The middle of nowhere, p.12
The Middle of Nowhere, page 12
“No. We’ll drive you,” Malcolm said. “I want to make sure you get home safe.”
Clara turned the corner on Lexington Avenue, walking away from the crowd that was gathering in front of the house. Back in the Philippines, she remembered a similar crowd gathering around a small whale that had washed up on the beach. But soon the gulls and herons came to feast on the rotting carcass, and when they needed to relieve themselves, they did it directly on the people watching, perhaps in sympathy for the whale, who maybe they felt deserved to rot in peace.
Clara was glad to be away from the police, afraid they were going to ask her about her green card. She was nearing the subway entrance when she heard her name.
“Clara.”
She prayed it wasn’t Immigration.
“Clara. Excuse me.”
Clara turned, pleased to see the woman was too young and dolled up to be any kind of official. She was marching forward, her hand out for Clara to shake.
“I’m Adelaide,” she said when she got close. She was perky and smartly dressed. “I … maybe we could talk for a minute. I’m a journalist.”
“I don’t think so,” Clara said. It was late. Clara was tired. She started to turn and walk away.
“Let me buy you a coffee. Tea. Anything. I just want to talk with you about the Gelmans. You do work there, don’t you?”
Clara stopped, still not saying anything, uneasy about where this would go.
“Maybe you can help me,” Adelaide said. “And maybe I can help you.”
“How can you help me?” Clara said.
“Well, it depends,” the girl said with a suggestive smile.
Clara thought the girl Adelaide had a pretty face. Pretty, but empty. Clara had seen many just like her, sitting in the back row of her classroom, a fashion magazine hidden behind their textbooks. They usually wound up with one of the American servicemen stationed at the base. Sometimes more than one. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t get pregnant and left behind when the soldier went stateside. Usually they weren’t lucky. A year or so later they would be back in her classroom, the sparkle gone from their eyes, their baby at home with their mother, trying to finish high school and get a job as a nanny or housekeeper in America. No Philippine boy would have them now. They were damaged goods.
Clara decided she should play along with this silly girl, see where it went.
“Let’s get some coffee,” Adelaide said.
“No. Just say what you have to say.”
“Okay. How does $25,000 sound? For an exclusive story. The inside scoop on the Gelman household. Who came and went. How they lived. What they did. Why you think Owen’s friend was killed.”
“The friend was killed because he wasn’t very nice.”
Adelaide looked disappointed.
“That may be true. But there must be more. Did you know Owen’s girlfriend, the one who’s missing? Chantal, right? Can you get me some photos?”
“Photos?”
“There must be some lying around.”
“That would be stealing,” Clara said.
“No one will know where they came from,” she whispered conspiratorially. “We have freedom of the press in this country.”
Clara wanted to ask her: Who was the twelfth president? What was Teapot Dome? Who were the Mugwumps?
“What do you think, Clara? Some photos of Holden and Owen together. As little kids. Can you do it?”
Of course it would be about Holden, the famous one. If Owen actually did it, the newspapers would say “Holden’s Brother Guilty!”
“Okay, $30,000,” Adelaide said, “but that’s as high as I’m authorized to go.”
Clara thought how in those two seconds of silence she made an extra five thousand dollars, as much money as she took home in three months of housekeeping. Five thousand dollars just by being quiet. That’s why everyone wants to come to America.
“Okay,” Clara said.
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
“You have a bank account?”
“No.”
“We’ll work around it,” Adelaide said. She was excited.
“A money order, made out to my mother in the Philippines.”
“To your mother?”
“Yes.”
“That’s precious. You want us to send it directly to her?”
“No. When we’re done, I’ll take it there myself.”
Chantal sat on the couch in her living room. Her father and mother sat across from her in armchairs upholstered in fabric that matched the couch.
Chantal found it curious that her father didn’t comfort her mother, hold her hand or pat her on the back. He sat motionless, not saying anything, just shaking his head.
“Why didn’t you call?” her mother said through her tears.
“You really should have called,” her father said.
Chantal wondered why there weren’t any books in her house. Well, there were a few books, best-seller books and some gigantic art books on Michelangelo and Chagall, but nothing like Malcolm’s dad’s house. His bookcases were packed full and went up to the ceiling. And he didn’t take the jackets off like Chantal’s mother did, so they would look nicer on the shelves.
“I thought you were dead,” her mother said.
“Oh, Mom.”
“Why didn’t you call, Chantal?” her father said. His voice had an edge to it now. Angry. How was it so many people wound up getting angry at her?
“Where were you?” her mother said, tissues to her nose.
“I was in a church,” she said.
“All this time?”
“Yes,” she said. Because she didn’t want them to know about her driving to Coney Island with Malcolm and his dad in their Impala convertible with the top down. How they got hot dogs and french fries at Nathan’s and then went to the boardwalk to eat them as they looked at the ocean. And how each of them had a camera, she and Malcolm and his dad, and how she found things to photograph; like broken signs that meant something different because some of the letters were missing; a toothless woman eating raw clams at a counter on the boardwalk; a baby playing in the sand on the beach; lovers kissing on a bench; an old man fishing off the end of the pier and holding up the bluefish he caught that morning with a smile that seemed ready to burst from his face.
