Why don’t you write something for the Chronicle of Higher Ed, maybe even the NY Times? Talk about how all these academics who couldn’t write a fucking greeting card are turning to self-publishing and then patting each other on the back for getting “published.” About how the poor fucking kids who have to use those books don’t know any better. Talk about what a damn fraud the whole business of self-publishing is in academia. You’ve got the rep, man. You could pull it off. You’re the wine master. I’m just a lowly grape picker.
The folder contained no response from Huston. Had he responded in person or not at all? On the tablet DeMarco wrote Robert Denton.
It was nearly eleven p.m. when DeMarco finished reading the emails. His back ached and his eyes stung, but he now had a list of four individuals he could consider persons of interest. Huston was still the primary suspect, but it was now clear that his life had not been as idyllic as it had seemed. DeMarco took no pleasure in that discovery.
Sixteen
I have my wallet, Thomas Huston told himself. I have my debit and credit cards. I have ninety-three dollars in cash. I have my wedding band. My wristwatch… Where is my wristwatch?
It was not on either wrist nor in any of his pockets. A Concord Saratoga chronograph, silver-and-black face set in a brushed stainless steel case, black rubber band, a birthday gift from Claire and the kids. All of his nice things were gifts from Claire and the kids. But where was it now? He was wearing it yesterday, wasn’t he? And the day before?
He remembered climbing into bed with Claire on Saturday night. Removed his clothing, looked at the watch, decided to leave it on because he planned to do a little work that night, didn’t want to let himself get carried away and remain at his desk all night, and there was no clock in his office, just the computer. But he preferred to consult his watch every now and then; he saw not just the time but his family’s love in it, carried that love on his wrist.
So he had been wearing the watch when he and Claire made love, then he held her until she fell asleep, then he slipped out of bed and quietly dressed again. He was worried that the garbage had not been taken out, and he had some thoughts in his head that he wanted to get down before they slipped away from him, but they were still rough edged and awkward so he let them tumble over and over, repeating and colliding and polishing themselves while, after taking care of the garbage, he took a slow, short stroll through the night, stood and breathed in the air, then returned to his office and wrote in his journal for a while.
What was the last thing you wrote? he asked himself, and tried to remember. You wrote, “He knew what he had to do,” didn't you? That scene, those opening lines? And then you wrote about Claire, right?
The sentences had been forming ever since he had lain in bed and watched Claire undressing, had kept working in his head all through the lovemaking. She is a dark-haired woman, green eyed and dusky with secrets. Her mouth is sensuous but sad, limbs long and elegant, every movement languid. Even her smile is slow with sorrow.
And now a flush of panic, a writer’s terror. You got that down, didn’t you? Yes, he was sure he had. He had written that and more, a long descriptive passage that he planned to break up later, a brushstroke here and there. And then he would—
No, he told himself, stop it. Keep your mind here and now. The watch is gone, it doesn’t matter where or when or how. Everything is gone. The past is history, pages torn from a book. Be here now. Right here.
You’ve got some money and your useless credit and debit cards. You can buy food. Where are you going to buy some food?
From within the line of trees that began just ten yards off North Street, he surveyed the possibilities. Across the street and to his right, maybe thirty paces away, the Country Fair, an all-night gas station and convenience store. Beside it sat Basic Kneads, a sandwich shop that specialized in homemade breads and croissants. But the sandwich shop was dark, as was the Giant Eagle a block and a half east. So it’s at least nine o’clock, he told himself. Probably an hour later, maybe two judging from the lightness of traffic.