The Ferryman Institute (53 page)

“So as Cartwright, not Virgil?” Charlie asked, a devious grin sneaking onto his face.

Cartwright greeted it with a snort. “Please,” he said with a
dismissive wave of his hand, “you know my feelings about that name.”

“I know. But I've only tormented you over it for a little while.” Charlie's smirk deepened as he took another pull from his bottle.

“My question, Charles,” Cartwright said as he resumed drinking his tea, “has nothing to do with work. I wanted to ask about you.”

Charlie set his bottle down and crossed his arms. “Me, huh?”

“Yes, you. Is that line of questioning off-limits?” Cartwright leaned forward in his chair. “It's not a subject I broach lightly, but I feel it important to ask. Five years is a long time to most men, but not to a man who already has given service for more than two hundred. You know me, old friend—I fear I will be eternally concerned about your well-being.”

Charlie didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze ventured off into the trees that littered the several acres surrounding the house. The area immediately around the deck was nicely landscaped, but the foliage grew thicker toward the back of the lot. Cartwright watched as Charlie's eyes lost focus, like he was looking for the answer in the trees without actually seeing it.

“Honestly?” he finally said, returning his focus to Cartwright. “I've just been so lucky.” Charlie nodded at this, as if he was proud to have found the right answer. “I'm a very lucky guy.”

Cartwright had been listening and watching intently, but he needn't have. The words were spoken with such genuine sincerity that he knew it was the truth and nothing but. The sound of a sliding deck door interrupted his further thoughts.

“I'm coming out now, and I'm not covering my ears, so if you're talking about Institute stuff, this is your warning to shut up.”

Both Cartwright and Charlie turned to see Alice come waddling out from the kitchen and onto the deck. Her arrival was
preceded by the pronounced swell of her pregnant belly, and from what Cartwright remembered from his last visit several weeks ago, she was due in only a handful of weeks. Her wedding band flashed triumphantly in the rays of sun that found their way onto the deck. Though she was still the same Alice he'd met five years prior, her life with Charlie certainly appeared to have been good to her: even before the pregnancy, she had filled out somewhat to a healthier weight, and though her endless sarcasm hadn't left her, it seemed to be counterbalanced by a new sense of optimism.

Cartwright got out of his chair and took her hand, applying a gentle kiss to the back of it. “My dearest Alice, may I say that you look positively radiant. I have a hard time distinguishing what light comes from the sun and what is from your effervescent glow.”

Alice snorted and gave the tiniest hint of a curtsy—a greeting specifically for Cartwright that she'd adopted long ago, but found more difficult to do these days, what with a nearly fully formed human being inside her—before easing herself into a deck chair. “You probably can't tell the difference because I'm roughly the same size as the sun. So, if by
radiant
you mean massive, then I can't agree with you enough. Seriously, if my hips get any wider, I'm going to need Charlie to knock down half the walls in the house.”

Charlie went to speak, but he apparently thought better of it and instead reached for his beer. Despite his effort, the action didn't escape his wife's notice. “You were going to say something, weren't you?” Charlie vehemently shook his head. Alice rolled her eyes. “You are an absolutely atrocious liar.”

Cartwright laughed, and even Charlie couldn't help the half smile that touched his lips. The wind whispered through the trees, adding its own note to the music of the day.

“Do you ever miss it, Charles? Being a Ferryman?” Cartwright asked out of the blue.

Charlie's expression faded to neutral at the question. “The answer in front of my wife? No, of course not, because then Alice and I would never have been able to experience this.” He delicately took her hand and gave her a tender look that Cartwright didn't doubt was something the two shared on a fairly frequent basis. “The honest answer, though?”

“Oh boy,” Alice said, covering her eyes in mock horror, “here we go.”

“The
honest
answer,” Charlie said, repeating himself but louder, “is that there's one thing I really miss . . .”

CARTWRIGHT HIT THE GROUND
with a magnificent impact. His body lay perfectly still, a disastrous mess of broken limbs and lacerations. But as time passed, his body slowly pulled itself together, until he was able to stand again. With a casual ease, he dusted himself off. It was so odd to him, having watched Charlie do it for so long, to now find himself the one at the bottom of the canyon, clothes shredded and covered in dust.

“Hmph,” he said, gazing up at the majestic walls that surrounded him. He was pleasantly surprised at the buoyant rush it had given him. “Maybe Charles was right. Perhaps I have been missing out.”

If there was one thing Cartwright had learned, and rather quickly, it was that even a man who'd been around for millennia could still learn a thing or two, apparently.

He made his way over to the rope he'd fixed into the canyon wall and began the slow climb back to the top. There was still enough sunlight left for one more dive, after all.

