Dreamcatcher

along this white lane between the trees. Leaving him with his thoughts, which was where
he wanted to be. It was like returning to a bloody place inside your mouth, exploring it again and again with the tip of your tongue, but it was where he wanted to be.
There were pills. There was the old Baggie-over-the-head-in-the-bathtub-trick. There

was drowning. There was jumping from a high place. The handgun in the ear was too unsure-too much chance of waking up paralyzed-and so was slitting the wrists, that was for people who were only practicing, but the Japanese had a way of doing it that interested
Henry very much. Tie a rope around your neck. Tie the other end to a large rock. Put the
rock on the seat of a chair, then sit down with your back braced so you can’t fall backward

but have to keep sitting. Tip the chair over and the rock rolls off. Subject may live for three to five minutes in a deepening dream of asphyxiation. Gray fades to black; hello darkness, my old friend. He had read about that method in one of Jonesy’s beloved Kinsey
Milhone detective novels, of all places. Detective novels and horror movies: those were the things that floated Jonesy’s boat.
On the whole, Henry leaned toward the Hemingway Solution.

Pete finished his first beer and popped the top on his second, looking considerably more content. “What’d you make of it?” Pete asked.
Henry felt called to from that other universe, the one where the living actually wanted
to live. As always these days, that made him feel impatient. But it was important that none
of them suspect, and he had an idea Jonesy already did, a little. Beaver might, too. They

were the ones who could sometimes see inside. Pete didn’t have a clue, but he might say
the wrong thing to one of the others, about how preoccupied ole Henry had gotten, like there was something on his mind, something
heavy
, and Henry didn’t want that. This was

going to be the last trip to Hole in the Wall for the four of them, the old Kansas Street gang, the Crimson Pirates of the third and fourth grades, and he wanted it to be a good one. He wanted them to be shocked when they heard, even Jonesy, who saw into him the
most often and always had. He wanted them to say they’d had no idea. Better that than the
three of them sitting around with their heads hung, not able to make eye contact with one

another except in fleeting glances, thinking that they should have known, they had seen the signs and should have done something. So he came back to that other universe, simulating interest smoothly and convincingly. Who could do that better than a
headshrinker?
“What did I make of what?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “At
Gosselin’s
, dimbulb! All that stuff Old Man Gosselin was talking about.”

“Peter, they don’t call him Old Man Gosselin for nothing. He’s eighty if he’s a day,
and if there’s one thing old women and old men are not short on, it’s hysteria.” The Scout-
no spring chicken itself, fourteen years old and far into its second trip around the odometer
popped out of the ruts and immediately skidded, four-wheel drive or not. Henry steered into the skid, almost laughing when Pete dropped his beer onto the floor and yelled,
“Whoa-fuck, watch out!”

Henry let off on the gas until he felt the Scout start to straighten out, then zapped the
go-pedal again, deliberately too fast and too hard. The Scout went into another skid, this
time widdershins to the first, and Pete yelled again. Henry let up once more and the Scout
thumped back into the ruts and once again ran smoothly, as if on rails. One positive to deciding to end your life, it seemed, was no longer sweating the small stuff. The lights cut

through the white and shifting day, full of a billion dancing snowflakes, not one of them
the same, if you believed the conventional wisdom.
Pete picked up his beer (only a little had spilled), and patted his chest. “Aren’t you
going a little fast?”
“Not even close,” Henry said, and then, as if the skid had never occurred (it had) or
interrupted his train of thought (it hadn’t), he went on, “Group hysteria is most common in

the very old and the very young. It’s a well-documented phenomenon in both my field and
that of the sociology heathens who live next door.”
Henry glanced down and saw he was doing thirty-five, which was, in fact, a little fast
for these conditions. He slowed down. “Better?”
Pete nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a great driver, but man, it’s snowing. Also,
we got the supplies.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the two bags and two

boxes in the back seat. “In addition to hot dogs, we got the last three boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Beaver can’t live without that stuff, you know.”
“I know,” Henry said. “I like it, too. Remember those stories about devil-worship in
Washington State, the ones that made the press in the mid-nineties? They were traced back

to several old people living with their children-grandchildren, in one case-in two small towns south of Seattle. The mass reports of sexual abuse in daycare centers apparently began with teenage girls working as part-time aides crying wolf at the same time in Delaware and California. Possibly coincidence, or possibly the time was simply ripe for such stories to gain credence and these girls caught a wave out of the air.”

