He heard her fiercely rattling ice into a shaker, as he dialed the phone.
“Put the stupid son of a bitch on,” he said.
“Junoff here. Well?”
“Junoff, you brilliant mastermind, you incredibly inventive helpmate friend! Who is she? How did you do it?”
“She? Who?” said the voice from Lake Arrowhead.
“How did you remember so much from my sessions with you years ago? How could you tell her? What theater group is she from and is she a fast learner and quick read?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about Who is this?”
“Liar!”
“Is your wife there? What’s her name?”
“Annette. No. Anne.”
“Put her on!”
“But—”
“Get her!”
He walked out to the bar and picked up the extension phone and handed it to his wife.
“Hello,” said Junoff’s voice, one hundred miles away on top of a mountain near a lake.
His voice was so loud his wife had to hold the phone an inch away from her ear. Junoff shouted:
“Anne? I’m giving a party up here next weekend!”
And then:
“Come. And bring Constance!”
Junior
It was on the morning of October 1 that Albert Beam, aged eighty-two, woke to find an incredible thing had happened, if not in the night, miraculously at dawn.
He witnessed a warm and peculiar rise two-thirds of the way down the bed, under the covers. At first he thought he had drawn up one knee to ease a cramp, but then, blinking, he realized—
It was his old friend: Albert, Junior.
Or just Junior, as some as some frolicsome girl had dubbed it, how long, oh God... some sixty years ago!
And Junior was alive, well, and freshly alert.
Hallo, thought Albert Beam, Senior, to the scene, that’s the first time he’s waked before me since July, 1970.
July, 1970!
He stared. And the more he stared and mused, the more Junior blushed unseen; all resolute, a true beauty.
Well, thought Albert Beam, I’ll just wait for him to go away.
He shut his eyes and waited, but nothing happened. Or rather, it continued to happen. Junior did not go away. He lingered, hopeful for some new life.