwhile, his men will be in town, watching the house, checking out any suspicious developments.”
“You said this kind of thing has happened before?” Adam asked.
“Yes. Twice, actually. The first time was one of those strange coincidences. The town observed its two hundredth anniversary a few years ago—it was one of the first towns to be settled in this area. We had parades and a lot of activities, just like the country’s bicentennial. Television crews came from all over—Boston, Worcester, even New York—to film the events. One television network planned a special program on how a small town celebrates a bicentennial—they sent TV people here for a week or two, to conduct interviews and film people and places. Grey thought it might be wise if we went away for those two weeks—the government paid for a vacation in Maine. Two weeks of coast and beaches. But somehow it was hard to enjoy it all—knowing why we were there.”
“I think I remember that trip,” Adam said. “I remember that I was kind of disappointed. I was going to march in the big parade with the Boy Scouts and suddenly we were heading toward Maine and you and Dad kept saying what a great time we were going to have but it sounded as if you were apologizing.”
His mother nodded. “All the guilts your father and I have piled up, Adam,” his mother said, the sadness in her voice again.
“What was the other time?”
“A scare like this. A witness before a congressional committee in Washington said that he had secret knowledge of a former newspaperman who had given earlier evidence. He said the newspaperman had vanished under mysterious circumstances but was now an agent in the Northeast. This was all very vague, of course, but Grey felt that we should not take any chances. Again, we went on another vacation. This time to California. San Francisco. For a week. And it rained every day and you had a cold and a fever. You were only seven years old. Then it turned out that the witness had not been referring to your father at all but to another newspaperman who had turned out to be an agent for the CIA.”
The doorbell rang. The tension again; his mother suddenly stiff like in a movie freeze-frame. The key turned in the door and his father stepped into the hallway.
“Good, Adam,” he said. “You’re home.” He looked at Adam’s mother. “You’ve told him?”
For the first time, Adam noticed crevices of age on his father’s face, small chasms of hidden depths.
His father advanced briskly into the living room. “Look,” he said, “I think we can use a weekend away from Monument. Probably drive north—it’s beautiful this time of year up there. We’ll find a nice motel and maybe an old inn and have ourselves an old-fashioned New England dinner.” He clapped his hands a couple of times as if in anticipation of the trip ahead, as if it were really a pleasure trip. “I think we can all use a change of scene—I know I can. And, Adam, we can call the school from on the road Monday and tell them you’re taking the day off. That’ll give us the rest of today, Sunday, and Monday. And, who knows, maybe we’ll take Tuesday, too.”
His father’s voice was buoyant, eager—and Adam suddenly realized, with a chill, the truth: his father was playing the game, not trusting the walls, acting as if no phone call had been received from Mr. Grey. His face was still haggard and his eyes wary and haunted and the bright enthusiastic voice was a sharp contrast.
“Well, shall we pack?” he said, turning to Adam’s mother.
She smiled, wanly. “I’ve already packed. I always keep the suitcases ready.”
His father walked over to Adam and put his arm around his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Adam,” he whispered. Actually whispered—here in their own living room. What have they turned us into? Adam thought. What has Mr. Grey done to my father and mother to make this kind of thing possible? For the first time, the horror of their predicament became real to Adam.
“Let’s go,” his father said, his hand clutching Adam’s shoulder, a deep sadness in his eyes.
“Okay, Dad,” Adam said.
His mother had already gone upstairs for the suitcases.
(20-second interval.)
T: Do you wish to rest awhile?
A: No. I want to get through it all. Finally. My head hurts and I don’t want a pill. I want to end it, get to the end—
T: Let us proceed, then …
TAPE CHANGE:
END OZK014
The motel is on the outskirts of Belton Falls and I pedal toward the place. It’s dark now and I know it is dangerous being on the road without lights or reflectors and wearing a khaki jacket but I am in a hurry and don’t want to walk. Every bone in my body seethes with pain and weariness and my lungs burn and my hands and feet are freezing, but I go on pedaling. The cars sweep by, the headlights blinding me sometimes, and once in a while a horn blows at me and the sound wails in the darkness, but I keep going. It’s only a half mile or so out of the town across from a gasoline station, that’s where the motel is. And now I remember its name: Rest-A-While Motel, and it has cabins and my mother said, “Isn’t this romantic?” and we stayed there. Most of the cabins were for two people but they moved a cot in for me so that we could be together all night long. And I lay there in the cot and felt safe and secure, listening to
my father snore and hearing my mother breathe, the way her breath fluttered a bit as if a butterfly danced on her lips.
