The Hook (1991)

by Terry Brooks

  "What is it? What's happened to you?"

  "I am old, Peter. I grew up a long time ago."

  "But you promised not to."

  "I couldn't help it. I'm a married woman, Peter."

  He shook his head vigorously. "No, you're not!"

  "Yes. And the little girl in the bed is my baby."

  "No, she's not!"

  He took a quick step toward the sleeping child, his dagger upraised threateningly. But he didn't strike. Instead, he sat down on the floor and began to sob. Wendy stared at him a moment, then ran out of the room. Wendy's child, Jane, awakened by the crying, sat up in the bed.

  "Boy, why are you crying?" she asked.

  Peter Pan jumped up and bowed to her. She rose and bowed back.

  "Hullo," he said.

  "Hullo."

  "My name is Peter Pan."

  She smiled. "Yes, I know."

  Together, they dashed for the window, preparing to fly away. Wendy rushed into the room, hands outstretched. The lights dimmed, the curtain closed, and all the children came out together and sang, "We Never Want to Grow Up." Everyone in the audience applauded, and the children on stage laughed and bowed.

  Wow! thought Jack. Charged with the play's excitement and joy, he gave his dad a glowing smile.

  Thank goodness that's over! Peter Banning sighed, and missed the smile completely.

  Pitches

  Sunlight filtered down across the woodlands, bright and warm, filled with promise. The spruce and hemlock crowded together on the foothills, verdant and thick as they backed their way upward into the tall peaks of the mountains beyond, where snow glistened whitely. Rivers and streams ran down out of the mountains, wending their way through the trees toward a cluster of lakes and ponds. Here, to the right, a waterfall spilled out of the rocks. There, to the left, a meadow of wildflowers painted a slope in rainbow colors.

  Almost looks real, thought Peter Banning, feeling pleased with himself.

  He turned away momentarily to stare out the windows of his office high rise into the fog that hung in a pall across the San Francisco cityscape, then wheeled back again to confront the mock-up.

  "We'll get the environmentalists off our case by convincing them mat our clients won't develop the whole area all at once, that the project will be a gradual one, that we care about preserving me wildlife." His eyes snapped up. "You on that, Brad?"

  Tall, sallow-faced Brad answered, "Ron's on that."

  "I'm on that," Ron agreed. Short, round, and California tan, he was Brad's exact opposite in the looks department. What saved mem both from corporate extinction was that they thought alike, and more to the point, they thought like Peter Banning.

  Peter gave him a sharp look. "I hope so. In line with that, my suggestion is we start with this piece." He pointed to the meadow. "An open space so we get rid of the greenies and regulators right off the bat before they have time to build up enough steam to shut us down."

  He reached across the table into a box that contained a series of plastic models and began snapping them down on the mock-up. Condos, ski runs, shops, and single-family homes. Lots of money to be made. He filled the meadow quickly, hesitated, then pulled up several dozen of the plastic trees. A resort complex replaced them, and at the very center of everything, a small plastic nature preserve that consisted of a park with trails.

  "Good." Peter Banning shoved his hands into his suitcoat pockets momentarily, then conscious of the wrinkles he was causing, withdrew them. "Once me zoning is approved and everything is in place, after the Sierra Club boys and girls move on to another cause, we begin adding on. A piece at a time until this wilderness is converted into our client's dream resort."

  He looked at Brad and Ron.

  "That's…" one began.

  "… brilliant," the other finished.

  Peter smiled. "I know. Let's just hope that between now and the close of this acquisition, no one throws us a curve.''

  His gaze fixed abruptly on the wall clock and a hint of panic surged through him. "Rats! I'm late for Jack's game!"

  He wheeled away from the table and strode out through the conference-room doors.

  It was a crisp, clear December day, and a brisk wind ruffled the rows of pennants that represented each team that played in the league. Across the top of the scoreboard from which they hung was a banner on which had been lettered in red: santa series third annual datenut league winter TOURNAMENT.

  Below, where things counted, the board read: 6th INNING, HOME 2, VISITORS 5.

