I didn’t like hearing it. He was right.
“So what, then,” I said. “Nothing?”
“Didn’t say nothing.” I heard a lighter click. “Where were you Saturday when it happened?”
“Carrowell.”
“You going back?”
And I realized I hadn’t even considered it. I’d already crossed Carrowell Park off in my head, the way I’d crossed off the splash pad and the county fair and the Walmart on Route 9 and the entire middle section of my son’s childhood.
“No,” I said.
“That’s the part I can fix,” Walt said.
The next Saturday I pulled into Carrowell and there were three motorcycles on the end of the lot.
Walt was on the bench by the woodchips with a coffee. Two other men were with him, both around his age, one of them huge and completely silent, the other one wearing reading glasses and doing a crossword.
