Now and Again

by Charlotte Rogan

  “Where?” asked Lyle.

  “Cities and towns just like Red Bud, that’s where. It’s amazing what you can get if you agree to certain priorities.”

  “What priorities?” asked Lyle.

  “Drugs, terrorists, illegals, that sort of thing. Those are Uncle Sam’s priorities, and there are a lot of financial incentives for communities like Red Bud to make them ours as well.”

  Lyle didn’t know what the sheriff was getting at, so he asked, “What are you getting at, Sheriff? Do you think I’m into drugs?”

  “Heck no, Lyle.” The sheriff gave a snort and squinted up at the sun before fixing his sights back on Lyle, who asked, “Are there terrorists in Red Bud?”

  “I’m just thinking you’d like to know that for a tiny little town, we’re pretty well equipped for keeping the peace ’n’ all. You might like to know that we’re dedicated to keeping our citizens safe and that it’s better for a person who’s done something wrong to turn his or herself in.”

  “How does a person know if he’s done something wrong?” asked Lyle. His heart sank with misgivings. He wondered if it was legal to sleep in his truck or if he was breaking the law on the nights he didn’t stay at Lily’s.

  “Jeezus, Lyle. What kind of a question is that?”

  As the sheriff drove away, Lyle tried to think of what else he might have done wrong. If it didn’t have to do with the truck, then perhaps it had to do with the house, but the house no longer belonged to him. His bank account was overdrawn—that was sure to get him crosswise with the law. It was possible it had to do with the munitions plant, even though he didn’t work there anymore. And then it dawned on him—the sheriff wasn’t interested in him at all.

  11.8 Maggie

  The first driver took Maggie as far as Flagstaff. “In case you’re interested, it’s a straight shot to the Grand Canyon,” he said. “You may as well see it, now that you’re here.”

  Why not? thought Maggie. She had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, and there was no telling when she’d get another chance.

  When the second driver let her out at a visitor’s center, it was as if she’d been dropped onto another planet, or as if she were seeing her own planet for the first time. It was as if all the churches of the world had exploded or turned inside out or been transformed in some way so that all that was sparkling and glorious now lay before her. Every stained-glass color, every vertiginous drop, every astonishing element of the universe was spread out like an all-you-can-eat buffet of miracles. Even surrounded by a crowd of sightseers, she felt alone with the majesty. Even hemmed in by the safety barricade, she felt as if she could fall at any moment, as if she was falling, as if she had fallen and then her wings had caught and held the way the wings of the birds that drifted in slow circles over the chasm had caught and held and lifted. Her breath came in short gasps. Her heart expanded in her chest. Her eyes bulged and didn’t blink. How she had come to be there seemed both strange and inevitable. None of it made sense to her, but perhaps that was not a useful way to think about things. Perhaps senselessness was the entire point.

  Maggie made her way to the big wooden map that showed her location in the string of parks that stretched north almost to Utah and west nearly to Las Vegas. Only slowly did she realize that the spot where she stood was a speck in the vastness, that there were other observation points, just as stunning and true. There were boat rides and dangerous rapids and treacherous paths and hot air balloons and helicopters and so many points from which to view the canyon that no one lifetime could absorb or comprehend them. And the canyon was only one part of the world, just the way the world was only part of the universe, and the universe…It was too much to contemplate all at once, so she shut the thinking part of her mind and opened up the part that allowed creation to fan out before her without asking her to ponder what it meant.

  A man leading a scrawny donkey by a rope approached to ask if she wanted her picture taken with it. He showed her a Polaroid camera that hung from his neck by a greasy strap. “Only ten dollars,” he said. All around them tourists were pretending to ignore the man as they surreptitiously snapped pictures of the donkey with their phones. The photographer’s hands were grimy and his gaucho hat shaded his face so that Maggie couldn’t see his eyes. “Nobody wants Polaroids these days,” he said, his lips curling over broken teeth in a smile that couldn’t quite mask his desperation.