How smoothly the words rolled out of his mouth, almost as if they mattered. Henry
talked, the man beside him listened with dumb admiration, and no one (certainly not Pete)
could have surmised that he was thinking of the shotgun, the rope, the exhaust pipe, the
pills. His head was full of tape-loops, that was all. And his tongue was the cassette player.
“In Salem,” Henry went on, “the old men and the young girls combined their
hysteria, and
voila

, you have the Salem Witch Trials.” “I saw that movie with Jonesy,”
Pete said. “Vincent Price was in it. Scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sure,” Henry said, and laughed. For one wild moment he’d thought Pete was
talking about
The Crucible
. “And when are hysterical ideas most likely to gain credence?

Once the crops are in and the bad weather closes down, of course-then there’s time for telling stories and making mischief In Wenatchee, Washington, it’s devil-worship and
child sacrifices in the woods. In Salem it was witches. And in the Jefferson Tract, home of
the one and only Gosselin’s Market, it’s strange lights in the sky, missing hunters, and troop maneuvers. Not to mention weird red stuff growing on the trees.”

“I don’t know about the helicopters and the soldiers, but enough people have seen
those lights so they’re having a special town meeting. Old Man Gosselin told me so while
you were getting the canned stuff. Also, those folks over Kineo way are really missing.
That
ain’t hysteria.”
“Four quick points,” Henry said. “First, you can’t have a town meeting in the

Jefferson Tract because there’s no town-even Kineo’s just an unincorporated township with a name. Second, the meeting will be held around Old Man Gosselin’s Franklin stove
and half those attending will be shot on peppermint schnapps or coffee brandy.”
Pete snickered.
“Third, what else have they got to do? And fourth-this concerns the hunters-they
probably either got tired of it and went home, or they all got drunk and decided to get rich

at the rez casino up in Carrabassett.”
“You think, huh?” Pete looked crestfallen, and Henry felt a great wave of affection for him. He reached over and patted Pete’s knee.
“Never fear,” he said. “The world is full of strange things.” If the world had really been full of strange things, Henry doubted he would have been so eager to leave it, but if

there was one thing a psychiatrist knew how to do (other than write prescriptions for Prozac and Paxil and Amblen, that was), it was tell lies.
“Four hunters all disappearing at the same time seems pretty strange to me, all right.”
“Not a bit,” Henry said, and laughed. “One would be odd. Two would be strange.
Four? They went off together, depend on it.”
“How far are we from Hole in the Wall, Henry?” Which, when translated, meant
Do I
have time for another beer?

Henry had zeroed the Scout’s tripmeter at Gosselin’s, an old habit that went back to
his days working for the State of Massachusetts, where the deal had been twelve cents a
mile and all the psychotic geriatrics you could write up. The mileage between the store and the Hole was easy enough to remember: 22.2. The odometer currently read 12.7,
which meant-
“
Look out!
” Pete shouted, and Henry snapped his gaze hack to the windshield.

The Scout had just topped the steep rise of a tree-covered ridge. The snow here was
thicker than ever, but Henry was running with the high beams on and clearly saw the person sitting in the road about a hundred feet ahead-a person wearing a duffel coat, an orange vest that blew backward like Superman’s cape in the strengthening wind, and one
of those Russian fur hats. Orange ribbons had been attached to the hat and they also blew

back in the wind, reminding Henry of the streamers you sometimes saw strung over used-
car lots. The guy was sitting in the middle of the road like an Indian that wants to smoke-
um peace pipe, and he did not move when the headlights struck him. For one moment Henry saw the sitting figure’s eyes, wide open but still, so still and bright and blank, and
he thought:
That’s how my eyes would look if I didn’t guard them so closely
.

