The Talisman

empty gardens and drive stretched out before him.
    ‘Yes?’ his mother said. She looked crickle-backed, leaning over the knob of the great wooden door.
    ‘Mistake,’ he said. There had been no voice, no rainbow. He forgot both and looked up at his mother, who was struggling with the vast door. ‘Hold on, I’ll help,’ he called, and trotted up the steps, awkwardly carrying a big suitcase and a straining paper bag filled with sweaters.
    4
    Until he met Speedy Parker, Jack had moved through the days at the hotel as unconscious of the passage of time as a sleeping dog. His entire life seemed almost dreamlike to him during these days, full of shadows and inexplicable transitions. Even the terrible news about Uncle Tommy which had come down the telephone wires the night before had not entirely awakened him, as shocking as it had been. If Jack had been a mystic, he might have thought that other forces had taken him over and were manipulating his mother’s life and his own. Jack Sawyer at twelve was a being who required things to do, and the noiseless passivity of these days, after the hubbub of Manhattan, had confused and undone him in some basic way.
    Jack had found himself standing on the beach with no recollection of having gone there, no idea of what he was doing there at all. He supposed he was mourning Uncle Tommy, but it was as though his mind had gone to sleep, leaving his body to fend for itself. He could not concentrate long enough to grasp the plots of the sitcoms he and Lily watched at night, much less keep the nuances of fiction in his head.
    ‘You’re tired from all this moving around,’ his mother said, dragging deeply on a cigarette and squinting at him through the smoke. ‘All you have to do, Jack-O, is relax for a little while. This is a good place. Let’s enjoy it as long as we can.’
    Bob Newhart, before them in a slightly too-reddish color on the set, bemusedly regarded a shoe he held in his right hand.
    ‘That’s what I’m doing, Jacky.’ She smiled at him. ‘Relaxing and enjoying it.’
    He peeked at his watch. Two hours had passed while they sat in front of the television, and he could not remember anything that had preceded this program.
    Jack was getting up to go to bed when the phone rang. Good old Uncle Morgan Sloat had found them. Uncle Morgan’s news was never very great, but this was apparently a blockbuster even by Uncle Morgan’s standards. Jack stood in the middle of the room, watching as his mother’s face grew pale, paler, palest. Her hand crept to her throat, where new lines had appeared over the last few months, and pressed lightly. She said barely a word until the end, when she whispered, ‘Thank you, Morgan,’ and hung up. She had turned to Jack then, looking older and sicker than ever.
    ‘Got to be tough now, Jacky, all right?’
    He hadn’t felt tough.
    She took his hand then and told him.
    ‘Uncle Tommy was killed in a hit-and-run accident this afternoon, Jack.’
    He gasped, feeling as if the wind had been torn out of him.
    ‘He was crossing La Cienega Boulevard and a van hit him. There was a witness who said it was black, and that the words WILD CHILD were written on the side, but that was . . . was all.’
    Lily began to cry. A moment later, almost surprised, Jack began to cry as well. All of that had happened three days ago, and to Jack it seemed forever.
    5
    On September 15th, 1981, a boy named Jack Sawyer stood looking out at the steady water as he stood on an unmarked beach before a hotel that looked like a castle in a Sir Walter Scott novel. He wanted to cry but was unable to release his tears. He was surrounded by death, death made up half the world, there were no rainbows. The WILD CHILD van had subtracted Uncle Tommy from the world. Uncle Tommy, dead in L.A., too far from the east coast, where even a kid like Jack knew he really belonged. A man who felt he had to put on a tie before going out to get a roast beef sandwich at Arby’s had no business on the west coast at all.
    His father was dead, Uncle Tommy was dead, his mother might be dying. He felt death here, too, at Arcadia Beach, where it spoke through telephones in Uncle Morgan’s voice. It was nothing as cheap or obvious as the melancholy feel of a resort in the off-season, where one kept stumbling over the Ghosts of Summers Past; it seemed to be in the texture of things, a smell on the ocean breeze. He was scared . . . and he had been scared for a long time. Being here, where it was