“I was in church, sitting in a pew under a stained glass window with a picture of one of the saints, the one with the arrows through his chest,” she said. Because she didn’t want to reveal how much she had laughed in the ocean breeze, and how she and Malcolm went on the Wonder Wheel and the bumper cars and failed to knock over the milk bottles so many times that the guy gave them each a stuffed animal out of pity and then they took his picture with his sleeve rolled up to show off his tattoo of a girl in a hula skirt which he could make dance by flexing his muscle. And how they bought souvenirs, snow globes of the parachute jump, a Statue of Liberty pencil sharpener, an Empire State Building that played “New York, New York.”
Or about how they gave out money. Malcolm’s dad had a thick stack of five-dollar bills and they walked around giving them out to every homeless or sorrowful person they met. And Malcolm’s dad would take their picture holding the money, not in a egotistical way, like here I just made your day you poor slob now smile, but respectfully, just having them look in the camera, letting whatever feelings they had at the moment play out over their faces. And Chantal remembered each of their faces, feeling a more intimate connection with these total strangers than she did with Owen, with whom she was supposedly in love. With her parents. With anyone she knew. Feeling somehow she was one of these lost souls. And because she touched them, made their lives different, better, without their asking, it made her feel good. Clean.
“I sat in church for so long one of the ministers came over to ask me if everything was all right,” she said.
“Where did you sleep?”
“I didn’t sleep. I walked through the night,” she said. “Just kept walking.”
“You walked?”
“Yes.”
Because she didn’t want to tell them about boiling the lobsters and taking them up on Malcolm’s roof and how Malcolm’s dad had a whole bag of fortune cookies and they taught her the “between the sheets” game where you read your fortune and then add the words “between the sheets” so it’s like “You will meet an old friend … between the sheets.” Or “You have many hidden talents … between the sheets.” Or “You will soon make a lot of money … between the sheets,” and they played for hours and their laughter echoed through the streets and how she was so incredibly happy there on the roof with the two of them, with Malcolm and his dad. Happier than she’d ever been.
“Why didn’t you come home?” her mother asked, the tears coming again.
“I don’t know,” she said, because she didn’t want to say because this doesn’t feel like home—my home.
“Maybe you haven’t heard the news,” her father said.
“What?”
“It’s about Ben Purdy.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead. Someone killed him.”
She felt her stomach tighten.
“Who did it?”
“We don’t know. They found him in Holden Gelman’s bed.”
“Ben’s dead?”
“Yes,” her mother said.
“Oh.”
Chantal wondered why she wasn’t feeling more upset. On the TV, when they showed the kids in those high schools where some tragedy happened, they were always hugging each other and crying in each others arms. But that wasn’t happening. Not with her. Not about Ben.
“We need to call the police,” her dad said. “We’re supposed to tell them if you get back.”
“Can’t we do that in the morning, Jerry?” her mother said. “It’s enough for one night.”
Her father nodded. He turned to Chantal. He thinks he’s supposed to say something to me, she thought. Something deep and profound, to set me on the right track. He had that look on his face—preparation for depth and profundity. She could sense the thoughts trying to organize themselves in his head. Deep thoughts. Profound thoughts.
“Chantal,” he said, his voice with that sound in it, that glaze of something important, that Chantal’s behavior was challenging some fundamental law of the universe, how if she continued the future of the cosmos would be jeopardized. She couldn’t bear that responsibility. Not tonight.
“Can I go to bed now?” she asked. “I’m really tired.”
And without waiting for an answer, she got up and left the room.
Bliss came home, saw the dishes on the counter, knew that they had eaten without him, his plate covered with aluminum foil. He wasn’t hungry anyway. He opened a beer. He thought about the bottles scattered around the townhouse after the party. Beer and vodka and the single malt Scotch.
He tried not to think about it, but the panic lodged in his throat, compounded with the new fear, that he had just compromised his and Ward’s pension.
Julia came out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel. Rachel followed, saying something about conditioner.
“Hi, Dad,” Julia said.
“I don’t want you going to any more parties,” he blurted out.
“You mean any more parties at all, or just ones like at Owen’s?”
“No more parties.” He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he’d already started it.
“Why?”
“Because,” he said. Because I was there. Because of what I saw.
“Parties like Owen has, fine,” she said, “I hate those parties anyway.”
“So why do you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“She came home,” Rachel said. “She didn’t like the vibe, so she went home.”
Julia started laughing.
“The vibe, Mom?”
“You know what I mean.”
The two of them were giggling now.
“What do you think they do at these parties?” he asked Rachel, getting in her face.
“I know what’s going on,” she said.
