knowledge that if he did； Wendy would leave him at last； and take Danny with
her。 He would be dead from the day they left。
Instead of going into the bar； where dark shadows sat sampling the tasty
waters of oblivion； he had gone to Al Shockley's house。 The Board's vote had
been six to one。 Al had been the one。
Now he dialed the operator and she told him that for a dollar eighty…five he
could be put in touch with Al two thousand miles away for three minutes。 Time is
relative； baby； he thought； and stuck in eight quarters。 Faintly he could hear
the electronic boops and beeps of his connection sniffing its way eastward。
Al's father had been Arthur Longley Shockley； the steel baron。 He had left his
only son； Albert； a fortune and a huge range of investments and directorships
and chairs on various boards。 One of these had been on the Board of Directors
for Stovington Preparatory Academy； the old man's favorite charity。 Both Arthur
and Albert Shockley were alumni and Al lived in Barre； close enough to take a
personal interest in the school's affairs。 For several years Al had been
Stovington's tennis coach。
Jack and Al had bee friends in a pletely natural and uncoincidental way：
at the many school and faculty functions they attended together； they were
always the two drunkest people there。 Shockley was separated from his wife； and
Jack's own marriage was skidding slowly downhill； although he still loved Wendy
and had promised sincerely （and frequently） to reform； for her sake and for baby
Danny's。
The two of them went on from many faculty parties； hitting the bars until they
closed； then stopping at some mom 'n' pop） store for a case of beer they would
drink parked at the end of some back road。 There were mornings when Jack would
stumble into their leased house with dawn seeping into the sky and find Wendy
and the baby asleep on the couch； Danny always on the inside； a tiny fist curled
under the shelf of Wendy's jaw。 He would look at them and the self…loathing
would back up his throat in a bitter wave； even stronger than the taste of beer
and cigarettes and martinis — martians； as Al called them。 Those were the times
that his mind would turn thoughtfully and sanely to the gun or the rope or the
razor blade。
If the bender had occurred on a weeknight； he would sleep for three hours； get
up； dress； chew four Excedrins； and go off to teach his nine o'clock American
Poets still drunk。 Good morning； kids； today the Red…Eyed Wonder is going to
tell you about how Longfellow lost his wife in the big fire。
He hadn't believed he was an alcoholic； Jack thought as Al's telephone began
ringing in his ear。 The classes he had missed or taught unshaven； still reeking
of last night's martians。 Not me； I can stop anytime。 The nights he and Wendy
had passed in separate beds。 Listen； I'm fine。 Mashed fenders。 Sure I'm okay to
drive。 The tears she always shed in the bathroom。 Cautious looks from his
colleagues at any party where alcohol was served； even wine。 The slowly dawning
realization that he was being talked about。 The knowledge that he was producing
nothing at his Underwood but balls of mostly blank paper that ended up in the
wastebasket。 He had been something of a catch for Stovington； a slowly blooming
American writer perhaps； and certainly a man well qualified to teach that great
mystery； creative writing。 He had published two dozen short stories。 He was
working on a play； and thought there might be a novel incubating in some mental
back room。 But now he was not producing and his teaching had bee erratic。
It had finally ended one night less than a month after Jack had broken his
son's arm。 That； it seemed to him； had ended his marriage。 All that remained was
for Wendy to gather her will 。。。 if her mother hadn't been such a grade A
bitch； he knew； Wendy would have taken a bus back to New Hampshire as soon as
Danny had been okay to travel。 It was over。
It had been a little past midnight。 Jack and Al were ing into Barre on U。S。
31； Al behind the wheel of his Jag； shifting fancily on the curves； sometimes
crossing the double yellow line。 They were both very drunk； the martians had
landed that night in force。 They came around the last curve before the bridge at
seventy； and there was a kid's bike in the road； and then the sharp； hurt
squealing as rubber shredded from the Jag's tires； and Jack remembered seeing
Al's face looming over the steering wheel like a round white moon。 Then the
jingling crashing sound as they hit the bike at forty； and it had flown up like
a bent and twisted bird； the handlebars striking the windshield； and then it was
in the air again； leaving the starred safety glass in front of Jack's bulging
eyes。 A moment later he heard the final dreadful smash as it landed on the road
behind them。 Something thumped underneath them as the tires passed over it。 The
Jag drifted around broadside； Al still jockeying the wheel； and from far away
Jack heard himself saying： 〃Jesus； Al。 We ran him down。 I felt it。〃
In his ear the phone kept ringing。 e on； Al。 Be home。 Let me get this over
with。
Al had brought the car to a smoking halt not more than three feet from a
bridge stanchion。 Two of the Jag's tires were flat。 They had left zigzagging
loops of burned rubber for a hundred and thirty feet。 They looked at each other
for a moment and then ran back in the cold darkness。
The bike was pletely ruined。 One wheel was gone； and looking back over his
shoulder Al had seen it lying in the middle of the road； half a dozen spokes
sticking up like piano wire。 Al had said hesitantly： 〃I think that's what we ran
over； Tacky…boy。〃
〃Then where's the kid？〃
〃Did you see a kid？〃
Jack frowned。 It had all happened with such crazy speed。 ing around the
corner。 The bike looming in the Jag's headlights。 Al yelling something。 Then the
collision and the long skid。
They moved the bike to one shoulder of the road。 Al went back to the Jag and
put on its four…way flashers。 For the next two hours they searched the sides of
the road； using a powerful four…cell flashlight。 Nothing。 Although it was late；
several cars passed the beached Jaguar and the two men with the bobbing
flashlight。 None of them stopped。 Jack thought later that some queer providence；
bent on giving them both a last chance； had kept the cops away； had kept any of
the passersby from calling them。
At quarter past two they returned to the Jag； sober but queasy。 〃If there was
nobody riding it； what was it doing in the middle of the road？〃 Al demanded。 〃It
wasn't parked on the side； it was right in the fucking middle！〃
Jack could only shake his head。
〃Your party does not answer；〃 the operator said。 〃Would you like me to keep on
trying？〃
〃A couple more rings； operator。 Do you mind？〃
〃No； sir；〃 the voice said dutifully。
e on； Al！
Al had hiked across the bridge to the nearest pay phone； called a bachelor
friend and told him it would be worth fifty dollars if the friend would get the
Jag's snow tires out of the garage and bring them down to the Highway 31