The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright Page A

through the windows were gone.
    I got off my knees and sat on the sand facing the house, with my legs straight and my arms folded in front of me, my head down. The headache I had had earlier began to creep back. Tricked me, didn't you, Abner? I thought. Abner and Sam, friends for life! I thought. Maybe. The necessary elements were there—a common set of memories, a sort of gruff affection and concern. But whether we'd eventually turn out to be "friends for life" was something that only time could decide. He, I realized, was using whatever feeling existed between us as a sledge; he was using it to hammer me into place there at his tumbledown beach house. I sat on the sand and wondered when I'd get up and move away from the incoming tide. I couldn't blame him; I understood why he was doing it. Very simply, he was in trouble. He needed a friend. And I was willing to fill that role. But still, as my headache grew, so did my anger.
    After a couple of minutes, I yelled, "Damn you, Abner!" and hunkered forward on my rear end, away from the tide. "Damn you!" I screamed again. He reappeared at the back door of the house and wandered out to me, hands thrust into his pockets, a stupid grin on his mouth.
    He stood above me for a few moments. That stupid grin went away. Then he said secretively, as if he were playing some game of cops and robbers, "The coast is clear, Sam."
    He was standing to my right, level with my ankles, his hands still in his pockets, his legs together, one knee bent slightly. I knew he'd be easy to knock over, so that's what I did. I tripped him and he toppled over onto his side, then rolled to his stomach, so his face was in the sand.
    It was an impulsive, useless thing to do, but I realized that anything he might say to me would be bullshit, that he couldn't explain what had happened in his house. He might as well have tried to explain how life began, or how to cure the common cold.
    So I tripped him. It was the same as slapping him around. It was designed to give him a good, gritty taste of what I saw as reality. And, futile and stupid as my action was, it made me feel worlds better, for a moment anyway.
    I jumped to my feet, pointed stiffly at him, though his face was still turned away from me, and screamed, "What the hell do you mean The coast is clear? This isn't some stupid game. You sound like you want us to go up on some building and piss off the roof together, for Christ's sake!"
    He turned his head and looked up at me. Sand caked his cheek because the beach was wet. He spit out some of the sand, and that same stupid smirk appeared on his mouth again. He said, "Can't get your hand out of the box, can you, Sam? It's stuck in there, isn't it?" He started to push himself up. I put my foot on his back, kept him down.
    "Abner," I said, "you're not getting up until you tell me what happened in that house."
    He let himself fall to his belly again, turned his face up to me. His smirk was gone. In its place was a mixture of pleading, desperation, and resignation, like the expression of someone bleeding to death inside a squashed car. He said, "Reality happened, Sam. Reality happened!"

THIRTEEN
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    I took my foot off his back. He hesitated, pushed himself to his feet, and got that damned smirk on his face again.
    I said, "I don't want to hear any more crap from you, Abner."
    "You always were a lot more physical than I am, Sam."
    "Sorry," I managed, my voice quivering with anger. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I was just trying to get your attention."
    His smirk altered slightly. "You couldn't hurt me." He brushed at the sand on his pants. "Maybe you could have once upon a time. Twenty years ago. Six months ago. But not now." He brushed the sand off his white sweater. He found a smear of dirt on the cuff. "Dammit, Sam, I just washed this sweater."
    "Abner"—I pointed at the house, my arm shaking—"I don't give two flying fucks about your sweater! I want to know who those people are, I want to know what