“Do you? Do you really?!” Desperately wanting to say because I was there, I saw it. “You think it’s like the arts and crafts hut? Huh? You think they’re making trivets with tile and grout? Branding their names into leather belts? You think they’re playing with gimp?!”
“Dad.”
“There’s beer, there’s pot. At the end of the night the empty vodka bottles litter the floor. You think I don’t know?”
Julia turned to her mother.
“Mom. Please. Help me out here.”
He went on, the image clear in his head.
“Every bed is used, sheets on the floor, blankets twisted together.” His voice rising now. “Every bed! Even in the parents’ room.”
“Stop it,” Julia shouted.
“Lenny,” Rachel said. “Please.”
“They take turns. They shower together.” There was blood on his penis. How did it get there? “They copulate.”
Julia ran to her room, slammed the door. Bliss was right after her, wrenching the knob, flinging the door open.
“Don’t think I wouldn’t come get you,” he said. Julia’s father. Hello. “Don’t think I wouldn’t come right over to the party, snatch you from wherever you were.” Julia’s police. “Whoever you were with.”
“I can’t believe this,” Julia said, starting to cry. “Don’t you trust me? Don’t you think I try, every day, don’t you think I try so hard not to do that, any of that?! Jesus! You think it’s easy?”
Bliss didn’t say anything,
“Do you, Dad?”
“I … no, I don’t think it’s easy.”
“I try so hard. You should give me a little more credit. Now please close my door.”
He did.
He stood in the hall, head down. He could feel Rachel staring at him.
He remembered his feelings of jealousy as he lurked through the townhouse before dawn, thinking the real Julia was at the party. But maybe he did know the real Julia. Maybe she was right here at home.
“Lenny.”
“What?”
“You proud of yourself?”
He didn’t answer.
“You happy now?”
“No,” he finally said. “I’m trying to be a good cop and a good father. How could I possibly be happy? And if you think Mae Stark is happy, then she’s fucking lying to herself. And so are you.”
Fred went into the library, got out his cell phone, called Marjorie the flight attendent at her hotel. He woke her up.
“Hey, it’s Fred.”
“Mnngh,” she said. She sounded like a cat.
“I feel like Princess Di,” he said. “They’re hounding me.”
“You poor boy,” she said.
“You eat yet? You have dinner?”
“Mmmngh,” she said. “I’m knackered.”
Knackered. He thought that sounded like an invitation.
“You want some company?” he said. “We could have champagne. We could have strawberries and cream. Clotted cream, right? I don’t know if our cream has clots, but we can find a way. Then we can knacker together.”
“That’s nice,” she said.
“So?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I took a pill. It’s what we do.”
“Who? English people?”
“No, silly. Flight attendants.”
“Oh,” he said. His felt his dick pressing against his pants, harder than Japanese arithmetic. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come over?”
“Mmmmnnnggh.”
“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow then. And listen, I don’t like that hotel you’re in. In the morning you move.” He gave her the name of someplace more exclusive and discreet and where they had decent Champagne and made French toast with the thick slices of bread the way he liked. “Did you write it down?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“You’ll like it there. It’s better. See you tomorrow.”
She hung up the phone.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He could call his secretary, tell her he had important business, couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
He tried. He got her machine and hung up.
Well, he was tired anyway.
Fred walked upstairs, past the yellow tape. Death had been behind that tape. A boy had been killed. In his house. His son Owen had let death into Fred’s home.
Because of the blood, they would be ripping out another carpet. Then Nedra would call in the interior designer so they could choose a new one. Swatches would be involved. Color samples. His opinion would be sought. It seemed so insignificant now, the color of the rug, the color of the paint, the style of the fucking doorknobs, all the shit Nedra cared so much about when they were “doing” the bedrooms. She showed him catalogues, a whole page of doorknobs, round, oval, silver, brass. What did he think? Who gives a shit about a fucking doorknob? he thought. Once he made the mistake of thinking it out loud. Nedra started crying. Because he forgot. This was sex with them. This was their sex. Their intimacy. So he had apologized. He studied the catalogue with keen interest and listened intently as she told him about what the interior designer said, about the difference between nickel and silver finishes and whatever else went into doorknob selection, until she was happy.
Until she came.
He had to have this kind of catalogue/renovation/doorknob-choosing sex with his wife so he could sleep with Sheena and his secretary and hopefully Marjorie the English flight attendant whose pussy he’d already envisioned—soft as clotted cream.
Nedra was in bed, reading a magazine when he got upstairs. She glanced up. Their eyes met.
“I’m depleted,” she said.
He nodded.
“I need to not think about anything.”
“Okay.”
He wondered if she had taken a pill.
“It’s too much.”
“Yeah.”
He noticed her bare arms, holding the magazine, how taut they were. Wiry, but defined. Muscular. When did that happen?
“I’m just going to read,” she said.
“Okay.”
He sat down on the bed.
“You’re arms are looking pretty strong,” he said.
She glanced at them, smiled.
