He found a hardboiled egg in the refrigerator. He peeled off its shell and started to eat it over the wastebasket. It was dry in his mouth. He knew it would taste much better sprinkled with salt. But he couldn’t be bothered. He stood at the wastebasket until the egg was gone. Then he refilled his coffee mug and returned to the office.
The second chapter went nearly as well as the first. But he was more cautious with it. He censored the voice in his head, refusing to tap out several, descriptions it provided of Barbara’s appearance. When he came to the part about the ruin of the old stone house they’d passed shortly before arriving at Sagebrush Flat, he stopped himself. He lit a fresh pipe and stared at the screen. Should he omit Pete and Barbara’s dialogue about screwing in that place?
This is supposed to be a true story. They didsay those things.
It’s already strayed from the truth, he realized. I’ve certainly tampered with my own side of it.
Hell, the conversation happened. Tell it like it was. Besides, it’ll say a lot about their relationship, help to flesh them out, make them seem more real.
“ ‘We spent too much time screwing around in there.’
“ ‘Watch it, mister.’
“From the tone of Barbara’s voice, I realized that Pete hadn’t been speaking figuratively. I imagined what it must have been like, picturing myself with Jean inside the tumble down walls of the ruin. Hard on the knees, probably. But exciting. I found myself wishing we were there now, rather than riding with Pete and Barbara toward the remains of a dead town.”
Larry grinned at the screen.
Nicely done.
He kept on writing. It went smoothly until the time came for Barbara to answer nature’s call. Should he put that in? Without it, how would he get her over to the stream bed behind Holman’s?
Tell it like it was, he decided.
And he did: Barbara wandering away, Pete going in search of her, the waiting, the worry, he and Jean finally going to look for them. All four were down in the gully studying the jukebox when the door bell rang.
Larry looked at the clock. Ten to eleven. He groaned as he got to his feet. He made his way through the house on legs that felt nearly too weak to support him. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and opened the front door.
Pete, in a knit shirt and jeans, looked well rested, alert, cool, chipper. “You taken up exercise?” he asked as he stepped inside.
“I’ve been writing.”
“Didn’t know writing was such hard work. You ought a turn the air on, man, it’s hotter than hell in here.”
“Yeah,” Larry muttered. He peeled the seat of his shorts away from his rear. “Want some coffee or something?”
Pete shook his head. “Already had my morning dose.”
“You look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, it makes me want to barf.”
He laughed. “You look like death warmed over. How about cleaning up and coming with us? Barb and I are going across the river and checking out the casino action. You’re welcome to come along.”
Larry felt the fuzz coming back into his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding. I’d probably collapse.” He rubbed his face, yawned.
“Stay out too late last night?”
“Ha ha. I got about an hour of sleep.”
“Should’ve slept in like I did. I feel like a million bucks.”
“Speaking of which... I started on the book.”
“Thebook?”
“Yeah.”
“Fantastic! Man, you didn’t waste any time.”
“Maybe I just want to get it over with.”
“You’re actually writingit?”
He nodded. His head felt heavy. “Almost done with the third chapter. It’s... I’m on a roll, I guess. It’s really moving.”
“Well, God, don’t let me stop you. Forget I mentioned the casinos. I’ll tell Barb I couldn’t drag you away.”
“You didn’t tell her about... the thing?”
Pete looked as if he thought Larry had lost his mind.
“She’s gonna find out sooner or later.”
“The later the better. How much can you write before Jean and Lane get back?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve got the rest of today and tomorrow. And the coffin’s pretty well hidden. Might be a week or so before anyone catches on. Hell, by then, who knows? You might be so far along in the book that it won’t even matter.”
“I don’t know,” Larry said again.
“How many pages you got?”
He shrugged. “Around thirty, I think.”
Pete’s face lit up. “All right! Thirty! That’s incredible. You did all that this morning? No wonder you look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, I’m getting out of here. Go back and pound out some more pages. This is terrific.” He stepped out the door and faced Larry again. “If you feel up for drinks and dinner, stop by around five.”
“Okay. Thanks. I don’t know, though.”
When Pete was gone, Larry staggered into the bedroom. He peeled off his wet clothes and flopped on the mattress.
Just a quick nap, he thought.
He woke up, gasping for air and drenched with sweat. The clock on the nightstand showed 2:15.
Eighteen
Larry toweled himself dry and stepped into his shorts. They were still damp, but they felt cool. In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of iced tea. He put salami and cheese on a few crackers and took them along with his drink to the work room.
Just stick with it for a couple of hours, he thought. Then have a nice, cool shower, get dressed, and head on over to Pete and Barbara’s.
It would be wonderful. Sit out in back with them like yesterday, have a few cocktails...
He read the last few sentences on the screen, and added a new one. Then another. Then it was flowing again, the words in his mind rushing ahead of his typing fingers.
He was in the story. He was living it.
The iced tea and crackers disappeared. He smoked his pipe. He had another glass of tea. After that was gone, he couldn’t force himself away from the story to get another. He wrote and wrote. He rubbed the sweat off his face with slick forearms. Drops dribbled down his chest and sides, tickling until they stopped at the waist band of his shorts. Later, a breeze cooled his wet skin. Dried him. His mouth was parched. He told himself he would quit soon and go over to Pete and Barbara’s and drink up a storm. After this page. Or after the next.
Suddenly he noticed that his room was dark except for the amber glow of the words on the computer screen. Dark and cold. A chill night breeze blew through the open window. He realized that he was sitting rigid, shivering, teeth clenched as the breeze scurried over his bare skin.
Feeling disoriented, he squinted up at the dim face of the clock.
Ten after seven.
Impossible. What had happened to the time? He knew he’d been deeply involved in the story, but he could hardly believe he’d been so immersed that he’d allowed himself to miss the cocktails and dinner.
He hadn’t even been aware for the past hour that he’d been writing in the dark, nearly naked and freezing.
He read the final sentence.
“It was with a strange mixture of sadness and expectation that I watched the car vanish around the corner, carrying my wife and daughter away from me for the weekend.”
He muttered, “Good God.”
He scrolled upward to the start of the chapter. It was labeled Chapter Six. No page number. How many pages hadhe written today? Seventy? Eighty?
His normal output was seven to ten pages.
The most he’d everdone before in a single day was thirty. That was on a piece-of-garbage romance novel a few years ago when money was short and his agent had lined up a lousy deal for two romances at a thousand bucks a whack.
This was more than twice his record.
And I’m not done yet, he thought.
Holy smoke.
He folded his arms across his chest for warmth and shook his head.
Well, he thought, this is a true story. I’m just more or less reporting what happened.