So I dig in and pedal, past the stores and the houses, and a long warehouse that I pass as if it’s a big silent ship, and a motorcycle roars past me and almost blasts me from the road. Then, finally, I see the lights of the gas station across from the motel and my heart leaps and I yell, “Hooray.” I have made it to the motel. I have come this far and nothing has stopped me, nothing will stop me now. I will sleep tonight in the cabin where I stayed last year with my mother and father and I will be secure and safe again, thinking of them. And then tomorrow I will wake up and arrive in Rutterburg, Vermont, across the river.
The motel is dark. The light above the sign isn’t lit and the sign swings eerily in the wind. The cabins have an abandoned look. Is the place closed for the season, like the ice-cream stands along the way? I check the cabin that serves as the office and it, too, is deserted. I park my bike and walk up to the office. The door is swinging slightly, unlocked. I push it open and the smell of staleness fills my nostrils, the odor of something old and passed by. The streetlights throw a pale illumination into the office. Two chairs are piled on one another in a kind of obscene embrace. The desk is cluttered with papers and books and other debris as if someone abandoned it hurriedly. I wonder what time it is and where I can find another place to stay tonight. My head throbs and my body longs for rest. I won’t need any medicine to sleep tonight.
I take the two chairs apart and sit in one of them, resting for a moment. I am so weary. It is amazing to me how much the place has changed since last year—the cabin seems or rather feels as if it has been neglected for years and years. I think of how fast decay moves in and it makes me shiver. I think of my pills and wish for the thousandth time I had taken them along. I think of the stories of drug addicts who break into stores and murder other people to get their fixes and I can understand them. Right at this minute, I would give anything to be folded into bed, the pills working their magic, soothing me.
A sound breaks the silence. Somebody is outside, near the bike. I leap to my feet and stalk to the doorway, my legs protesting.
A dog is poking his nose at the front wheel of the bike. A small dog, a cocker spaniel, frisky and energetic. I am not afraid of cocker spaniels and I chase it away. “Go on, go on, get out of here,” I say. The dog studies me for a moment and then lopes away, tail wagging.
The service-station attendant across the street is pumping gas into a car. He’s a teenager with long dark hair flowing to his shoulders. I would like to be like him: to have a job and perform it well and collect my pay at the end of the week and go out with a girl, like Amy. I envy him and I don’t even know him. I think about the friends he must have and his family. I feel alone. “Okay,” I tell myself, “cut the crap, stop the self-pity. This gets you nowhere.”
The wind comes up and I shiver again, turning away from the service station across the street. The wind bangs the door to the office and I see what I must do: get something to eat and then return here and sleep. I can curl up on the floor and prop a chair against the door, against the doorknob for protection, and sleep the night away. And then tomorrow, fresh and rested, I can make the last few miles to Rutterburg and get there in triumph, flying fast on the bike. Now I’ll get something to eat and call up Amy Hertz and tell her my mission is almost accomplished and then come back and sleep sweetly through the night. And then I have an even better idea: Why sleep in the cabin’s office? Why not investigate the other cabins? Maybe they’ve left beds and mattresses and blankets there. I guide my bike to the first cabin and look in the window. The window is dirty, fly-specked, spotted. I squint and see a bed, the mattress naked and askew. What the hell, as Amy would say, a mattress is better than a floor.
I walk across the street. The attendant is checking the oil in a car, probing around with the dipstick.
“Have you got a pay phone?” I ask.
His long hair swirls as he lifts his head and looks at me. “No booth,” he says. “Just a phone on the wall.” He looks at me and my bike without interest; I don’t represent potential profit for him.
I walk across the grease-spotted pavement and enter the office. The smell of oil fills the air. And old rubber. I see a vending machine with candy bars and figure that I will stock up for the evening. I read somewhere that chocolate gives you quick energy.
The phone clings to the wall near the door that leads to the garage itself. I scoop out my change once more and insert the dime and wait for the operator. A man’s voice says: “Operator …”
I pronounce the numbers carefully, exaggerating them, almost a burlesque, but I don’t care, I don’t want to risk another wrong number. The lights of passing cars flash by, and I realize that I could never have made it this far tonight alone, on the bike.
The phone is ringing, ringing.
I lose count of the rings.
And then: “Hello, hello.” That same gruff, impatient voice, not Amy’s father, not anybody I know.
