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go back and start all over again. Thinking about it, I found there was really no decision to be made. I
didn’t have the strength to go back and start over. One way or another, this was it. The trapper’s last
shot.
That night, the Kennedys, Johnsons, and Connallys ate dinner in Houston, at an event put on by
the League of Latin American Citzens. The cuisine was Argentinian: ensalada rusa and the stew known
as guiso. Jackie made the after-dinner speech—in Spanish. I ate takeout burgers and fries . . . or tried
to. After a few bites, that meal also went into the garbage can out back.
I had finished both of the MacDonald novels. I thought about getting my own unfinished book out
of the trunk of my car, but the idea of reading it was sickening. I ended up just sitting in the halfbusted
armchair until it was dark outside. Then I went into the little bedroom where Rosette
Templeton and June Oswald had slept. I lay down with my shoes off and my clothes on, using the
cushion from the living room chair as a pillow. I’d left the door open and the light in the living room
burning. By its glow I could see the Crayola girls in their green jumpers. I knew I was in for the sort
of night that would make the long day I had just passed seem short; I’d lie here wide awake, my feet
hanging over the end of the bed almost to the floor, until the first light of November twenty-second
came filtering in through the window.
It was long. I was tortured by what-ifs, should-have-beens, and thoughts of Sadie. Those were the
worst. The missing her and wanting her went so deep it felt like physical sickness. At some point,
probably long after midnight (I’d given up looking at my watch; the slow movement of the hands was
too depressing), I fell into a sleep that was dreamless and profound. God knows how long I would have
slept the next morning if I hadn’t been awakened. Someone was shaking me gently.
“Come on, Jake. Open your eyes.”
I did as I was told, although when I saw who was sitting beside me on the bed, I was at first
positive I was dreaming after all. I had to be. But then I reached out, touched the leg of her faded blue
jeans, and felt the fabric under my palm. Her hair was tied up, her face almost devoid of makeup, the
disfigurement of her left cheek clear and singular. It was Sadie. She had found me.