It was almost six. He called down, ordered a hamburger. It came at seven, he ate it at eight-thirty, cold. It tasted good. He tried to leave, for the bar, several times. Parts of the suite were now acutely familiar to him, having sat staring at them as he tried to rationalize the distressing thoughts that erupted in his mind with increasing severity. Now, those areas of the room waited, like booby traps, to trigger the original thoughts themselves. At several points he was surprised again by how much time had passed and he’d go over exactly where the time had gone, which meant recalling the original thoughts, which caused him great distress. Sometimes, if this process took time, at the end, he would be surprised by just how much of it had passed, and would go over exactly where that time had gone too. He was trapped, by his mind, by the room, by his desperate attempts to feel in control. At times, he would be lost to frustration, then despair, then dealing with thoughts of suicide, and, always, intruding into his conscience, was Florence, and he would hate himself for desecrating her memory.
It was Saturday. He had the room until nine the next morning. He set his alarm and tried to sleep. He was exhausted. He wanted the nightmare to end. He craved unconsciousness. He was now in such a state that images automatically appeared every time he shut his eyes and ridges in the bedsheet reminded him of the weak limbs of a dying child and he cried into his pillow until, at last, he fell asleep, and ten minutes later, at half past seven, he was awoken by his alarm.
He flew commercial back to Houston. His body was a wreck, but he felt a little better. Something about sleep—even ten minutes of it—had erased the loop he’d got stuck in. He didn’t think about it. That much he was able to do now. He focused on the program. On his work. He slept in the cab from the airport to the house. Later that night, he picked up the telephone and dialed the Happy Bottom Riding Club. He had no cigarettes so girded his fingers around the green cord of the telephone.
What? Pancho said.
It’s me, he said.
Figured.
Guess you know.
Yeah.
She okay?
Are you okay?
Christ.
Come home, Jim.
Yeah, he said, maybe.
They talked some more, then hung up. The house was silent. He couldn’t go back. He packed a large bag, threw the bag in the Corvette, fired the engine and drove out of Timber Cove, out of Houston, and to the Cape.
CAPE CANAVERAL
COCOA BEACH,
FLORIDA, 1962
He was three days reaching the Cape. The roads were long and hot and empty. He drove through the southwest prairies of Louisiana, skirted the lowlands of Mississippi and Alabama and crossed into Florida at Pensacola. He stayed in hot motels and ate late in all-night diners with hard-bitten loners, wastrels and drunks sitting alone drinking cold coffee and smoking around him. He’d sit up at the counter, order meatballs and french fries and feel like he belonged. On occasion, a couple of cops on night patrol would roll up and eat with him, radios crackling quietly beneath the table. He felt a strange peace. During the long drives, he’d developed a system to help him cope with his troubled mind. He applied engineering principles to the problem, which was, he established, terrifying thoughts. Rather than spending time thinking through these thoughts, reviewing their content, seeking to reassure himself of their falsity, he came up with a system, a shortcut; bullet points. There were five in total. The points could be applied to any troubling thought he had. The real genius lay in their automation. He realized he didn’t actually have to consciously recite each of the points. He could simply count them out on his fingers. Or tap them out with his foot. He would be reassured, the thought would go, and he could move on. It was simple.
From a pay phone out the back of Joe Mac’s he called Pancho. The line connected, but he hung up after the third ring. It was his last stop before hitting Florida.
He arrived at the Cape, drove down to Cocoa Beach and parked up at the Holiday Inn. Henri was pleased to see him. He gave Harrison a room for as long as he needed it. He unpacked, then went down to the bar. Later that night, he called Grace Walker from his room.
Jesus, Jim, she said. What happened?
I don’t know, he said.
How are you?
I’m okay.
Look, I’m not taking sides on this—nobody needs that—but I feel very protective toward Grace; you understand that, right?
I do, he said.
She’s been through so much.
We both have.
Yes, but she’s been dealing with it.
And I haven’t?
Honestly, Jim? No, I don’t think you have. Look, so much has happened, and so fast … You both need some time. All I’m saying is, don’t be too hard on yourself. I know you’re under a lot of pressure at work, but maybe you could take a week or so off? Or even just a few days? I really think it would do you good. I could make up Robbie’s old room; you could stay with us.
How’s Pancho?
She’s the same. Where are you?
The Cape. Need to be here most of the time anyway.
What about the house?
Figured we’d sell it … Grace can keep whatever we get.
Why don’t you come back, Jim? It would be good to see you. Joe would get a kick out of having you stay.
Harrison didn’t say anything.
He told me he ran into you at the Cape, she said.
It was real good to see him, Harrison said.
Joe said the same, she said.
There was a pause.
Is she okay? he said.
Yes, she said.
It’s good to hear your voice.
And yours, Jim. You call me anytime you want, okay?
Say hi to Joe for me.
I will. Take care of yourself.
Bye, Grace.
Bye, Jim.