  From where he crouched in center field, hands on his knees, ready and alert for the next batter, Jack scanned the stands. They were only wooden planks settled on iron stanchions, and there weren't that many to begin with, so his search didn't take long. Most of the seats were filled. He could see his mother and Maggie in row three, yelling and cheering. Between them, the extra red seat cushion was still empty.

  He better show, Jack thought determinedly.

  The grass where he stood was green and lush from the weekend's rain. Jack kicked at the earth, straightened, and watched the next batter come to the plate. Kendall. Good hit, no field. That was the book.

  He glanced again at the scoreboard: 5 to 2, and time running out.

  He pounded his glove, thinking, He better!

  The wind came up suddenly and stirred the infield dust, causing a break in the action. The plate umpire raised his hands to signal a stop. Jack sighed. All of the umpires were wearing Santa Claus suits. They looked ridiculous.

  The wind died and play resumed. Kendall took a strike and two balls, then lofted a high fly toward Jack. Jack shaded his eyes, watched the ball rise and fall, moved beneath it, reached up, and snagged it easily. A cheer rose from his teammates and fans. He threw the ball in, trotted back to his position, and resumed his stance.

  He risked a quick look back at the stands. Maggie and his mother and the empty seat cushion. He spat.

  He just better!

  Peter Banning rushed ahead through mazelike corridors, past secretarial cubicles, past closets and storerooms, past doors that led nowhere he had ever been-or at least remembered being. Posner, Nail Banning occupied an entire floor of the building. An entourage trailed in his wake-Brad and Ron; their young associate Jim Paige; Dr. Fields, the ecologist hired to advise the firm on the pending development; a planning assistant whose name he could not remember; and a receptionist whose name he had never known.

  Peter's mind raced. "Jerry, Jack, Jim." He could not remember Paige's name. Tall, athletic, some sort of track-and-field man at Yale, wasn't he? "Steve! Take the video camera. Go to the game ahead of me. Shoot what I miss."

  "Can I say something?" Dr. Fields interjected, and was ignored.

  Jim Paige moved up alongside him, waving a sheet of yellow-lined legal paper and a floppy disk.

  "Your speech for your grandmother's tribute…"

  Peter glanced over, still moving, turning the corner like an Indy driver on the final lap. "Will this be on cards?"

  "Yes, sir, of course."

  "Numbered? Who wrote this?"

  "Ned Miller, sir."

  Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, wonderful. I couldn't put down his annual report. C'mon. Read it to me."

  Paige cleared his throat. "Lord Whitehall, honored guests, et cetera, for the past seventy years the Wendy we honor tonight has given hope to and provided care for hundreds of homeless children, orphans of all-"

  "That's great, very personal," Peter interrupted.

  "Can I say something?" Dr. Fields tried again.

  The receptionist pushed forward, breathless. "Mr. Banning, sir, please send my congratulations to your extraordinary grandmother. You must be so proud."

  Peter smiled at her as if she were a candidate for shock therapy.

  He rounded a corner and nearly bowled over his personal secretary, who was rushing to find him from the other direction. She gasped, recovered herself, and shoved a steaming cappuccino into his hands followed by an airline ticket folder.
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  "Amanda-my tickets, my tickets." He drained the cappuccino in one gulp, shoved the empty cup back in her hands, and resumed his charge down the office corridors. "Hurry, hurry, hurry,"

  "Sir, there's been a terrible mistake," Amanda declared, rushing to keep up. "These tickets are coach."

  "That's right. Rows fourteen and fifteen by the wing exits-statistically safest." They rounded yet another corridor. Building went on forever, Peter thought cryptically.

  "Ron, have the four-oh-fours prepared before I return."

  "Done," the other announced.

  "Brad, the wetlands report."

  "Done." Brad was breathing hard.

  "Sierra Club report?"

  Brad and Ron looked at each other. "Almost done,'' they muttered as one.

  "Done, my foot! Nothing's done." Dr. Fields shoved to the fore. He was a small, wizened man of indeterminate age with thick glasses and gray hair that stuck out in all directions. He tapped Peter's shoulder. "You hired me as your environmental expert, and you've ignored my reports."

  Peter glanced past him to Jim Paige. "Do you have more of the speech?''