  “Well, I want one. I don’t even have a cell phone,” Maggie told him.

  “Why not?” asked the photographer.

  “Money, for one thing,” said Maggie. “But I’d love to buy a photograph from you.” She searched her purse and found the envelope the attorney had given her on her last day of work. “I wish you weren’t going,” he had told her. “You’re the best office manager I’ve ever had.”

  “My family needs me,” Maggie had said.

  She handed the donkey’s owner a ten-dollar bill, and a few minutes later he handed back a smeared Polaroid. “A souvenir of your trip,” he said. “Something for your memory book.”

  “Yes,” said Maggie. “Thank you very much.”

  In the photograph, the canyon was a featureless gulf behind her, but despite the runny colors and the sad expression on the donkey’s face, it made her smile. The image only hinted at the grandeur that surrounded her, but it was enough to prove to Lyle, and more importantly to herself, I was here.

  11.9 Lyle

  After his encounter with the sheriff, Lyle drove to the Redi Mart and called Phoenix again. This time he told the attorney who he was.

  “I think she might be headed home,” said the attorney. “Hasn’t she called you?”

  “It’s a long story, but she can’t,” said Lyle.

  “Well, when you see her, tell her I have some good news to report.”

  Lyle wished he and Maggie had made one of those plans everyone talked about after 9/11—a plan of where and when to meet in case of a national emergency. Then he and Maggie would know where to go now, not because they were facing a national emergency, but because they were facing a personal one.

  What did a person do in the absence of such a plan? He wished he had ESP. He wished he or Maggie were clairvoyant, the way True Cunningham claimed to be. Then the one who wasn’t clairvoyant could just choose a time and place to meet and think about it really hard, and the one who was clairvoyant could pick up the signals merely by concentrating—problem solved.

  But that was wishful thinking. Wishful thinking was why Maggie had started down this path, and he guessed he wasn’t the only one who had been unable to see where it would lead. Lyle sat in the truck while the sun reached its zenith and started its slow descent over the boxy Multiplex. Finally, he jiggered the key in the ignition and drove down the street to the diner, where he ordered a cup of coffee and tried to piece together a plan of action. The clock above the counter ticked past four o’clock and then past five. All around him noisy families were gathering to celebrate the weekend by ordering from the giant plastic menus that had always fascinated Will and that Lyle still saw as evidence that the world was big and filled with opportunity. When the waitress began to frown and snap her gum, Lyle realized that instead of pondering the problem, he was only staring blankly at the Formica countertop and waiting for inspiration to strike.

  He had to think, but he didn’t know what to think about. It wasn’t until he had paid the bill and stepped out into the soft June breeze that it occurred to him that instead of bemoaning the way things were, there were two questions he should be asking himself. The first was, How would Maggie solve the where-and-when-to-meet problem? As if that was not difficult enough, he would also have to ask if Maggie even knew about the problem.

  Since there was no way to answer the second question, he could only assume she knew and work on an answer to the first. He should have made sure she wouldn’t come home unexpectedly by telling her the police investigation wasn’t over instead of trying to protect her by holding information back.

&
nbsp; Then he remembered what Jimmy had said about goal-setting, about tactics and execution. The goal was to meet up with Maggie. As for tactics, he had to put himself in her shoes. What would she be thinking? Even more critical to the solution was, What would she be thinking he was thinking? Was there something so obvious that it would not only be obvious to her, but it would also be obvious to her that it was obvious to him? And it struck him with the eureka force of discovery that there was an obvious time to meet! It was noon. They had met in the lunchroom after the twelve o’clock bell for the four years they had worked together at the munitions plant, and he knew with absolute certainty that noon would be obvious to Maggie just as it had been obvious to him. Just in case he was clairvoyant after all, or Maggie was, he closed his eyes and sent a message to her, wherever she might be: Noon, Maggie. We’ll meet at noon.