W
hat follows here is my best attempt at thanking all the wonderful people who contributed to this book in one way or another. I don't think it's possible to list every name here, so to everyone—friends, family, loved ones, complete strangers in line at Duane Reade, etc.—thank you for being a part of this adventure, whether you were knowingly partaking or not. You have my utmost gratitude.

I'd like to thank you, the reader, for being a part of this journey. I imagine you're only reading this section because you're stuck on a Brooklyn-bound F train and that creepy guy across the car is staring at you and the only way to avoid eye contact is to keep reading even though you presumably just finished and now all you have left is this lousy section . . . Whatever the case may be, I'm beyond grateful that you would spend a portion of your limited free time reading this book. I sincerely hope it brought some enjoyment to your life.

The rest is a little personal, so if the creepy guy isn't there anymore, you can stop reading. I promise, there won't be anything good past here. Pinky swear.

I owe enormous thank-yous to the people who are most directly
responsible for making this happen: to my agent, Hannah Brown Gordon, not only for being the best champion for this book I could have ever asked for, but also for just being seriously awesome in general; and to my editor, Ed Schlesinger, who did amazing things for this story in both form and content (I mean, seriously, read this sentence. It's like the Great Wall of China. Now imagine a whole book of them) and is one of the most infectiously enthusiastic, fun people I've had the pleasure of speaking with. I've been extraordinarily lucky to have them both in my corner, and this book is miles better thanks to their care and passion. I would also like to sincerely thank Mary Beth Constant for her truly wonderful copyediting expertise. In addition to making it appear as if I actually know how to write proper English (hint: I don't), I learned so many awesome things from her comments that I'm ninety-nine percent sure I will never lose in bar trivia ever again.

I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to many people for reading various versions of this and offering their feedback. First and foremost, my dad, who's probably read it more times than I have (which may or may not be grounds for institutionalizing), and who not only cheered me along from day one—long before day one, really—but also rode the roller coaster with me the whole way. To my wife, Carly, who really made me believe this had a shot, and who put up with this whole process, including late nights and busted weekends, all with grace. Fortunately, she hasn't noticed she's completely out of my league yet, which has really worked out in my favor (please don't tell her). To my brother, Tim, for his feedback, late-night chats about the craft, and teaching me all there is to know about perseverance. To Tim Walsh, who convinced me to send it to him after several beers, then power-read the whole thing in something like two days. To Garrett Marco,
who offered up his expertise to a struggling (and, if I'm honest, whining) Internet stranger, free of charge, and provided some great feedback.

I'm very grateful to my entire family, especially my parents, who both instilled a love of reading in me at a young age. To my mom, who has been an unending well of love and support, even if I unfortunately never inherited her knack for proper grammar and spelling (I still have no idea if the
i
goes before or after the
c
). She's always been my biggest fan, and I will never be able to thank her enough for that and many other things too numerous to list. A thank-you to my sister, Kate, for being such a positive force in my life and for willingly listening to me wax lyrical about life, the universe, and everything. To all my aunts, uncles, and cousins who've asked about the book, thank you all.

I would also like to extend my sincere gratitude to the fine people at Cross Pixel, past and present, who've had to put up with working with me over the years. I'd especially like to thank Alan Pearlstein and Jeff Weitman, whose kindness, support, and understanding during my undertaking of this cannot be overstated, particularly on days when I came into the office looking a little more bleary-eyed than usual.

I want to thank all the magnificent professors and teachers who have shepherded me along the way. Each one of you has contributed to this directly or indirectly. I'd like to particularly thank Rachel Basch, who ran a wonderful writing workshop and made the mistake of complimenting a short story of mine by saying it was funny, which in turn made me think I could actually write (I can't, so please blame her partially for this . . . but seriously, thank you) and Francisco Goldman, who ran a fantastic workshop as well but also introduced me to magic realism and, in particular,
The Master and Margarita
.

A thank-you to all the people who have shared their stories, or parts of them, with me throughout the years, whether in class or over the magic that is the Internet. I've been very fortunate to have shared classrooms with folks far smarter than I, and I am better off for it. To all the people who have crossed paths with me in life and gone on to other things, I'm grateful for all of you, for shaping me into who I am today, and wish you nothing but the best. To the lovely people at NaNoWriMo who inspire would-be authors to dream a little, and from which this novel was born, thank you. To Reddit and Wikipedia, for being invaluable resources and/or wastes of time, depending on the day, thanks and curses to you in equal measure. If there is any junk science or geography, that is all of my own devising.

Thank you and begging of forgiveness to anyone I forgot to mention.