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Mr. Nobody
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Things Slip Through 14.
14.“By the time I arrived on the scene that night you were nearly inconsolable, hysterical at Timmy’s disappearance, insisting something had taken him away. But then you called us three days later and changed your story, telling us to end our search because Timmy was ‘safe and in a better place.’”I lean forward, hands clasped before me, trying to be gentle because I can see that recounting her ordeal is hard for her, can see it in her wet and glimmering eyes. “Why did you tell us that, Mrs. Danvers? What was that . . . thing you saw? Where is this ‘better place?’ I can’t report any of this, can’t ever speak of it to anyone. But I need to know.”so the Guardian may protect the ThresholdShe nods, sniffing, and wipes both eyes with the heels of her palms. Composing herself, running a hand through her hair, she whispers, “I . . . I wasn’t in a good place after that. I’d lost Timmy, lost everything. With Timmy gone there was nothing left to live for and I almost . . . ”She sucks do
Things Slip Through 1.
August5:00 PMClifton Heights, New YorkIt’s Poker Tuesday. My daughter Meg is at the sitter’s and my friends and I are relaxing on my front porch, enjoying a few quiet drinks after we wind down from our respective afternoons. Father Ward stands beside me, Fitzy leans against the railing at the porch’s end and Gavin sits on the railing across from me. I’m sitting in my favorite Adirondack lounge chair.The warm summer air is quiet and still, save for the distant buzz of cars easing their way down Henry Street. Usually, this is my favorite night of the week; an evening of carefree leisure, when the world’s troubles are held at bay by camaraderie and friendship, and beer and pizza, too.But tonight is different. Tonight, everything may fall apart because the things I’ve ignored for so long can no longer be dismissed and I must speak, risking at the very least our friendships, at the very worst this place I’ve come to call home.And the others se
Things Slip Through 2.
The Skylark Diner5:30 PMSomehow I’m not surprised when Gavin walks into The Skylark alone. No one said much as we left my place, but I sensed—through body language, maybe—that this was Gavin’s job, telling me the truth or whatever passes for it in this town.A nice town, dammit, in spite all of this. Picturesque, a postcard-beautiful Adirondack town as charming as Inlet or Eagle Bay but not as touristy as Lake George. And the people here have been nothing but accommodating and pleasant. Word of the new Sheriff in town (also new widower with an only daughter) has paved the way for fruit baskets, pies, homemade bread, frozen venison and casseroles galore, all this past year.But as time has passed and the town’s strangeness has bloomed, it’s dawned upon me that maybe this town is too accommodating, because someoneshould’ve petitioned the Town Board for my immediate resignation a long time ago, especially considering all the odd cases I haven’t been able to s
Things Slip Through Lament
She swings the hammer down again and again. Bone crunches, blood splatters. Her stomach churns as she raises the hammer to swing it down once more . . .But she stops and squeezes the hammer’s slick rubber grip. Blood oozes between her fingers. The hammer shakes in her hand.And then she drops it to the pavement where it hits with a dull ring and she looks at what she’s done to his face, and realizes . . . she likes it.And wants to do it some more.She kneels and sobs.Then vomits.MondayGavin Patchett glared at the stack of essays sitting on his desk, then glanced at the first one before him. He tapped it with his red pen, leaving clusters of smeary crimson dots near its heading. He read the first paragraph, squinted and read it again, hoping it would make more sense the second time.It didn’t. Just made him feel tired was all.He closed his eyes, sighed and rubbed his warm forehead. Maybe he’d call in sick tomorrow, sta
Things Slip Through 3.
3.I lean back against the booth’s thin leather cushions and pull my hands away from the journal, staring for a moment at Gavin’s elegant script. The words themselves seem to shiver and twitch across the page.I look up at Gavin, who’s nonchalantly devouring the stack of blueberry pancakes he ordered while I was reading.My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.Fortunately, Gavin speaks for both of us, after swallowing a forkful of syrup-drenched pancakes. “That whole thing was horrible, and I feel awful that it took a tragedy like that to sober me up. But after everything died down, when I finally dried out . . . I knew things had to change. I haven’t had a drink since.”I reach toward the journal but don’t touch its pages. It’s as if I’m afraid of something happening to me if I touch it, which is ridiculous. It’s only a journal. Paper bound by a leather cover.That’s all.“You wrote this. After it happened?”He reaches for his glass of orange juice, compliments of the waitress,
Things Slip Through Way Station
WAY STATIONIt was QuestCon, New Hampshire’s largest SpecFic convention. Attendees packed the main lounge of Portsmouth’s Holiday Inn, bunching up in clots around tables and chairs and the bar, chatting with old friends, hitting up new ones. Con veterans worked the scene, happy to be among colleagues and friends. Younger, more inexperienced folks bounced nervously about, balancing between worshipful awe and their overwhelming desire to be “noticed” by peers and role models, and amongst them drifted fans asking for signatures, wondering respectfully (most of the time) when their next book or comic book would hit the stores.It was a full house, everyone busily engaged and enjoying themselves and, Jim Goersky couldn’t help but feel, glancing at him and Gavin Patchett from the corner of their eyes.“Listen, Franklin,” Gavin snapped into his cell phone, “the distribution sucks and you know it. Why the hell weren’t there more copies of Forever War at the Barnes & Noble here in Portsm
Things Slip Through 4.
4.Gavin has finished his pancakes and is now sipping from his coffee, watching me with a neutral expression. I again push the book away from me, as if prolonged contact with it could hurt me, somehow.Which is ridiculous.It’s just a journal full of stories, that’s all. So what if Gavin’s story about the Pital girl was eerily accurate? Gavin wrote fiction for a living, he made stuff up. That’s what writers do, right? Make stuff up.Right?I meet Gavin’s calm gaze and speak carefully. “So. This story’s . . . a . . . what do you call it? A metaphor. Symbolic. Of how you realized there was more to life than your writing career.”Gavin raises his eyebrows and says, “Is that what you think it is?”I clasp my hands together on the booth’s tabletop so hard my knuckles ache. “I don’t really know what to think, Gavin. You brought me here with cryptic allusions to a Truth, then have me read these stories . . . ”I wave at the book and I swear Gavin’s flowing script wavers and trembles,
Things Slip Through The Water God of Clarke Street
THE WATER GOD OF CLARKE STREETIt was a cold winter day and Carolyn O’Neil was pissed off at her imaginary friend Bob the Water Sprite.“I hate you Bob,” she rasped, trudging through powdery snowdrifts, “I hate you! Adam Stillman thinks I’m a freak, and it’s all your fault!”“I hate you.”Her angry footsteps scraped the frozen sidewalk and her ponytail swished against the back of her neck as she recalled today’s disaster in sixth period study hall. It had been the most humiliating experience ever and she had Bob to thank for it.Adam Stillman was the most popular boy her age. Athletic and graceful, with brown hair teased into a skater cut, his bright blue eyes made her knees buckle. She tutored him in Math every sixth period but they might as well live on separate planets. He was a basketball god that all the cheerleaders worshiped. She was the kinda-chubby smart girl everyone ignored. He only tolerated her because she helped him keep his grades up so he was eligible to play ball.
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