I log on my PC and find the site for the International Herald Tribune. Her father’s name is David Cole. His most recent byline appeared three days ago. The dateline was Bhuj, India, where he has been sent to cover a horrific earthquake. I’m sure David Cole’s editor knows the hotel number where he can be reached, in the awful event I need to call and tell him his daughter is lost.
Laying my cheek on the mouse pad, I doze off.
The dream is one of my regulars. I open the door and a bare-chested man greets me; a man my age. He’s tall, and his sandy hair is shot lightly with gray at the temples.
He grins and says, “Hullo, Jack Jr.”
And I say, “Dad, this isn’t funny.”
His face hasn’t changed from the photograph my mother kept; the three of us on Clearwater Beach, me in a baby stroller. He looks like his son around the eyes, this man. The chin, too.
“You thought I was dead but I’m not,” he announces impishly.
In the dream, here’s what I do next: I grab him by his suntanned shoulders and heave him up against a wall. He looks solid but he’s as light as a child.
“What happened to you? What happened?” I’m yelling into his face.
“Nothing,” he bubbles. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“How old are you?”
“Same age as you are,” says my smiling father. Then he wriggles free and runs away. I chase after him and we end up on a golf course, of all places, tearing up and down the fairways. In the dream my old man is fleet and cagey afoot.
But I always catch him on the fringe of the thirteenth green, tackling him from behind. I lie there in the soft dewy grass for the longest time, pinning him while I catch my breath.
And when I finally roll my father over, he’s not smiling the way he did in my mother’s snapshot. He’s stone dead.
In the dream I start shaking him like a movie-prop dummy, this fellow who looks too much like me; throttling him not out of grief but in a fever of exasperation.
“You’re not funny!” I scream at the whitening face. “Now wake up and tell me how long ago you died!”
That’s the way it always ends, me shaking the ghost of my father so ferociously that his teeth fall out of his skull like stars from a black hole.
After a dozen or so nights like that, who could blame Anne for bolting?
I wake up to face Juan and Evan, staring as they would at a five-car pileup.
“Long night?” says Juan.
“You’re supposed to be in Tampa.”
“Got your message. I woke up early and drove back.”
“Evan,” I say, “would you excuse us?”
The kid nods disappointedly and mopes toward his desk. What am I now, the entertainment committee?
Juan has brought a bag of breakfast from the cafeteria. He drags an extra chair to my desk and sets out bagels, croissants and orange juice.
“Congratulations,” I tell him. “I saw where you got your leave of absence.” It was posted on the bulletin board.
“Yeah. Starting Monday.”
“I’m proud of you, man. Aren’t you juiced about the book?”
He shrugs. “My sister’s not so thrilled.”
“I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
“She understands, though. Least she says so.”
“You’ll do a terrific job,” I tell him. “Lizzy will be proud of you when she reads it.”
I dive for the phone: Eddie Bell again, calling to flog the Audrey Feiffer obit. Quickly I transfer him to Evan’s line and replace the receiver.
Juan says, “Tell me what’s happened with your story, Jack.”
“It ate me alive, that’s what happened. They’ve grabbed Emma.”
At first Juan doesn’t say anything. He sets his half-eaten bagel on the desk and looks around, making certain we’re not being overheard. Then he takes a drink of juice before calmly asking, “Who’s got her, Jack?”
“The widow and her boys.”
“What do they want?”
“A song.” I tell him the title. “It was on the hard drive we took to Dommie’s.”
“So, give ’em the damn thing,” Juan says.