  But now the matter of where to meet arose. The first place he thought of was the munitions plant lunchroom, but that wasn’t realistic. Maggie no longer had an employee badge; nor, for that matter, did he. But again, as if the coffee shop had been inhibiting his problem-solving skills and the fresh air was the thing needed to jump-start mental activity, the answer came unbidden. The bus station! A transportation hub was the obvious place, but on what day and in which city? The last time they had played the travel game, he had wanted to go to Tahiti. How realistic was that?

  Lyle hurried along the sidewalk to where the truck was angled in between two sleek late-model cars. The fender Will had dented in the snowstorm was starting to rust. A crack spidered across the windshield, and the defective muffler was hanging nearly to the ground. But it still started right up every time he turned the key, and he didn’t reckon a man could ask much more of his truck than that.

  Just as he was backing out of his parking space, he saw True Cunningham walking along the sidewalk, surrounded by a group of friends. “True,” he called out. “Hey, True!”

  “Why, Lyle, I haven’t seen you in I don’t know how long! Maggie called me a few days ago, but when I looked for you at the plant, they told me you were no longer working there.”

  Lyle motioned her over to the open window, hoping the others wouldn’t follow her. “I want to get a message to Maggie,” he said. “I know you have experience with, well, with sending messages via—”

  “ESP,” True finished for him in an exhibition of the very skill he was looking for.

  “Exactly. I was hoping you could help me with that.”

  “Sure I can, honey. Now what kind of a message are you hoping to send?”

  True’s friends were standing on the sidewalk, craning their necks to hear what she and Lyle were talking about. Even if he took True someplace private and swore her to secrecy, it was only a matter of time before she broke down and gossiped about his business. And if, for some reason, she tried to keep his secret, the police might get it out of her, or it might be picked up by the hidden surveillance cameras everyone was installing, not to mention the fact that cell phones could surreptitiously be switched to record. Lyle put the truck in gear and tried to look as if he were late for something. “Never mind, True. I’ll call you later to explain.”

  When he turned onto Park Drive, he had to stop while a group of boys crossed the road, loaded down with gear and headed toward the town baseball field for an evening practice. Lyle had never been on a baseball team, never had a bunch of buddies he could rely on. It was just as well, he thought now. It might have made him soft, and first and foremost, a man ought to rely on himself.

  He nestled the truck in behind a grove of cottonwood trees and spent the night alternately dozing and sending Maggie messages via ESP. Don’t come home, he thought, but he didn’t know if he could send the messages or if she could receive them. The sweat pooled in his armpits and on his brow. It had upset him to see the firepower in the sheriff’s truck, and now a horrible dread came over him. What if the bus station had come to mind because Maggie was sending a message to him? Where would she go if she could go anywhere? Suddenly he knew, and it wasn’t New York City or the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls. It was Red Bud, Oklahoma. Don’t come home, he thought again as he drifted on the edge of sleep. And don’t go to the bus station. Whatever you do, Maggie, don’t go there!

  12.0 TACTICS & EXECUTION

  Lyle said he’d call me later, but he never did. I sent a telepathic message to Maggie anyway. I knew what he wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her to come home, so that’s the message I sent.

  —True Cunningham

  We figured if she didn’t come to him, he’d go to her.

  —Sheriff Hank Conway

  Were we cooperating with law enforcement? Absolutely. But buying the site was our insurance policy.

  —Lex Lexington

  I told them they should consider moving their headquarters overseas, but they just laughed at me. They said, “Hell, we’re just some guys trying to make sense out of the war.”

  —Anonymous

  Just before he left, the captain asked if I thought we were in over our heads. He said that if the buyers seemed at all competent, maybe we should sell.

  —Le Roy Jones

  The captain and I were kind of opposites. He was changing his mind about selling just as I was changing mine.

