“You really like playing the ‘man of mystery’, don’t you?” Lisa took my hand in hers. “I missed you. And to show you how much, I want to treat you to dinner tomorrow night at Il Mulino.”

  “Tomorrow? I can’t. I have to meet the Arrow buyer in Minneapolis. Not sure what time I’ll be back.”

  “How’s Friday, then?”

  “Hmm. Let me think about it.” I smiled. “Okay, you have a date.”

  “That was fast.”

  “You did say Il Mulino, didn’t you?”

  *

  John Dalton was waiting for me when I got back to my office, seated in the chair in front of my desk. My secretary whispered an apology as I walked past her.

  “How was Tel Aviv?” he asked before I could even close the door.

  “Who invited you, Dalton?”

  “I invited myself. We paid for your trip, remember? The least we deserve is a concise report.”

  “Concise report? I’m sure you already know all there is to know.”

  “How about you start with the bombing?” Dalton gestured to my chair. “And sit down, would you? I don’t like you hovering above me. It makes me nervous.”

  The thought of something making Dalton nervous didn’t compute, but I took my seat and said, with faux naivete, “What bombing?”

  “Cute. Do I have to remind you that—”

  “—you know everything,” I finished for him.

  “Exactly,” he said. Then, as if the bombing had never happened, he asked how it had gone with Jeremy.

  “Our meeting was … how shall I say … un-noteworthy.”

  “Stop being coy. Did you get the production switched or not?”

  “Jeremy took me on a tour of both factories. SDC was highly professional, way above average. The replacement you’re asking for—Starlight Industries—is so new they have no track record we can rely on. Jeremy refused my suggestion outright. And I can’t say that I blame him.”

  “Didn’t you try to convince him?”

  “Of course, I tried. Even told him my account manager at the bank insisted on a change.”

  Dalton’s look hardened. “You’ll have to go back there.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Meet with Jeremy again, be more persuasive this time.”

  I was incredulous. “There’d be no point to it.”

  “It’s necessary, I’m afraid.”

  “Necessary?” My temper blew. “Dalton, I don’t know what makes you act the way you do, but I have to tell you, you’re a real pain in the ass.”

  He glared at me. “Not very nice, my friend.”

  Friend? “Look,” I said without calming down, “I don’t like to be rude, but I need you out of my life, okay? I can’t put it in any simpler terms. I want you to stop pestering me. I tried to do what you asked, but my partner won’t budge.”

  Dalton stood, clenched his hands into fists. “You will go back to Israel, Blair! And you will let me know when your travel arrangements have been made!”

  He turned and left the office without waiting for my response.

  26

  Lisa arrived at my condo on Friday night a little after seven. I held her at arms length, admiring the low-cut, black leather dress she was wearing.

  “You like?” she asked, doing a pirouette.

  I followed her inside. “I like a lot. Say, do we have time for a drink before heading out?”

  “Lots of time. I couldn’t get a reservation until nine o’clock.”

  “Champagne?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I went into the kitchen and removed the bottle from the fridge, popped the cork, filled two flutes to the brim and carried them, along with the bottle, into the den, where Lisa was already making herself comfortable on the couch.

  “Skol,” I said, handing her one of the flutes, then taking a seat beside her.

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  Lisa asked how my appointment had gone with the buyer at Arrow.

  “Waste of time,” I told her. “I waited forever but Ms. Lattanzi didn’t show up. I was finally advised by her assistant that the appointment would have to be rescheduled. Apparently, management called a last-minute meeting with the buying staff, no exceptions.”

  “That’s not nice. You flew out just to see her, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Welcome to my world.” I topped off our glasses.

  We drank in silence for a while. When I went to fill her glass again, she protested, “Trying to get me drunk, mister?”

  “That … and pliable.”

  “I’m serious. Champagne does funny things to me, especially when I haven’t eaten.”

  “Would you like a snack? Peanuts or chips?”

  With glass still in hand, she leaned in and kissed me. “I’d like something else.”

  I reached out to take the glass from her.

  Lisa misunderstood my intention and went to stop my hand’s progression. The glass tipped, champagne spilling on my tie.

  “It’s ruined.” I feigned hurt.

  “Poor baby. I’ll buy you another.”

  I looked at her, then at my glass; it was still a quarter full. Without hesitating, I flung what was left at her.

  Lisa wrestled me to the floor, her legs enveloping my chest and squeezing. “Give up?”

  I tried for a finesse move and accidentally brushed her breast instead.

  “Pervert!” she hissed. And she reversed positions, slamming on top of me. Soon, I felt this grinding motion. I spoke her name; she ignored me. She began to undo her clothes and motioned for me to do the same.

  I couldn’t remember making love this way or lasting as long. When we weren’t on the floor, we were on the sofa; often partially on both. The one time I paused was when my injured back banged into something solid and I winced.

  “What is it?” Lisa asked.

  I showed her the scar.

  “My God. Is that from Israel, too?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll be more careful,” she promised. And before long we were lost again.

  *

  When I awoke in the morning, Lisa was sitting up in bed, looking radiant.

