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ought to be here.”
    “Did you ever talk to him?”
    “Not much the last few years.”
    “So you never saw him after things got bad.”
    The two of us still standing in the room’s entryway. I should move aside, give us some space. But I need to hear what Randy is now obliged to tell me.
    “He was using, Trev.”
    “Did you—I don’t know—confront him?”
    “Confront
Carl?
”
    “No. I wouldn’t have either.”
    “He called every once in a while. Then, maybe two years ago, even the calls stopped.”
    “He never called me.”
    “He was
ashamed
,” Randy says. “He looked up to you more than any of us.”
    “He did?”
    “The best hockey player. Successful businessman. You were steady.”
    I’d been standing with my arms crossed over my chest. Now I release them, hold them out in front of me and let them shake. “Who’s steady now?”
    It’s meant as a joke, but it only makes Randy uncomfortable. I step aside to let him into the room. He goes and stands at the window. Speaking against the glass.
    “I visited Mrs. McAuliffe this morning,” he says. “Apparently Ben had a will. And he named you executor of his estate.”
    “What estate?”
    “You mean aside from some hockey cards and a jar of dimes? Not much.”
    The room closes in on us, stifling even the idea of speech. It’snot that we’ve so quickly run out of things to say, but that there’s too much.
    Randy turns to face me. “What are we going to do?”
    “In Grimshaw? At three-thirty on a Thursday afternoon?” I shuffle over to Randy and deliver a smart smack to the side of his face. “Let’s get a drink.”

MEMORY DIARY
Entry No. 5
    We were sitting in music class on a Tuesday morning in early February, waiting for Miss Langham to walk in and give us one of her let’s-get-started smiles, when Ben turned around in his chair to face me and whispered, “I had the most fucked-up dream last night.”
    There was nothing unusual in this. Miss Langham was often a minute or two late for us, her first class of the day. She had a gift for comic entrances. We never laughed at Miss Langham, though. We were too busy fixing her quirks into our memory: the sound of her footsteps scuffing hurriedly down the hall and
—slap
!—a dropped textbook on the floor, followed by a Girl Scout cuss that we held our breath in order to hear.
    Butternuts!
    Frick!
    Then her hand gripped on the doorframe, spinning her into the room. Her flushed apology. The wisp of hair that had come loose and she now curled her lower lip to blow out of her eyes. The later she was, the better we behaved.
    As for Ben, he was always having dreams. Surreal, circular narratives he would begin relating to me as we waited for Miss Langham, laying his flute on his lap and leaning back, making sure we weren’t being overheard, as though the latest clip from his subconscious was something others were eager to monitor, to use.
    Ben’s dreams were a little strange. What was stranger was when he saw people who weren’t there:
    A man with goat horns, standing at the top of his attic stairs.
    A boy with one arm freshly cut off and waving wildly with the other, as though to a departing ship, standing in Ben’s backyard when he looked up while mowing the lawn.
    An old woman who might have been his grandmother if she hadn’t died the year before, looking out from his bedroom closet, red scars in place of eyes.
    On this Tuesday, waiting for Miss Langham’s arrival, what was a little out of the ordinary wasn’t Ben telling me he’d had another weird dream the night before, but how he looked when he did. His skin showing tiny blue veins, as it did after he’d sat, unplayed, for a couple of hours in a freezing-cold ice rink.
    “I’m not even sure it
was
a dream,” he said.
    “What was it about?”
    “Me, looking out my bedroom window. Everythinglike the way it is when I’m awake. The one streetlight that works, the one that doesn’t. The trees, the houses. Nothing happening. I’m