There was no time to stop, not with the snow. Henry twisted the wheel to the right and felt the thump as the Scout came out of the ruts again. He caught another glimpse of
the white, still face and had time to think,
Why, goddam! It’s a woman
.
Once out of the ruts the Scout began to skid again at once. This time Henry turned
against it, deliberately snowplowing the wheels to deepen the skid, knowing without even

thinking about it (there was no time to think) that it was the road-sitter’s only chance. And
he didn’t rate it much of one, at that.
Pete screamed, and from thy corner of his eye, Henry saw him raise his hands in front of his face, palms out in a warding-off gesture. The Scout tried to go broadside and
now

Henry spun the wheel back, trying to control the skid just enough so that the rear end wouldn’t smash the road-sitter’s face backward into her skull. The wheel spun with greasy,

giddy ease under his gloved hands. For perhaps three seconds the Scout shot down the snow-covered Deep Cut Road at a forty-five-degree angle, a thing belonging partly to Henry Devlin and partly to the storm. Snow flew up and around it in a fine spray; the headlights painted the snow-slumped pines on the left side of the road in a pair of moving
spots. Three seconds, not long, but just long enough. He saw the figure pass by as if she

were moving instead of them, except she never moved, not even when the rusty edge of
the Scout’s bumper flirted past her with perhaps no more than an inch of snowy air between it and her face.
Missed you!
Henry exulted.
Missed you, you bitch!
Then the last thin thread of control broke and the Scout broached broadside. There was a “udden’ng vibration as the
wheels found the ruts again, only crosswise this time. It was still trying to turn all the way

around, swapping ends-
Frontsies-backsies!
they used to cry when in line back in grammar school-and then it hit a buried rock or perhaps a small fallen tree with a terrific thud and
rolled over, first on the passenger side, the windows over there disintegrating into glittering crumbs, then over onto the roof One side of Henry’s seatbelt broke, spilling him

onto the roof on his left shoulder. His balls thumped against the steering column, producing instant leaden pain. The turnsignal stalk broke off against his thigh and he felt
blood begin to run at once, soaking his jeans.
The claret
, as the old boxing radio announcers used to call it, as in
Look out, folks, the claret has begun to flow
. Pete was yelling or screaming or both.

For several seconds the overturned Scout’s engine continued to run, then gravity did
its work and the motor died, Now it was just an overturned hulk in the road, wheels still
spinning, lights shining at the snow-loaded trees on the left side of the road. One of them
went out, but the other continued to shine.
2

Henry had talked with Jonesy a lot about his accident (listened, really; therapy was creative listening), and he knew that Jonesy had no memory of the actual collision. As far
as Henry could tell, he himself never lost consciousness following the Scout’s flip, and the
chain of recollection remained intact. He remembered fumbling for the seatbelt clasp, wanting to be all the way free of the fucking thing, while Pete bellowed that his leg was
broken, his cocksucking
leg

was broken. He remembered the steady
whick-thump
,
whick-thump
of the windshield wipers and the glow of the dashlights, which were now up instead of down. He found the seatbelt clasp, lost it, found it again, and pushed it. The seatbelt’s
lap-strap released him and he thumped awkwardly against the roof, shattering the
domelight’s plastic cover.
He flailed with his hand, found the doorhandle, couldn’t move it.
“My
leg!
Oh man, my fucking
leg!
”

“Shut up about it,” Henry said. “Your leg’s okay.” As if he knew. He found the
doorhandle again, yanked, and there was nothing. Then he realized why-he was upside down and yanking the wrong way. He reversed his grip and the domelight’s uncovered bulb glared hotly in his eye as the door clicked open. He shoved the door with the back of

his hand, sure there would be no real result; the frame was probably bent and he’d be lucky to get six inches.
But the door grated and suddenly he could feel snow swirling coldly around his face
and neck. He pushed harder on the door, getting his shoulder into it, and it wasn’t until his
legs came free of the steering column that he realized they had been hung up. He did half a
somersault and was suddenly regarding his own denim-covered crotch at close range, as if

he had decided to try and kiss his throbbing balls, make them all well. His diaphragm folded in on itself and it was hard to breathe.
“Henry, help me! I’m caught! I’m fuckin
caught
!”
“Just a minute.” His voice sounded squeezed and high, hardly his own voice at all.
Now he could see the upper left leg of his jeans darkening with blood. The wind in the pines sounded like God’s own Electrolux.

