out with skulls and bones. Gunpowder’s more like it. I could write about that.’
‘Will you be a writer, then?’
‘Get me a typewriter and a ream of paper.’
‘And keep us awake with the typing?’
‘Pen, pencil, and pad, then?’
‘Done!’
So it was agreed and the nights passed into weeks and the weeks leaned from summer into the first days of autumn and his voice grew stronger, as did the sound of his heart and the small commotions of his limbs. Sometimes as Maggie slept, his voice would stir her awake and she would reach up to touch her mouth, where the surprise of his dreaming came forth.
‘There, there, Sascha. Rest now. Sleep.’
‘Sleep,’ he whispered drowsily, ‘sleep.’ And faded away.
‘Pork chops, please, for supper.’
‘No pickles with ice cream?’ both said, almost at once.
‘Pork chops,’ he said, and more days passed and more dawns arose and he said: ‘Hamburgers!’
‘For breakfast?’
‘With onions,’ he said.
October stood still for one day and then …
Halloween departed.
‘Thanks,’ said Sascha, ‘for helping me past that. What’s up ahead in five nights?’
‘Guy Fawkes!’
‘Ah, yes!’ he cried.
And at one minute after midnight five days later, Maggie got up, wandered to the bathroom, and wandered back, stunned.
‘Dear,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Douglas Spaulding turned over, half awake. ‘Yes?’
‘What day is it?’ whispered Sascha.
‘Guy Fawkes, at last. So?’
‘I don’t feel well,’ said Sascha. ‘Or, no, I feel fine. Full of pep. Ready to go. It’s time to say good-bye. Or is it hello? What do I mean?’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Are there neighbors who said, no matter when, they’d take us to the hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Call the neighbors,’ said Sascha.
They called the neighbors.
At the hospital, Douglas kissed his wife’s brow and listened.
‘It’s been nice,’ said Sascha.
‘Only the best.’
‘We won’t talk again. Good-bye,’ said Sascha.
‘Good-bye,’ both said.
At dawn there was a small clear cry somewhere.
Not long after, Douglas entered his wife’s hospital room. She looked at him and said, ‘Sascha’s gone.’
‘I know,’ he said quietly.
‘But he left word and someone else is here. Look.’
He approached the bed as she pulled back a coverlet.
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
He looked down at a small pink face and eyes that for a brief moment flickered bright blue and then shut.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘Your daughter. Meet Alexandra.’
‘Hello, Alexandra,’ he said.
‘And do you know what the nickname for Alexandra is?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Sascha,’ she said.
He touched the small cheek very gently.
‘Hello, Sascha,’ he said.
It was on the morning of October 1 that Albert Beam, aged eighty-two, woke to find an incredible thing had happened, if not in the night, miraculously at dawn.
He witnessed a warm and peculiar rise two-thirds of the way down the bed, under the covers. At first he thought he had drawn up one knee to ease a cramp, but then, blinking, he realized—
It was his old friend, Albert, Junior.
Or just Junior, as some frolicsome girl had dubbed it, how long, oh God … some sixty years ago!
And Junior was alive, well, and freshly alert.
Hallo, thought Albert Beam, Senior, to the scene, that’s the first time he’s waked before me since July 1970.
July 1970!
He stared. And the more he stared and mused, the more Junior blushed unseen; all resolute, a true beauty.
Well, thought Albert Beam, I’ll just wait for him to go away.
He shut his eyes and waited, but nothing happened. Or rather, it continued to happen. Junior did not go away. He lingered, hopeful for some new life.
Hold on! thought Albert Beam. It can’t be.
He sat bolt upright, his eyes popped wide, his breath like a fever in his mouth.
‘Are you going to stay?’ he cried down at his old and now bravely obedient friend.
Yes! he thought he heard a small voice say.
For as a young man, he and his trampoline companions had often enjoyed Charlie McCarthy talks with Junior, who was garrulous and piped up with outrageously witty things. Ventriloquism, amidst Phys. Ed. II, was one of Albert Beam’s most engaging talents.
Which meant that Junior was talented, too.
Yes! the small voice seemed to whisper. Yes!
Albert Beam bolted from bed. He was halfway through his personal phonebook when he realized all the old numbers still drifted behind his left ear. He dialed three of them, furiously, voice cracking.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello!’
