Billy Straight

73

Being alone here is different from the park. Dif- ferent from Watson.

I've got all these rooms, these books, someone who trusts me. Once in a while I hear footsteps out on the sidewalk or someone talking or laughing, a car driving by. But they don't bother me; I'm here, locked in. I can sleep without waking up to see what's around. I can read without a flashlight.

I've thought about it a lot, and Sam's right. Tomorrow I'll find a phone and call the police, tell them about PLYR 1. Maybe I can call Mom, too. Tell her I'm okay, not to worry, I'm doing just fine, one day I'll come back, be able to support her.

What would she do? Cry? Get mad? Beg me to come back?

Or worse: not beg me? She must miss me a little.

I stop thinking about it, stretch my feet out on the couch, pull the knit blanket up over my knees, start in on the next Life magazine. The main article's all about John Kennedy and his family, happy and handsome on the beach.

California beach, same sand that's just a little way up. I could walk over, look at it, pretend to be John Kennedy, come back. But I told Sam I'd stay here, and he gave me the alarm code.

1-1-2-5. I get up and try it. Green light.

Red light, green light, red light.

Green light. I open the door, smell the salt, that beach smell. No one's out; most of the houses are dark.

I go out to the porch. Feel cold, scared.

Back in the house. Why does just going outside scare me?

I'll try again later. Back to the Kennedys.