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to say.
But halfway through the fourth ring, a woman said: “Hello?”
“Is this Ellen Dunning?”
“Well, I guess that depends on who’s calling.” She sounded cautiously amused. The voice was
smoky and a little insinuating. If I didn’t know better, I would have imagined a woman in her thirties
rather than one who was now either sixty or pushing it hard. It was the voice, I thought, of someone who
used it professionally. A singer? An actress? Maybe a comedian (or comedienne) after all? None of them
seemed likely in Derry.
“My name is George Amberson. I knew your brother Harry a long time ago. I was back in Maine,
and I thought maybe I’d try to get in touch.”
“Harry?” She sounded startled. “Oh my God! Was it in the Army?”
Had it been? I thought fast and decided that couldn’t be my story. Too many potential pitfalls.
“No, no, back in Derry. When we were kids.” Inspiration struck. “We used to play at the Rec.
Same teams. Palled around a lot.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Amberson, but Harry’s dead.”
For a moment I was dumbstruck. Only that doesn’t work on the phone, does it? I managed to say,
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. In Vietnam. During the Tet Offensive.”
I sat down, feeling sick to my stomach. I’d saved him from a limp and some mental fogginess only
to cut his lifespan by forty years or so? Terrific. The surgery was a success, but the patient died.
Meanwhile, the show had to go on.
“What about Troy? And you, how are you? You were just a little kid back then, riding a bike with
training wheels. And singing. You were always singing.” I essayed a feeble laugh. “Gosh, you used to
drive us crazy.”
“The only singing I do these days is on Karaoke Night at Bennigan’s Pub, but I never did get tired
of running my mouth. I’m a jock on WKIT up in Bangor. You know, a disc jockey?”
“Uh-huh. And Troy?”
“Living la vida loca in Palm Springs. He’s the rich fella in the family. Made a bundle in the
computer biz. Got in on the ground floor back in the seventies. Goes to lunch with Steve Jobs and
stuff.” She laughed. It was a terrific laugh. I bet people all over eastern Maine tuned in just to hear it.
But when she spoke again, her tone was lower and all the humor had gone out of it. Sun to shade, just
like that. “Who are you really, Mr. Amberson?”
“What do you mean?”
“I do call-in shows on the weekends. A yard-sale show on Saturdays—‘I’ve got a rototiller, Ellen,
almost brand-new, but I can’t make the payments and I’ll take the best offer over fifty bucks.’ Like
that. On Sundays, it’s politics. Folks call in to flay Rush Limbaugh or talk about how Glenn Beck
should run for president. I know voices. If you’d been friends with Harry back in the Rec days, you’d
be in your sixties, but you’re not. You sound like you’re no more than thirty-five.”
Jesus, right on the money. “People tell me I sound a lot younger than my age. I bet they tell you
the same.”
“Nice try,” she said flatly, and all at once she did sound older. “I’ve had years of training to put
that sunshine in my voice. Have you?”
I couldn’t think of a response, so I kept silent.
“Also, no one calls to check up on someone they chummed around with when they were in
grammar school. Not fifty years later, they don’t.”
Might as well hang up, I thought. I got what I called for, and more than I bargained for. I’ll just hang up.
But the phone felt glued to my ear. I’m not sure I could have dropped it if I’d seen fire racing up my