Towering

kindergarten. I wasn’t usually the type of guy who led girls on, then ditched them. Of course, that could be because I’d never had a girlfriend at all before. Still, I should probably call Astrid, let her down easy, not be a jerk.
    I was thinking about this as I passed Hemingway’s Hardware. I actually reached into my coat pocket for the phone, wondering how far I’d go before I lost reception.
    It vibrated.
    I fumbled in my pocket for it, my reflexes slowed by the very urgency of it. Finally, I picked it up.
    “Were you, like, ever going to call me?”
    It was her.
    “Hey, I was just thinking of you.”
    “Right.”
    “Really. I was going to call you. I had my hand on the phone.” I slowed down, so I wouldn’t lose her. On one side of the road, up on a hill, was a monument company someone was running out of their home. The business announced itself with a pink, granite tombstone that said Fiske Cemetery Markers .
    “I’m so sure,” she said. “You know, I’m not completely stupid. Or maybe I am because I thought you really liked me. Obviously, you were just using me.”
    “That’s not true. I’ve just been really, really busy.”
    “Forget it. Just stop having your creepy friends call my house. I’m not your answering service.”
    “I wasn’t . . .” I was out of town now, and trees and abandoned buildings were the only things visible on either side of my car. “What creepy friends?”
    “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
    “I don’t know.” I sort of did. The guy at the Red Fox. I’d told him I was staying with Astrid’s family. Had he looked her up? I remembered her saying everyone knew everyone around here. Had the guy found her, and then, she’d told him I was staying with Mrs. Greenwood?
    “I didn’t give anyone your number. Did you tell them where to look for me?”
    “What? What?” The phone was breaking up. “Barely . . . didn’t . . .”
    “What did you say?”
    The call dropped.
    Should I go back to where I had bars? No. She’d just yell at me. Besides, I was suddenly worried about Mrs. Greenwood. Why hadn’t I thought about it before? If the creepy guy was stalking me, maybe he’d break into the house, bother her, wait for me. I mean, sure he was an old guy, but she was an old lady. And, since I had taken her car, she couldn’t even leave. No, I had to get back to check on her. I knew firsthand the kind of sick shit people could do. I felt bad about Astrid, but she lived in town, with her family and people. Mrs. Greenwood was totally alone. Even her dog was dead.
    I drove faster. I’d call Astrid too when I got back. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. I just didn’t want to be her boyfriend.
    When I reached the house, everything seemed normal. The driveway was cleared, as I had left it, but the front path, which I hadn’t shoveled, showed no footprints but mine. Mrs. Greenwood hadn’t gone out, and no one else had gone in. She’d obviously spent the day with William Shatner.
    I exhaled. I wouldn’t have to add endangering a sweet old lady to my list of crimes.
    I parked the car and went inside. “Mrs. G?”
    Sure enough, I heard the weird singsong of the Star Trek theme. I’d been right about Shatner. I went into the living room.
    “You know,” I said, “some channels show reruns of Boston Legal . He’s on that too.”
    “Oh, hello, Wyatt.” She turned away from the commercial to look at me. “I like my William better young. How was skiing? You know, Danielle used to frequent a ski store that rented equipment by the month. It’s probably a lot cheaper than renting at the slopes.”
    For a second, I forgot I’d allegedly gone skiing. Reminded, I said, “Yeah, Josh was telling me about that.”
    I felt guilty about lying to her, especially when she asked, “Did you see anything interesting?” It was almost like she knew.
    “Anything interesting? Like what?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Birds, animals. You city types seem to find that kind of thing fascinating, no?”
    She didn’t suspect. She was just making small talk. But maybe I should tell her anyway. She could help Rachel. Rachel could live with us—if I could talk Rachel into it. After all, Mrs. Greenwood had already taken me in.
    But something held me back. Rachel had been adamant about not telling anyone.
    I said, “Nothing really. Do you want me to get dinner? I make a pretty mean spaghetti with cut-up hot dogs.” I’d bought hot dogs on one