American Gods

“Who else? Leon said that Auntie Sammy called when I was in the shower.”

“We had a good talk. He’s such a sweet kid.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll keep him.”

A moment of discomfort for both of them, barely a crackle of a whisper over the telephone lines. Then, “Sammy, how’s school?”

“They’re giving us a week off. Problem with the furnaces. How are things in your neck of the North Woods?”

“Well, I’ve got a new next-door neighbor. He does coin tricks. The Lakeside News letter column currently features a blistering debate on the potential rezoning of the town land down by the old cemetery on the southeast shore of the lake and yours truly has to write a strident editorial summarizing the paper’s position on this without offending anybody or in fact giving anyone any idea what our position is.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s not. Alison McGovern vanished last week—Jilly and Stan McGovern’s oldest. Nice kid. She baby-sat for Leon a few times.”

A mouth opens to say something, and it closes again, leaving whatever it was to say unsaid, and instead it says, “That’s awful.”

“Yes.”

“So . . .” and there’s nothing to follow that with that isn’t going to hurt, so she says, “Is he cute?”

“Who?”

“The neighbor.”

“His name’s Ainsel. Mike Ainsel. He’s okay. Too young for me. Big guy, looks . . . what’s the word. Begins with an M.”

“Mean? Moody? Magnificent? Married?”

A short laugh, then, “Yes, I guess he does look married. I mean, if there’s a look that married men have, he kind of has it. But the word I was thinking of was Melancholy. He looks Melancholy.”

“And Mysterious?”

“Not particularly. When he moved in he seemed kinda helpless—he didn’t even know to heat-seal the windows. These days he still looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. When he’s here—he’s here, then he’s gone again. I’ve seen him out walking from time to time.”

“Maybe he’s a bank robber.”

“Uh-huh. Just what I was thinking.”

“You were not. That was my idea. Listen, Mags, how are you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“No.”

A long pause then. “I’m coming up to see you.”

“Sammy, no.”

“It’ll be after the weekend, before the furnaces are working and school starts again. It’ll be fun. You can make up a bed on the couch for me. And invite the mysterious neighbor over for dinner one night.”

“Sam, you’re matchmaking.”

“Who’s matchmaking? After Claudine-the-bitch-from-hell, maybe I’m ready to go back to boys for a while. I met a nice strange boy when I hitchhiked down to El Paso for Christmas.”

“Oh. Look, Sam, you’ve got to stop hitchhiking.”

“How do you think I’m going to get to Lakeside?”

“Alison McGovern was hitchhiking. Even in a town like this, it’s not safe. I’ll wire you the money. You can take the bus.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sammy.”

“Okay, Mags. Wire me the money if it’ll let you sleep easier.”

“You know it will.”

“Okay, bossy big sister. Give Leon a hug and tell him Auntie Sammy’s coming up and he’s not to hide his toys in her bed this time.”

“I’ll tell him. I don’t promise it’ll do any good.”

“So when should I expect you?”

“Tomorrow night. You don’t have to meet me at the bus station—I’ll ask Hinzelmann to run me over in Tessie.”

“Too late. Tessie’s in mothballs for the winter. But Hinzelmann will give you a ride anyway. He likes you. You listen to his stories.”

“Maybe you should get Hinzelmann to write your editorial for you. Let’s see. ‘On the Rezoning of the Land by the Old Cemetery. It so happens that in the winter of ought-three my grampaw shot a stag down by the old cemetery by the lake. He was out of bullets, so he used a cherry-stone from the lunch my grandmama had packed for him. Creased the skull of the stag and it shot off like a bat out of heck. Two years later he was down that way and he sees this mighty buck with a spreading cherry tree growing between its antlers. Well, he shot it, and grandmama made cherry pies enough that they were still eating them come the next fourth of July . . . ‘ “

And they both laughed, then.

INTERLUDE 3

Jacksonville, Florida. 2:00 A.M.

“The sign says help wanted.”

“We’re always hiring.”

“I can only work the night shift. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t be. I can get you an application to fill out. You ever worked in a gas station before?”

“No. I figure, how hard can it be?”

“Well, it ain’t rocket science, that’s for sure. You know, ma’am, you don’t mind my saying this, but you do not look well.”

“I know. It’s a medical condition. Looks worse than it is. Nothing life-threatening.”

“Okay. You leave that application with me. We are really shorthanded on the late shift right now. Round here we call it the zombie shift. You do it too long, that’s how you feel. Well now . . . is that Larna?”

“Laura.”

“Laura. Okay. Well, I hope you don’t mind dealing with weirdos. Because they come out at night.”

“I’m sure they do. I can cope.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hey, old friend.

What do you say, old friend?

Make it okay, old friend,