Early Warning

He was carrying a backpack, too, and another bundle, maybe a tent. Frank looked at his watch — nearly eight. He slowed his steps, let his quarry get farther away. At a stoplight, the girl, talking, stepped into the street. The boy’s arm went out, automatically preserving her, as he looked both ways. She took his hand, and they obeyed the light, though no cars were nearby. Once across the street, they went along the side of a large brick building and stopped. The boy unlocked the door, pushed it open, and went inside, closing the door behind them. Frank made his way down his side of the street, crossed, took up his position. The building, an outdoor outfitter’s store, was in the sunshine now, and he couldn’t see much through the windows. He did see lights come on inside, he did see a man in a sweatshirt jerk on the door handle, rare back, look at the hours of operation, and turn and walk away. Nine a.m., probably. Frank went back to the Jerome and reserved his room for another night. His heart was pounding. Why this should be, he had no idea, except that it seemed to him a fixed and permanent truth that this kid was his, the son of Lydia Forêt. He picked up the phone again and dialed Arthur’s number.

Arthur lived in Hamilton, New York, now, near where Hugh was teaching at Colgate, in a small apartment above some shops across from a park. Arthur didn’t complain. Andy got him down to the city every so often, where she led him around art exhibitions and fed him. He was thin. That he was still alive Frank considered a miracle, but perhaps Arthur considered it a curse. He said he enjoyed his grandchildren.

He answered on the third ring, not “hello” or even “yes,” but a cough. Frank said, “How are you?”

“At the moment, vibrating with curiosity.”

“That I should call you on Lillian’s birthday and wish you well?” That Lillian had been dead almost three years amazed Frank. If you saw someone born, you were not supposed to see them die, an entire life nested within yours.

“Tell me one thing I’ve always wondered,” said Arthur.

“What is that?”

“What was her first word?”

“ ‘Mama,’ I’m sure. Isn’t that standard?”

“No, think. I mean after that.”

“How old would she have been?”

“Frank, you have three kids and four grandchildren. Debbie’s first word was ‘up!’ Tim’s first word was ‘kitty.’ ”

“Or ‘titty,’ ” said Frank.

Arthur produced his first laugh.

Frank said, “I do remember that her dolls were named Lolly, Dula, and Lizzie. She used to pat them on the back, then give a little burp, and then wipe their faces. She treated them very well.”

“Of course she did,” said Arthur.

“Of course she did,” said Frank.

Now came the time to not ask any questions about Arthur’s spirits or his mental condition, so Frank said, “If I were to write down a license-plate number here in Aspen, how would I go about finding out the name of the owner of the vehicle?”

“It would take a day or so.”

Frank noticed that Arthur didn’t say how. He said, “I’ll call you. I don’t want to send it by mail.”

“Are you afraid I’ll wad up the letter and choke to death on it? The presence of the KGB in Aspen, Colorado, is intermittent at best.” Then, “I await your next communication with interest.”

“I’ll call you later today.”

“Be sure it’s from a pay phone, and people are least observant around lunchtime.”

At eleven-thirty, he wandered into the shop. He didn’t see the kid. The fellow behind the counter was in his forties, balding, cheerful. And doing a good business — he kept ringing up goods, a hundred dollars, $270, is this really the vest you want? Frank moved into the footwear area, less suffocating. He passed the door to the stockroom and glanced in. There he was, shelving boxes of boots. Unencumbered, he was graceful, with a limber gait and a long reach. He was humming to himself. Frank turned an ear and leaned toward him, but he didn’t recognize a tune. At that moment, the kid looked his way and said, “Oh, hi! May I help you?” The smile came to his face as if it was second nature.

No, Frank thought. This was not his child. None of his children were this lacking in distrust. He said something about hiking boots. The kid glanced around, reached for a box. He said, “These are my favorites. What are you, about an eleven? These are Timberlands. They last forever.”

Frank sat down and let him kneel at his feet, slip on the reddish, heavy boot, and lace it partway up. He said, “I don’t lace them all the way unless I’m hiking in pretty rough country, but they’re great for stabilizing your step….” The patter went on. “They were eighty-five dollars, but I’m marking them down to seventy-five this week. In Europe, they’re twice that. This is the last pair of elevens.”

“Okay,” said Frank.

“You’ll love them,” said the kid. “Bob will ring them up for you. May I find you anything else?”