she went to a solve-it-yourself theatrical event that night and didn’t try her until the next evening. By then it was Saturday, and Pat was in Hart Ridge, where her mother turned out to be reading “a book by that mystery writer you know with the funny rhyming name.” Pat didn’t reach Ginny until Monday morning.
It was hot, so hot for a September morning shortly after Labor Day that even at this early hour Pat could see the air shimmy off the train tracks at the Hart Ridge station. She was surprised at how bad it was possible to feel when you weren’t hungover. Her head pounded in the rising heat. At the end of the platform were two glass phone booths, each with a retractable door, a hard brown plastic shelf to sit on, and a Hart Ridge phone book dangling from a wire. Pat was sitting in the farther booth when she got Ginny. The door was open, and her forehead was pressed against the cool metal of the pay phone.
“I’m going to Maine,” said Ginny.
“Oh, I wish I were,” said Pat. “It’s so awful here.” Beside the steps to the platform were some shrubby roses that reminded her of the beach.
“I mean I’m moving there,” said Ginny.
“Really?”
“I’m not sure if I told you I got married.”
“Married!” exclaimed Pat.
“It’s not what you think. But I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid,” Ginny whispered.
“Of who? Your husband?”
“No, no,” she said with sibilant impatience. “Nothing like that. Maybe myself.”
The face of the black engine appeared around the bend just then, its clanks and hisses suggesting a drizzlier, cooler, cozier climate, maybe in black and white.
“Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you back when I get into Penn Station,” said Pat.
“I don’t have one. I have this idea of…of the dark woods,” said Ginny.
“Wait,” said Pat with the sense that the conversation had gotten away from her. “The train’s here,” she said. “But we’ve had such good times. Why go so far away? We have to stay friends, right? Right?”
Pat sat on the left and more scenic side of the train and tried to picture Ginny married. She had always been alone in a way that Pat knew she never would or even could be. Not that Pat’s odd glancing association with Lemuel would have suited most people. Out of laziness or maybe lower standards, she put up with all sorts of nonsense. But it had sputtered along as other, more intense romances evaporated.
“Pat!” This warm greeting was from Frank Foy, a Hart Ridge classmate she hadn’t seen in years.
Pat looked up and said, “I warn you. I was shot at once on this train. Here.” She pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the window near the seat in front of her.
“Really,” said Frank, sitting down easily beside her and leaning over for a better look.
“I don’t mean the shooter knew it was me,” said Pat. “I was just a person. He probably couldn’t see more than a silhouette. A head, maybe? Hair?”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, screamed. Not much. Just a little scream. It was more interesting than scary. There wasn’t time for my life to flash before my eyes or anything like that. Suddenly there was a crack, there was a bullet hole in the window, and there were slivers of glass on my lap. The conductor must have told me a dozen times that I was all right and that it was only a BB gun. I think he was afraid I was going to sue. The same thing happened to me once when I saw a caterpillar in my salad at a fancy restaurant.”
“You were shot at in a restaurant, too?” Frank was wearing a red and blue rugby shirt, his hair was tousled, and he was leaning in so close that Pat could see the sheen on his fresh, taut skin and the tension in the muscles underneath. Muscles are supposed to work two ways, one against the other, and for the first time in her life, Pat could believe it.
“Of course not,” she said. “I’ve only been shot at once. Isn’t that
It was hot, so hot for a September morning shortly after Labor Day that even at this early hour Pat could see the air shimmy off the train tracks at the Hart Ridge station. She was surprised at how bad it was possible to feel when you weren’t hungover. Her head pounded in the rising heat. At the end of the platform were two glass phone booths, each with a retractable door, a hard brown plastic shelf to sit on, and a Hart Ridge phone book dangling from a wire. Pat was sitting in the farther booth when she got Ginny. The door was open, and her forehead was pressed against the cool metal of the pay phone.
“I’m going to Maine,” said Ginny.
“Oh, I wish I were,” said Pat. “It’s so awful here.” Beside the steps to the platform were some shrubby roses that reminded her of the beach.
“I mean I’m moving there,” said Ginny.
“Really?”
“I’m not sure if I told you I got married.”
“Married!” exclaimed Pat.
“It’s not what you think. But I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid,” Ginny whispered.
“Of who? Your husband?”
“No, no,” she said with sibilant impatience. “Nothing like that. Maybe myself.”
The face of the black engine appeared around the bend just then, its clanks and hisses suggesting a drizzlier, cooler, cozier climate, maybe in black and white.
“Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you back when I get into Penn Station,” said Pat.
“I don’t have one. I have this idea of…of the dark woods,” said Ginny.
“Wait,” said Pat with the sense that the conversation had gotten away from her. “The train’s here,” she said. “But we’ve had such good times. Why go so far away? We have to stay friends, right? Right?”
Pat sat on the left and more scenic side of the train and tried to picture Ginny married. She had always been alone in a way that Pat knew she never would or even could be. Not that Pat’s odd glancing association with Lemuel would have suited most people. Out of laziness or maybe lower standards, she put up with all sorts of nonsense. But it had sputtered along as other, more intense romances evaporated.
“Pat!” This warm greeting was from Frank Foy, a Hart Ridge classmate she hadn’t seen in years.
Pat looked up and said, “I warn you. I was shot at once on this train. Here.” She pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the window near the seat in front of her.
“Really,” said Frank, sitting down easily beside her and leaning over for a better look.
“I don’t mean the shooter knew it was me,” said Pat. “I was just a person. He probably couldn’t see more than a silhouette. A head, maybe? Hair?”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, screamed. Not much. Just a little scream. It was more interesting than scary. There wasn’t time for my life to flash before my eyes or anything like that. Suddenly there was a crack, there was a bullet hole in the window, and there were slivers of glass on my lap. The conductor must have told me a dozen times that I was all right and that it was only a BB gun. I think he was afraid I was going to sue. The same thing happened to me once when I saw a caterpillar in my salad at a fancy restaurant.”
“You were shot at in a restaurant, too?” Frank was wearing a red and blue rugby shirt, his hair was tousled, and he was leaning in so close that Pat could see the sheen on his fresh, taut skin and the tension in the muscles underneath. Muscles are supposed to work two ways, one against the other, and for the first time in her life, Pat could believe it.
“Of course not,” she said. “I’ve only been shot at once. Isn’t that
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