Page 28 of Whistle
“You getting ready for the Tour de France?”
“The what?’
“You’re a sweaty mess.”
“I’m building up my enema.”
Annie stifled a laugh. “Stamina.”
“Yeah, that.”
“And why do you have to build up your stamina?”
Charlie hesitated. “Just in case I ever had to ride somewhere far one day.”
Seven
They had a quiet evening.
Annie opened up a jar of spaghetti sauce in the cupboard, warmed it on the stove, and slid some fettucine noodles into a pot of boiling water. A sprinkle of Parmesan, and voilà, world’s simplest dinner. Charlie was at that age where he would take some cooked noodles—buttered or with tomato sauce—over just about any other food, and on this particular night Annie was content with the same.
After dinner they watched some TV. Charlie was right, the channels were all in different places than in the city, and there weren’t nearly as many of them here, but the house was still equipped with wi-fi and there was always streaming. They watchedGalaxy Quest, which had been one of John’s favorite movies because it was such a great send-up of the whole Star Trek franchise, but Charlie took it at face value, as an exciting science fiction adventure with a few laughs. When Alan Rickman, in full alien garb, announces after a harrowing encounter with another spaceship that he’s off to find the pub, Annie cracked up. It had been John’s favorite line.
Uncharacteristically, Charlie turned down his mother’s offer of a story, claiming to be too tired. And within seconds of tucking him in, Annie peered through a crack in the doorway and could see that he was out cold.
She tidied up the kitchen, watched Anderson Cooper on CNN, and when that was over she was ready for an early turn-in. But onher way to her bedroom she went back into the studio to take another look at what she had drawn that afternoon.
It was a messy sketch, not surprisingly, given that she had drawn it without actually looking at the paper. Even now, it was hard for her to describe where her mind had gone while she was drawing. She’d been looking up at the sky, through the two skylights, imagining, perhaps, that she was a bird, flying around up there, gazing down upon the house from the heavens. In the past, when she’d experimented with automatic drawing—clearing her head, letting her fingers seemingly work independently of her brain—she’d never had much to show for it.
Today had been different.
This was no adorable penguin she’d sketched.
She had drawn the man from Penn Station.
He was a kind of hybrid. Part rat, part coyote, with a dash of werewolf added to the mix.
He had a human-like figure, but with the rat-wolf head. Not some cute, Disney-like rat (or wolf), either. This was a nasty piece of work with piercing eyes and small, sharp, piranha-like teeth that could nibble off your fingers in an instant. He (she assumed it was ahe) was dressed in a kind of long jacket, like a trench coat, and his feet were bare. They were oversized and furry, with long ragged nails. A bushy tail curled up from under the coat.
“Good luck turning him into a bestseller,” she heard John say in the back of her mind.
As rough as the sketch was, Annie had to admit that, from a purely professional standpoint, it was not half bad. If you were out to create a cartoon villain, you could do a lot worse.
But what in Annie’s subconscious had led her to put this image on a sheet of paper? What had prompted her to dredge up a distant memory from childhood that might not even have been real? Sure,she’d endured the worst year ever. She’d suffered guilt, she’d endured loss. Was this how it manifested itself?
She sat in the chair, picked up the pencil, and refined some of the character’s features. Made the teeth more individual, sharper. Worked some creases into the trench coat. Added some little hairs to the feet.
Were the creative impulses within her trying to send a message? Were they telling her to retire Pierce permanently? Was it time to abandon cute for creepy?
Take that pain. Take that hurt. Turn it into something.
Was that what was happening?
She put down the pencil and managed a smile. She imagined the look on Fin’s face when she told him she was abandoning a cute penguin for this nightmarish character. He’d have a heart attack. Even if she had no intention of switching gears, it would still be fun to tell him.
Annie left the study, turned out the light, and retired to her room. Once under the covers, she plugged her phone into the charger cord on her bedside table, tried to read a few pages of her novel, but when she found herself unable to keep her eyes open, she hit the light and went to sleep.
Charlie had a dream.
