Hideaway

the people living in the cabins thereabouts had nothing worth stealing.
    He found the pale young man intriguing.
    “What do you want?” he asked without opening the door.
    “Mr. Honell?”
    “That's right.”
    “S. Steven Honell?”
    “Are you going to make a torture of this?”
    “Sir, excuse me, but are you the writer?”
    College student. That's what he had to be.
    A decade ago—well, nearly two—Honell had been besieged by college English majors who wanted to apprentice under him or just worship at his feet. They were an inconstant crowd, however, on the lookout for the latest trend, with no genuine appreciation for high literary art.
    Hell, these days, most of them couldn't even read; they were college students in name only. The institutions through which they matriculated were little more than day-care centers for the terminally immature, and they were no more likely to study than to fly to Mars by flapping their arms.
    “Yes, I'm the writer. What of it?”
    “Sir, I'm a great admirer of your books.”
    “Listened to them on audiotape, have you?”
    “Sir? No, I've read them, all of them.”
    The audiotapes, licensed by his publisher without his consent, were abridged by two-thirds. Travesties.
    “Ah. Read them in comic-book format, have you?” Honell said sourly, though to the best of his knowledge the sacrilege of comicbook adaptation had not yet been perpetrated.
    “Sir, I'm sorry to intrude like this. It really took a lot of time for me to work up the courage to come see you. Tonight I finally had the guts, and I knew if I delayed I'd never get up the nerve again. I am in awe of your writing, sir, and if you could spare me the time, just a little time, to answer a few questions, I'd be most grateful.”
    A little conversation with an intelligent young man might, in fact, have more charm than re-reading Miss Culvert. A long time had passed since the last such visitor, who had come to the eyrie in which Honell had then been living above Santa Fe. After only a brief hesitation, he opened the door.
    “Come in, then, and we'll see if you really understand the complexities of what you've read.”
    The young man stepped across the threshold, and Honell turned away, heading back toward the rocking chair and the Chivas.
    “This is very kind of you, sir,” the visitor said as he closed the door.
    “Kindness is a quality of the weak and stupid, young man. I've other motivations.” As he reached his chair, he turned and said, “Take off those sunglasses. Sunglasses at night is the worst kind of Hollywood affectation, not the sign of a serious person.”
    “I'm sorry, sir, but they're not an affectation. It's just that this world is so much more painfully bright than Hell—which I'm sure you'll eventually discover.”
     
    ----
     
    Hatch had no appetite for dinner. He only wanted to sit alone with the inexplicably heat-curled issue of Arts American and stare at it until, by God, he forced himself to understand exactly what was happening to him. He was a man of reason. He could not easily embrace supernatural explanations. He was not in the antiques business by accident; he had a need to surround himself with things that contributed to an atmosphere of order and stability.
    But kids also hungered for stability, which included regular mealtimes, so they went to dinner at a pizza parlor, after which they caught a movie at the theater complex next door. It was a comedy. Though the film couldn't make Hatch forget the strange problems plaguing him, the frequent sound of Regina's musical giggle did somewhat soothe his abraded nerves.
    Later, at home, after he had tucked the girl in bed, kissed her forehead, wished her sweet dreams, and turned off the light, she said, “Goodnight … Dad.”
    He was in her doorway, stepping into the hall, when the word “dad” stopped him. He turned and looked back at her.
    “Goodnight,” he said, deciding to receive her gift as casually as she had given it, for fear that if he made a big deal about it, she would call him Mr. Harrison forever. But his heart soared.
    In the bedroom, where Lindsey was undressing, he said, “She called me Dad.”
    “Who did?”
    “Be serious, who do you think?”
    “How much did you pay her?”
    “You're just jealous 'cause she hasn't called you Mom yet.”
    “She will. She's not so afraid any more.”
    “Of you?”
    “Of taking a chance.”
    Before getting undressed for bed, Hatch went downstairs to check the telephone