“Oh, Frank?”
The back of his neck went cold. He turned.
“Which one do I take first?”
“What? Oh.” He gestured at the big bottle. “Take the aloe every day, just squirt it into your water. The Philofiber and the Morning Formula you take every morning. Then there’s the Evening Formula, which you take, uh…”
“Every night?”
“You got it. Straighten you out in no time.”
Matty was sipping from a narrow glass, watching the silent TV that hung in the corner. Frankie had planned on sitting with the kid and downing an Old Style or two, but now he wasn’t in the mood.
“Let’s go, Matty. Gotta get you home.”
“Oh, okay.” Disappointed. He put down the glass and wiped at his mouth. Barney gave Frankie a hard look. Next time he should bring in something for the man. Maybe a tin of the replenishing face cream. Maybe a bucket of the replenishing face cream.
They were only a couple of miles from home—Teddy and Buddy’s home, and now Irene and Matty’s. At least Frankie had his own house. Paid his own bills. Kept the ball in play. Were there setbacks? Of course. Ninety percent of small businesses go under. Banks turn their backs on you. The table fucking turns. Game over. But what do you do? You find another fucking quarter, or borrow one, or steal one, and live to play another day.
“Uncle Frankie?”
They were almost home. He’d been driving on autopilot. He made the turn into the neighborhood, and Matty said, “I want to tell you something. It’s important.”
Frankie eased up to the stop sign and, since no one was at the intersection, put the van in park. “You don’t have to thank me. You did a good job today. Consider yourself hired for the summer.”
“Thank you,” Matty said. “We could use the money.”
That was the truth. Irene was broke-ass broke. “So why you still have that look on your face?”
“Something happened to me a couple weeks ago.”
“I told you, kid, it’s perfectly—”
“No, not that,” Matty said firmly. “It was something amazing.”
The kid told him what had happened, and how later he’d made it happen several more times. Cars came up behind them and Frankie waved them through, not wanting to interrupt.
Then finally Frankie said, “So you lie there in this meditative state—”
“Right,” Matty said. “Definitely meditating.”
“And then it happens. You start floating around, seeing into other rooms.”
“Uh-huh.”
Frankie was getting an idea—or rather, the warm glow that indicated that an idea was about to poke its head above the horizon. Finally he asked, “Does your mom know about this?”
“Not really,” Matty said. “I mean, no. She caught me meditating, but that’s it. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“That’s good,” Frankie said. “Let’s keep this between you and me.”
JULY
5
Buddy
The clock says 7:10 a.m., but this is not nearly enough information. The air is sticky and the sheets are damp from humidity, so it’s probably summer. But what year? This is a mystery that cannot be solved from the bed.
He pads downstairs to the kitchen, and there’s teenage Matty, cramming a piece of buttered toast into his mouth. That’s a major clue. This is probably the year that Matty and Irene moved back home. The year he did all the work on the house. The year of the Zap.
He says to himself: I am twenty-seven years old and Maureen Telemachus has been dead for twenty-one years.
Matty turns when he walks in, then coughs, choking on the toast, as if he’s surprised to see him. “Morning, Uncle Buddy,” he says finally. He looks quickly away, embarrassed. But by what?
The boy busies himself by pouring a tall mug of coffee. Buddy can’t remember why Matty would be up so early and already dressed, but then he notices that he’s wearing a yellow Bumblebee polo, and remembers that his nephew is working for Frankie this summer. At least the first part of the summer.
Matty glances at him, sees his frown, and says, “Oh, this isn’t for me. It’s for Frank.” Then: “I’m supposed to call him Frank when we’re working together.”
Buddy nods. Matty is having trouble keeping eye contact.
“Hey, that’s the van. Gotta go.” Matty pauses at the front door. Without quite looking at him, Matty says, “Thanks again for letting me use the computer. That’s really nice of you.”
Buddy thinks, I didn’t do it for you. But then, it doesn’t seem to hurt any of his plans to have the boy use it.
