Wolf thought about the man’s family. How infuriating it must be to have a technology that could help you find your missing loved one and then not be able to use it. The delays for reasons of legality seemed inhumane to the point of being Kafkaesque when you were frantic with fear and everyone else was following rules. How many hours did the police spend grilling Wolf and Merri while Abbey’s abductor was getting farther and farther away?
Wolf ordered another beer, and a shot of tequila. Blake looked at him but didn’t say anything. Blake and Claire were real friends, and even if they didn’t, couldn’t, understand, they’d been there every step of the way. Blake had been in The Hollows hours after Abbey disappeared, advising them, supporting them.
“Will you keep your ears open about it, let me know if you hear anything so I can tell Jackson?”
Jackson’s doctor had advised them not to dismiss the kid’s fears, but to help him work through things. Help him to see that there were no patterns, no way to predict the future to prevent bad things from happening. Wolf wasn’t sure what good it did for him to know that, that no one had any control over anything, that life could spiral out of your control in a moment.
“Sure,” said Blake. “Want me to make some calls?”
“That would be great,” he said.
“I’m interested anyway,” said Blake.
The place was filling up, and the voices around them getting a little louder. They both zoned out on the game. During a commercial break, Wolf watched a preview of the weather. The first winter storm was on its way, and it wasn’t even Halloween. Snowfall in the city was going to be light, but it looked like they were going to get dumped on farther up north. The sight of that gray graphic over the upstate region gripped him with sorrow. Another winter coming without Abbey, and Merri getting farther away every second.
“You should go up there, man,” said Blake again, reading his thoughts. “At least bring her back before that storm hits.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Wolf.
A girl sat at one of the high-tops, surrounded by a crowd of coworkers, her blazer off, her sheer blouse revealing a cream-colored camisole. Her blonde hair was silky and a little wild around her face like a mane. She was smiling at Wolf, sweet and shy. She laughed at something, turned back to the young man beside her.
In another life, Wolf would have lingered after Blake went home. He’d have found a way to strike up a conversation with the pretty girl. If she’d been a certain type, he’d have wound up back at her place. But he liked to think that he was a different man now, someone who’d learned from his mistakes, made better choices.
So when Blake picked up the tab and gathered up his things to go home, Wolf left with him.
*
Back at the apartment, Wolf’s parents had gone to sleep in the master bedroom, and his mother had made up the bed for him on the couch. He looked in on Jackson, who was sweaty and fitful in sleep, his leg kicked out from beneath the covers, still wearing his glasses, his night light on. The scar on his thigh was a large but tidy keloid mark that looked like a star. A book on quantum physics lay spine up on the floor. Wolf touched his son’s head, took off his glasses, and turned out the light.
On the couch, he dialed Merri and was surprised when she answered.
“There’s a storm coming,” he said. “I think you should come home.”
“I can’t,” she said. He could tell she’d been crying.
“Then we’re going to come up,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s not healthy for him.”
“Then I’ll leave him with my parents,” he said. “Just for a couple of days.”
She didn’t say anything, her breath filling the space between them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Merri, I’m truly sorry. I’ve been a shit husband and a worse father.” How many times had he said it? Were there ever more pointless, impotent words in the English language than “I’m sorry.” The words uttered when all was lost, when nothing could alter outcomes.
“Let me try to do better,” he said. “Please.”
There was only silence on the other end. He thought that maybe she had hung up, as she sometimes did, without a word. Even when she wasn’t angry, she would every once in a while just absently end a call, her mind on to the next thing.
They were so different, always had been. He was a writer. She was an editor. He created; she corrected. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Wolf. Most grown-ups know that. Was it Ray Bradbury who said, Stay drunk on writing so that reality doesn’t destroy you? On the page, you could write the world. Off the page, the world would crush you, if you let it, with its harsh consequences and brutal outcomes, with all its banalities and dull day-to-day slog.
“Merri?”
“Okay,” she said. “Try to do better.”
And then she hung up.
NINETEEN