  “Did we really skip dinner at my favorite restaurant?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and smiled. “How’s your back?”

  “Fine and dandy.”

  “I feel like I dropped ten pounds.”

  I laughed. “Me, too.”

  “I like losing weight with you.” She exaggerated the blinking of her lashes, which drew attention to her slightly crossed eye.

  I asked her about it.

  “Born this way,” she explained, then leaned her head against my shoulder. “I want you to always be honest with me, Blair. No secrets or lies.”

  I sensed a hurt there, something in her past. “Always is a really, really long time.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Okay—I promise. No secrets or lies between us.”

  27

  Rain was pouring down when I left my condo Monday morning, but I was whistling to myself. Umbrella protected, I headed toward the parking garage where I kept my car, preoccupied with thoughts of the wonderful weekend I’d spent with Lisa.

  Instead of going to my office, I was headed to Secaucus, New Jersey, for an appointment with Killgallon Logistics, the company that handled my warehousing and shipping needs.

  A little over a year ago, a MyMart order ended up going to Arrow. The product was stickered with the MyMart code and was priced at $2.00 less than its competitor. It didn’t take long for the Arrow buyer to catch the price discrepancy. Even though he’d paid the same cost as MyMart, he was holding my company accountable, insisting on a price concession of over $30,000.

  To make matters worse, because the promised ship date to MyMart was missed, I incurred a $5,000 fine. To prevent this kind of thing from happening again, I installed a new policy. Any order with a value of $50,000 or more couldn’t be processed without me being present. Thus, the one-hour drive this morning.

  Larry Killgallon, the owner, was in his mid-fifties, broad-shouldered with brown hair. He greeted me with a warm smile. Larry was a genial individual and I always found him to be completely trustworthy. He and I occasionally socialized together.

  “Follow me,” he said, and he led the way to the warehouse where I did a physical inspection of each shipment. Next, I verified the bills of lading against the master list I’d brought with me.

  “Everything in order?” Larry asked, handing me a pen.

  “A-okay.” I signed each shipping document in the appropriate area and handed the pen back.

  “Time for coffee?”

  I checked my watch. “Uh-uh. I’ve got to get to my office. Maybe next time?”

  He smiled. “You always say that.”

  “Who, me?” I patted him on the shoulder. “One day I’ll surprise you.”

  *

  There were no messages waiting for me when I arrived at my office, but when I checked my cell, I noticed one from John Dalton. I’d purposely turned off my phone for my meeting at the distribution center and now regretted turning it back on.

  “I’m at the end of my patience,” the government agent warned. “I’ll expect your flight details to Israel within twenty-four hours. This is not a request. It’s an order.”

  28

  I was up early the next morning, about to take a shower, when I received a call from my sister.

  “Blair,” Cynthia said in a near-panic, “Mom’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  I braced myself. “How bad?”

  “Very bad. Her doctor doesn’t think she’ll last the week.”

  God no! “I’ll come right away,” I said.

  “Get me your flight number. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “No need. I’ll go standby and reserve a car.”

  “Fine. Let me know when to expect you.”

  “Okay, I will. See you soon.”

  *

  I threw some clothes into an overnight bag, called a cab, then headed down in the elevator to the lobby of my building. While waiting, I reached the 1-800 number for Avis and booked a car for the airport in Montreal. I thought of finding a hotel as well but hesitated, finally deciding to take a chance and stay at my sister’s.

  I punched in Lisa’s cell.

  “I miss you,” she said.

  I smiled to myself. “I miss you, too.”

  “How about dinner at my place tonight?”

  “I’d like that, but I’m headed for Montreal.”

  “Business?”

  “I wish. No, my mother’s not doing well.”

  “Oh? Sorry to hear that. How long will you be gone?”

  “Not sure. I’ll call you when I know anything definite.”

  *

  When my sister opened the door to her high-rise apartment, a bachelorette in the Montreal suburb of Notre Dame de Grace, I was taken aback by how much weight she’d gained.

  “You bum,” Cynthia said, grabbing me in an embrace. “Weeks and weeks without a word.”

  “I’m sorry, Sis. Business has been really crazy.”

  She held me at arm’s length. “My God, what happened to you, Blair?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve dropped about a dozen pounds. Tell me your secret.”

  “Stress,” I said.

  She laughed. “With the crappy weather just about gone, I’ll start jogging again. It’s the damn winter that does this to me. Too friggin’ cold to do anything but sit home and eat.”

  We gave each other another, longer hug.

  My sister had been divorced for over six years, living off alimony. With people she knew well, she liked to talk, and for once I found it therapeutic. I became lost in such humdrum topics as our cousins and their kids, and everything that’d happened to them in the past six months. Not thumbnail sketches, by any means.

  Even with the added weight, my sister was still attractive. Blond hair cut short, 5’ 5”, with smooth wrinkle-free skin, she was marred only by the Anderson curse—the start of a double chin.

  I picked up my bag, she led the way into the living room … and my heart sank.

