“None for him,” Uncle Theo said. “They interfere with his psychotropics. Drugs,” he added helpfully.
The next hour brought back memories of the first half of my life. In a kitchen the size of a phone booth, Simon watched my mother and uncle get high while P.B. sat like a lump, staring at the radio as if reading lips. My brother had spent years seeing government agents everywhere, and now, faced with an actual one, he was unresponsive.
My mother was not. She was coquettish, even wrangling pots and pans. She sipped champagne, smoked grass, and played hostess. “What is your life path, Simon?”
“What do I do for a living?” He turned his stunning blue eyes on me and smiled. I stopped breathing. “I work for peace,” he said. “Research, documentation, trips to bad neighborhoods-”
“Do you approve of this television program Wollie has sold herself to?”
“Prana, let’s leave that for now, shall we?” I relocated the men in order to set the table. “Simon’s very tall; he must be hungry. Do we have any hors d’oeuvres?”
Hors d’oeuvres. What a fantasy life I led. The entire meal consisted of sprouts, tofu-cranberry bake, undercooked yams, and Uncle Theo’s day-old kaiser rolls. I found some Wheat Thins to supplement things, but my mother forbade me to bring out cheese or even butter for the kaiser rolls, citing the exploitation of cows.
“We’re not meant to drink bovine milk,” she said, “but human breast milk. I intended to breast-feed Wollie and P.B. until kindergarten, but I had inverted nipples.”
“I never realized that, Estelle,” Uncle Theo said.
“We choose our parents prior to birth. My children chose intellect, creativity, and spiritual acuity over normal nipples. For them to resent me now is pointless and-”
“Mom-I mean Estelle-I mean Prana-”
“Had you offspring of your own, Wollie, you’d empathize. At your age you’ll probably stay single as well as barren. As for your brother, in that regard, the less said the better.”
“Then why don’t you say less?” I snapped. “Instead of talking about him as if he weren’t here, especially since you haven’t said one nice thing-”
Simon put a hand on my shoulder, a gesture powerful enough to stop me. If the moment was tense for me, I seemed to be in the minority. P.B. continued to arrange Wheat Thins in a pattern on the counter. My mother looked up in bland surprise. Uncle Theo took a healthy bite of tofu-cranberry bake. “Wollie,” he said, “I’ve given some thought to the young German girl gone missing, and I’m reminded of Joe Oklahoma.”
“Who?” I said.
“My uncle. Your great-uncle. Disappeared back in the fifties, when we lived in upstate New York. We heard he was headed for Oklahoma, which is how he came to be called Joe Oklahoma. We assumed he came to a bad end, but in 1979 your great-aunt Geraldine, while attending a bagpipe convention in Buffalo, ran into him. He’d been there all along. Never left the county. Twenty-four years living up the interstate, five exits, content as a clam.”
“Twenty-four years, and no one looked for him?” I asked.
“He wasn’t a family favorite. There was some unpleasantness over gravestone rubbings. They were all mad for gravestone rubbings in those days. My point is, happy endings. You never know when you’re in the middle of someone’s.”
Gravestone rubbings. The tragedy was, I couldn’t even pretend to be adopted. I looked like Uncle Theo in drag, the same ungainly physique. P.B. had it too.
My uncle poured himself more champagne. “But Wollie, our little bloodhound, she’s a faithful one. Keeping track of P.B. all these years, in and out of the hospital… and me. Always there with the car, because I don’t drive. Boyfriends, too. Followed a young man to Ohio once, she was so sweet on him. She doesn’t like to lose people.”
What if I went to the bathroom and just never emerged?
“Ridiculous,” Prana said. “Cultivate detachment. People should be free to follow their destiny.”
Unless their destiny included reality TV. Simon’s hand traveled from my shoulder to the back of my neck, and squeezed. My shoulders dropped twelve inches.
“What about you, Simon?” Prana asked. “In your work, I’m sure you eschew unsolicited intervention.”
“That depends, Mrs. Shelley.” Simon took his hand from my neck and turned to her. He was so tall, the movement seemed to rearrange the kitchen. “If I’m following the conversation, you’re asking what I’d do if I lost someone I care about? I’d intervene. I’d exploit all resources available to me, and some that aren’t. I’d walk away from my job, house, friends, and in the end, if necessary, I’d kill anyone who stood between me and the person in question.”
My mother’s eyebrows were nearly vertical with surprise. Uncle Theo regarded Simon with genial interest. P.B. stopped arranging Wheat Thins and looked up.
Simon reached for my hand. “Wollie,” he said, “I think we need to walk off those sprouts. Let’s go.”
28
We walked side by side down Larrabee to Santa Monica. The sun shone, unimpeded by clouds. Simon put on sunglasses. We hadn’t said a word since leaving the apartment. The building had been full of people, the smell of roasting turkey, a holiday mood. I couldn’t identify my own mood. I felt like someone had grabbed my remote and was channel surfing through my psyche.
We walked close to each other, close enough to hold hands. He wanted to hold hands, I was sure of it. No, I wasn’t sure of anything. He probably just-
He reached out and took my hand. My heart started beating so hard I thought I’d break out in a sweat. Dread and delight fought it out. Dread of what all this might mean and how heartbroken I would be when it ended badly, as of course it would-
“Do you cook like your mother?” he asked.
“You didn’t have to have seconds,” I said. “If you noticed, P.B. and I didn’t touch the food, and Uncle Theo doesn’t count; he’s been known to eat raw hemp. Thanks for not arresting us, by the way.”
“It’s my day off.” He gave my hand an admonitory shake. “Don’t worry so much. Everyone’s got families, and they never behave.”
“You don’t seem like an FBI agent. Are you sure you’re one?”
“How many of us have you known?”
“Some. One, anyway. By the way, do you people ever dress up like plumbers?”
He turned and looked at me. “Why?”
“Nothing. So was Uncle Theo’s Richard Feynman the one you’re thinking of?”
“Yes. He’s a hero of Annika’s. She’d been reading his biography.”
I stopped. Stared. “How could you possibly-what’s your interest in Annika?”
“I have no interest in Annika.”
“Not you personally,” I said. “I mean the FBI.”
“I understand. We’re not interested in her. We’re interested in you.”
We kept staring at each other. A soft wind blew. The sun shone down on us. West Hollywood danced by. I withdrew my hand from his.
“We’re investigating people you associate with,” he said, “engaged in an illegal activity. Initially, we thought you worked with them, because of your proximity and a password we heard you use. Inadvertently, it turns out. We now believe you to be our best shot at intelligence gathering.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry? What?”
“I want to recruit you.”
“You want me to-join the FBI?”
“No. I want you to leave town. But you’re stubborn, and it’s illegal for me to kidnap you. So I want you working for me.”
“For the FBI.”
“Try to rein in your excitement.”
“Me. You want me. I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time-I can’t even do sit-ups. I’m afraid of guns, I don’t wear suits, I-”
“You have access to an organization it would take us weeks to infiltrate.”
“What organiz-?” I asked, then stopped. “Biological Clock?”
“I don’t have weeks. I have days.”