He goes to the calendar and checks the date. July eighth. All the days are marked off in Xs that are a particular shade of purplish pink. For a long moment he can’t remember the July Fourth picnic, then an image of fireworks comes to him, the crackle and boom. They went to Arlington Racecourse to see them. That was this year, he’s pretty sure. God knows it can’t be next year. He marks an X on today’s date. Then, as is his habit, he flips ahead through the months, to the end of the summer. Labor Day is circled in that same shade of pink. It drives a spike of fear into his heart every time he sees it.
September 4, 1995, 12:06 p.m. The moment the future ends. The day it all goes black.
Zap.
He only became aware of the date a few months ago. He woke up to realize that the future had disappeared. For years he’d been plowing through the days, hands over eyes, figuring that eventually a runaway truck or pulmonary embolism would catapult him out of the world.
But this, this ugly stump, so full of complicated doom. He never expected it would end like that. Gangsters and G-men. Bullets and burning cars. The gun against his head. It’s all terribly dramatic.
Yet if it were only his own demise waiting for him (no matter how outlandish and lurid), he’d close his eyes again and let Time carry him along. But there are other people to consider.
“For God’s sake, Buddy!” Irene says angrily.
He turns, confused.
“Put some clothes on!”
Ah. Irene doesn’t like it when he walks around naked. This doesn’t strike him as fair, since he’s the permanent resident and she’s just here temporarily. Plus, she’s not wearing much more than him, just running shorts and a T-shirt from a bank in Pennsylvania.
“What?” she asks. “You want to say something, say it.”
But he doesn’t know what to say. That’s the problem with a lot of future memories. If he doesn’t remember what he said, then he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. Like being shoved onstage without a script. Better to say nothing than risk changing everything.
Irene scowls at him and puts up a hand to shield her eyes. “I’m going for a run,” she says.
That’s new, he’s pretty sure. Irene’s never been an exerciser. Though it’s probably a good idea. She’s looking older. True, he spends a lot of time remembering the young Irene, so these age changes can take him by surprise. But he also wonders if all the nights she’s been staying up late, typing in secret, are taking a toll.
He lets the calendar pages fall into place and goes upstairs to his room. In the top dresser drawer, hidden in a nest of Fruit of the Loom underwear, is a colorful women’s scarf. He unwraps it, revealing the gold medal. Well, stainless steel painted gold, but it’s precious to him all the same. It says THE WORLD’S MOST POWERFUL PSYCHIC. The woman who hung it around his neck was the former owner of the title. She made no demands of him, extracted no vows, but he felt the weight of responsibility all the same.
Come to think of it (but he was always thinking of it, the date hovering, omnipresent), she died on September 4. Is it ironic that the day the future ends is the anniversary of her death? Or is it mere coincidence? Is there any such thing as coincidence?
After she was gone, he told himself that he would take on her duties with bravery, reverence, and fortitude. And for a time, he did. But then, after he met and then lost the love of his life, he gave up
. Stopped watching the horizon for fire. And what a mistake that was. This terminal event, the Zap, will burn deeply. He doesn’t have to see what follows to know what would come for his family: decades of damage; a torrent of tears.
He rubs a hand over his unshaven jaw, trying to focus. There’s so much he has to do if he’s going to save them. But what to do first?
Oh, right. Put on clothes.
He’s four years old and Maureen Telemachus is alive, so he’s not the World’s Most Powerful Psychic yet, just Buddy. He’s lying on his stomach in the living room, building a combination Tinkertoy/Lincoln Log trap for Frankie’s GI Joe. Joe is standing on a four-inch-high platform. Buddy pushes on a support log, and Joe falls over before the trapdoor opens. The action figure is so hard to balance.
“Are you even watching this?” Dad says, irritated. He’s only letting him stay up because Buddy pleaded to see the game. Dad’s stretched out in the recliner behind him, looking at the TV between his feet and over Buddy and his construction project. “Three up, three God damn down,” Dad says.
“Sorry,” Buddy says.
“Don’t be sorry,” Dad says. “You know why I’m raising you kids to be Cubs fans?”
