On Tenterhooks (17 page)

Chapter
2
3

As
Steve
waited for Martin to finish reading the letter
Julie had ostensibly written
, he leaned
back against the faded red vinyl cushions of the booth
t
he
y
shared
.
Woody’s was
his textbook definition of
“oldie but goodie
.”
 
Years of use had worn the
f
ormica
on their table
down
to the wood beneath
.
Some of the booths had
duct tape on the corners
to keep the vinyl from tearing further
.
Across the single aisle from the booths along the wall were the gleaming chrome stools that lined the diner counter
.
On
the
counter stoo
d
half
a
dozen desserts
in
a vintage
pie display shelf. Woody’s occupied that gray area between shabby and charming
.
With its
age-old
character and home-cooked goodness, it reminded Steve of the show Julie used to watch on the
cooking network
,
featur
ing
the unique and oft
en
hidden culinary treasures that dotted the country.

“So
,
what do you think this means?” Martin asked, sliding Steve’s letter back across the table.

“It means
t
hat somebody is trying to screw with me
.
I don’t know who
,
and I don’t know why.
”

“How did they get all the information for that letter?” Martin asked
.
“It seems so real.”

“I know it does
.
That’s what bothers me
the most
—
all that detail
.
They must’ve been rooting through my trash or monitoring my phone
calls or following me around or
something like that.”

“Why?”

“I dunno
.
That’s why I’
m here
.
I wanted to know more about what’s happened with you
—
see if we can make
some
sense out of it.”

“So,
you came here to hear about my experience with it
?”

“Exactly,” said Steve
.
“I was hoping maybe we could put our heads together
and
figure out who’s doing it, and why.
”

“Ok
ay,
t
hat’s fair enough. So you think somebody’s got it in for us
.
Pretty elaborate scheme, wouldn’t you say?”
asked Martin.

“Yes
.”

“So what would you say to me if I told you that it
was
my daughter’s voice I heard the other night on
my
radio?
”

Steve didn’t respond.
He hadn’t been expecting such a statement of conviction.

“And what if I told you that I think that letter of yours is the genuine article?” Martin pressed.

“Then
,
I’d say you were nuts,” Steve answered.

“Why?”

“
Why
?
Because it isn’t possible
!
Look, I’m sorry
, Martin
. This was probably a mistake.”

Steve
gathered his papers and stood to leave.

“Steve,
w
ait, please
.
Believe me,
I
am not some crazy old man, okay?
  Please, at least stay and eat
—
my treat
.
Let m
e ask my question another way.”

Steve hesitated.

“
Humor me
—
please?”
asked Martin.

Steve
put his letter down on the table and
slid back into the booth.

“Thanks,” said Martin. “Listen, I highly recommend the meatloaf platter
.
I am a serious amateur chef
,
and I say i
t’s the best in these parts.”

Steve
nodded as he
browsed the menu
.
When the waitress
arrived
,
both men
ordered the meatloaf. She jotted down the orders and took their menus, promising to return with their drinks.

“Good choice,” said Martin
.
“You won’t regret it.”

Steve forced a
slight nod
,
but didn’t otherwise respond.

Martin simply nodded.

“Do you mind if I tell you a story?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Steve
, shrugging
.

“When my daughter
Maggie
was
two
years old, my wife and I put her in a bed
.
We took down the crib and put her in a little trundle bed, close to the floor
. It went
real
well at first
—
she stayed in the bed, slept
the whole night, no problems!” Martin smiled. “
But after a year or so, she started having these
horrible bad
dreams, ‘
night terrors
’
the doctor called them
.
We’d be sound asleep in our room next door
,
and all of
a
sudden we’d hear her screaming like someone
was using
her
for a pincushion
.
The first time it happened, we couldn’t get her to wake up
,
and eventually
she calmed down.
And then it happened again, and again. We took her to the doctor
,
and he told us that although
these incidents
were very
stressful
for us, there were no lasting effects
for her
.
He told us they’re caused by being overtired and that there is no real treatment for them in kids, except to get a good night’s sleep
.
So, for a while there after that, we’d put
Maggie
in our bed with us
.
We both thought that sleeping in the big
,
warm bed, between the two of us
,
would make her feel safe and comfortable
.
And it worked.”

The waitress returned with tea for Steve and coffee for Martin
.
They thanked her as she left.
Steve nodded
for
Martin to continue
.

“
So
,
s
he slept solidly,
even snored from time to time.
No more night terrors in our house.
Problem was
,
we had created a little bit of our own nightmare
.
Eventually, we tried to put
Maggie
back in her own bed
.
For the most part, she’d be happy to
start
there
.
But as soon as the lights were out and the house got quiet, we’d hear that tiny
little padding of her footed PJs
across the hardwood
floor
.
”
 

He smiled as he poured a sugar packet into his coffee.

“
She’d
climb in under the covers down at the foot of
our
bed and squirm
up
until she was on the pillows between
us
,
quiet as a little bug. So it became a joke
.
I took to calling her
‘S
nugglebug
.
’
Every night, sneakin’ in, squirming up between
us
and resting her little head there like it was meant to be
.
Sometimes, my wife and I would hear her coming.

“
’
Snugglebug’s comin’
,
” we’d say, and we’d pretend to be asleep and then grab her and tickle her as she tried to get up into the bed with us
.
She’d giggle, we’d laugh and then we’d all fall asleep together
.
Every night
. . .
put her to bed in her
room
, and every night
,
a
Snugglebug
invasion
.
I’d say we went on like that for two years or more
.
Eventually she outgrew it
.
She got too big for our bed
,
and the night terrors went away as she got older
.
But for those two years or so, she was our
Snugglebug
.
”

Martin’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“Snugglebug’s comin’”
he said
, staring into his coffee as he stirred absent
ly. He looked up.
“Steve
,
t
hat was sixteen years ago
,
man
.
Sixteen years!  And I don’t think we’ve spoken of it since. The other
night
, when
Maggie
spoke to me, she said:
‘
It’s me Daddy, it’s your
Snugglebug.’

“Nobody stole
that
outta my garbage can
,
and I know I don’t have it written down somewhere for someone to use again
st
me.
Nobody else knew about
that name
, except for my ex-wife
,
and
there is simply no question this is
something she’d do.

“So
,
I ask you
,
Steve,” he said
,
“
how
do you know for su
re about this?”
He jabbed his finger at the letter on the table in front of Steve.
“How do you know it’s
not
from your wife
“

“I-“
began Steve. Martin interrupted.

“Come on now
,
Steve
.
Don’t give me a bunch of scientific
mumbo jumbo
and stuff like that
.
Try looking at it with your heart, not your brain. What if it
came from Julie
?”

Steve didn’t reply
.
He
knew what Martin was asking of him
.
He
also
knew that Julie’s letter had
that special thing
in it too
: the line
s
from the
Sex ‘N Cigs
song
.
It was n
othing t
hat
he
had ever written down,
but something that only Julie would’ve known. He still hadn’t been able to wrestle that detail into his own theory of what was going on
.