11/22/63

He looked at it, frowning. “I’ve never seen that picture in my life. God knows I supported Michaud in his last two runs — hell, I support any Democrat who ain’t been caught screwing his campaign aides — and I met him at a rally in double-oh-eight, but that was in Castle Rock. He’s never been in the diner.”

“Apparently he has been. That’s your counter, isn’t it?”

He took the picture in hands now so scrawny they were little more than talons, and held it close to his face. “Yuh,” he said. “It sure is.”

“So there is a butterfly effect. This photo’s proof.”

He looked at it fixedly, smiling a little. In wonder, I think. Or maybe awe. Then he handed it back to me and went behind the counter to pour the coffee.

“Al? You still remember Harry, don’t you? Harry Dunning?”

“Of course I do. Isn’t he why you went to Derry and almost got your head knocked off?”

“For him and the rest of his family, yes.”

“And did you save them?”

“All but one. His father got Tugga before we could stop him.”

“Who’s we?”

“I’ll tell you everything, but first I’m going home to bed.”

“Buddy, we don’t have a whole lot of time.”

“I know that,” I said, thinking All I have to do is look at you, Al. “But I’m dead for sleep. For me, it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I’ve had…”—my mouth opened in a huge yawn—“… had quite a night.”

“All right.” He brought coffee — a full cup for me, black, half a cup for him, liberally dosed with cream. “Tell me what you can while you drink this.”

“First, explain to me how you can remember Harry if he was never a janitor at LHS and never bought a Fatburger from you in his whole life. Second, explain to me why you don’t remember Mike Michaud visiting the diner when that picture says he did.”

“You don’t know for a fact that Harry Dunning’s not still in town,” Al said. “In fact, you don’t know for sure he’s not still janitoring at Lisbon High.”

“It’d be a hell of a coincidence if he was. I changed the past big-time, Al — with some help from a guy named Bill Turcotte. Harry wouldn’t have gone to live with his aunt and uncle in Haven, because his mother didn’t die. Neither did his brother Troy or his sister, Ellen. And Dunning never got near Harry himself with that hammer of his. If Harry still lives in The Falls after all those changes, I’d be the most surprised guy on earth.”

“There’s a way to check,” Al said. “I’ve got a laptop computer in my office. Come on back.” He led the way, coughing and holding onto things. I carried my cup of coffee with me; he left his behind.

Office was far too grand a name for the closet-sized cubbyhole off the kitchen. It was hardly big enough for both of us. The walls were papered with memos, permits, and health directives from both the state of Maine and the feds. If the people who passed on rumors and gossip about the Famous Catburger had seen all that paperwork — which included a Class A Certification of Cleanliness following the last inspection by the State of Maine Restaurant Commission — they might have been forced to rethink their position.

Harry’s MacBook sat on the sort of desk I remember using in the third grade. He collapsed into a chair of about the same size with a grunt of pain and relief. “High school’s got a website, doesn’t it?”

“Sure.”

While we waited for the laptop to boot, I wondered how many emails had piled up during my fifty-two-day absence. Then I remembered I’d actually been gone only two minutes. Silly me. “I think I’m losing it, Al,” I said.

“I know the feeling. Just hang on, buddy, you’ll — wait, here we go. Let’s see. Courses… summer schedule… faculty… administration… custodial staff.”

“Hit it,” I said.

He massaged the touch pad, muttered, nodded, clicked on something, then stared into the computer screen like a swami consulting his crystal ball.

“Well? Don’t keep me hanging.”

He turned the laptop so I could look. LHS CUSTODIAL STAFF, it said. THE BEST IN MAINE! There was a photograph of two men and a woman standing at center court in the gymnasium. They were all smiling. They were all wearing Lisbon Greyhounds sweatshirts. None of them was Harry Dunning.

4

“You remember him in his life as a janitor and as your student because you’re the one who went down the rabbit-hole,” Al said. We were back in the diner again, sitting in one of the booths. “I remember him either because I’ve used the rabbit-hole myself or just because I’m near it.” He considered. “That’s probably it. A kind of radiation. The Yellow Card Man’s also near it, only on the other side, and he feels it, too. You’ve seen him, so you know.”

“He’s the Orange Card Man now.”

“What are you talking about?”

I yawned again. “If I tried to tell you now, I’d make a total mess of everything. I want to drive you home, then go home myself. I’m going to get something to eat, because I’m hungry as a bear—”