The head of HR comes on the line. “Sometimes things change faster than expected — a combo of a buyout, and vacation, and we booked a big conference for the end of July — but you didn’t hear it from me. Let’s see if someone can access that info and we’ll give you a call back.”
I phone George’s lawyer, Rutkowsky, who, surprisingly, picks up on the first ring. “Do you know where George is?”
“Now that you mention it,” the lawyer says, “no clue. Hang on.” He makes noises like he’s going through some files. “Apparently, we’re still waiting on the paperwork; he may be lost in the system.”
“Have you got an address? A way to send letters or packages? His birthday is coming up.”
“I have a card for Walter Penny and there’s an address on there. I’m sure you could put something in the mail addressed to George care of that address and it’ll get to him.”
I jot down the address he gives me. “When I called The Lodge, they said the medical director was gone. Isn’t he part of your family?”
“Separated,” Rutkowsky says. “We’re not speaking to him at the moment. And in fact, I’m representing my sister against him, so, for conflict-of-interest reasons, I’m going to be passing George’s file over to Ordy, another attorney at the firm.”
I am at the mall with Cheryl; we are going from store to store. We’ve made progress. We’re not meeting at one of the cheap motels where, fearing bedbugs, Cheryl pulls down the old chenille bedspread, puts a layer of green Hefty yard bags on the bed, and covers them with an old white sheet, and we fuck like drunk drivers sliding all over the place. Instead we’re wandering aimlessly, fully clothed, in a skylight-topped faux-tropical paradise.
“Are we here for exercise, or is there something particular we’re looking for?”
“A sofa and a nonstick pan,” she says, giving equal value to both.
This time her hair is in short blond braided pigtails — something like what an eight-year-old might wear. I’m slightly embarrassed for her but say nothing.
“Are you still seeing her?” Cheryl asks.
Apparently. But I feel uncomfortable having two sexual relationships at the same time.”
“Why?”
“It’s confusing.”
“In what way? I mean, that one’s like a mercy fuck, right?” she asks.
“I’m not sure. What’s a mercy fuck?”
“Like you feel bad for her — so
you do her.”
“I don’t feel bad for her,” I say.
“Do you care about her?” she asks. “Does she know about me?”
“I think she knows,” I suggest.
“Did you tell her?”
“She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want anything from me — zero involvement. She just wants me when she wants me. She says it’s not personal, it’s just the way it is.”
In the middle of the mall there is a missing-persons kiosk shaped like a milk carton. The kiosk is plastered in posters of Heather Ryan, notices about the Safe Haven Baby Drop and a domestic Cool Out Zone. A large permanent sign reads: “Pregnant? For anonymous assistance pick up phone.” An orange receiver waits at the ready.
“Was that always there?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, without looking.
Coming out of one of the stores, I spot Don DeLillo. Our eyes meet; he looks at me as if to ask, What are you staring at?
“I see you everywhere I go.”
“I live here,” he says.
“My apologies, I’m a big fan.” He nods but says nothing. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” He doesn’t say yes, he doesn’t say no. “Do you think Nixon was in on the JFK assassination?” DeLillo looks at me with a grim snakelike grin. “Interesting question,” he says, and walks away.
“You should dump her,” Cheryl says, having entirely missed the preceding exchange. “Keep things simple.”
I change the subject. “Are we looking for something in particular?”
“I already told you, sofa and nonstick pan. Oh, and here’s what I want: we’ll go to Macy’s, I’ll pick out some lingerie, and then you come into the dressing-room area and ask, ‘What room are you in?’ and …”
“And what?”
“You come in and do me — down on your knees, with your tongue — while I watch in the three-way mirror, and maybe I even shoot a little video with my phone. It would be the back of your head, so no one would recognize you.”
“Clearly you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
She shrugs.
“We’ll get arrested.”
“For what?”
My cell phone rings — Amanda. At first I don’t answer, but when it rings again, Cheryl urges me to pick up. “Don’t be rude on my account,” she says.
“Hello?”
“They caught the guy — Heather Ryan’s murderer. He was someone her parents had sold her old twin bed to — online. Turned out she’d sewn her diary into the mattress and the guy found it and got obsessed and had been stalking her. Her boyfriend, the one she’d recently broken up with, actually met the guy, who claimed that he was her new boyfriend and told him all kinds of personal stuff about her that he knew from the diary. And when the former boyfriend confronted Heather and she wouldn’t admit that she was seeing someone new, the boyfriend said, ‘He knows everything about you, he knows more than I know. And I’ve seen you with him, crossing campus. He’s always right there next to you, and when I get close he walks away. …’ Anyway, Heather and Adam broke up, and then the creep made his move, and let’s just say it didn’t work out. …” Her voice is so loud, its pitch so specific, that even though she’s not on speaker, every word seeps out.
“Wow,” I say. “Well, thank you for calling.”
“Wow? That’s all you have to say? You are so weird.”
I look at Cheryl, who is clearly listening to the whole thing. “Well, I’m very relieved, and I look forward to hearing more. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I want to check some other sources.”
“Whatever,” she says, hanging up.
“Well, that’s a giant relief,” Cheryl says. “I feel much better now.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re not the guy who did it,” she says, smirking.
“Did you think I was?”
“No, but you thought you were.”
“What makes you think that?” I ask, oddly exposed.
Cheryl rolls her eyes. “That’s what I love about men — see-through,” she says. “And by the way, you are so dating her,” Cheryl says. “She may not think so and you may not think so, but I know so.”
“You still want to go to Macy’s?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’ll take a rain check.”
For his birthday, I buy George an iPad and load it with photos of the kids and music from home before sending it off, along with a solar charger, to the address on Walter Penny’s card.
“Happy Birthday Brother.”
I sign up for Spanish lessons at the local Casa Española. The other people in my class are a McDonald’s manager, a guy who runs a landscape company, and a woman who “married well” and wants to communicate better with the “help.”
The nurse from Ashley’s school phones to say, “Nothing to worry about but … Ashley has a skin infection, and we’ve talked with Dr. Faustus and want to get your permission to go ahead and give her a course of antibiotics.”
“Sure,” I say. “Do I need to do anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” the nurse says cryptically.
When Ashley and I speak, I don’t ask about the infection; instead, we talk about Romeo and Juliet and her ongoing study of the soap operas.
“It’s good,” she says. “I watch from one to three in the afternoon, and take notes. I’m working on a paper about the narrative of the soap as modern theater, played in the public square — the TV square is like theater.”