All those K’s.
Oh, there were Stevens and Johns and Marthas; there was Meserve, G., and Messier, V., and Jayhouse, T. And yet, again and again, I saw the initial K where people had exercised their right not to list their first name in the book. There were at least twenty K-initials on page fifty alone, and another dozen C-initials. As for the actual names themselves . . .
There were twelve Kenneths on this random page in the M-section, including three Kenneth Moores and two Kenneth Munters. There were four Catherines and two Katherines. There were a Casey, a Kiana, and a Kiefer.
‘Holy Christ, it’s like fallout,’ I whispered.
I thumbed through the book, not able to believe what I was seeing and seeing it anyway.
Kenneths, Katherines, and Keiths were everywhere. I also saw Kimberly, Kim, and Kym. There were Cammie, Kia (yes, and we had thought ourselves so original), Kiah, Kendra, Kaela, Keil, and Kyle. Kirby and Kirk. There was a woman named Kissy Bowden, and a man named Kito Rennie —
Kito, the same name as one of Kyra’s fridgeafator people. And everywhere, outnumbering such usually common initials as S and T and E, were those K’s. My eyes danced with them.
I turned to look at the clock — didn’t want to stand John Storrow up at the airport, Christ no —
and there was no clock there. Of course not. Old Krazy Kat had popped his peepers during a psychic event. I gave a loud, braying laugh that scared me a little — it wasn’t particularly sane.
‘Get hold of yourself, Mike,’ I said. ‘Take a deep breath, son.’
I took the breath. Held it. Let it out. Checked the digital readout on the microwave. Quarter past eight. Plenty of time for John. I turned back to the telephone book and began to riffle rapidly through it. I’d had a second inspiration — not a megawatt blast like the first one, but a lot more accurate, it turned out.
Western Maine is a relatively isolated area — it’s a little like the hill country of the border South
— but there has always been at least some inflow of folks from away (‘flatlanders’ is the term the locals use when they are feeling contemptuous), and in the last quarter of the century it has become a popular area for active seniors who want to fish and ski their way through retirement. The phone book goes a long way toward separating the newbies from the long-time residents. Babickis, Parettis, O’Quindlans, Donahues, Smolnacks, Dvoraks, Blindermeyers — all from away. All flatlanders. Jalberts, Meserves, Pillsburys, Spruces, Therriaults, Perraults, Stanchfields, Starbirds, Dubays — all from Castle County. You see what I’m saying, don’t you? When you see a whole column of Bowies on page twelve, you know that those folks have been around long enough to relax and really spread those Bowie genes.
There were a few K-initials and K-names among the Parettis and the Smolnacks, but only a few.
The heavy concentrations were all attached to families that had been here long enough to absorb the atmosphere. To breathe the fallout. Except it wasn’t radiation, exactly, it —
I suddenly imagined a black headstone taller than the tallest tree on the lake, a monolith which cast its shadow over half of Castle County. This picture was so clear and so terrible that I covered my eyes, dropping the phone book on the table. I backed away from it, shuddering. Hiding my eyes actually seemed to enhance the image further: a grave-marker so enormous it blotted out the sun; TR-90 lay at its foot like a funeral bouquet. Sara Tidwell’s son had drowned in Dark Score Lake . . .
or been drowned in it. But she had marked his passing. Memorialized it. I wondered if anyone else in town had ever noticed what I just had. I didn’t suppose it was all that likely; when you open a telephone book you’re looking for a specific name in most cases, not reading whole pages line by line. I wondered if Jo had noticed — if she’d known that almost every longtime family in this part of the world had, in one way or another, named at least one child after Sara Tidwell’s dead son.
Jo wasn’t stupid. I thought she probably had.
I returned to the bathroom, relathered, started again from scratch. When I finished, I went back to the phone and picked it up. I poked in three numbers, then stopped, looking out at the lake. Mattie and Ki were up and in the kitchen, both of them wearing aprons, both of them in a fine froth of excitement. There was going to be a party! They would wear pretty new summer clothes, and there would be music from Mattie’s boombox CD player! Ki was helping Mattie make biscuits for strewberry snortcake, and while the biscuits were baking they would make salads. If I called Mattie up and said Pack a couple of bags, you and Ki are going to spend a week at Disney World, Mattie would assume I was joking, then tell me to hurry up and finish getting dressed so I’d be at the airport when John’s plane landed. If I pressed, she’d remind me that Lindy had offered her her old job back, but the offer would close in a hurry if Mattie didn’t show up promptly at two P.M. on Friday. If I continued to press, she would just say no.
Because I wasn’t the only one in the zone, was I? I wasn’t the only one who was really feeling it.
I returned the phone to its recharging cradle, then went back into the north bedroom. By the time I’d finished dressing, my fresh shirt was already feeling wilted under the arms; it was as hot that morning as it had been for the last week, maybe even hotter. But I’d be in plenty of time to meet the plane. I had never felt less like partying, but I’d be there. Mikey on the spot, that was me. Mikey on the goddam spot.
John hadn’t given me his flight number, but at Castle County Airport, such niceties are hardly necessary. This bustling hub of transport consists of three hangars and a terminal which used to be a Flying A gas station — when the light’s strong on the little building’s rusty north side, you can still see the shape of that winged A. There’s one runway. Security is provided by Lassie, Breck Pellerin’s ancient collie, who spends her days crashed out on the linoleum floor, cocking an ear at the ceiling whenever a plane lands or takes off.
I popped my head into Pellerin’s office and asked him if the ten from Boston was on time. He said it ’twas, although he hoped the paa’ty I was meetin planned to either fly back out before mid-afternoon or stay the night. Bad weather was comin in, good gorry, yes. What Breck Pellerin referred to as ‘ lectrical weather. I knew exactly what he meant, because in my nervous system that electricity already seemed to have arrived.
I went out to the runway side of the terminal and sat on a bench advertising Cormier’s Market (FLY INTO OUR DELI FOR THE BEST MEATS IN MAINE). The sun was a silver button stuck on the eastern slope of a hot white sky. Headache weather, my mother would have called it, but the weather was due to change. I would hold onto the hope of that change as best I could.
At ten past ten I heard a wasp-whine from the south. At quarter past, some sort of twin-engine plane dropped out of the murk, flopped onto the runway, and taxied toward the terminal. There were only four passengers, and John Storrow was the first one off. I grinned when I saw him. I had to grin. He was wearing a black tee-shirt with WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS printed across the front and a pair of khaki shorts which displayed a perfect set of city shins: white and bony. He was trying to manage both a Styrofoam cooler and a briefcase. I grabbed the cooler maybe four seconds before he dropped it, and tucked it under my arm.
‘Mike!’ he cried, lifting one hand palm out.
‘John!’ I returned in much the same spirit ( evoe is the word that comes immediately to the crossword aficionado’s mind), and slapped him five. His homely-handsome face split in a grin, and I felt a little stab of guilt. Mattie had expressed no preference for John — quite the opposite, in fact
— and he really hadn’t solved any of her problems; Devore had done that by topping himself before John had so much as a chance to get started on her behalf. Yet still I felt that nasty little poke.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of this heat. You have air conditioning in your car, I presume?’