  Cynthia’s condition was known as Disposophobia, an obsessive-compulsive disorder that caused her to hoard newspapers and magazines, shoes, clothing and everything in-between. In my sister’s case, “hoarding” wasn’t sufficiently descriptive. Her apartment was an open style unit, its concept defeated by the columns of accumulated goods piled high: In the kitchen. Along the hallway. In the bathroom and master bedroom.

  She discerned my expression. “Don’t say it.”

  “I thought you had it under control…”

  “Blair—”

  I was already regretting my decision to stay here instead of a hotel. I didn’t want to criticize, but it hurt to see that my sister wasn’t getting any better.

  *

  We took my rental car. Cynthia drove too slowly for my liking. Besides, Montreal was an easy city to navigate. Especially in May. If this were mid-summer, road construction on most major routes would be reducing traffic to a crawl.

  “I can pick up something for dinner,” my sister suggested.

  “Not necessary. I already booked Gibby’s.”

  “Really? Always Mr. Generous!”

  “It’s my pleasure, Sis.”

  From NDG, I took Côte des Neiges and entered the downtown core ten minutes later. A few turns and we were parked at Maison Montclair.

  Cynthia led the way inside. There was a strong antiseptic smell in the air, and nurses and doctors spoke in hushed tones. The walls and ceilings were painted an austere shade of green.

  The attractive middle-aged receptionist asked us to wait. Dr. Richer joined us a few minutes later and led the way to his office. He was a tall, slender man in his fifties, and looked his age. The first thing he did once we were seated was apologize.

  “It appears your mother’s rallied sufficiently for us to take her off the critical list. I’m sorry if I made you rush here for nothing. But it really was touch and go for a while.”

  His words encouraged me. “Can we see her?”

  “Of course. I just wanted to bring you up to date. However, I must advise you, her appearance has changed quite a bit. I don’t want you to be surprised.”

  *

  Despite the doctor’s warning, the apparition on the bed shocked me. Much of the woman I knew was gone, replaced by a stick figure; skin and bones and not much else.

  “Thomas?” she said when she saw me, naming my deceased father.

  I moved closer to the bed. “No. It’s me, Mother. Your son.”

  She raised a scarecrow arm, yanked the bottom denture from her mouth and cackled, “I don’t have a son.” She pointed at Cynthia. “And whose whore are you?”

  I felt my mouth go dry. Her words had stunned me; my mother seldom used foul language.

  “Mom,” my sister said, “Blair’s come all the way from New York to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Blair. Your son.”

  Mom began to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Cynthia bent over the bed, using a Kleenex to wipe our mother’s eyes. As quickly as they had begun, the tears ceased. Then she nodded off.

  Cynthia turned to me. “I guess we should let her rest.”

  “Is she always like this?”

  “Usually. Or a variation thereof. Some visits are better than others.” She paused. “I’m really sorry, Blair. The doctor made it sound like she was on her last legs. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you.”

  “No worries. I wish she knew who we were, though.”

  “I know. It breaks my heart. And it makes me wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “They say Alzheimer’s is hereditary. You ever stop and think you or I could be at risk?”

  “No…” I hesitated. I’d been thinking about it but didn’t want her to know. “We’ll be fine,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t detect the doubt in my voice.

  29

  It was too early for dinner so I suggested we take a drive.

  “Where to?” Cynthia asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  As a young man, I’d often end up with a date at the top of Mt. Royal. The mountain separated the downtown core from the rest of the city. Today, Mt. Royal would be subject to ridicule for its compact size were it not for the impressive view it afforded of the south-eastern extremity of the island, stretching off in the distance across the St. Lawrence River, into Longueuil and beyond.

  There were no other cars when we arrived, and I could see why. The signs, written only in French, cautioned of a sinkhole. The road and much of the natural protective barrier of trees and shrubbery had been torn away.

  I ignored the warning, pulled in and parked. In front of us, void of vegetation, the drop was long and precipitous; nothing but large boulders trailed all the way down.

  My rent-a-car was a Honda Civic. I shut off the motor and set the emergency brake before leaning back. “Okay,” I said, hoping to divert ourselves from our mother’s condition, “who’re you dating these days?”

  “Who said I am?”

  “I know you.”

  She smiled. “Francois. A French-Canadian fireman. And he’s lovely.”

  “Oh yeah? Like Marcel?”

  She laughed. “Wasn’t he a beaut?”

  Marcel, an abnormally thin hairdresser, practically bald, had the annoying habit of squinting whenever he spoke to someone, as if sizing them up.

  “What did you ever see in him?” I asked.

  She shrugged and said, “He was pretty good in bed.”

  “Cyn!” I said in mock horror.

  “What do you do to relax, Blair?”

  “Relax? I don’t understand the concept.”

  She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I hate seeing you this way.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “C’mon, Blair, you can’t kid a kidder.” Her favorite expression.

  “Cyn—” I started to say, when something hard slammed into the back of our car.

  My sister screamed.

  I shot a look to the rearview mirror. All I could see was the front end of a massive truck, a blob of blue, pushing us forward.

 

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