2
It was a day two full summers earlier. April. The rain then
had stopped too. The first sun since midweek was slanting
down through trees that were beginning to thicken, and chil
dren were emerging onto shining streets. Tina was the first.
She had a Frisbee in her hand.
There had been a television program the day before about
dogs who caught Frisbees. Some seemed to leap ten feet into
the air, vaulting and somersaulting with a gymnast's skill,
plucking the Frisbee in its flight and then soaring awhile be
fore tumbling to earth in a happy heap. One of the dogs had
been a golden retriever. He wasn't the best. The mutts al
ways seemed to do better. But the retriever could do it, and if he could, Macduff could. Tina's golden retriever could do it too.
“Stupid dog!” Baker heard her voice from the front lawn.
He stepped away from a harbor scene he was trying in
watercolors—it was a mess, anyway—and looked out
through the window of his den. He saw the Frisbee first. It
sailed vertically upward, perhaps twenty feet in the air, then
he saw Tina run under to snatch it. She caught the plastic
disk with her hands, but she kept the hands close to her face,
pretending to catch it in her mouth. “See, Macduff?” she
called. The dog came into view, smiling foolishly. He
pranced at her feet, hoping to show that he was willing to
play, more than willing, and that he would try to understand
what she wanted of him.
Tina showed the Frisbee to Macduff and, after faking
twice to show him its direction, tossed it on a short and shal
low trajectory. Macduff watched the disk until it landed,
then leaped forward triumphantly, pinning it with his paws.
Tina tried again, this time sailing the Frisbee directly toward
the big gulden's snout. He watched its approach and barely
blinked as it bounced off his face.
“Dumb!” Tina shouted.
Baker smiled at his daughter's frustration. From two
rooms away, he heard Sarah laugh. She too had been watch
ing. Now she was going outside.
For several minutes, Baker watched Sarah try her luck with Macduff, who was by now thoroughly confused. Sarah
had tried to reason with him just as she reasoned with lawn-
mowers that wouldn't start and checkbooks that wouldn't
balance. Again the dog watched the Frisbee's approach, and
again he allowed it to carom off his head. Baker wondered
what the dog thought. Perhaps he'd decided that that was the
game. It's called, stop that white round thing with your face
and then chew on it until they pry it away.
Sarah and Tina gave up. They moved into the street, de
ciding that a simple game of catch would be more reward
ing. Macduff watched them from the edge of the lawn. Their
game didn't look nearly so interesting.
Still smiling, Baker returned to his canvas. The smile vanished. Really pretty lousy, he thought. After three years of adult education art classes, you'd think I could paint a
lobsterboat that doesn't look like a bathtub toy. He took the
canvas and put it aside, picking up instead an almost-
finished oil portrait of Sarah.
Her warm, soft eyes looked back at him. At least it was supposed to be Sarah. The likeness wasn't terrific, but it
wasn't bad either. Not bad for a Sunday artist. Not too terri
ble for a third attempt at portrait painting. The shape of the
face was almost perfect. The high cheekbones, the auburn
hair, and the line of the chin were just about right. And the
eyes were close. One was just a trifle lower than the other,
but no one would notice that. The mouth was wrong, though.
It was a wider, more sensual mouth than Sarah's. Not that
Sarah wasn't sexy, but her mouth just didn't have that full
ness. And the coloring was a little too dark. The face was al
most closer to that of the actress whose photograph hung on
Tina's wall by her trophy shelf.
The distant racket of a motorcycle engine cut through the
morning quiet. The low, snarling sound changed its pitch,
coughed, and changed again. Too fast, Baker thought. Too fast for these streets. He felt his jaw tighten and a rush of
sudden anger swelled inside him. He turned his head toward
the receding noise and felt his fingers flex in anticipation of
grabbing the son of a bitch who ...
Baker shook his head violently and blinked. Stop that, he
told himself. What's the matter with you lately?
He was calm again almost at once. The rage was gone. But still, it troubled him; these feelings had been coming upon him too often in recent months. Maybe for the past
year. The motorist who cut him off and then gave him the
finger when Baker honked a complaint. Baker felt it then.
He wanted to tear the finger off the man's hand. And there was the rude store clerk whose face Baker almost smashed
and the drunk who jabbed his finger into Baker's chest.
Baker might have hurt them too if he'd been less in control.
Or they might have hurt him.
He did not understand these feelings because they were
not like him. He liked to think he was a gentle man, that
there was no meanness in him. But something was happen
ing and he didn't like it. He didn't like the flashes of rage
that came from nowhere, and he didn't like the other feel
ings he was getting. Feelings that he was being talked about.
Almost hearing what was being said. That bothered him.
Was he becoming paranoid? Or schizophrenic? He wasn't
even sure what either term meant until the persistence of the
feelings made him look them up. Neither fit exactly. The
paranoid person felt threatened by thoughts he imagined, but
Baker felt no threat. He simply knew that thoughts were of him. Sometimes. Nor was there the withdrawal from reality
of the classic schizophrenic. Or any behavioral change.
There were just these feelings. Harmless, probably. Just a
build-up of pressure. An edginess. A vacation would help.
