"What is it? Tell me."
"It's nothing. That's what's the matter. Nothing is what's bothering me. It's over, and I finally realized it, that's all. Less than six hundred people singing 'The Star-Spangled Banner.' It just kind of hit me all at once. No hotdog stands. The Ferris wheel isn't going around and around at Coney Island tonight. No one's having a nightcap at the Space Needle in Seattle. Someone finally found a way to clean up the dope in Boston's Combat Zone and the chicken-ranch business in Times Square. Those were terrible things, but I think the cure was a lot worse than the disease. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I do."
"In my diary I had a little section called 'Things to Remember.' So the baby would know... oh, all the things he never will. And it gives me the blues, thinking of that. I should have called it 'Things That Are Gone.'" She did sob a little, stopping her bike so she could put the back of her hand to her mouth and try to keep it in.
"It got everybody the same way," Stu said, putting an arm around her. "Lot of people are going to cry themselves to sleep tonight. You better believe it."
"I don't see how you can grieve for a whole country," she said, crying harder, "but I guess you can. These... these little things keep shooting through my mind. Car salesmen. Frank Sinatra. Old Orchard Beach in July, all crowded with people, most of them from Quebec. That stupid guy on MTV - Randy, I think his name was. The times... oh God, I sound like a fuh-fuh-frigging Rod Muh-McKuen poem!"
He held her, patting her back, remembering one time when his Aunt Betty had gotten a crying fit over some bread that didn't rise - she was big with his little cousin Laddie then, seven months or so - and Stu could remember her wiping her eyes with the corner of a dishtowel and telling him to never mind, any pregnant woman was just two doors down from the mental ward because the juices their glands put out were always scrambled up into a stew.
After a while Frannie said, "Okay. Okay. Better. Let's go."
"Frannie, I love you," he said. They resumed pushing their bikes.
She asked him, "What do you remember best? What's the one thing?"
"Well, you know - " he said, and then stopped with a little laugh.
"No, I don't know, Stuart."
"It's crazy."
"Tell me."
"I don't know if I want to. You'll start looking for the guys with the butterfly nets."
"Tell me!" She had seen Stu in many moods, but this curious, embarrassed uneasiness was new to her.
"I never told anybody," he said, "but I have been thinking on it the last couple of weeks. Something happened to me back in 1982, I was pumping gas at Bill Hapscomb's gas station then. He used to hire me on, if he could, when I was laid off at the calculator plant in town. He had me on part-time, eleven P.M. to closing, which was three in the morning back in those days. There wasn't much business after the people getting off the three-to-eleven shift at the Dixie Paper factory stopped to get their gas... lots of nights there wasn't a single car stopped between twelve and three. I'd sit there and read a book or a magazine, and lots of night I'd doze off. You know?"
"Yes." She did know. In her mind's eye she could see him, the man who would become her man in the fullness of time and the peculiarity of events, a broad-shouldered man sleeping in a plastic Woolco chair with a book open and facedown on his lap. She saw him sleeping in an island of white light, an island surrounded by a great inland sea of Texas night. She loved him in this picture, as she loved him in all the pictures her mind drew.
"Well, this one night it was about quarter past two, and I was sitting behind Hap's desk with my feet up, reading some Western - Louis L'Amour, Elmore Leonard, someone like that, and in pulls this big old Pontiac with all the windows rolled down and the tape-player going like mad, playing Hank Williams. I even remember the song - it was 'Movin' On.' This guy, not young and not old, is all by himself. He was a good-lookin man, but in a way that was a little scary - I mean, he looked like he might do scary things without thinkin very hard about em. He had bushy, curly dark hair. There was a bottle of wine snugged down between his legs and a pair of Styrofoam dice hanging from the rearview mirror. He says, 'High test,' and I said okay, but for a minute I just stood there and looked at him. Because he looked familiar. I was playin place the face."
They were on the corner now; their apartment building was across the street. They paused there. Frannie was looking at him closely.