Page 5 of The Life of Chuck

“Yes,” Marty said. “It’s all Chuck, all the time now. Any idea who—”

“None. I’ve asked two dozen people, at least. Nobody knows. Our man Krantz appears to be the Oz of the Apocalypse.”

Marty laughed. “Where are you heading, sir?”

“Harvest Acres. Nice little enclave. Off the beaten track.” He reached into his jacket, produced a pouch of tobacco, and began reloading his pipe.

“I’m going there myself. My ex lives there. Maybe we could walk together.”

The elderly gent got up with a wince. “As long as you don’t rush along.” He lit his pipe, puffing away. “Arthritis. I have pills for it, but the more the arthritis sets in, the less they do.”

“Sucks,” Marty said. “You set the pace.”

The old guy did. It was a slow one. His name was Samuel Yarbrough. He was owner and chief undertaker of the Yarbrough Funeral Home. “But my real interest is meteorology,” he said. “Dreamed of being a television weatherman in my salad days, perhaps even on one ofthe networks, but they all seem to have a pash for young women with…” He put his cupped hands in front of his chest. “I keep up, though, read the journals, and I can tell you an amazing thing. If you want to hear.”

“Sure.”

They came to a bus bench. Stenciled on the back was CHARLES “CHUCK” KRANTZ 39 GREAT YEARS! THANKS, CHUCK! Sam Yarbrough took a seat and patted the space next to him. Marty sat. It was downwind of Yarbrough’s pipe, but that was okay. Marty liked the smell.

“Do you know how people say there’s twenty-four hours in a day?” Yarbrough asked.

“And seven days in a week. Everybody knows that, even little kids.”

“Well, everybody is wrong. There were twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes in a stellar day. Plus a few odd seconds.”

“Were?”

“Correct. Based on my calculations, which I assure you I can back up, there are now twenty-four hours andtwominutes in a day. Do you know what that means, Mr. Anderson?”

Marty thought it over. “Are you telling me the earth’s rotation is slowing down?”

“Exactly.” Yarbrough took his pipe out of his mouth and gestured at the people passing them on the sidewalk. Their numbers were thinning now that afternoon had begun to edge into twilight. “I’ll bet many of those folks think the multiple disasters we’re facing have a single cause rooted in what we have done to the earth’s environment. It’s not so. I would be the first to admit that we have treated our mother—yes, she’s the mother of us all—very badly, certainly molested her if not outright raped her, but we’re puny compared to the great clock of the universe.Puny. No, whatever is happening is much larger than environmental degradation.”

“Maybe it’s Chuck Krantz’s fault,” Marty said.

Yarbrough looked at him in surprise, then laughed. “Back to him, eh? Chuck Krantz is retiring and the entire population of earth, not to mention the earth itself, is retiring with him? Is that your thesis?”

“Got to blame something,” Marty said, smiling. “Or someone.”

Sam Yarbrough stood up, put a hand to the small of his back, stretched and winced. “With apologies to Mr. Spock, that’s illogical. I suppose thirty-nine years is quite a span in terms of human life—almost half—but the last ice age happened quite a bit longer ago. Not to mention the age of the dinosaurs. Shall we mosey?”

They moseyed, their shadows stretching ahead of them. Marty was mentally scolding himself for having slept away the best part of a beautiful day. Yarbrough was moving ever more slowly. When they finally reached the brick arch marking the entrance to Harvest Acres, the old mortician sat down again.

“I think I’ll watch the sunset while I wait for the arthritis to settle a bit. Would you care to join me?”

Marty shook his head. “Think I’ll go on.”

“Check the ex,” Yarbrough said. “I understand. It was nice speaking with you, Mr. Anderson.”

Marty started beneath the arch, then turned back. “Charles Krantz meanssomething,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

“You could be right,” Sam said, puffing on his pipe, “but the slowing of the earth’s rotation… nothing’s bigger than that, my friend.”

The central thoroughfare of the Harvest Acres development was a graceful tree-lined parabola from which shorter streets diverged. The streetlights, which looked to Marty like those in illustrated Dickens novels, had come on, casting a moonlight glow. As Marty approached Fern Lane, where Felicia lived, a little girl on roller skates appeared, banking gracefully around the corner. She was wearing baggy red shorts and a sleeveless tee with somebody’s face on it, maybe a rock star or a rapper. Marty guessed her age at ten or eleven, and seeing her cheered him enormously. A little girl on roller skates: what could be more normal in this abnormal day? This abnormalyear?

“Yo,” he said.

“Yo,” she agreed, but pivoted neatly on her skates, perhaps ready to flee if he turned out to be one of the Chester the Molester types her mother had no doubt warned her about.

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