Bentley Little - The Walking

It was amazing how easy it was to dig up background information. People on the outside always thought he spent his time walking city streets, canvassing neighborhoods, interviewing people, paying bribes for info, using hidden mikes and cameras to listen in on conversations. But sometimes a

short trip to the library and a few hours of reading provided him with everything he needed. That wasn't the case here, but he did find two books and one article in a business journal that would prove useful.

His father was already through, sitting on a bench near the front counter, and the old man stood, silently handing Miles his pile of books. Miles gave the librarian his card and glanced down at the titles his dad had chosen: Past Lives, Future Lives; Perception and Precognition; Witchcraft and Satanism in Early America; and The Prophecies of Nostradamus. He frowned but didn't say anything until the two of them were outside and in the car. Strapping on his shoulder harness, he casually motioned toward the materials between them. "What is this all about?" he asked. "What?" "Your books."

"Do I have to have my reading list approved by you?" "No, but " "Okay then."

"But you've never been interested in the occult."

"I am now." The old man looked at him Stubbornly, but for an instant the defensiveness faltered. A flicker of uncertainty-fear?--crossed his father's features, but it was gone before it really registered.

"What's going oft?" Miles asked.

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"Just drop it, okay?"

There was anger in his father's voice, and Miles held up a hand in surrender. "Okay. God, I wasn't trying to make a federal case out of it."

But he thought of his father's dream and felt uneasy. He was used to working on hunches, following feelings, but it was usually in the pursuit of facts, and it was the nebulous occult aspect of this that troubled him.

He backed out of his parking spot and pulled onto the street, heading toward home.

His father changed the subject. "I know you're not seeing anyone right now, but do you have any prospects?"

"What?" Miles looked at him, surprised. "What brought this on?"

"I'm just curious. It's not natural for a full-grown man not to be interested in sex."

"First of all, I don't even want to talk about this with you, and, second of all, who says I'm not interested. "You don't seem like it."

"I'm going through a dry spell right now."

"Awful long dry spell."

"Why are you suddenly so concerned about my love life?" "A man gets to a certain age, he wants to know that his son will be settled and happy and taken care of when he's gone."

When he's gone.

Maybe his father hadn't changed the subject after all. Miles kept his tone light. "You planning to die on me?" "I'm just asking." Bob grinned. "Besides, no man likes to think that he's been a failure as a father, that he's raised a son who's a pathetic loser and can't even get a date."

"Who can't get a date?"

"When's the last time you went out?"

"Well, there was Janice. That was almost a kind of sort of semi-date.

In a way."

"She was married! And you just went out to lunch!" "She wasn't married. She had a boyfriend."

"Same difference." Bob shook his head. 'Thank God you're on a never seen a man not ball team.

I've strike out as much as you."

"It's not that bad."

"What about Mary?"

Miles' face clouded over. "I haven't seen her in a long time." ' ' l'hat's what I mean. Why don't you call her up, ask her out?"

Miles shook his head. "I can't. I couldn't. Besides, she's probably seeing someone else by now." ,

"Maybe not. Maybe she's in the same boat you are. Who knows? Maybe she's just waiting for you to call."

Miles said nothing. He couldn't tell his dad that Mary was not waiting for him to call, that he had seen her outside a movie theater several months ago, dressed to the hilt, looking gorgeous, laughing happily and intimately touching a tall athletic-looking man wearing an expensive sports coat.

"You can't tell," Bob prodded. "Call her and see. It can't hurt."

It could hurt, though, Miles thought. He turned away. "No, Dad. I'm not calling her."

"You'll be alone until you die."

"I can live with that."

Bob sighed. 'l'hat's the sad part. I think you could." They drove in silence for several blocks, and it was Bob who finally broke the silence. "You'll never do better than

Claire. You know that, don't you?" Miles nodded, staring slraight ahead. "I know that." "You should have never let that girl go."

"I didn't let her go. She wanted out, she wasn't happy, we got a divorce."

"You could've fought a little harder."

Miles didn't reply. He'd thought the same thing himself. Many times.

He'd agreed to the divorce, but he hadn't wanted it. He'd loved her then, and he probably still loved her now, though he told himself that he didn't. It had been five years since the final papers had come through, and not a day went by that he didn't think about her. In small ways usually--a brief second wondering what she'd say about this or that but she'd remained in his life as a ghost, a conscience, a measuring stick in his mind if not a physical presence.

The truth was, they probably did not have to get divorced. No other people were involved, no other lovers on either of their parts. Her sole complaint with him was that he had too little time for her, that he cared more about his job than he did about his marriage. It wasn't true, but he knew why she felt that way, and it would have been easy for him to correct. If he had just been willing to bend a little, to admit his mistakes, to stop bringing work home, to spend more time with her and be a little more demonstrative with his feelings, they would have been able to survive. He'd known that even then, but some small stubborn part of him had kept him from doing so, had insisted that though the fault was his own, it was her responsibility to solve the problem. If she really loved him, she would understand and forgive him, she would put up with anything he did and be grateful. She was already meeting him more than halfway, but he thought she should have gone all the way, and their problems had escalated from there. Divorce had been the ultimate outcome, and though it was not something he had wanted, he had been unwilling to avoid it.

Miles glanced over. His father was still looking at him.

He sighed. "Dad, it's been a long day. Let's just drop it, okay?"

Bob held up his hands in disingenuous innocence. "Okay. Fine."

They pulled into the driveway, and Miles parked the car, pulled the emergency brake. Bob picked up his stack of books before getting out, and once again Miles' gaze was drawn to the volumes.

Witchcraft and Satanism in Early America.

He picked up his own materials and followed his father into the house.

Instead of camping out on the couch as he usually did

and falling asleep to the sounds of sitcoms, Bob retired to his room, bidding his son good night and closing and locking the door.

The Prophecies of Nostradamus.

Miles still felt uneasy, and though he got himself a beer and sat on the couch for a couple of hours, trying to sort through the information he'd gathered, he could not really concentrate, and he gave it up early, going to bed well before his usual time of eleven o'clock.

But he couldn't sleep.

After tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, he got up, turned on the small television on his dresser, watched part of an exercise infomercial, then turned it off and walked over to the window, staring out through the crack in the curtains at the cloud-shrouded winter moon.

He thought about Claire, wondered if she was sleeping right now.

Wondered who she was sleeping with.

He glanced back at the empty bed. It had been a long time since he'd had sex. And he missed it. He tried to recall what Claire looked like naked, tried to bring to mind the specifics of her form, but time had blurred her body into the generic. Hell, he could not even recall any details about Mary. He remembered places and positions, but the sensual knowledge ordinarily borne of intimacy was not there.