52

           Atoneo’clockthatmorning,JudCrandall’stelephonerang,shrillingintheemptyhouse,startinghimawake.Inhisdozehewasdreaming,andinthedreamhewastwenty-threeagain,sittingonabenchintheB&AcouplingshedwithGeorgeChapinandReneMichaud,thethreeofthempassingaroundabottleofGeorgiaChargerwhiskeyjumped-upmoonshinewitharevenuestamponitwhileoutsideanor’easterblewitsrandyshriekovertheworld,silencingallthatmoved,includingtherollingstockoftheB&Arailroad.SotheysatanddrankaroundthepotbelliedDefiant,watchingtheredglowofthecoalsshiftandchangebehindthecloudyisinglass,castingdiamond-shapedflameshadowsacrossthefloor,tellingthestorieswhichmenholdinsideforyearslikethejunktreasuresboysstoreundertheirbeds,thestoriestheystoreupfornightssuchasthis.LiketheglowoftheDefiant,theseweredarkstorieswithaglowofredatthecenterofeachandthewindtowrapthemaround.Hewastwenty-three,andNormawasverymuchalive(althoughinbednow,hehadnodoubt;shewouldnotexpecthimhomethiswildnight),andReneMichaudwastellingastoryaboutaJewpeddlerinBucksportwho

           Thatwaswhenthephonebegantoringandhejerkedupinhischair,wincingatthestiffnessinhisneck,feelingasourheavinessdropintohimlikeastoneitwas,hethought,allthoseyearsbetweentwenty-threeandeighty-three,allsixtyofthem,droppingintohimatonce.Andontheheelsofthatthought:Youbeensleepin,boyo.

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