Buddy shakes his head.
“Any mook can be a fan of a winning team,” Dad says. “It takes character to root for the doomed. You show up, you watch your boys take their swings, and you watch ’em go down in flames—every damn day. You think Jack Brickhouse is an optimist? No-siree. He may sound happy, but he’s dying inside. There’s no seat in Wrigley Field for a God damn Pollyanna. You root-root-root for the home team, and they lose anyway. It teaches you how the world works, kid. Sure, start every spring with your hopes and dreams, but in the universe in which we live, you will be mathematically eliminated by Labor Day. Count on it.”
Buddy tries to think of something to say to make his father feel better, but in that moment all he can remember is that the Cubs once beat the Braves, a team that Dad hates, by a huge score. “Eleven-zip,” Buddy says.
“Lie down,” Dad says. “You’re blocking the set.”
“A massacre,” Buddy says.
“Okay, how about this—run in the kitchen and get me a beer.”
Buddy hops up, runs into the kitchen, and there she is, the World’s Most Powerful Psychic. Alive. He can’t help but hug her legs in gratitude. Mom already has the can of Old Style open. “Here you go,” she says. “Keep the king happy. Then off to bed.”
Two nights later, Buddy’s construction project is a little more elaborate. There are Legos involved now, and some spare wood from the garage. GI Joe has been joined by one of Reenie’s Barbies. Dad squats down beside him. “Hey, Buddy. Whatcha working on?”
Buddy’s thrilled to explain. He shows him the first part of the trap, Joe and Barbie falling together into the box, and Dad lets him go on for a bit before he stops him and says, “That’s pretty great, kiddo. I need to ask you about something else, though.” Buddy sees he’s holding a newspaper. “Guess what the Cubs did today?”
Buddy has no idea.
“They beat the Atlanta Braves. Eleven to nothing. Eleven-zip.” Dad shows him the one-word newspaper headline. “Massacre.”
Buddy remembers this moment, seeing that long word on the page. He doesn’t know how to read that word, but he remembers knowing it, and that’s almost like reading it.
“You got it, Buddy.” His father is still squatting on the floor beside him. He never does this. “I want you to think real hard. Do you know any other baseball scores?”
Buddy nods excitedly. There’s nothing he wants more than to tell Dad all the things that will make him happy.
“So…” Dad says.
Buddy tries to remember some baseball scores, but nothing comes.
“Don’t try to think too hard,” his father says. “Whatever comes to mind.”
He tries to think of a number. “One to zero?” Buddy asks.
“Okay, good! Who’s playing, Buddy?”
“The Reds,” Buddy said. “And the Cubs. Cubs win.”
Dad sighs. “That’s the score of the game we were watching the other night,” Dad says. “Try to think of one that—” He stops himself. Mom is in the room now, looking at the two of them on the floor.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Nothing,” Teddy says. “Buddy’s showing me what he’s building.”
Buddy’s bolting a slab of steel to the basement wall when he remembers something. That memory—nothing but an image, a mental snapshot from the Zap Day—means that everything he’s done for several days will have to be redone. The three huge rectangles of steel he’s cut are now the wrong size, and will have to be trimmed or thrown out.
The original size of the rectangles came from his memory of the slabs covering the basement windows on Zap Day, and he’d cut them so that he could bolt them to the walls. But just now he’s remembered that the window was uncovered earlier in the day. Which means that the steel has to go up and down, like one of those grates that cover shop windows downtown. That’s way more complicated.
He wants to scream. But he doesn’t.
His curse, and blessing, is that his memory is full of holes. Everything that he does remember is a fact. Unalterable. The future, he learned when he was six years old, is no more mutable than the past. But there’s a loophole. If some future event seems awful, perhaps there’s something he does not recall that would change his understanding of what happened.
Say that he remembers a man in a bloodstained shirt. But does it have to be blood? Perhaps it’s only a terrible ketchup stain! Armed with this gap in his knowledge, it’s Buddy’s duty to fill a bowl with ketchup and throw it at the man. So what if he doesn’t remember throwing the ketchup? If he doesn’t remember not throwing the ketchup, then he is free to act.