  His young associate peered down at the yellow sheets, trying to keep from tripping over Ron. "The addition of the Wendy Darling Foundling Wing guarantees that her work will never be forgotten and that a commitment to the future-"

  "You're not listening to me," Fields interjected irritably. "You have to set aside acreage for a mating area."

  "Dr. Fields, we have the designated mating area, right behind the ski lodge," piped up Brad.

  "Two hundred acres…" began Ron.

  "Designated mating area? Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?" Fields was incensed. "You have no right to develop a piece of land without determining what the impact will be on the creatures living there. What if there are endangered species? Like, for instance, like…"

  Peter reached over, still walking, and put his arm around the other's bony shoulders. "Like what, Dr Fields?"

  "The three-toed speckled frog, the white-footed deer, any number of birds…"

  Peter patted the environmentalist gently on the back, his voice as smooth as syrup. "We're all big boys here, Dr. Fields. Tell me, how much room do these creatures need to mate? For most of us, it's a matter of inches."

  Everyone broke out in laughter, and Fields dropped back again, red-faced.

  Peter glanced over at Paige. "Steve, you still here? Get going with that video!" Ahead, the elevator bank came into view. "Take the stairs! You're an athlete!"

  Paige shoved the yellow sheets and disk into Amanda's hands and rushed away. "What was it he did at Yale?" Peter muttered to himself. "Mile, four-forty, broad jump?"

  They reached the elevators, breathing hard. Peter was aware suddenly of how heavy he'd gotten. Not fat, mind you, but certainly heavy. He glanced down his sloping front side and could not see his shoes. Slowly, trying to not show what he was doing, he sucked in his stomach. Didn't help much.

  Brad pressed the down button.

  "I ordered flowers for your grandmother," Amanda announced, ticking off the list on her fingers. "I picked up your dry cleaning and put it in your car. Your hanging bag is in the trunk…"

  "Mr. Banning," Dr. Fields tried again, "it's just that there are people out there who believe, just as you might believe in some aspect of your own life, that the three-toed frogs of this world are what keep us all from going to hell in a hand basket."

  "Yeah, people out there we have to protect ourselves from," muttered Brad over his shoulder.

  "Oh, and here are your vitamins," Amanda continued. "And that file on Owens you were looking for." She shoved some slips of paper into his hands. "These are the messages you need to return on your car phone on the way to Jack's game."

  "Jack's game," Peter reminded himself.

  The elevator to the left arrived and the door opened. Peter started inside.

  "Wait, boss!" yelled the nameless assistant. "Catch!"

  Peter's holster phone flew through the air. He reached out and deftly snagged it. Not bad for an old guy. Blocking the elevator door with his foot, he strapped the holster on. Brad moved up to stand before him, pulled back his suitcoat flap to reveal a similar holster phone, and went into a gunfight-er's crouch. Peter faced him, fingers twitching. As one, they reached for their phones and drew them out, holding them to their ears.

  "I got a quicker dial tone, Brad," announced Peter. "You're dead."

  Everyone laughed as they reholstered their weapons.

  Peter waved. "Gotta fly."

  "Don't worry-more people crash in cars than on planes," Brad called out.

  "It's a lot safer than crossing the street!" added Ron.

  "Just don't look down!" advised someone else.

  "And don't let your arms get tired!" they all shouted and began flapping their arms. Dr. Fields was shaking his head and walking away.

  "When it's your time to go, it's your time to go," Peter intoned solemnly, shot them his best boyish grin as they groaned in unison, and stepped into the elevator. The doors swished closed softly.

  For a moment no one moved, facing the elevator bank wordlessly.

  "All right," said Brad finally, turning to the assistant. "Frank, you fax the proposal for tomorrow's meeting to everyone coming." He shifted toward the receptionist. "Julie, get Ted on the phone. We have to deep-six that Sierra Club report. Amanda, find out…"

  There was a ringing in their midst. Everyone looked around. Finally Brad realized it was his holster phone. He drew it out and clicked it on. "Yes? What?" His jaw dropped. "Peter, why are you breathing so hard? You sound like you're running a marathon or something. What's going on?"

