Free Reunion at Red Paint Bay by George Harrar Page A

didn’t hear you.”
    It’s a familiar comment—
I didn’t hear you
, or
I didn’t see you
. Sometimes he feels like he could walk through people and they wouldn’t notice. Maybe just a little shudder and a momentary
What was that?
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, “but do you have a postcard stamp, by any chance?”
    “I can do better than that, I have a meter right here.” She gestures behind her and then extends her hand. He holds the card down along his leg. “Anything wrong, Mr.…”
    “Chambers.”
    “Of course, the Rachel Carson suite.”
    She’s waiting for his answer.
Is anything wrong?
He hands over the postcard.
    “Paul Revere,” she says, noting the picture. “You should get one of our Bayswater Inn cards, show people where you’re staying. Only a dollar each, I have them here.”
    “Perhaps next time,” he says.
    She slides his postcard through the meter, then tosses it into a tray of outgoing mail, message side up. At this movement the cat raises its head off the counter and considers the human close by. He has never seen a cat like this one, so thick in the neck and face.
    “Have you met Terrence?” the woman asks, scratching the animal’s cheek.
    “Hello, Terrence.”
    “He looks like a bruiser, I know. The males get that way when they aren’t neutered, all bulked up for fighting. But inside he’s just a big sweetie.” Terrence holds his gaze.
    “That’s nice to know.” The man reaches out his index finger, and the cat takes a lick.
    “If Terrence likes you,” the woman says, “you must be all right.”

The postcard showed
Paul Revere on the front, galloping to warn the local militias of the coming British army. The message on the back said, “You should have come alone”—an unnerving few words. Then “Faithfully yours.” Amy’s presence, it seemed, had indeed spooked the sender, as Simon thought it might. Apparently gone was the possibility of meeting whoever this person was and discovering what payback he intended. If Amy were there he couldn’t resist showing her the card and saying
I told you not to come with me
.
    She was not there, and the kitchen where he stood seemed empty without her. The house seemed empty without Davey skulking about upstairs or outside, up to something. They had gone to visit her motherin Bangor, leaving Simon with an unusual night home alone. He had a sudden craving for pizza, everything on it, and ordered it delivered. He ate at the kitchen table, drinking beer, trying to dredge up feature story ideas.
    1. Is Red Paint happy? Do a survey to compare to national stats just released.
    2. Local history—why did the Red Paint People abandon their territory without a fight?
    3. Question: Has Erasmus Hall persuaded even one person to repent? (Portrait of conviction in the face of constant rejection)
    4. Ongoing series—Whatever happened to …?
    The phone rang much louder than usual, and Simon wondered if Davey had turned up the volume again, one of his little pranks. He leaned across the table, expecting to see Amy’s name on the caller ID. It was a straight shot to Bangor on the highway, and she could have made it in an hour, even in the light rain. The ID said Unknown Caller.
    “Hello?”
    No answer, no sound at all, like a dead line, or the few moments’ delay between when the telemarketer realizes his call has gone through and actually speaks. “I don’t want any,” Simon said and hung up.
    ———
    As he walked
past his bedroom window later that night he noticed a car across the street. Every few seconds, the wipers passed across the windshield. A figure was barely visible on the driver’s side, a head with a flash of white on top. The face blended into the glass, indistinguishable. Simon watched for several minutes. The car’s occupant was probably pirating his neighbors’ WiFi signal. Or perhaps checking a map, searching for a way out of Red Paint. Simon considered going out to help. If he weren’t already undressing for