*

He thought that if any of them found it impossible to keep his secret, it would be Myra Ellis, with her church groups and committees. But she did keep it. All of them did. They became a kind of cabal, getting together once a week at Holy Frijole, where Deirdre always kept a table reserved for them, with a little placard on it that said Dr. Ellis Party. The place was always full, or nearly, and Deirdre said that after the new year, if things didn’t slow down, they would have to open earlier and institute a second sitting. Missy had indeed hired a sous chef to help her in the kitchen, and on Scott’s advice, she hired someone local—Milly Jacobs’s oldest daughter.

“She’s a little slow,” Missy said, “but she’s willing to learn, and by the time the summer people come back, she’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Then she blushed and looked down at her hands, realizing Scott might not be around when the summer people came back.

On December 10th, Deirdre McComb lit the big Christmas tree in the Castle Rock town square. Almost a thousand people turned out for the evening ceremony, which included the high school chorus singing seasonal songs. Mayor Coughlin, dressed as Santa Claus, arrived by helicopter.

There was applause when Deirdre mounted the podium, and a roar of approval when she proclaimed the thirty-foot spruce as “the best Christmas tree in the best town in New England.”

The lights came on, the neon angel at the top twirled and curtseyed, and the crowd sang along with the high schoolers: Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, how lovely are your branches. Scott was amused to see Trevor Yount singing and applauding along with everyone else.

On that day, Scott Carey weighed 114 pounds.

CHAPTER 6

The Incredible Lightness of Being

There were limits to what Scott had come to think of as “the weightless effect.” His clothes did not float up from his body. Chairs did not levitate when he sat in them, although if he carried one into the bathroom and stood on the scale with it, its weight didn’t register. If there were rules to what was going on, he didn’t understand them, or care to. His outlook remained optimistic, and he slept through the night. Those were the things he cared about.

He called Mike Badalamente on New Year’s Day, passed on the appropriate good wishes, and then said he was thinking about making a trip to California in a few weeks, to see his only surviving aunt. If he made the trip, would Mike take his cat?

“Well, I don’t know,” Mike said. “Maybe. Does he do his business in a litter box?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why me?”

“Because I believe every bookstore should have a resident cat, which you are currently lacking.”

“How long are you planning to be gone?”

“Don’t know. It sort of depends on how Aunt Harriet is doing.” There was no Aunt Harriet, of course, and he would have to have Doctor Bob or Myra take the cat to Mike’s. Deirdre and Missy both smelled of dog, and Scott could no longer even stroke his old friend; Bill ran away if he came too near.

“What does he eat?”

“Friskies,” Scott said. “And a good supply will come with the animal. If I decide to go, that is.”

“Okay, you got a deal.”

“Thanks, Mike. You’re a pal.”

“I am, but not just because of that. You did this town a small but valuable mitzvah when you helped the McComb woman get up so she could finish the race. What was happening with her and her wife was ugly. It’s better now.”

“A little better.”

“Actually quite a lot.”

“Well, thanks. And Happy New Year again.”

“Back atcha, buddy. What’s the feline’s name?”

“Bill. Bill D. Cat, actually.”

“Like in Bloom County. Cool.”

“Pick him up and give him a stroke once in awhile. If I decide to go, that is. He likes that.”

Scott hung up, thought about what giving things away meant—especially things that were also valued friends—and closed his eyes.

*

Doctor Bob called a few days later, and asked Scott if his weight-loss was remaining constant at one and a half to two pounds a day. Scott said it was, knowing the lie couldn’t come back to haunt him; he looked the same as ever, right down to the bulge of belly hanging over his belt.

“So . . . you still think you’ll be down to nothing in early March?”

“Yes.”

Scott now thought Zero Day might come before January was out, but he didn’t know for sure, couldn’t even make an educated guess, because he had stopped weighing himself. Not so long ago he had avoided the bathroom scale because it showed too many pounds; now he stayed away for the opposite reason. The irony was not lost on him.

For the time being Bob and Myra Ellis were not to know how things had speeded up, nor were Missy and Deirdre. He would have to tell them eventually, because when the end came, he would need help from one of them. And he knew which one.

“What do you weigh now?” Doctor Bob asked.

“106,” Scott said.

“Holy shit!”

He guessed Ellis would say a lot more than holy shit if he knew what Scott knew: it was more like seventy. He could cross his big living room in four loping strides, or jump, catch one of the overhead beams, and swing from it like Tarzan. He hadn’t reached what his weight would be on the moon, but he was closing in on it.