  —Joe Kelly

  Being told not to write the article about Maggie lit a fire under that Fitch boy. After that, he started poking his nose into everything. Wait a sec—what did you say your name was? You’re him, aren’t you? You’re that reporter fellow, Martin Fitch.

  —August Winslow

  12.1 Penn Sinclair

  Penn spent his last day in New York City shopping for an engagement ring. He hadn’t known it would be so complicated: How much did he want to spend? Which cut of stone did he find appealing? Should the band be platinum or gold, and if it was to be gold, what about alloy and purity?

  At each store he went to, a sales associate laid a velvet tray on the countertop and set out a selection of rings for Penn to admire. He had always been sure of himself, but now he couldn’t seem to make up his mind on anything. “Perhaps you should bring your fiancée in with you,” suggested an unsmiling salesman. “The ladies tend to have definite ideas about these things.”

  “She’s not my fiancée yet,” said Penn.

  “I see,” said the salesman, arching an eyebrow as if what he saw was not entirely pleasing. “I assume you’ve discussed marriage with her, though. These days couples usually discuss the ring.”

  They talked about marriage endlessly, but it was always in the context of another bridegroom and another bride, and now Penn couldn’t remember anything Louise had told him. He wondered if he was supposed to feel happy as he shopped, or at least as if he was trading his money for a chance at happiness. He supposed he wasn’t unhappy, even if he was a little irritated when the saleswoman at Tiffany’s ignored him to wait on a woman who clutched an expensive purse and disapproved of invisible flaws in an array of pearl necklaces.

  “Pearls are a natural product,” said the saleswoman. “Natural products have flaws, which is one of the reasons we value them.”

  “But why so pink?” asked the customer. “These aren’t for my daughter, after all. They are for me.”

  “What about this double strand?” asked the saleswoman. “They’re really lustrous. Or, have you considered yellow—or even black?”

  “Heavens, no,” said the woman. “Those are far too modern for my taste.”

  When it was his turn, Penn found out that there was color to diamonds as well.

  “Color is just one of the four Cs,” said the saleswoman. “Cut, clarity, color, and carat. Your job is to balance these attributes without straining your budget. Even an imperfect diamond can appear quite brilliant to the naked eye.”

  “Only quite brilliant?” asked Penn.

  “Quite, quite brilliant,” said the saleswoman.

  Perhaps he should come back with Louise even if it ruined the surprise. Or he could buy a cheap glass ring for the pr
oposal with the idea that they could replace it with the real thing down the road. He tried to imagine the scene: the little blue box, Louise’s trembling fingers, the inevitable awkward seconds between the moment Louise first saw the substitute ring and the moment she realized it was only temporary. Much as she might be a costume jewelry convert, he didn’t think she would settle when it came to an engagement ring, and he didn’t want his first words after “Darling, will you marry me?” to be a long-winded explanation for why the ring he was putting on her finger was only standing in for the one they would choose together. And when would they choose it? He couldn’t expect Louise to wear the temporary ring for the long months he was overseas.

  Penn walked down Madison Avenue, pausing now and then to gape into the shop windows and trying not to feel defeated. It was a warm summer Friday and clutches of excited shoppers gave the city a festive air, but he couldn’t help feeling critical of their high spirits. By the time he reached Forty-second Street, the crowds had thickened and changed. Now it was men and women in suits who crowded the sidewalks talking into their cell phones or rushing to catch an early train to the suburbs or the beach. Instead of turning west toward Louise’s apartment, where he planned to shower and change his clothes, something made him jump into a gap in the revolving door of the library just as a woman with children was coming out. “Hi, kids,” he said, but the girl ignored him and the boy peered at him suspiciously from behind his mother’s leg.

  He made his way up the escalator to the room where his eyes had been opened, fully expecting to encounter the homeless man sprawled on the floor where he had first seen him, but of course he wasn’t there. “I’m looking for a man who used to come in here to read books on war,” he said to a librarian sitting at the information desk. “Have you seen him lately?”