"I think my father was dazzled by your mother," I tell him. "She came to him in pain. He tried to help her. I know Mark doesn't like hearing that because he thinks my dad failed her. But that isn't how those shrink things work."
"Mark's an asshole," he says.
He goes quiet then, meets my eyes. I take the opportunity to finish drawing his.
"The other day I told you I have Mom's diary." He spoke shyly.
Finally! Maybe now we'll get somewhere.
I apply some accent strokes, then put my pencil down. The drawing's finished.
"Why'd you tell me that?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says. "Mark doesn't even know it exists."
"Does it?"
Robin nods. "Mom kept it hidden inside one of her equestrian trophies. After she died, all her stuff went into storage. About ten years ago, Mark and I went to the warehouse to look it over and divide it up. When we got to the trophies, we each took half. I found it in one of mine, a little notebook held closed by a rubber band.
"Of course I immediately started to read it. Then I found I couldn't. Who wants to read about his mother's intimate affairs? I sure as hell didn't, so I put it aside." He shrugs. "I guess I've brought it out a couple times over the years, tried reading it, never got very far. Just too painful. Not the kind of stuff I want to know. But still I could never bring myself to destroy it. That would be like… burying her again. Anyway, there's stuff about your dad in there, David, and a lot of other stuff besides. Surprisingly little about Mark and me. I guess in her busy life we didn't count for much."
He shrugs again. "I wish I could give it to you… but I can't. Like I said, it's too intimate. It's be like showing you pictures of my mom having sex."
"I understand," I tell him, "but if you ever change your mind…"
I detach the drawing from my pad, present it to him, watch him as he studies it.
"This is better than just nice, David. It's excellent. I'm grateful. Thank you."
As we get up I notice a piece of furniture in the corner, a beaten-up Windsor-style chair. It's missing half an arm, with several radiating spokes broken on the back. What catches my eye is a fading Latin slogan and crest on the rear support.
"Is that a Hayes chair?" I ask.
Robin smiles. "Wondering when you'd notice. It's from the Trustees Room. When Dad died they offered it to Mark and me, a memento of the years he served on the board. I call it ‘the hot seat’ because it's where I usually sit when I shoot up."
I glance at him, note the gloat in his eyes, the pleasure he takes in his desecration of the precious heirloom. Perhaps the chair reminds him too of happier days back at Hayes – days of bullying, making other boys cry, and all the wicked satisfaction derived from such as that, the schoolboy schadenfreude we all used to feel.
He walks me out to my car.
"Do you really like living like this?" I ask.
"It's not so bad. I'm comfortable. I wish I had a girlfriend sometimes."
"Why don't you clean this place up, get rid of the dog crap, lay off the drugs, and get yourself in shape?"
"Think that would help?"
"I think you'd feel better."
"I'd probably look a little better but I doubt I'd feel better." He speaks sadly now. "You see, David, the crappy way I live – it pretty much sums up the way I feel."
I fret about that diary on my way back to the hotel, wondering if there's some way I can convince Robin to let me read it. Then, when I walk into my room, other thoughts intrude.
The moment I enter I sense something wrong, that someone's been inside and my things have been touched.
I make a quick inventory. My drawings posted on the walls are as I left them, but those piled on my desk are ordered differently. My drawing of Dad in his car surveilling the Flamingo, previously at the bottom of the pile, is now on top.
I check the closet to see if my briefcase, containing Dad's paper, is still in the bottom of my garment bag. It is, and thankfully, still locked.
I walk back to the center of the room, then turn slowly, looking carefully at everything. Beside the disorder of my drawings, what makes me think someone beside the room maid had been in here? It's the air, I decide. There's a scent. Trying to define it, I come up with the aroma of stale cigarette smoke permeating the fabric of a cheap suit.
I call down to the desk. Five minutes later, two guys from hotel security show up. Soon all three of us are sniffing around the room. To me the scent's obvious, but the security guys aren't sure. They agree there's a trace of something and that's odd since my room is on a nonsmoking floor. Then they point out that sometimes smoke from other units gets circulated to nonsmoking areas through the ventilation ducts.
They examine my door lock, declare it hasn't been touched, but change the code anyway and issue me a new key card. Finally, apologizing for any inconvenience, they advise me to store my valuables in the hotel safe downstairs.
After they leave, I open the room minibar, pull out a beer, sit in my easy chair, and sip.
Yes, Robin ambushed me, but this isn't his work, which can only mean one thing: Mr. Potato Head, the guy who was asking about me at the Flamingo, must be working for someone else.
13
Sunday morning
I had hoped to sleep in, but so many things nag at me, so many loose ends. I wake up at 6:00 a.m., and, unable to get back to sleep, do the unthinkable and go up to the rooftop gym.
There's no one around. At this hour my jock media colleagues are in their or their lovers' beds below sleeping off another drunken Saturday night.
I mount the Stairmaster, work out hard for twenty minutes, until, panting and sweating, I'm too exhausted to go on. Then I go back down to my room, shower, order breakfast, and look over the Sunday papers, which the hotel had kindly left by my door.
Finally, nurtured, rested and well-informed, I take up Dad's old agenda book, lay in on my hotel room desk, and see what I can make of the entries.
It's one of those one-day-per-page leatherette bound datebooks with a separate line for each hour increment. In it he lists all his appointments with patients: Mr. L; Dr. K; Mrs. M; Mrs. F; etc.
Mrs. F, I note, was scheduled, starting in late April, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 10:30 a.m.. After the Flamingo killings on August 27, Dad drew a line through her name whenever it appeared, this being his way to designate cancelled appointments. In fact, I discover, he had scheduled her at her usual hour through to the end of the year.
There are other appointments noted: medical conferences; Psychoanalytic Institute meetings; lunches with colleagues including a regular Tuesday lunch with Izzy Mendoza; various social engagements including the April 17 Parents Day at Hayes where he encountered Mrs. F; the April 22 Parents Day at Ashley-Burnett attended by my sister; and June 6, the day of my graduation from Hayes Lower School.
Yes, it's all fairly straightforward. This is a doctor's appointment datebook, not a personal diary. Still, looking at the pages pertaining to the summer months, I find several intriguing entries:
On July 11, a Friday, he writes: Difficult session. Headache. Cancel tennis/?
On July 14, the following Monday: Very difficult day. No sympathy from I (which initial, I reason, must stand for Izzy).
On Friday, July 18: Another tough week. See L about headaches/?
On Thursday, July 24: Call MHHC re show/G/?
And on Sunday, July 27, one of the very few weekend notations in the book: Attend show MHHC 2-5.
Monday, July 28: Very difficult session with F. Worried. Consulted I at 6:00 p.m..
Friday, August 1: Idea for new approach. Consulted I. Negative!
Monday, August 4: Implemented idea. Backfired. Will try again.