“Ow!”
They both turned to see Josh’s right hand deep into the heart of the typewriter. His fingers were entangled in a collection of keys fighting to get to the ribbon.
“Everything’s stuck!” he cried, looking at the antique as though it were a dog that had bit him.
“Hang on, hang on,” Paul said. “The letters got jammed. It’s not a big deal. Just let me carefully pull apart those—”
“It hurts!” Josh said. Before Paul could help him, Josh jerked his arm back to free himself. Blood spurted from the index finger of his right hand. The skin was torn on the side, just back of the nail.
“Shit!” Paul said as blood dripped onto the keys and the top of his desk.
“Why did it do that?” Josh asked.
“If you hit too many keys too fast—”
But Josh wasn’t interested. He’d turned to Charlotte, who had grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the desk and was wrapping them around her stepson’s finger. “Come into the kitchen. We’ll get you fixed up.”
Paul watched as they left his cramped office, then at the blood-spattered typewriter.
Josh could be heard saying to his stepmother, “That thing sucks. You should have got him a new computer instead.”
Ten
Bill Myers dropped by that evening with a folder full of real estate flyers that Charlotte had forgotten to bring home with her for an open house she was holding the following afternoon.
Paul went down and answered the door to let him in.
“How’s it going?” Paul said.
“Good. Can you give these to Charlotte?”
“No problem. Come on in, have a cold one.”
Bill hesitated, then said, “What the hell.”
Bill was in his early forties, a full head of blond hair morphing into gray. When Paul first met him, back when they both attended UConn—the University of Connecticut—up in Storrs, east of Hartford, Bill was the classic jock and looked the part. Six-foot, lean, one of those classic chiseled jaws. Nearly twenty years later, he wasn’t the athlete he once was but remained trim, keeping himself in shape by running five miles most days.
While always friends, they’d barely kept in touch—Christmas cards, the odd email, maybe meeting up for a drink every couple of years—but had renewed their connection since Charlotte joined the real estate agency where Bill worked. Up until Hoffman’s attack on Paul, there had been a weekly squash game, and whenever Bill had a new girlfriend he wanted them to meet, the four of them would plan a dinner out.
Paul took two beers from the fridge and guided Bill through the living room to the balcony that looked onto Long Island Sound.
“Charlotte’s upstairs, getting ready to head out tonight,” Paul said as they sat down on modern Adirondack chairs. He tossed his bottle cap into an empty coffee can he kept nearby. “This one couple, she’s shown them at least twenty places, but they want to go back one last time and see some house in Devon just off Naugatuck.”
“I know it,” Bill said. “Been on the market thirteen months. Handyman’s dream. Someone should buy it for the lot, tear the place, and start over.”
“Josh and I are gonna watch a movie. How’s your weekend looking? Out with Rachel?”
Bill shook his head. “That’s kind of cooled off. She thinks a guy who’s been married once before is not a good prospect.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
Bill grunted.
The glass door slid back and Josh stepped out.
“Hey, pal,” Bill said, gripping the boy’s shoulder and giving him a small shake. He spotted Josh’s finger and said, “What’d you do there?”
“A typewriter bit me,” he said.
Bill raised a puzzled eyebrow. Paul said, “A surprise from Charlotte. An old Underwood. Josh got his finger caught in it.”
Bill nodded. “Okay. Old typewriters are becoming a thing. Not that I’d want to use one. I’m a fan of find-and-replace.”
“We talking about women now?”
Josh chuckled.
The door slid open again and this time it was Charlotte. “Hey, Bill,” she said as Josh scurried back into the house.
Bill turned around in his chair. “Left those flyers for your thing tomorrow on the counter.”
“Thanks.” She gave Paul an apologetic look. “I hope I won’t be too late.”
Paul smiled ruefully. “No problem.”
Charlotte withdrew, sliding the glass door into the closed position.
“Uh, good-bye,” Bill said.
Paul felt obliged to offer an apology. “She’s got a lot on her mind. Me, mostly.”
“How’s it going with the shrink?”
The term brought a sigh from Paul. “Okay.”
“Good. ’Cause we don’t want you doing anything stupid.”
Paul narrowed his eyes. “Christ, I’m not going to kill myself.”
Bill leaned back in his chair and raised his palms as though under attack. “Sorry. It’s just, you’ve kind of been on edge. Depressed, the nightmares, forgetting shit. Like the other day, I returned your call, and you’re all ‘What, I never called you’ except you did.”
Paul bristled. “Okay, yeah, I admit, the last eight months have not been the best. But I’m working through it. I’ve got a plan.”
“Okay, great, that’s all I wanted to hear.” He smiled. “What you need is to get that head of yours fixed up so I can beat your ass again at squash. I’m suffering from the withdrawal of humiliating you.”
“Fuck off.”
Bill grinned. “Truth hurts, man.” He paused. “So what’s the plan?”
Paul hesitated. “I want to find out what makes Kenneth Hoffman tick.”
Bill eyed him amusedly. “I can help you with that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s a fuckin’ psycho.”
_________________
LATER, AFTER BILL HAD LEFT, JOSH HURRIEDLY SLID OPEN THE BALCONY door and said breathlessly to his father, “Don’t you hear that?”
Paul, who’d been turning the pages of The New Yorker, taking in nothing more than the cartoons, said, “Hear what?”
Josh gave him a “ duh?” look. So Paul listened. The sound had been there the entire time. He’d just been unaware of it. Music. Well, not really music. It was an endlessly repeating jingle.
Dee dee, diddly-dee, dee dee, dee-da, dee-da, dee da dee.
“Ice cream?” Josh said. “The ice cream truck?”
“Right!” he said, springing out of his chair. “I have to get my wallet.”
Josh produced it in his upraised right hand.
By the time they hit the street, the truck was only half a block away. It was an old, rusted blue-and-white panel van with rudimentary drawings of ice-cream cones and sundaes and the words THE TASTEE TRUCK painted on the sides. Josh waved a hand to make sure the driver didn’t miss them. The truck slowed with a rusty screeching of brakes at the end of the driveway.
“Whatcha want?” Paul asked as Josh scanned the menu board with wonder.
“Chocolate-coated cone,” he said.
The driver moved from behind the wheel to the open bay on the side and asked, in a low monotone, “Yeah?”
Paul suddenly found himself unable to speak.
The ice cream man, not much older than twenty, looked like he ate a lot of what he sold. Thick, pudgy arms; a round face with soft, pimpled cheeks; hair cut so close to his head he was almost shaved bald. He was probably six feet tall, but looked even taller, towering over them from the serving window.
The name tag pinned to his ice cream–smeared apron read LEN.
Len asked, slowly, “What do you want?”
“Dad?” Josh said.
“Uh, two cones. Mediums,” Paul said. “Dipped in chocolate.”
“Okay,” Len said.
Paul briefly turned and looked away while Len grabbed two empty cones, held them beneath the soft ice cream dispenser, pulled down on the bar, then gently waved each cone to create a swirling effect. Then he dipped them in melted chocolate, which instantly froze into a shell.
“Mister?” Len said.
Paul turned back. Len looked at him blankly as he leaned over and handed him the cones. Paul gave one off to Josh, then dug into his pocket for his wallet. Paul handed Len a ten.
“One second,” Len said, going into a green metal cash box for change.