Characters in Riding the Bullet

… standing in line at Thrill Village, Jean and Alan Parker, a big woman with dark patches of sweat around the armpits of her sundress, and her little boy. She hadn’t wanted to stand in that line, Staub was right about that . . . but I had pestered pestered pestered.

… telephone against her shoulder and said, “She’s sending Anne Corrigan down to peek in on her. It will only be a second.” “It never ends,” I said. Yvonne frowned. “I beg pardon?” “Nothing,” I said. “It’s been a long night and—” “—and you’re worried about your mom. Of course. I …

“Betsy McCurdy called.” “Told her . . . weekend,” she said. “Said the weekend would be fine.” “Yeah, and to hell with that,” I said, and hugged her. “Car . . . fixed?” “No,” I said. “I hitchhiked.” “Oh gorry,” she said.

The loudspeaker said that Dr. Farquhar was wanted in radiology, Dr. Farquhar. On the fourth floor a nurse named Anne Corrigan would now be looking at my mother, lying dead in her bed with her eyes open, the stroke-induced sneer of her mouth finally relaxing.

She’s Dr. Nunnally’s patient. He’s very good. He’ll be on the floor tomorrow afternoon and you can ask him—” “Tell me what you think.” “I think she’s going to be fine,” the nurse said, leading me back down the hall toward the elevator lobby.

“Nice to meet you, Hector,” he said. “I’m George Staub.” My hand seemed to float out like a hand in a dream. I wish that it had been a dream, but it wasn’t; it had all the sharp edges of reality. The smell on top was pine.

I asked Hector Passmore, the more responsible of my roommates, to call my advisor and ask him to tell my instructors what was up so I wouldn’t get whacked for cutting—two or three of my teachers were real bears about that.

… only child, so it was just Alan and Jean Parker against the world. Mrs. McCurdy, who lived just up the road, called at the apartment I shared with three other guys. She had gotten the number off the magnetic minder-board Ma kept on her fridge. “’Twas a stroke,” she said …

The woman at the desk said, “Muriel? It’s Yvonne. I have a young man down here at the desk, his name is”—she looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I gave her my name—“Alan Parker. His mother is Jean Parker, in 487?

… the front door—if I hadn’t promised my brother Ralph I’d take him up to the nursin home in Gates. His wife’s there, she has that forgettin disease, I can’t think what in the world they call it, Anderson’s or Alvarez or somethin like that—” “Alzheimer’s,” I said. “Ayuh, prob’ly I’m …

I suspected Yvonne Ederle’s opinion of me would have taken a drastic drop if she’d heard my conversation with the young man behind the wheel of the Mustang, but of course she hadn’t. That was a little secret, just between George and me.