A Day Late [antikvár]

Sam Batinovich was on the brink of the Utah-Nevada desert headed into the white hot salt flats. He was not in the racing car of his sometime dreams, not in a silver plane, not in a Cadillac, but in a new Chevrolet station wagon with wood-paneled sides, and it was still not enough. A piece of circular sun flashed from the windshield of an oncoming car, and he thought this was a hell of a place to be celebrating his forty-first birthday. He drove into the blue shadow of a mountain, and shook his head at the contrast and the adjustment his eyes had to make. He had difficulty with his concentration. He still listened to thoughts through the strong steady note of pain that had pierced his body and his soul the day the head of neurosurgery had stood before them and said, "Your daughter has an inoperable tumor, hopeless, a month, maybe two, sorry," running the words together, hurrying to get them over. Sam had been aware of Thelma's knees giving way beneath her. He had been unable to catch her before she stumbled against the desk, and the doctor with his damned sanctimonious white jacket had straightened her up and Sam wanted to yell, Julianna, fourteen and dying. The shrill tone rose in his head, stayed there through the death, and was still present two months later. August twelfth and seven hundred miles from home. He