  At the end of the hallway, the stairway door burst open and Peter labored into view. The assembly in front of the elevator doors turned to stare.

  "Never mind the phone!" Peter gasped, shoving his own back in its holster. He was gasping for breath. Gonna have a heart attack if I keep this up, he thought. "I need one more look at the interim reports before I head off to London. Only take a minute."

  Brad swung into step beside him as he charged back up the hall. "Peter, you're late for your kid's game!"

  "Don't worry," Peter assured him. "I know a shortcut to the ballpark. Plenty of time."

  The others fell in behind him, wordless. The elevators disappeared from view.

  "Hey, there's a joke I'd like to try out on you guys," Peter announced, trying to slow his breathing, smiling his boyish smile. "I read recently that they're now using lawyers as surrogate mothers. Know why?"

  No one did.

  Jack stood at the plate, bat cocked, chin tucked in against his shoulder, and watched ball two whiz by. Two and two. He took a deep breath and stepped back. His eyes lifted to find the scoreboard. 9th inning. home 8, visitors 9.

  "Keep us alive, out there, Banning!" yelled his coach. "C'mon, hang in there!"

  His teammates were yelling at him, screaming directions, encouragement, prayers. The sporting-goods logos provided by the team sponsors were jumping around like action toys on the front of their uniforms. Jack looked down at his shoes, then scuffed at the earth. He hadn't looked into the stands for almost two innings now, afraid of what he would find. Or wouldn't find. The game was almost over. Had his dad made it?

  "C'mon, son, play ball," the Santa behind the plate said gruffly.

  Jack took another deep breath and stepped back into the box. He took his practice swings, and while he was doing so and despite his resolve not to, he found himself looking into the stands.

  His mother and Maggie were standing side by side, cheering. Next to them, directly over the red seat cushion, was a man with a video camera. Dad? Jack's heart leaped. Then he saw that it wasn't his father, that it was somebody else, a man he'd seen once or twice who worked at his father's office.

  Standing there where his father was supposed to be, filming him with the camera.

  Jack went numb. He faced the pitcher, cocked the bat, and dug in-all withou
t being aware of what he was doing. He felt tile catcher crouch behind him, watched the pitcher nod, go into his windup, and throw. A huge, hanging curve. It seemed to take forever to get there. Jack slashed at it with no hope.

  "Strike three!" roared the umpire.

  Ecstatic yells erupted from the visiting team, groans of disgust from his own. For a moment he could not move. Then mechanically, dismally, fighting back the tears that were building behind his eyes, he lowered the bat and began the long walk back to the bench.

  The sun had gone west and the late-afternoon chill stung Peter's face as he exited the heated interior of his BMW and started toward the ballfield in a rush, raincoat draped over one arm, phone holster slapping on his hip. His eyes lifted to the scoreboard: 9th inning. home 8, visitors 9. Still time, he thought, running now, feeling heavier and slower and older than ever. Gotta start working out.

  He rounded the end of the bleachers and stopped short.

  The stands were empty, the ballfield deserted. Even the bases had been removed. All that remained were a few stray candy wrappers and discarded cups. Peter waited for his breathing to slow, trying to steady himself. He looked again at the scoreboard and shook his head.

  Jackie.

  He felt foolish and ashamed.

  He turned finally and walked back toward his car, realizing for the first time how silent everything was.

  He was almost there when the holster phone rang. He pulled it out and clicked it on, listening.

  "Oh, hi, Brad," he greeted woodenly. "Yeah, glad you called."

  To England

  The muted roar of the 747 was a backdrop of white noise for the endless crying of a baby several rows back. Peter heard both without really being aware of either, his thoughts concentrated on the gleaming screen of the laptop computer settled on the lowered tray before him. In large block letters, the screen read:

  GRANNY WENDY CALLS ME HER FAVORITE ORPHAN. I DON' T KNOW WHY.

  Peter stared at the screen, at the words he had typed, trying to fathom the riddle they posed. It was a secret from long ago, from a distant, lost past he could no longer clearly remember. Granny Wendy. Wendy Darling. His grand-mother.