Maybe they shouldn't wait until ski season. No.
It
was noth
ing. Not as long as he kept it inside where it didn't show and
where Sarah couldn't see it. She'd worry. She'd make him
take a few days off. And Tina would worry. Tina would
worry even more than Sarah, he thought. Because Tîna
seemed to know sometimes.
The motorcycle sound was coming back and it was
louder. The anger came with it. Or tried to. Baker walked
away from it. He laid down his paints and walked to the
basement, where, with the water running, he washed the pig
ments from his hands and watched them blend into a weak
beige as they circled down the drain.
Drains. That was another thing. There was something
about drains lately. He had no idea what. Only that they
made him feel
...
He didn't know that either.
Except this drain screamed. There was a roar and a bang
ing and then a scream, and he felt a piece of himself tear
away, and he felt it floating for a moment before it withered and dispersed.
My God, he thought. Baker, you worry me sometimes.
Come on, knock it off. You've been indoors too long. Get
out of here, grab Sarah's hand, and go take a long walk someplace before you ... Baker reeled suddenly. He had to
grab the edge of the sink. Sarah? Sarah? Why did he think there wasn't any Sarah? Baker stumbled up the basement
stairs and smashed through his front screen door, shattering
it.
He screamed her name.
Sam Willis saw it. He'd been staking tomato plants knocked down by the rain when he heard the insolent roar of that
goddamned motorcycle. This time he'd call the cops.
He saw Tina first. He saw
Tina running beneath a Frisbee
that was curving back upon her and he saw Sarah Baker, her
eyes now fixed on the oncoming machine, running toward Tina, her arms waving angrily toward the motorcyclist.
Willis could not hear the words, but he knew that she was
shouting. The motorcyclist saw her. He saw the woman
reach her daughter's side, and he saw one hand ease her
toward the grass while the other hand, the fist, shook at the
gleaming black helmet.
The biker did not slow or turn. My God, thought Willis, the guy is aiming at her. He's playing chicken with her and she's not backing off. Now he is. He's
trying to pass close with one foot up to kick at her, but his rear wheel is moving sideways. He's skidding. And Sarah
Baker's slipping. She's slipping down on the wet pavement
and Tina is reaching back from the grass toward her mother.
Oh God, no! Sam Willis shut his eyes.
At the crunching, sodden sound of impact, he shut them
tighter.
Baker would remember seeing the Frisbee first. Rolling
slowly on the gentle slope of the street, it caught his eye and
held it. It was turning, tighter now and faster, finally into a spin that spiraled into a small white blur before it sputtered to a stop. But he was also seeing Tina with another eye. And
she was crawling. She crawled right through the spinning
blur and one foot seemed to bump along behind her; she was dragging it toward a pile of rags that were heaped at the base
of Sam Willis's tree. Sam Willis was running now to the pile
of rags. But something was wrong with Tina. Why wasn't
Sam running to help Tina?
Another man was coming to help, but Baker didn't look at him. He felt himself floating toward the rags. They were
white and they were red. The red part had hair on it and it
must have been a head, but it didn't look like a head.
“Hey,” a voice said, ”I couldn't help that.”
Baker was on his knees, holding Tina. He was cradling
Tina's head so she couldn't see.
”I mean, hey.” The voice was becoming more urgent.
More desperate. ‘They shouldn't have been on the damned
street. Streets are for cars and bikes, you know?”
Baker's left arm lashed toward the voice and it stumbled
backward.
“Hey .. ” The voice was slurring and it was wilder. “Hey,
back off, asshole. I could have got killed. Look at my bike.
Look what they did to my fùckin' bike.”
“Your bike?” Baker whispered. He saw his own hand after it had gripped the younger man's throat
and he saw
his other arm swinging a fist against the biker's face. The
arm lashed forward a second time, but now the head
twisted away and Baker's knuckles smashed painfully
against the helmet's visor. A numbing shock shot up
through Baker's elbow and he snatched at the lacerated fist
with his good hand. Seeing Baker helpless, the younger
man attacked wildly with fists and boots. One or more of
the blows stunned Baker. He felt his world flash white and the pain became distant. He could feel the other body near his own and he knew that blows were being struck. Baker
was dimly aware that the younger man must have been hit
ting him, but he did not feel the impact. Sarah
...
He had
to help Sarah. Baker could hear Tina crying and shouting and he turned to her. He must have been holding the man
who rode the motorcycle because that man fell to the street when Baker turned away. Baker didn't care. He wanted to
hold Tina. He took her and pressed her against his chest
with one arm while the other gathered the still body of
Sarah Baker.
The police found him that way.
“Mr. Baker?”
The older man sat next to him on the green vinyl couch.
A second man was standing. The older one spoke several
times before Baker looked up.
“Mr. Baker, do you know where you are?”
“Hospital,” he murmured.
“Mr. Baker, I'm Detective Sergeant Kinney and this is
Detective Gurdik. Are you able to tell us what you saw?”
“Sarah's dead.”
“I'm terribly sorry about that, Mr. Baker. But your
daughter's alive and she's going to need you. We're going to
need you too. Did you see it happen, Mr. Baker?”