Page 19 of Whistle
“It’s okay. I told you. I can fly.”
“Six-year-old boys can’t fly. You don’t have feathers. You don’t have wings.”
“Yes, I do. I made them.”
“Those are cardboard, Evan. Held on with tape. They won’t keep you up.”
“Pierce Penguin can fly. And penguins aren’t supposed to be able to fly.”
“He’spretend.”
“Pierce Penguin says you can do anything you put your mind to. Mom reads the book to me all the time.”
“Evan, what Pierce’s saying is, be the best little boy you can be, but it doesn’t mean you can turn into a bird and fly or be a fish and live underwater or be a squirrel and climb trees.”
“You’re wrong. I can fly.”
“Evan, just take my hand and come back—”
“Here I go!”
Annie woke with a start, sitting bolt-upright in bed, holding herhand to her chest. Her heart was pounding. She waited for the beats to slow down, then swung her feet to the floor and stood.
She had been prescribed Xanax after Evan’s death, and had gone back on it after John’s. She’d weaned herself off it, but had brought along the few pills she had left, just in case. She went into the bathroom, looked through the travel kit of various medications she had packed back in Manhattan, and found the plastic bottle. She gave it a shake. Only four pills left. She’d left in such a hurry that she hadn’t thought to have the prescription renewed before coming here, but supposed that could be accomplished one way or another.
She uncapped the bottle and tapped one pill into her palm and was about to toss it into her mouth when she heard something.
A whistle.
A whistle and a low rumbling sound.
A train.
She recalled crossing a set of tracks only a mile before reaching the house. Was it a passenger train? A freight? It went on for more than a minute, so she was guessing a freight. A passenger train would undoubtedly have been shorter.
It was, in a strange way, comforting. She was almost tempted to run into Charlie’s room and wake him so he could hear it for himself, but before she could decide whether to disturb him, the sound receded.
She looked at the pill in her hand, let it fall back into the bottle, and replaced the cap.
Annie went back to bed.
The leasing agent, who evidently also sold properties, came by just before noon. Her name was Candace Grove, she drove a black Lincoln Aviator, and was dressed smartly enough to suggest she made an annual pilgrimage to New York to raid Bloomingdale’s.
“Wanted to make sure you’d settled in okay,” she said when Annie answered the knock at the door, Charlie tagging along with her.
“Everything’s great,” Annie said. “If it was you who got this place ready, hats off to you.”
Candace gave her a quick once-over. Annie knew the look.You’re a bestselling author and the best you can do is a ratty sweater, jeans, and would it kill you to slap on some lipstick or slip on some earrings?
But the critical look vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Candace said, “Can’t do enough for my daughter Stacy’s favorite writer.”
“Well, that’s very nice to hear.”
Candace said, “I don’t mean to brag, and I know all parents think their little darlings are geniuses, but our Stacy is a pretty talented artist herself for a five-year-old.”
“Is that so.”
“She likes to draw kittens, mostly, although sometimes she draws other things. Would it be... I hate to ask... but do you think I could bring them by sometime, show them to you? You could tell me whether you think she really has a talent and if we should be considering some special art programs for her.”
