“Sorry,” he said.
He grabbed the wastebasket from under the table and was beginning to sweep all the papers into it when Stephanie reached out to seize one folded lined green sheet. Sam took it from her and unfolded it. “TGG TGG! CTG GTG, ATG.” He studied it for a moment, then looked at them with a quizzical expression. Jordan had taken Stephanie’s hand and they looked at each other with glistening eyes. Sam nodded and pushed the sheet across the table. Stephanie refolded it and slipped it into an inside pocket in her purse. As Sam swept the last of the paper into the bin he picked up a little wadded-up paper. He smoothed it out and saw it was a tiny, precisely folded baby rat—no, a possum. He chuckled to himself. Then he saw the faint pencil marks through the faded paper. Using his pinky fingernail and squinting through his glasses, he carefully unfolded it and smoothed it out. Jordan’s face was expressionless. Stephanie glanced at him and back to Sam. Sam saw the number and nodded to himself. He folded the little piece of paper over and licked his thumb. Then he rubbed the paper between his thumb and forefinger until it was completely gone.
* * *
Nice people, Dorothea Allen thought. That house sat empty so long you didn’t know what was going to happen. Dorothea assumed it was a house flipper who’d gone underwater and defaulted. Times like these, banks were likely to wait it out, too. But then the new people moved in. Weekend move, quiet. Didn’t have hardly any stuff, neither.
Kids started school Monday morning first thing at Pressey. Both parents walked them. Held hands like in the old days. Sweet. They had started clearing out the yard. It had gone wild while the house had sat empty. They worked together side by side, and sometimes they’d stop what they were doing and just look at each other. Didn’t see people in love like that real often, not with two kids and going through all the things you go through in this world.
They must have made a ton of money sometime ’cause nobody seemed to have a job or anything like that. That’s the way it was sometimes these days, though, or people just worked from home. What was it called? Telecommuting. Sweet, though, the way they looked at each other. Like they counted every day a gift.
* * *
Matthew Chun opened another beer. Fuck it. Litton Labs was an empty shell. He’d had to lay off almost everybody after the whole Genometry thing blew up. And they’d been so close. The alert ding from the workstation startled him. It had been deadly quiet. Even the background hum of the servers, the usual ambience at the lab, was missing. He glanced at the screen, then did a double take, the beer bottle hovering just above the counter, beads of condensation running onto his finger. ROBIN was back online. Folding.
* * * * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I used to see acknowledgments in books and think, how could there possibly be so many people involved in what is essentially a solitary endeavor? Okay. I get it.
First there is family. Alex, Georgie and Harry—thank you for inspiring all of the best bits, both in the story and in me. Nana, Pete and Sal, Cybele—you were my earliest and most supportive readers and editors. This time it’s really done. Promise.
Then there are friends. When the earliest, clunkiest iteration of this story was done, I sent it out to everyone I knew who had been foolish enough to say something like “Oh. You’ve written a book! I’d love to read it.” That’ll teach you. Some of you not only waded through the entirety of it but managed to get what I was going for, better than I did at the time. I am eternally grateful. As I am for the loan of many of your names. Real-sounding names are impossible to invent. Thank you. You know who you are.
Thank you, Dr. Carl Heilman, for helping me sound like I knew what I was talking about, Carolyn for making him do it, and Tommy Cohen for being our consigliere.
But most of all, I am indebted to my friends at the Table. You were there every step of the way, literally from the birth. You gave support when I needed it and led me out of every hopeless corner I painted myself into; you always knew the wheat from the chaff. Kathy, Jill, Shelly, Andrea, Brett, Frank, Roy and Leslie, we wrote this together. I am beyond lucky to have had you all there.
Which brings me to Claudette Sutherland. You are surely godmother to this, my first. It was your dumb idea after all. I had a little movie pitch and you said, “Hey, why not make it a novel?” And down the rabbit hole I followed. You were the greatest cheerleader, tour guide, champion, critic, editor and mentor a new writer could have possibly asked for.
Thank you.
* * *
When you think you’ve finished a book, there’s this funny moment when you nod to yourself, say, “Okay, now what,” and tick it off your to-do list, where it’s been nagging you as long as you can remember.
I had no plan. Then Jill and Brett introduced me to the extraordinary Adam Peck. Adam is the reason any of these words are out in the world. He managed to convince Stephen Barbara at Inkwell that there was something in the story. Stephen walked me through the rewrite that finally pulled the main threads of the story together and then got it to Peter Joseph at Hanover, the exact embodiment of my dream editor. I have been singularly fortunate in having these three voices guiding me in finding and refining the story hidden within my earlier drafts. The editorial process is a revelation. (“Ohhhhh, that’s what it’s about.”)
And then there were the real writers, Christopher Reich, Daniel Wilson and Michael Tolkin, who were kind enough to not only read my book but to write nice things about it to hopefully convince you to buy it.
So yeah, it takes a village.
Song clearance acknowledgments:
Senses Working Overtime
Words and Music by Andy Partridge
Copyright © 1982 BMG VM Music Ltd.
All Rights Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC
Clearing one lyric use was such a surreal experience and such a testament to the utter byzantine absurdity of the music business that it needs its own little section.
I was advised to cut the chapter using lyrics from XTC’s brilliant “Senses Working Overtime.” I was warned that clearing lyrics was a nightmare. But, I protested, I am a musician. This is my world. I know these people. Whatever the email equivalent of tut-tutting and patting someone on the head is, I did it.
I had no idea.
The system, if you can call it that, for clearing song lyrics for use in fiction is completely broken. It should be a source of some shame to music publishers (though I remain unconvinced that this is a quality they in fact possess).
At any rate, it is only because of the invaluable help of Franne Golde, Paul Fox, Curt Smith, Roland Orzabal, Chris Hughes, Carol Childs, Tracie Butler, Andy Partridge and, most of all, Jake Lowry that the song, and the smutty interlude it accompanies, ever made it to these pages. I’m grateful that it did.
ISBN-13: 9781488095382
Exit Strategy
Copyright © 2018 by Charlton Pettus
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