Promptly at eleven Curt arrived. Fred's mother had already prepared the large basket of food. There were ten minutes of last-minute bustle, then they were off, with Curt skillfully tooling his Cadillac in and out of traffic until they were on the open highway.
"I know just the place," he told them. "Woods, meadow, brook. Even a couple of cows." And he did. When they arrived shortly before twelve-thirty it was all that.
Fred relaxed as the car came to a stop. Every second of the trip he had been ready to seize the wheel and keep the car from crashing if Curt vanished.
"Still a little nervous?" Curt asked him as they got out.
"No. No, of course not!" Fred said.
Curt didn't pursue the subject. Instead, he became something utterly different than he had been before, a carefree thoroughly likeable man, full of humor.
Fred began to regret that he had chosen him as his victim. He began to hope that the process might not be automatic, that Curt wouldn't vanish. But he stayed close to him and listened to his every word and watched his face as much as he dared without staring, so that if the moment came he could get whatever there was to get of value from it.
For the first time in years his mother began to be carefree. She even joked back at Curt occasionally, something she had never done with Martin in Fred's memory. Her joking was clumsy and uncertain. Fred laughed uproariously to encourage her and to hide his uncomfortable feeling.
"Oh, I haven't felt so good in ages," she said when they were seated around the tablecloth spread with sandwiches and salads and cakes. "It's wonderful getting out like this. We'll have to do it often."
"We will," Curt said. "At least once a week."