Chapter Four

George was gone the next morning.

When Truman awoke, it was to the smell of pancakes and coffee. He struggled out of bed around the furry, lumbering, snoring mess of Odd Thomas, stood, and stretched. He picked up a T-shirt from the foot of his bed and pulled it over his head.

Sunlight, like golden honey, streamed through his window. Today was going to be good, he told himself. Not only were there pancakes—his favorite food in all the world, despite the copious carbs hiding in them—but today was the day Mr. Wolcott would post the cast for Harvey.

What part would he get? Dare he hope for the lead, Elwood P. Dowd? The cabdriver near the end had a great speech, pivotal, but it was such a teensy role. The old saw about there being no small parts, only small actors, popped up in his head. And that saying probably came from someone who only got small parts.

He padded out to the kitchen barefoot. As he left the bedroom, he listened for Odd Thomas to follow, but all he heard were snores. Such was the new normal with his senior best friend. He glanced back at the dog, stretched out on his side, and a rush of love for the creature coursed through him. Each day with Odd Thomas was becoming more and more precious as Truman witnessed his time-lapse aging process. There was a very sad day in the near future, Truman knew.

Oh, stop it! Enjoy your time with your dog! Don’t ruin it by being maudlin over what’s to come. For all you know, he may mourn your death sometime soon. The thought gave Truman a chill, which he tried to quickly dismiss.

The kitchen was flooded with sunlight. Dust motes danced in the air. Shafts of pale smoke lingered, testimony to recently fried bacon. He felt both pleased and guilty at the knowledge that Patsy knew how vulnerable he was feeling and wanted to make it up to him. To show him, in effect, rather than tell him, that he was her number-one man.

Truman didn’t wait for Patsy to serve him. Those days were long past—so long, in fact, he couldn’t even remember them. He piled a plate up with four pancakes and six pieces of bacon, poured himself a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice, and—artfully balancing it all—seated himself at the table.

“Good morning!” Patsy entered the kitchen wearing a pair of dark jeans and a gauzy white top. She’d pulled her hair up on top of her head in a casual knot. “I have to go in to the diner for the breakfast shift, and I’m already late, of course! But LaVonne needed me to cover for her, and she’s covered for me so many times in the past, I just couldn’t say no.”

Truman shifted a mouthful of pancake to one side of his mouth. “Thanks for taking the time to make me breakfast. You didn’t have to.”

She waved his thanks away with a flick of her hand. “I know I didn’t have to. But number one, I know you’d probably just leave here with a cup of instant coffee in your belly and maybe a bowl of Froot Loops if I left you to your own devices. And number two, um, well, I just wanted you to know how much you were loved.” She tousled his hair.

“Don’t make me lose my appetite, Ma. This Mrs. Butterworth’s is sweet enough as it is.”

“Oh, shut up.” Patsy grabbed her bag and keys from the kitchen counter. At the door she turned to Truman. “Is it today you find out if you got a part in that play? What was it called? Henry?”

“Harvey. And yes, Mr. Wolcott’s supposed to post the list today.”

“You think you got something?”

“Of course I did, Mother.” Truman patted the back of his head and sat up straighter. “How could I not?”

“Well, they’d be fools not to cast you. I’m sure you were far and away the best.”

“Thanks. Praise like that coming from one’s mom always means a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah. Text me and let me know what part you got.”

“I will.”

Patsy started out the door.

“Mom?”

She turned, a little patient smile on her face. “I’m late…”

“I know. I’m sorry. Just a quick question—does George have any kids?”

Patsy grinned, and Truman thought she was glad he was showing some interest. “Um, yeah. He has a boy, about your age, I think. Mike. Mike Stewart. Do you know him?”

I wish, Truman thought, both intrigued and weirded out by the coincidence of his mother falling in love with the father of the boy Truman was falling in love with—if falling in love wasn’t too strong a descriptor. “Nah. Not really. I might have seen him at the bus stop.”

Patsy nodded. “By Alicia’s?”

“Yeah.”

Patsy nodded. “He lives over that way with his mom. You probably won’t cross paths. He’s in the vocational program. Wants to be a woodworker or somethin’.”

I bet he’s good with his hands, Truman thought lasciviously. He was a little disheartened that Mike wasn’t college preparatory like Truman. The vocational kids were in a separate building down the hill from the main school. Truman was a little ashamed suddenly that even he looked down on those kids, not that they gave a rat’s ass what Truman Reid thought about them, he was sure.

Lost in thought—and bacon—he didn’t even notice Patsy had left. Just as he was finishing up, Odd Thomas wandered in, and Truman leaped up from the table to take him outside. In the early morning sun, the dog squatted—he couldn’t lift his leg like he used to—and let go. Truman watched and encouraged him with a “Good boy.”

They went back inside, and Truman glanced at the clock. If he didn’t get a move on, he too was going to be late. And he had to clean up, feed Odd, and, most important, decide what to wear.

He wondered how long it would be before Mr. Wolcott posted the cast list.