The Little Sleep (29 page)

“Only because you had to, Mark. Would you have told me
anything if you managed to solve your case without destroying the shed and setting my building on fire?”

I take off my hat and scratch my head. “Yeah, Ellen. Of course I would’ve told you.”

Ellen turns away and opens the grill again. The chicken hisses and steams. It’s done. She plucks the meat off the grill with tongs, then dumps on the barbecue sauce. She says, “I know, Mark. I’m sorry. I’m not being fair. But I’m still so angry. I wish you’d told me about what was going on earlier.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew exactly what had happened. There was no guarantee I was going to figure it all out. Giving you the bits and pieces and then living with the doubt would’ve been worse.”

Ellen breathes in sharp, ready to go on offense again, but then she exhales slowly and shakes her head. She says, “I’ve tried telling myself that it wasn’t Kelly I saw with Tim that night. Maybe I’m just putting that face from those pictures onto someone else’s body. It’s possible, right?” She pauses and fiddles with the burner knobs. “I do know that just a few days after I saw him with that girl, Tim stopped hanging around with Times and Sullivan and started chasing after me. He was a different kid. He wasn’t obnoxious and loud and cocky like the rest of them. He got real quiet, listened way more than he talked. At the time, I thought it was because of some puppy-love crush he had on me. Jesus Christ, I thought he was acting like that because of me. Ridiculous, right?”

Ellen talks just above a whisper but waves the spatula over her head and scrapes the blue sky. “Now, I don’t know what to think. Did he only start pursuing me and dating me because of what happened,
because of what he did? Was he using me to hide his guilt, to try and somehow make up for that night, to try and become some person that he wasn’t? What do you think, Mark? I want to know. I have to know. Can you answer any of those questions for me, Mr. Private Detective?”

I could tell her that maybe it was her and that she somehow saved Tim, redeemed him. But she knows the truth; I can’t answer any of those questions. No one can. I don’t even try.

I say, “I’m sorry, Ellen,” and I give her a hug. She accepts it grudgingly. It’s the best I can do.

Ellen releases me quick. “Let’s eat before the flies and yellow jackets find us.”

So we sit outside, next to each other on adjacent chaise longues, and eat our barbecued chicken and hot dogs. We don’t talk because we don’t know what to say anymore. When we finish eating we each smoke a cigarette. The filters are pinched tight between our fingers. We’re afraid to let go.

Eventually, I get up and say, “Thanks for dinner, Ellen. It was great. I’m getting tired. Should probably move around a bit or I’m gonna go out.” I get up and gather the dirty dishes and makeshift ashtrays.

Ellen says, “Thank you, Mark.” She doesn’t look up at me. She starts in on another cigarette and stares out to where the shed used to be, to where the grass isn’t growing fast enough.

I say, “You’re welcome.”

I walk through the back door, dump the dishes in the sink, then mosey down the hallway and into the living room. I dock myself on the couch as the murk and fatigue come rolling in.

My eyelids are as heavy and thick as Dostoyevsky novels and my world is getting dim again, but I see all the black-and-white pictures are still on the walls. Ellen hasn’t taken any of them down. Not a one. Maybe it means that, despite everything, Ellen is determined not to forget, determined to keep her collected memories exactly where they were before, determined to fight against her very own version of the little sleep.

I don’t think she’ll succeed, but I admire the effort.

There are so many people who need proper thanks that I won’t be able to thank them all, but I’ll give it a try. If I’ve forgotten anyone, it wasn’t intentional and mea culpa.

Gargantuan thanks
to Lisa, Cole, Emma, Rascal, Kathleen M., Paul N. T., Erin, Dan, Jennifer, the Carroll and Genevich clan, and to the rest of my family and friends for their love and support and for putting up with my panics, mood swings, and egotistical ramblings. Special acknowledgment to Michael, Rob, and Mary (along with the tireless and wonderful Lisa and Dad) for acting enthusiastically as my first readers way back when I wrote just awful, terrible stuff.

Giant, sloppy, and unending thanks and admiration
to Poppy Z.
“I love Steve Nash, really” Brite, Steve “Big Brother” Eller, and Stewart “Don’t hate me because I root for the Raiders” O’Nan. They have been and continue to be invaluable mentors, supporters, and friends. I will never be able to thank them enough.

Big, aw-shucks, punch-you-in-the-shoulder thanks
to the following who have shared their talent and helped me along the way: assorted Arrows, Laird “Imago” Barron, Mairi “seismic” Beacon, Hannah Wolf “da Bulls” Bowen, Michael “The Kid” Cisco, Brett “They call me F” Cox, JoAnn “He’s not related to me” Cox, Ellen “Owned by cats” Datlow, dgk “kelly” goldberg (you are missed), Jack “I know Chandler better than you” Haringa, John “Don’t call me Paul” Harvey, and the rest of the Providence critique crew, Brian “bah” Hopkins, Nick “I hate TV” Kaufmann, Mike “Blame Canada” Kelly, Dan “Samurai” Keohane, Greg “Hardest working man in horrah” Lamberson, John “Purple flower” Langan, Sarah “He’s not related to me” Langan, Seth “I’m taller than you” Lindberg, Simon “IO” Logan, Louis “A guy called me Louie . . . once” Maistros and his family, Nick “nihilistic kid” Mamatas, Dallas “They call me . . .” Mayr, Sandra “I can whup Chuck Norris” McDonald, Kris “Mudd” Meyer, Kurt “Fig” Newton, Brett “el Presidente” Savory, Kathy “I played Mafia before you” Sedia, Jeffrey and Scott “But not Kristen” Thomas, M. “Not related to them” Thomas, and Sean “Cower as I crush you” Wallace.

Special thanks
to my agent, Stephen “They’re coming to get you” Barbara, who understands my work and tolerates my occasional tantrums and delusions.

More special thanks
to the entire Henry Holt team, and especially
to Sarah “The Dark” Knight for her thousand-watt enthusiasm and for believing in
The Little Sleep
and in Mark Genevich.

Thanks
to (give yourself a nickname) for reading
The Little Sleep.
Now, go tell your friends and neighbors or blog about it. Blogging would be good.

Cheers!

P
AUL
T
REMBLAY
was born in Aurora, Colorado, but raised in Massachusetts. He graduated from Providence College in 1993, and then the University of Vermont in 1995, earning a master’s degree in mathematics. During those college and postgrad years he spent his summers working at the Parker Brothers factory in Salem, Massachusetts, unloading tractor trailers, driving the occasional forklift, manning the Monopoly and Ouija board assembly lines, and once beta testing a Nintendo game. After graduation, Paul taught high school mathematics and coached junior varsity basketball at a private school outside of Boston.

He has sold over fifty short stories to markets such as
Razor Magazine, Weird Tales, Last Pentacle of the Sun: Writings in Support of the West Memphis Three,
and
Horror: The Year’s Best 2007.
He is the author of the short speculative fiction collection
Compositions for the Young and Old
and the hard-boiled/dark fantasy novella
City Pier: Above and Below.
He is a two-time Bram Stoker Award finalist and a juror for the Shirley Jackson Awards.
The Little Sleep
is his first novel.

Other fun facts: Paul once gained three inches of height in a single twelve-hour period, and he does not have a uvula. He is an insufferable Boston sports fan, and can shoot the three. He enjoys reading
The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher
aloud in a faux British accent to his children. He plays the guitar adequately, mainly Bob Mould and Ramones tunes. He once purposefully ate a student’s homework assignment. Paul still lives in Massachusetts with his wife, two children, a hairy dog, and a soggy basement.
www.paultremblay.net