He grabbed the doorpost, grateful he’d left his gloves on while he was driving, and
gave a tremendous yank-he had to get out, had to unfold his diaphragm so he could breathe.
For a moment nothing happened, and then Henry popped out like a cork out of a
bottle. He lay where he was for a moment, panting and looking up into a sifting, falling
net of snow. There was nothing odd about the sky then; he would have sworn to it in court

on a stack of Bibles. Just the low gray bellies of the clouds and the psychedelic downrush
of the snow.
Pete was calling his name again and again, with increasing panic.
Henry rolled over, got to his knees, and when that went all right he lurched to his feet. He only stood for a moment, swaying in the wind and waiting to see if his bleeding
left leg would buckle and spill him into the snow again. It didn’t, and he limped around

the back of the overturned Scout to see what he could do about Pete. He spared one glance
at the woman who had caused all this fuckarow. She sat as she had, cross-legged in the middle of the road, her thighs and the front of her parka frosted with snow. Her vest snapped and billowed. So did the ribbons attached to her cap. She had not turned to look at
them but stared back in the direction of Gosselin’s Market just as she had when they came

over the rise and saw her. One swooping, curving tire-track in the snow came within a foot
of her cocked left leg, and he had no idea, absolutely none at all, how he could have missed her.
“Henry!
Henry, help me!
”
He hurried on, slipping in the new snow as he rounded the passenger side. Pete’s door
was stuck, but when Henry got on his knees and yanked with both hands, it came open
about halfway. He reached in, grabbed Pete’s shoulder, and yanked. Nothing.

“Unbuckle your belt, Pete.”
Pete fumbled but couldn’t seem to find it even though it was right in front of him.
Working carefully, with not the slightest feeling of impatience (he supposed he might be in
shock), Henry unclipped the belt and Pete thumped to the roof, his head bending sideways.
He screamed in mingled surprise and pain and then came floundering and yanking his way
out of the half-open door. Henry grabbed him under his arms and pulled backward. They

both went over in the snow and Henry was afflicted with
deja vu
so strong and so sudden it was like swooning. Hadn’t they played just this way as kids? Of course they had. The
day they’d taught Duddits how to make snow angels, for one. Someone began to laugh, startling him badly. Then he realized it was him.
Pete sat up, wild-eyed and glowering, the back of him covered with snow. “The fuck
are you laughing about? That asshole almost got us killed! I’m gonna strangle the son of a

bitch!”
“Not her son but the bitch herself,” Henry said. He was laughing harder than ever and
thought it quite likely that Pete didn’t understand what he was saying-especially with the
wind thrown in-but he didn’t care. Seldom had he felt so delicious.
Pete flailed to his feet much as Henry had done himself, and Henry was just about to
say something wise, something about how Pete was moving pretty well for a guy with a

broken leg, when Pete went back down with a cry of pain. Henry went to him and felt Pete’s leg, thrust out in front of him. It seemed intact, but who could tell through two layers of clothing?
“It ain’t broke after all,” Pete said, but he was panting with pain. “Fucker’s locked up
is all, just like when I was playin football. Where is she? You sure it’s a woman?”
“Yes.”
Pete got up and hobbled around the front of the car holding his knee. The remaining

headlight still shone bravely into the snow. “She better be crippled or blind, that’s all I can say,” he told Henry. “If she’s not, I’m gonna kick her ass all the way back to Gosselin’s.”
Henry began to laugh again. It was the mental picture of Pete hopping… then
kicking
.
Like some fucked-up Rockette. “Peter, don’t you really hurt her!” he shouted, suspecting
any severity he might have managed was negated by the fact that he was speaking

between gusts of maniacal laughter.
“I won’t unless she puts some sass on me,” Pete said. The words, carried back to Henry on the wind, had an offended-old-lady quality to them that made him laugh harder
than ever. He scooted down his jeans and long underwear and stood there in his jockeys to
see how badly the turnsignal stalk had wounded him.
It was a shallow gash about three inches long on the inside of his thigh. It had bled

copiously-was still oozing-but Henry didn’t think it was deep.
“What in the
hell
did you think you were doing?” Pete scolded from the other side of
the overturned Scout, whose wipers were still
whick-thumping
back and forth. And although Pete’s tirade was laced with profanity (much of it decidedly Beaverish), his
friend still sounded to Henry like an offended old lady schoolteacher, and this got him laughing again as he hauled up his britches.

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