His job is to make up stories. To suss out the best possible interpretation for the facts as he remembers them, and then guide events to a happy ending—or, failing that, the least tragic one.
But what if he fails to remember something important? What if throwing the ketchup so startles the man that he has a heart attack? The unknowns pile up around every remembered moment. If he acts, or doesn’t act, he may destroy everything. Each hole in his memory may be a deadly tiger pit or a sheltering foxhole.
When he does recall something new, it changes the meaning of what he (thought he) already knew. One stray image bubbling up into his consciousness adds a link to a chain, and seemingly unrelated events suddenly develop cause-and-effect relationships. He can rule out nothing. Everything may be important, everything may be connected to Zap Day. Worse, he is part of the equation. Every word he utters, every action he takes, may pervert the happy ending, or make it possible.
He once found a science book called Chaos that came very close to describing what it was like to work and live under these conditions. He asked Frankie to read it, hoping his brother would understand more about Buddy’s condition, but Frankie thought that Buddy wanted it explained to him. Frankie didn’t comprehend the ramifications of chaos theory, and so didn’t understand the question that haunted Buddy: How could anyone take meaningful action, when the results of that action could spin out of control and cause irreparable harm?
The World’s Most Powerful Psychic, however, cannot afford to lose hope. Yes, his memories are incomplete, a terrible foundation to build upon. Yes, his only blueprints are made of fog. But when he was awarded his medal, there was no guarantee that the job would be easy. So what if he has to move the metal sheet? So what if he has to move it again tomorrow? He has to make do with the information available.
He begins loosening the top lag bolts, regretting now that he made them so tight, then regretting his regret. That’s a death spiral if there ever was one. Just keep your mind on your job, he thinks. Both jobs: the one in front of him, and his larger responsibility to the family. But there’s so much he hasn’t done, and now there’s so little time. He always thought he’d go back to Alton. He�
�d walk into the hotel lobby and she’d be sitting at the bar like the first time he saw her, reading a magazine, legs crossed, one high-heeled shoe dangling from her foot, jiggling like bait on a line. She’d look up at him and smile, and say, “About time you got here.”
He yanks the bolt from the wood with a squeal. Mad at himself. He knows the difference between fantasy and memory. He knows this will never happen. September 4 is coming, and he’s never going to see his true love again.
Buddy is twenty-three years old when he tells Frankie that they need to visit a riverboat.
“You fucker,” Frankie says.
“What?” He didn’t foresee this reaction.
“You don’t talk to me forever, giving me the silent treatment, and the first thing you tell me is you want to go on a fucking boat?”
“It’s not just a boat,” Buddy says. “It’s a casino.”
This gets Frankie’s attention. “Where?”
“It’s opening in six months. On the Mississippi.”
Frankie tilts his head. His arms are crossed, because it’s cold in the garage. And maybe they stay crossed because he’s suspicious. “What did you see, Buddy?”
Buddy tells him about the Alton Belle, the first riverboat casino allowed in Illinois. Full of slot machines and table games, just like in Las Vegas.
“Table games?” Frankie says.
“Roulette,” Buddy says.
The word hangs in the air. Finally Frankie shakes his head, says, “No. No! You know I can’t do that shit anymore.” When Frankie gets nervous, nothing works. It’s only when he forgets himself that he remembers who he is.
“I saw chips,” Buddy says.
“Chips?”
“A pile of chips.”
“In front of me?”
“Stacks,” Buddy says.
Now Frankie’s pacing, though there’s not much space to move with all the junk and machinery: a snowblower (defunct) and lawn mower; a pile of lumber for a never-assembled shed; a band saw; a chest freezer; sleds and bikes and garbage cans and Mom’s old gardening supplies. Frankie’s come over because Buddy can’t drive to Frankie’s house (or anywhere). And they’re out in the garage because Buddy didn’t want Dad to overhear them.
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