“How could you remember where everything was? Like the bathrooms? You might forget who the teacher was. You might call her by the wrong name.”
He shook his head again. “When you’re young, you can remember stuff pretty well. It’s when you get old that you start to forget things.”
“I forget things,” she said. “I forgot what my daddy looks like. He’s in prison. But I think he’s coming home soon.”
“Yes, I think he is.”
“Where did you go to school when you were six and a half like me?”
School, the center of her universe. He thought about it. When he was six and a half, the war in Vietnam was still well below its peak, but it was already big enough that his father was there or thereabouts at the time. So he figured that year would have been split between Guam and Manila. Manila, mostly, he thought, judging by his memories of the buildings and the vegetation, the places he hid out in and played around.
“The Philippines,” he said.
“Is that in Texas too?” she asked.
“No, it’s a bunch of islands between the Pacific and the South China Sea. Right out in the ocean, a long way from here.”
“The ocean,” she said, like she wasn’t sure. “Is the ocean in America?”
“Is there a map on the wall in your school?”
“Yes, there is. A map of the whole world.”
“O.K., the oceans are all the blue parts.”
“There’s a lot of blue parts.”
He nodded. “That’s for sure.”
“My mom went to school in California.”
“That’ll be on the map, too. Find Texas and look to the left.”
He saw her looking down at her hands, trying to remember which was left and which was right. Then he saw her look up beyond his shoulder, and he turned to see Carmen on her way back, trapped temporarily by the sales people getting up out of their booth. She waited until they had moved to the door and cleared the aisle and then she skipped back and sat down, all in one graceful movement. She pressed close to Ellie and hugged her one-armed and tickled her and got a squeal in exchange. The waitress finished with the sales people at the register and walked over, pad and pencil at the ready.
“Three Coke floats, please,” Ellie said, loud and clear.
The waitress wrote it down.
“Coming right up, honey,” she said, and walked away.
“Is that O.K. for you?” Carmen asked.
Reacher nodded. Like the smell of elementary school, he remembered the taste of a Coke float. He’d had his first ever in a PX canteen in Berlin, in a long low Quonset hut left over from the Four Powers occupation. It had been a warm summer’s day in Europe, no air conditioning, and he remembered the heat on his skin and the bubbles in his nose.
“It’s silly,” Ellie said. “It’s not the Coke that floats. It’s the ice cream that floats in the Coke. They should call them ice cream floats.”
Reacher smiled. He recalled thinking the same sorts of things, when he was her age. Outraged puzzlement at the illogicalities of the world he was being asked to join.
“Like elementary school,” he said. “I found out that elementary means easy. So ‘elementary school’ means ‘easy school.’ I remember thinking, well, it seems pretty hard to me. ‘Hard school’ would be a better name.”
Ellie looked at him, seriously.
“I don’t think it’s hard,” she said. “But maybe it’s harder in the ocean.”
“Or maybe you’re smarter than me.”
She thought about it, earnestly.
“I’m smarter than some people,” she said. “Like Peggy. She’s still on the three-letter words. And she thinks you spell zoo with a Z.”
Reacher had no answer to that. He waited for Carmen to pick it up, but before she could the waitress arrived back with a tin tray with three tall glasses on it. She put them on the table with great ceremony and whispered “Enjoy”’ to Ellie and backed away. But the glasses were almost a foot tall, and the drinking straws added another six inches, and Ellie’s chin was about level with the table top, so her mouth was a long way from where it needed to be.