“Hello,” I say. “Is Amy there?” I feel ridiculous asking the question because I know it’s futile.
A pause and then as if he’s being very patient: “There’s nobody named Amy here. You the kid called earlier? I’m telling you, there’s no Amy here.”
It’s cold suddenly in the office.
“Look, mister, there must be some kind of mistake. Is this Monument, Massachusetts, 537-3331?” Again I pronounce the numbers carefully, enunciating with precision.
“Yes, this is Monument, Massachusetts, 537-3331,” he says, sarcastically, mimicking my voice.
My hand trembles as it holds the phone. The office is getting colder, as if someone had just opened a door and allowed in the coldest air in the world.
“Then there must be some mistake,” I say. Is it possible for the telephone company to goof that badly—issue the same number to two different places in town?
“Yeah, I guess there is,” the man says. “Look, kid, I been holed up in bed with some kind of flu and I don’t appreciate being dragged to the phone like this—”
“Mister, I’m sorry to bother you. But 537-3331 is a right number. It’s the number of a family by the name of Hertz. And I’ve been calling it for the past six months. I called it yesterday, for crying out loud.”
The cold has invaded my body now, seeped into my bones, a cold like no other I have ever felt, penetrating, relentless.
“Look, kid, the phone company doesn’t make that kind of mistake. This is Monument, Massachusetts, and my number is 537-3331—I’ve had it for three years—and I don’t know any Hertz family.”
I am trembling all over now. I should have taken the medicine this morning. I shouldn’t have thrown it away.
I manage to say, “Thank you.”
Before he hangs up, he says, “Try Directory Assistance. Just don’t ring this number anymore.”
I see the phone book dangling from a chain.
I open it. I find the number for Directory Assistance.
My hands shake but I find another dime and put it in the slot.
I have never been so cold in all my life but it’s a cold coming from inside. I dial the numbers. One. And the area code: 617. And the rest of it: 555-1212.
“Directory Assistance—what city?” The voice is like a sound from a machine.
“Monument,” I say. I tell her the name—Hertz—and address and I wait and I am surprised that my hand is so steady holding the phone when the rest of my body is trembling.
“Hertz,” she says. “There’s a Hertz Rent-A-Car on Main Street—but no other Hertz in Monument. Was that the right spelling—H-e-r-t-z?”
“Thank you,” I say, and hang up.
And I watch my hand replacing the receiver and it’s as if I am caught in some kind of slow-motion film. The man had said 537-3331 had been his number for three years. Three years. I turn away from the telephone and begin to move and I find that it’s hard to place one foot in front of the other
.
The attendant turns his head as I approach. He is wiping the windshield. There’s a woman in the car. Her face is distorted by the liquid that’s been sprayed on the windshield.
“Yeah?” the attendant asks, but not really interested. He is chewing gum and his jaw moves languidly. Who has slowed up everything? The world is in slow motion.
“How long’s the motel across the street been closed?” I ask, trying to hurry the words, but it’s hard to talk in slow motion.
He looks at me funny. Strange, I mean.
And the woman’s face is still distorted as she squints through the windshield.
I look across the street at the cabins and the attendant also looks.
“Oh, hell, two or three years, I guess. At least.”
He begins to wipe the windshield again.
I touch his shoulder. It’s an effort to raise my hand to his shoulder but I do it, anyway, slowly and carefully.
“The cabins weren’t open last summer?” I ask, saying the words carefully, not wanting to say the wrong words.
He stops wiping the windshield now and stares at me. I don’t like the stare. There’s something strange in the stare, as if I am alien, a visitor from another planet, another galaxy. The woman pokes her head out the window. Her hair is gray but she has Orphan Annie eyes, wide, no lashes; she looks as if she has never blinked in her life.
“You all right?” the attendant asks. And his eyes are wide, too. His words don’t seem synchronized with his mouth, as if a soundtrack has gone askew.
Why didn’t I take the pills this morning?
Clutching the package with one hand and pushing the bike with the other, I start across the street. I can feel the attendant and the woman staring at me, their stares piercing the back of my head, but I don’t turn back. A terrible sound fills my ears, like a cry of doom. My teeth suddenly hurt; my mouth is open and the cold air bruises my teeth, causing them to ache. I try to close my mouth but can’t do it; it’s as if my jaw is locked, never to be closed again. And then I realize that the sound I hear is me. I am screaming and I can’t stop. The sound is terrible. A car brushes past me, then another: flash of lights, blare of horn.