Early Warning

Arthur pushed the covers back, lay there for just another moment, then turned and put his feet on the cold floor. Suddenly he thought of his roommate, freshman year at college. He was from out west somewhere, and he had once told Arthur that his earliest memory was from when he was seven years old — only ten years before. Everything else was a blank. What was it a memory of? Arthur had asked. It was having some hash set before him for some meal, at the orphanage where he lived. Arthur, whose memories at the time were all too precise and abundant, had envied him. He remembered that envy now, and trailing behind it was another memory, of himself in the summertime, he must have been three or four, neatly dressed, sitting on the veranda of their house in Maryland (green mat underneath him, his legs pushed through the white posts, leaning forward, his hands gripping his bare knees). Walking down the street were three older boys. One was pushing a bicycle, another had two baseball bats, and the third was tossing and catching three balls as he walked. They were laughing. Undoubtedly, moments later, little Arthur was removed from the porch, so the memory was pinned into his brain like a photograph, emblematic of the moment he realized what he was missing, predictive of his future embrace of Lillian and Frank and the noisy, wild Langdons, who sometimes did what they were told, but always had something to say about it. Solitude was not good for him, and here he was again.

If Charles, or Charlie, as Frank had referred to him, had been born full-term, then he would have been conceived under Arthur’s very nose, around the time Tim was heading off to the University of Virginia. That Tim had had a relationship, romance, one-night stand, episode of intercourse, whatever it might have been, with Debbie’s adored — worshipped, he realized — Fiona both surprised Arthur and did not. Also in the report was some information about Fiona: Her name was now Fiona Cannon McCorkle, she ran a riding school with her husband, Jason McCorkle, in Pasadena, California. The McCorkles owed $126,000 on their house, a large sum, but maybe not for California. Jason McCorkle had been an alternate for the show-jumping team at the L.A. Olympics.

Arthur hoisted himself to his feet and walked to the window. The great attraction of upstate New York was bad weather — if not snow, then wind; if not ice, then cold; if not rain, then overcast skies. He had not been party to the negotiations that brought him here. Tina was in Sun Valley, Idaho, now, running a gallery, still making glass sculptures. Dean was in Yardley, Pennsylvania; he and Linda both had their real-estate licenses. Real estate, as everyone knew, was a time-consuming occupation.

Arthur didn’t remember much about the fall of ’64—that would be the point of his many shock treatments, wouldn’t it? If Arthur were to tell Debbie about the report, she would insist on contacting Fiona. If the report stayed locked in his drawer, nothing would be set in motion.

Arthur turned from the window. The brass keyhole of the locked drawer sparkled. He looked away.

Over Thanksgiving, Frank had said again, “The resemblance was uncanny. When I watched Charlie walk down the street, I felt his gait in my body. If you saw this kid, you’d agree with me.” At some point, Frank would think of Tim, Arthur was sure of that — they had always laughed about how similar Tim was to Frank, especially as an ornery and determined little boy. Arthur shook his head. He had no rights over this young man, none whatsoever.

Coming up on three years now, since his life had ended. After Lillian died, he’d embarrassed himself thoroughly, but it was logical, really — if you would prefer to be dead, why shave, or wash, or sleep, or talk? Why take out the trash? Why eat, especially if you literally could not swallow, if your stomach clenched up and prevented entry, and the smallest items of food felt jammed in your lower esophagus, making you gag? Why not leave the doors of the house open even in the coldest weather, why not empty everything of everything — let the coal burn and the heat fly away and the mice and rats raid the larder, let the water run out of the sink and over the floor, let the lightning strike the trees and the lawn grow and the garden disappear in weeds. Let the fencing collapse. And so he had been taken in hand, and there was not so much pain now. Now there was simply nothing, more convenient for everyone.