feel like going to drama club.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“We could stand in a corner and neck,” she said.
“Can I cop a feel?”
“You better.”
He smiled.
“What?” she said.
“I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Something Esperanza said to me yesterday,” Myron said. “Men tracht und Gott lacht.”
“Is that German?”
“Yiddish.”
“What does it mean?”
“Man plans, God laughs.”
She repeated it. “I like that.”
“Me too,” he said.
He hugged her then. Over her shoulder, he saw Erin at the top of the stairs. She was not smiling. Myron’s eyes met hers and again he thought about Aimee, about how the night had swallowed her whole, and about the promise he had sworn to keep.
CHAPTER 10
M yron had time before his flight.
He grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks in the center of town. The barista who took his order had the trademark sullen attitude. As he handed Myron the drink, lifting it to the counter as though it were the weight of the world, the door behind them opened with a bang. The barista rolled his eyes as they entered.
There were six of them today, trudging in as though through deep snow, heads down, a variety of shakes. They sniffled and touched their faces. The four men were unshaven. The two women smelled like cat piss.
They were mental patients. For real. They spent most nights at Essex Pines, a psychiatric facility in the neighboring town. Their leader—wherever they walked, he stayed in front—was named Larry Kidwell. His group spent most days wandering through town. Livingstonites referred to them as the Town Crazies. Myron uncharitably thought of them as a bizarre rock group: Lithium Larry and the Medicated Five.
Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.
“Hey, Myron,” he said too loudly.
“What’s happening, Larry?”
“Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”
Myron nodded. “I hear you.”
Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of hisIndiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.
Myron started heading for the door. “Take it easy, Larry.”
“You too, Myron.” He reached out to shake Myron’s hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes—wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes—on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry’s. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.
“The next planet,” Larry whispered, “it might be yours. Yours alone.”
“That’s great to know, thanks.”
“No!” Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. “The planet. It’s slither moon. It’s out to get you, you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t ignore this.”
He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man’s agitation.
“It’s okay, Larry.”
“Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither.”
The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry’s tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He’d been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father’s alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.
Then it all came apart.
What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry’s life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone
“Oh.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“We could stand in a corner and neck,” she said.
“Can I cop a feel?”
“You better.”
He smiled.
“What?” she said.
“I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Something Esperanza said to me yesterday,” Myron said. “Men tracht und Gott lacht.”
“Is that German?”
“Yiddish.”
“What does it mean?”
“Man plans, God laughs.”
She repeated it. “I like that.”
“Me too,” he said.
He hugged her then. Over her shoulder, he saw Erin at the top of the stairs. She was not smiling. Myron’s eyes met hers and again he thought about Aimee, about how the night had swallowed her whole, and about the promise he had sworn to keep.
CHAPTER 10
M yron had time before his flight.
He grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks in the center of town. The barista who took his order had the trademark sullen attitude. As he handed Myron the drink, lifting it to the counter as though it were the weight of the world, the door behind them opened with a bang. The barista rolled his eyes as they entered.
There were six of them today, trudging in as though through deep snow, heads down, a variety of shakes. They sniffled and touched their faces. The four men were unshaven. The two women smelled like cat piss.
They were mental patients. For real. They spent most nights at Essex Pines, a psychiatric facility in the neighboring town. Their leader—wherever they walked, he stayed in front—was named Larry Kidwell. His group spent most days wandering through town. Livingstonites referred to them as the Town Crazies. Myron uncharitably thought of them as a bizarre rock group: Lithium Larry and the Medicated Five.
Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.
“Hey, Myron,” he said too loudly.
“What’s happening, Larry?”
“Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”
Myron nodded. “I hear you.”
Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of hisIndiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.
Myron started heading for the door. “Take it easy, Larry.”
“You too, Myron.” He reached out to shake Myron’s hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes—wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes—on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry’s. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.
“The next planet,” Larry whispered, “it might be yours. Yours alone.”
“That’s great to know, thanks.”
“No!” Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. “The planet. It’s slither moon. It’s out to get you, you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t ignore this.”
He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man’s agitation.
“It’s okay, Larry.”
“Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither.”
The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry’s tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He’d been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father’s alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.
Then it all came apart.
What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry’s life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone
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