Page 6 of The Life of Chuck

“I’m going to see my ex-wife,” Marty said, standing where he was. “Felicia Anderson. Or maybe she’s back to Gordon now. That was her maiden name. She lives on Fern Lane. Number 19.”

The little girl pivoted on her skates, an effortless move that would have left Marty flat on his ass. “Oh yeah, maybe I’ve seen you before. Blue Prius?”

“That’s me.”

“If you come to see her, why’s she your ex?”

“Still like her.”

“You don’t fight?”

“We used to. We get along better now that we’re exes.”

“Miz Gordon gives us gingersnap cookies sometimes. Me and my little brother, Ronnie. I like Oreos better, but…”

“But that’s the way the cookie crumbles, right?” Marty said.

“Nah, gingersnaps don’t crumble. At least not until you crunch em up in your mou—”

At that moment the streetlights went out, turning the main drag into a lagoon of shadows. All the houses went dark at the same time. There had been outages in the city before, some as long as eighteen hours, but the power had always come back. Marty wasn’t sure it would this time. Maybe, but he had a feeling that electricity, which he (and everyone else)had taken for granted all his life, might have gone the way of the Internet.

“Booger,” said the little girl.

“You better go home,” Marty said. “With no streetlights, it’s too dark for skating.”

“Mister? Is everything going to be all right?”

Although he had no kids of his own, he’d taught them for twenty years and felt that, although you should tell them the truth once they reached the age of sixteen, a kind-hearted lie was often the right way to go when they were as young as this girl. “Sure.”

“But look,” she said, and pointed.

He followed her trembling finger to the house on the corner of Fern Lane. A face was appearing on the darkened bay window overlooking a small patch of lawn. It appeared in glowing white lines and shadows, like ectoplasm at a séance. Smiling moon face. Black-framed glasses. Pen poised. Over it: CHARLES KRANTZ. Below it: 39 GREAT YEARS! THANKS, CHUCK!

“It’s happening to all of them,” she whispered.

She was right. Chuck Krantz was rising on the front windows of every house on Fern Lane. Martyturned and saw an arc of Krantz faces stretching out behind him on the main avenue. Dozens of Chucks, maybe hundreds. Thousands, if this phenomenon was happening all over the city.

“Go home,” Marty said, not smiling anymore. “Go home to your mom and dad, poppet. Do it right now.”

She skated away, her skates rumbling on the sidewalk and her hair flying out behind her. He could see the red shorts, then she was lost in the thickening shadows.

Marty walked quickly in the direction she had gone, observed by the smiling face of Charles “Chuck” Krantz in every window. Chuck in his white shirt and dark tie. It was like being watched by a horde of ghost-clones. Marty was glad there was no moon; what if Chuck’s face had appeared there? How would he deal withthat?

He gave up walking at number 13. He ran the rest of the way to Felicia’s little two-room bungalow, pounded up the front walk, and knocked on the door. He waited, suddenly sure she was still at the hospital, maybe working a double, but then he heard her footsteps. The door opened. She was holding a candle. It underlit her frightened face.

“Marty, thank God. Do you see them?”

“Yes.” The guy was in her front window, too. Chuck. Smiling. Looking like every accountant who ever lived. A man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

“They just started… showing up!”

“I know. I saw.”

“Is it just here?”

“I think it’s everywhere. I think it’s almost—”

Then she was hugging him, pulling him inside, and he was glad she hadn’t given him a chance to say the other two words:the end.

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