For a moment he thought about just going back inside and resuming work instead of trying to meet whoever was down the road, cutting a path through the storm’s leavings. A day or two before he would have done just that. But things had changed. An image rose in his mind (they came all the time now, unbidden), one that made him smile: a gambler on a losing streak, abjuring the dealer to hurry up and spin those fucking cards. He wasn’t that guy anymore, and thank God. The book would still be there when he got back. Whether he resumed out here in the woods or back in Falmouth, it would be there.

He tossed the saw in the back of the Suburban and began rolling slowly up Shithouse Road, pausing every now and then to throw fallen branches out of his way before going on. He went almost a mile before he came to the first tree down across the road, but it was a birch, and he made quick work of it.

The chainsaw was very loud now, not rrrrr but RRRRRRR. Each time it ceased Drew would hear a big engine revving as his rescuer came closer, and then the saw would start up again. Drew was trying to cut his way through a much bigger tree and not having much luck when a Chevy 4X4, customized for woods work, came lumbering around the next bend.

The driver pulled up and got out. He was a big man with an even bigger belly, dressed in green overalls and a camo coat that flapped around his knees. The chainsaw he carried was industrial-sized, but looked almost like a toy in the guy’s gloved hand. Drew knew who he was at once. The resemblance was unmistakable. So was the whiff of Old Spice that went with the smells of sawdust and chainsaw gasoline. “Hey there! You must be Old Bill’s boy.”

The big man smiled. “Ayuh. And you must be Buzzy Larson’s.”

“That’s right.” Drew hadn’t known how much he needed to see another human being until this moment. It was like not knowing how thirsty you were until someone handed you a glass of cold water. He stuck out his hand. They shook over the downed tree.

“Your name’s Johnny, right? Johnny Colson.”

“Close. Jackie. Stand back and let me cut that tree for you, Mr. Larson. Take you all day with that buck.”

Drew stood aside and watched as Jackie cranked up his Stihl and zipped it through the tree, leaving a neat pile of sawdust on the leaf- and twig-littered road. Between the two of them, they shifted the smaller half into the ditch.

“How is it the rest of the way?” Drew asked, puffing a little.

“Not terrible, but there’s one bad washout.” He squinted one eye closed and sized up Drew’s Suburban with the other. “That might getcha through, it’s pretty high-sprung. If it don’t, I could tow you, although it might ding up your exhaust system a dight.”

“How did you know to come out here?”

“Your wife had Dad’s number in her old address book. She talked to my ma, and Ma called me. Your wife is some worried about you.”

“Yes, I suppose she is. And thinks I’m a damned fool.”

This time Old Bill’s boy—call him Young Jackie—did his squinting at the tall pines to one side of the road and said nothing. Yankees did not, as a rule, comment on other folks’ marital situations.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Drew said. “How about you follow me back to my dad’s cabin? Have you got time to do that?”

“Ayuh, got the day.”

“I’ll pack up my stuff—won’t take long—and we can caravan back to the store. There’s no cell coverage, but I can use the pay phone. If the storm didn’t knock it out, that is.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I called Ma from there. You probably don’t know about DeWitt, do you?”

“Only that he was sick.”

“Not anymore,” Jackie said. “Died.” He hawked, spat, and looked at the sky. “Gonna miss a pretty nice day, by the look. Jump in your truck, Mr. Larson. Follow me half a mile up to the Patterson place. You can turn around there.”

26

Drew found the sign and picture in the window of the Big 90 both sad and amusing. Amusement was a fairly shitty way to feel, given the circumstances, but a person’s interior landscape was sometimes—often, even—fairly shitty. CLOSED FOR FUNNERAL, the sign said. The picture was of Roy DeWitt next to a plastic backyard pool. He was wearing flip-flops and a pair of low-riding Bermuda shorts beneath the considerable overhang of his belly. He was holding a can of beer in one hand and appeared to have been caught in the middle of a dance step.

“Roy liked his Bud-burgers, all right,” Jackie Colson observed. “You be okay from here, Mr. Larson?”

“Sure,” Drew said. “And thank you.” He held out his hand. Jackie Colson gave it a shake, jumped into his 4X4, and headed down the road.

Drew mounted the porch, put a handful of change on the ledge beneath the pay phone, and called home. Lucy answered.

“It’s me,” Drew said. “I’m at the store, and headed home. Still mad?”

“Get here and find out for yourself.” Then: “You sound better.”

“I am better.”

“Can you make it tonight?”

Drew looked at his wrist and realized he’d brought the manuscript (of course!) but left his watch in the bedroom at Pop’s cabin. Where it would stay until next year. He gauged the sun. “Not sure.”

“If you get tired, don’t try. Stop in Island Falls or Derry. We can wait another night.”

“All right, but if you hear someone coming in around midnight, don’t shoot.”

“I won’t. Did you get any work done?” He could hear hesitance in her voice. “I mean, getting sick and all?”

“I did. And it’s good, I think.”

“No problems with the… you know…”

“The words? No. No problems.” At least not after that weird dream. “I think this one’s a keeper. I love you, Luce.”

The pause after he said it seemed very long. Then she sighed and said, “I love you, too.”

He didn’t like the sigh but would take the sentiment. There had been a bump in the road—not the first, and it wouldn’t be the last—but they were past it. That was fine. He racked the phone and got rolling.

As the day was winding down (a pretty nice one, just as Jackie Colson had predicted), he began seeing signs for the Island Falls Motor Lodge. He was tempted, but decided to press on. The Suburban was running well—some of the thumps and bumps on Shithouse Road actually seemed to have knocked the front end back into line—and if he shaded the speed limit a little and didn’t get stopped by a state cop, he might be able to get home by eleven. Sleep in his own bed.

And work the next morning. That, too.

27

He came into their bedroom at just past eleven-thirty. He’d taken his muddy shoes off downstairs, and was trying to be quiet, but he heard the rustle of bedclothes in the dark and knew she was awake.

“Get in here, Mister.”

For once that word didn’t sting. He was glad to be home, and even gladder to be with her. Once he was in bed she put her arms around him, gave him a hug (brief, but strong), then turned over and went back to sleep. As Drew was drowsing toward sleep himself—those borderline transition moments when the mind becomes plastic—an odd thought came.