And dither she did: She babbled reverentially about Jackie, and actually giggled over Robert, and tossed in several disjointed compliments to Renny and how smart he seemed, even though he did use some very rough language. And then she slid into a totally paralyzed frenzy because she didn’t have anything at all that she could possibly wear-although I knew for a fact that her closet was overflowing with clothing-and how could I possibly expect her to appear in the same room with someone like Jackie Forrest …!
I’d had no notion that Rita actually knew anything about TV stars, and even less idea that she actually cared, that she would be impressed to the point of girlish incoherence at the thought of meeting Robert Chase, and seeing Jackie Forrest in a fancy dress. I mean, I sat on the couch beside Rita every night, and we did watch TV together-but to see her collapse into a kind of babbling hero worship because she was going to see Renny’s show, and might even breathe the same air as Robert Chase! It was a side of her I had never even seen a hint of before, and I wasn’t really sure what to do with it now.
But happily, even Rita needs to breathe every now and then, and when she finally paused to do so, I jumped in quickly and firmly.
“Rita, I have to get back,” I said. “You will be there on Saturday?”
“Of course I’ll be- I mean, I’ll have to find some kind of dress somewhere, and I don’t have any idea-maybe Nancy’s daughter, Terri? But she’s in marching band, so I don’t know-”
“You don’t really need to wear anything fancy,” I said. “I’m not even wearing a tie.”
“Dexter, I’m going to be on TV! With Jackie Forrest! Of course I have to wear something- Oh, honest to God, you don’t have any idea- Maybe I could still fit into that thing from Key West? You know, that you said looked like a nightgown?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven thirty.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “But I really don’t know-”
I leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Bye,” I said. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
Rita pecked me back, and I turned to go at last.
“Dexter,” she called after me, and I sighed and turned back to her. She opened her mouth to say something, and then didn’t say it. For a long moment she didn’t say anything at all, just looked at me, and I wondered what had derailed her frenzy. I was finally about to speak myself when she said, “It’s just that … Do you have clean clothes?”
“Socks and underwear,” I said.
“And a decent shirt to wear to this thing?”
“Yes,” I said, extremely puzzled at the paradigm shift. “A nice guayabera.”
Rita nodded, still looking at me intently. “Because it’s just …” She fluttered one hand, like a small bird with a broken wing, and looked at Cody, then back to me. “I miss you,” she said. “We all do.”
“Me, too,” Cody said in his husky, too-quiet voice.
I blinked at the two of them with surprise bordering on shock. Not merely because the thought of my laundry led Rita directly to saying she missed me. I found it shocking that she missed me at all. And Cody, too? Why? I know exactly what I am-although happily, no one else seems to-and what I am is no great prize, unless we are now awarding medals for inspired vivisection. And so to hear her say they all missed me? What did that mean? Why would anyone miss me? All I did was come home for meals, sit on the couch for an hour or two, and go to bed. Why would anyone miss that?
It was a wonderful conundrum of human behavior, the kind that I had been puzzling over my entire life, and ordinarily it would have been fun to mull it over for a while. But Rita was looking at me expectantly, and years of studying how people act, mostly on daytime dramas, has taught me to recognize a cue when I hear one. So I gave Rita a warm synthetic smile and said, “I miss you, too. But it’s just a few more days. And,” I added when her face stayed locked into that same worried look, “we really do need the money.”
It took her several moments, but Rita finally nodded and said, “Well, yes. But it’s just-you know.” I didn’t know, and she didn’t tell me. She just shrugged and said, “All right then.” She walked the three steps to me, then leaned in, and I gave her a small kiss on the cheek. I looked at Cody, who was watching with his usual alert stoicism. “Relax,” I told him. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“And I’ll see you in a couple of days,” I said. “Remember to Visualize your Procedural Templates.”
Cody made a horrible face and shook his head. “Yuck,” he said, and I have to admit we were in complete agreement.
I turned away again and Rita called after me, “Dexter-just call a few- I mean, if it’s not too much?”
“All right,” I said, seeing the mojito floating in front of me in the air. “I’ll call.”
It was just past four o’clock. Traffic was beginning to slow with the start of rush hour, and the steady lines of cars were squeezing together, coagulating into loud, angry knots and beginning to form a motionless scab on the highways. It took me most of an hour to work my way through the snarls and get back to my office, and along the way I had plenty of time to reflect on what had been, after all, a very full day. Even though the teacher conference had washed away the afterglow of my encounter with Patrick, I felt no worry and no regret. No one would miss him, and it had been far quicker than he deserved.
Jackie’s Town Car was waiting outside headquarters, motor running, when I finally got back. The driver was leaning against the front fender, smoking a cigarette, and he waved to me as I approached. I stepped over to the car, and the rear window slid down.
Jackie looked out at me with a smile that was small, but somehow made me feel like everything was going to be all right. “Hey, sailor,” she said. “Would you like a lift?” And the smile got just a little bit wider as she said, “I think it’s mojito time.”
I thought so, too. I got in the car.
TWENTY-ONE
Saturday morning Jackie slept late. I am an early riser, and in any case it’s hard to drowse in bed half asleep when you’re on the couch in a luxury hotel. So I was up at seven, and sitting on the balcony with breakfast by seven fifteen. The sun came up right on time, just the way it did on weekdays, but I tried to work through my meal a little slower, in honor of the weekend.
Far out over the water a flock of boats moved by, heading south to the Keys, or east to Bimini, the Gulf Stream, and even beyond. A large sportfisher went roaring right over the deep spot where I had put Patrick, kicking up a high rooster tail in its wake. I wondered whether it would make enough turbulence to rip him free of his anchor; perhaps he would shoot up to the surface like a nightmare cork, and bob along behind the speeding boat, all the way to the Bahamas.
Probably not. And if he did, I doubted that the big cruiser would slow down, not with marlin and sailfish waiting.
I sipped my fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was very good. So were my Belgian waffles, and the bacon was cooked just right: crisp without being dry. And the fruit on the side was excellent, too, maybe the best I’d ever had-except at breakfast yesterday. And the day before. It didn’t taste like the fruit normal people can get in the supermarket, which always seems diluted, like it has been shot full of water to make it bigger and brighter. This stuff actually had real flavor. It tasted just like you always think fruit ought to taste, but never does.