Bentley Little - The Walking

had truly missed her, and he closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tide of emotion that threatened to wash over him. "Are you okay? she asked. He took a deep breath. "I'm fine."

"I really liked your dad. He was a great guy. I will miss him."

Miles tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Yeah."

There was a brief silence, and Miles thought he heard a sniffle on the other end of the line.

"Was it... ?" This time the sniffle was definite, and it was accompanied by a catch in her breath. "Did Bob suffer much?"

"I don't think so," he said. "But... I don't know."

He wanted to come clean, wanted to tell her everything, but they were no longer married, she was no longer a part of his life, and this wasn't her problem.

That was probably the one good thing about them not being together anymore: the fact that she didn't need to know what had really happened to his father.

"When's the funeral?" she asked. "

"We, he cleared his throat--"we haven't scheduled any time yet There was pause that turned extended silence.

"Are you. would you like..." He heard the nervousness in her voice, heard her suck in her breath in order to imbue herself with resolve, just the way he remembered her doing. "Is it all right if I come over?"

His response was a beat too slow.

"I understand if you prefer not! she said quickly. "I just thought--" i

"Yeah," he said. that would be great."

"You want me to come over?"

"I'd like to see you again."

Neither of them knew what to say after that, and for a

few seconds Miles thought he had screwed it up. Then she said, "I'll come by in an hour or so. I assume you still live in the same place?"

"Same place." "

"All right. I'll see you then."

They said their good-byes and hung up quickly, neither of them wanting to jinx the plan. As soon as he hung up the phone, he started furiously cleaning the living room and kitchen, trying to get the house in some semblance of order before Claire arrived. He barely had time to put on new clothes and comb his hair before the doorbell rang.

He went to answer it, his heart fluttering, his palms sweaty, his hands trembling.

She looked even prettier than he recalled, as though his memory had rounded her off to a lower level of beauty, not wanting him to suffer any more than he did already. But now she was here, in glorious 3-D technicolor, and she was as attractive to him as she had been the first time he'd met her. Whatever spark had originally ignited their feelings for each other was still there, at least on his side, and he stared at her stupidly, unable to think of anything to say other than,

There was a moment of indecision, then she was throwing her arms around him, hugging him, crying, saying, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... He hugged her back, feeling his own tears well up. He had not cried since his dad died, but Claire's presence somehow gave him permission to feel grief, and he sobbed now as he had not sobbed since childhood.

She talked about his father as she cried, and each recalled memory brought forth a renewed burst of tears. It was painful to think about, but the pain felt good in a way, searing, cleansing. For the first time since his father's death, he allowed his mind to think about the old days, the good days, the days before the stroke. He had been concentrating only

on the here and now, afraid if he let himself dwell upon better times in the past, he would sink into an emotional abyss from which he could not crawl out.

After a while he was all cried out, and soon so was she. They broke apart, sat down on the couch, and for the first time since the divorce, they talked.

He was still in love with her, he realized, would probably always be in love with her, but they did not speak of that. They did not talk of their marriage or their former life together, though that was a subtext under everything they said. They did not talk of their current lives or their possible futures.

They talked about Bob.

The shadows lengthened, the house grew dark. The) turned on lights but made no effort to move. Miles did nol offer Claire anything to eat or drink, and she did not ask for anything. They remained in place, remembering the life of a man they loved, until well past midnight.

It felt strange not straying from that topic, but it felt right Miles knew that any attempt to broaden the conversatior might break the spell, might disrupt the tentative rapproachment they had forged, and that was something neithe of them wanted, so they continued sharing their memories good and bad, happy and sad, until each of them had saic everything they had to say.

They both had to work in the morning, and Claire got up to leave. She asked if he was all right, asked if he need ex her to stay, and he told her he was fine. She said good-by" but promised to return tomorrow, after work, and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking out to her car

He watched her drive away, still standing in the door way stating at the empty street long after her taillights had disappeared around the corner.

Claire.

He was not sure he understood what had just happen

They had not seen each other since the divorce and at that time she'd made it clear that she never wanted to see him again--but she had raced over at the news that his father had died, and had even offered to spend the night if he needed someone to be with. It could have been just kindness. Maybe, for some reason, she thought he might be suicidal and was showing him the same consideration she would show anyone in mortal distress. Maybe she simply loved her ex-father-in-law and wanted to share her feelings with someone else who had known and loved him and would understand.

Maybe.

But he had the sense that there was something more going on here, and while he usually did not allow himself to cling to false hope, he wasn't sure this hope was false, and in his mind he could see the two of them together again.

Miles fell asleep thinking about how nice it would be to once more wake up with Claire under the covers next to him.

He was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of ringing, and it took his sleep-fogged brain a moment to sort through its catalog of sounds and identify what the noise was. By the time he finally picked up the receiver, the phone had already rung at least ten times. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he spoke into the mouthpiece. No good news ever came from someone so desperate to get ahold of a person at this ungodly hour. "Hello?"

"Mr. Huerdeen?

His heart rate accelerated. Formality was never good either. "Yes?"

"This is Smith Blume, deputy county coroner. I work the night shift here, and I've been assigned to your father's case." Blume cleared his throat embarrassedly. "I'm afraid there's been well, not exactly an accident, but we have a small problem with your father."

Miles gripped the phone tightly. "What are you saying?" The coroner took a deep breath. "I'm saying, Mr. Huerdeen, that your father has walked out of here. He's gone."

Liam dreamed he was running through the desert, being chased by a horde of homeless people with raggedy black. clothes and glowing blue faces.

It was a very lush desert, and he kept getting scraped and stabbed as he ran between the closely growing cacti. Ahead was a small shack, a ramshackle building barely bigger than the Unabomber's cabin, and though there were no windows, the door was open and standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the yellow-orange light of a fire, was a hunched old woman.

The woman scared him, but the mob behind him scared him more, and he ran toward the open doorway. As he drew closer, he could make out details of the old woman's appearance. There was something strange about the crone's features, something unearthly in the makeup of her face.