Annie checks the answering machine, but theres a big red zero in the MESSAGES WAITING window. That means nothing in itself, lots of people call without leaving a message, but
Star-sixty-nine reports the last call at eight-forty last night. Annie dials it anyway, hoping against hope that somewhere outside the big room that looks like a Grand Central Station movie-set he found a place to re-charge his phone. To him it might seem he last spoke to her yesterday. Or only minutes ago. Time is funny here, he said. She has dreamed of that call so many times it now almost seems like a dream itself, but she has never told anyone about it. Not Craig, not even her own mother, now almost ninety but alert and with a firmly held belief in the afterlife.
In the kitchen, the Village People advise that there is no need to feel down. There isnt, and she doesnt. She nevertheless holds the phone very tightly as the number she has star-sixty-nined rings once, then twice. Annie stands in the living room with the phone to her ear and her free hand touching the brooch above her left breast, as if touching the brooch could still the pounding heart beneath it. Then the ringing stops and a recorded voice offers to sell her the New York Times at special bargain rates that will not be repeated.
Mute
1
There were three confession booths. The light over the door of the middle one was on. No one was waiting. The church was empty. Colored light came in through the windows and made squares on the central aisle. Monette thought about leaving and didnt. Instead he walked to the booth that was open for business and went inside. When he closed the door and sat down, the little slider on his right opened. In front of him, tacked to the wall with a blue pushpin, was a file card. Typed on it was FOR ALL HAVE SINNED AND FALLEN SHORT OF GODS GLORY. It had been a long time, but Monette didnt think that was standard equipment. He didnt even think it was Baltimore Catechism.
From the other side of the mesh screen, the priest spoke. How you doing, my son?
Monette didnt think that was standard, either. But it was all right. Just the same, he couldnt reply at first. Not a word. And that was sort of funny, considering what he had to say.
Son? Cat got your tongue?
Still nothing. The words were there, but they were all blocked up. Absurd or not, Monette had a sudden image of a clogged toilet.
The blur beyond the screen shifted. Been a while?
Yes, Monette said. It was something.
Want me to give you a hint?
No, I remember. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Uh-huh, and how long has it been since your last confession?
I dont remember. A long time. Not since I was a kid.
Well, take it easyits like riding a bike.
But for a moment he could still say nothing. He looked at the typed message on the pushpin and his throat worked. His hands were kneading themselves, tighter and tighter, until they made a big fist that was rocking back and forth between his thighs.
Son? The day is rolling by, and I have company coming for lunch. Actually, my company is bringing lu
Father, I may have committed a terrible sin.
Now the priest was silent for a while. Mute, Monette thought. There was a white word if there ever was one. Type it on a file card and it ought to disappear.
When the priest on the other side of the screen spoke again, his voice was still friendly but more grave. Whats your sin, my son?
And Monette said, I dont know. Youll have to tell me.
2
It was starting to rain when Monette came up on the northbound entrance ramp to the turnpike. His suitcase was in the trunk, and his sample casesbig boxy things, the kind lawyers tote when theyre taking evidence into courtwere in the backseat. One was brown, one black. Both were embossed with the Wolfe & Sons logo: a timber wolf with a book in its mouth. Monette was a salesman. He covered all of northern New England. It was Monday morning. It had been a bad weekend, very bad. His wife had moved out to a motel, where she was probably not alone. Soon she might go to jail. Certainly there would be a scandal, and infidelity was going to be the least of it.
On the lapel of his jacket, he wore a button reading, ASK ME ABOUT THE BEST FALL LIST EVER!!
There was a man standing at the foot of the ramp. He was wearing old clothes and holding up a sign as Monette approached and the rain grew stronger. There was a battered brown knapsack between feet dressed in dirty sneakers. The Velcro closure of one sneaker had come loose and stuck up like a cockeyed tongue. The hitchhiker had no cap, let alone an umbrella.
At first all Monette could make out of the sign were crudely drawn red lips with a black slash drawn diagonally through them. When he got a little closer, he saw the words above the slashed mouth read I AM
MUTE! Below the slashed mouth was this: WILL YOU GIVE ME A RIDE???
Monette put on his blinker to make his turn onto the ramp. The hitchhiker flipped the sign over. On the other side was an ear, just as crudely drawn, with a slash through it. Above the ear: I AM DEAF! Below it: PLEASE MAY I HAVE A RIDE???
Monette had driven millions of miles since he was sixteen, most of them in the dozen years he had been repping for Wolfe & Sons, selling one best fall list ever after another, and during that time he had never picked up a single hitchhiker. Today he swerved over at the edge of the ramp with no hesitation and came to a stop. The St. Christophers medal looped over the rearview mirror was still swinging back and forth when he used the button on his door to pop open the locks. Today he felt he had nothing to lose.
The hitchhiker slid in and put his battered little pack between his damp and dirty sneakers. Monette had thought, looking at him, that the fellow would smell bad, and he wasnt wrong. He said, How far you going?
The hitchhiker shrugged and pointed up the ramp. Then he bent and carefully put his sign on top of his pack. His hair was stringy and thin. There was some gray in it.
I know which way, but Monette realized the man wasnt hearing him. He waited for him to straighten up. A car blew past and up the ramp, honking even though Monette had left him plenty of room to get by. Monette gave him the finger. This he had done before, but never for such minor annoyances.
The hitchhiker fastened his seat belt and looked at Monette, as if to ask what the holdup was. There were lines on his face, and stubble. Monette couldnt even begin to guess his age. Somewhere between old and not old, that was all he knew.
How far are you going? Monette asked, this time enunciating each word, and when the guy still only looked at himaverage height, skinny, no more than a hundred and fifty poundshe said, Can you read lips? He touched his own.
The hitchhiker shook his head and made some hand gestures.
Monette kept a pad in the console. While he wrote How far? on it, another car cruised past, now pulling up a fine rooster tail of moisture. Monette was going all the way to Derry, a hundred and sixty miles, and these were the kind of driving conditions he usually loathed, second only to heavy snow. But today he reckoned it would be all right. Today the weatherand the big rigs, pulling up their secondary storms of flying water as they droned pastwould keep him occupied.
Not to mention this guy. His new passenger. Who looked at the note, then back at Monette. It occurred to Monette later that maybe the guy couldnt read, eitherlearning to read when youre a deaf-mute had to be damn hardbut understood the question mark. The man pointed through the windshield and up the ramp. Then he opened and closed his hands eight times. Or maybe it was ten. Eighty miles. Or a hundred. If he knew at all.
Waterville? Monette guessed.
The hitchhiker looked at him blankly.
Okay, Monette said. Whatever. Just tap me on the shoulder when we get where youre going.
The hitchhiker looked at him blankly.
Well, I guess you will, Monette said. Assuming youve even got a destination in mind, that is. He checked his rearview, then got rolling. Youre pretty much cut off, arent you?