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493 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1993
That he loved her more now than when they had met in college was no surprise. The triumphs and failures they had shared, the years of daily struggle to make a place in the world and to seek the meaning of it, was rich soil in which love could grow.
Emily had only one pet. Its name was Peepers. It was a stone the size of a small lemon, smoothed by decades of running water in the Sierra creek from which she had retrieved it during their summer vacation a year ago. She had painted two soulful eyes on it, and insisted, “Peepers is the best pet of all. I don’t have to feed him or clean up after him. He’s been around forever, so he’s real smart and real wise, and when I’m sad or maybe mad, I just tell him what I’m hurting about, and he takes it all in and worries about it so I don’t have to think about it any more and can be happy.�
This was the happiest part of Marty’s day. Story time. No matter what else might happen after rising to meet the morning, he could always look forward to story time.
He wrote the tales himself in a notebook labeled Stories for Charlotte and Emily, which he might actually publish one day. Or might not. Every word was a gift to his daughters, so the decision to share the stories with anyone else would be entirely theirs.
“Panic attack? You, of all people, suffering a panic attack?� Paul Guthridge asked doubtfully.
Marty said, “Hyperventilating, heart pounding, felt like I was going to explode—sounds like a panic attack to me.�
“Sounds like sex.�
Marty smiled. “Trust me, it wasn’t sex.�
“You could be right,� Guthridge said with a sigh. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure what sex was like exactly. Believe me, Marty, this is a bad decade to be a bachelor, so many really nasty diseases out there. You meet a new girl, date her, give her a chaste kiss when you take her home—and then wait to see if your lips are going to rot and fall off.�
“That’s a swell image.�
“Vivid, huh? Maybe I should’ve been a writer.�
But first he must act.
That is another lesson he has learned from the movies. Action must come before thought. People in movies rarely sit around brooding about the predicament in which they find themselves. By God, they do something to resolve even their worst problems; they keep moving, ceaselessly moving, resolutely seeking confrontation with those who oppose them, grappling with their enemies in life-or-death struggles that they always win as long as they are sufficiently determined and righteous.
He is determined.
He is righteous.
His life has been stolen.
He is a victim. He has suffered.
He has known despair.
He has endured abuse and anguish and betrayal and loss like Omar Sharif in Doctor Zhivago, like William Hurt in The Accidental Tourist, Robin Williams in The World According to Garp, Michael Keaton in Batman, Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night, Tyrone Power in The Razor’s Edge, Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands. He is one with all of the brutalized, despised, downtrodden, misunderstood, cheated, outcast, manipulated people who live upon the silver screen and who are heroic in the face of devastating tribulations. His suffering is as important as theirs, his destiny every bit as glorious, his hope of triumph just as great.
This realization moves him deeply. He is wrenched by shuddering sobs, weeping not with sadness but with joy, overwhelmed by a feeling of belonging, brotherhood, a sense of common humanity. He has deep bonds with those whose lives he shares in theaters, and this glorious epiphany motivates him to get up, move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
At home, she’d checked the dictionary to see if there was any definition of “nuts� that would explain what the good guy had done to the bad guy and also explain why her mother was so unhappy about it. When she saw that one meaning of the word was obscene slang for “testicles,� she checked that mysterious word in the same dictionary, learned what she could, then sneaked into Daddy’s office and used his medical encyclopedia to discover more. It was pretty bizarre stuff. But she understood it. Sort of. Maybe more than she wanted to understand. She had explained it as best she could to Em. But Em didn’t believe a word of it and, evidently, promptly forgot about it.
“Just like in the movie Saturday,� Charlotte reminded her. “If things get real bad and he goes berserk, kick him between the legs.�
“Oh, yeah,� Em said dubiously, “kick him in his tickles. �
“Tپ.�
“It was tickles.�
“It was testicles,� Charlotte insisted firmly.
Emily shrugged. “Whatever.�
Mrs. Delorio walked into the family room, drying her hands on a yellow kitchen towel. (...) “Are you girls ready for more Pepsi?�
“No, ma’am,� Charlotte said, “we’re fine, thank you. Enjoying the show.�
“It’s a great show,� Emily said.
“One of our favorites,� Charlotte said.
Emily said, “It’s about a boy with tickles and everyone keeps kicking them.�
Charlotte almost thumped the little twerp on the head.
Frowning with confusion, Mrs. Delorio glanced back and forth from the television screen to Emily. “Tickles?�
“Pickles,� Charlotte said, making a lame effort at covering.
The doorbell rang before Em could do more damage.
Mrs. Delorio said, “I’ll bet that’s your folks,� and hurried out of the family room.
“Peabrain,� Charlotte said to her sister.
Emily looked smug. “You’re just mad because I showed it was all a lie. She never heard of boys having tickles.�
ٳ!�
“So there,� Emily said.
“Tɱ.�
ٲԱ.�
“That’s not even a word.�
“It is if I want it to be.�
“What happened over there?�
“Just now? In the other room?�
Ԩ.�
“M.�
“I’m serious.�
“So am I,� Marty said. “You can’t analyze the deeper effects that storytelling has on us, can’t figure out the why and how, any more than King Arthur could understand how Merlin could do and know the things he did.�
“We came here shattered, frightened. The kids were so silent, half numb with fear. You and I were snapping at each other—�
“Not snapping.�
“Yes, we were.�
“Okay,� he admitted, “we were, just a little.�
“Which, for us, is a lot. All of us were . . . uneasy with one another. In knots.�
“I don’t think it was that bad.�
She said, “Listen to a family counselor with some experience—it was that bad. Then you tell a story, a lovely nonsense poem but nonsense nonetheless . . . and everyone’s more relaxed. It helps us knit together somehow. We have fun, we laugh. The girls wind down, and before you know it, they’re able to sleep.�
(...)
“I don’t know,� he said, “but I think if some university did a long-term study, they’d discover that people who read fiction don’t suffer from depression as much, don’t commit suicide as often, are just happier with their lives. Not all fiction, for sure. Not the human-beings-are -garbage-life-stinks-there-is-no-God novels filled with fashionable despair.