"How're you feeling?"
Nic winks.
"That happened pretty fast."
"Get messy," Nic says. "Women love a man they think they can clean up."
"Thanks for the car."
"Nice, isn't it?"
"I felt like a prince."
"You are a prince."
HOME ALONE — Richard is glad the dog is there. The night is quiet; he sleeps with the windows open, the rolling lull of the ocean outside.
The phone rings just as he's falling asleep. It's Cynthia whispering, "In the fridge we each have our own shelf, she writes her name on everything that's HERS. And in the bathroom we have assigned towels and our own shelves in the medicine cabinet — she's got ten kinds of medication on her shelf."
"Sleep," Richard tells her.
"With one eye open," she says.
IN THE MORNING, the woman with the yellow bathing cap is in the ocean again. He watches with binoculars, determined to see how far she goes and if/when she comes back. He tracks her until she is a yellow dot. A little while later, he looks again to see if she's swimming back — nothing. Is there such a thing as a one-way swim? Maybe she has it figured out, maybe she swims down and runs back — but how does she run without shoes, without clothes, without a towel? Maybe she has it set up, she swims down, climbs out of the ocean, walks to her office. She takes the elevator up, walks down the hall leaving squeaky wet footprints, goes into her office, dries her hair, and slips into her work clothes. Maybe her driver meets her at the Santa Monica Pier? Maybe she has a morning coffee date, maybe she's an Olympian in training? Maybe she. She maybe.
The car guy calls. "You were a joke on Leno."
"I heard."
"Not funny, right? So you're going to write us the letter…?"
"When will the car be ready?"
"A couple of days."
"When you drop it off I'll give the guy the letter."
"I take care of you, right?"
"You take care of me, right," Richard says, hanging up.
The phone rings again. "Is this Richard Novak?"
"How did you find me?"
"I was given your folder. I work for a debriefing company in conjunction with the Center for Healing Expression."
"Now is not the moment, can I call you back?"
"We just wanted to find out how you've been since you spent time with us and how you would evaluate the meditation experience and services offered. Our first question is about the food — was the quality and quantity to your satisfaction?"
"Fine," Richard says. "All very earthy, kind of like eating dirt."
"Was there anything that you would have liked Joseph to speak about?"
"No, not really."
"Anything that you'd like to see more of at the center?"
"I really can't stay on the phone."
"We also wanted to let you know that the Center for Healing Expression is a 401C nonprofit organization. Are you interested in making a donation?"
"How much do you want?"
"We make no recommendations."
"Fine. I'll send a check. I have to go."
Again, the phone rings. Ben. "I've been trying to call, but the line is always busy."
"I know, I'm sorry, where are you?"
"I'm here," Ben says. "Right here. We're at the Malibu Market; I was trying to surprise you."
"You went right by; come back towards Santa Monica and I'll go outside."
Richard stands at the edge of the road. He tries not to look at the photographers across the street. He stands facing traffic, greeting each car as it approaches. He stands randomly waving, like someone advertising a church car wash, or flagging down help. And then he sees them: he sees the boxy Volvo, the grille like a bold, toothy facial expression. He waves.
Like an air-traffic controller, he directs them off the road and into a spot.
There's a moment when the boys are still in the car, windows rolled up, and Richard is standing on the outside: a moment when Richard feels he will never be as close to Ben as he would like to be, when Richard feels Ben will never need from him what he needs from Ben.
The car doors open; Barth gets out, video camera in hand, the red "record" light blinking — "We're rolling tape."
Barth is behind Ben, over his shoulder, filming.
Richard goes to hug Ben, and Ben puts out his hand — they shake. It's better than nothing.
"I'm so glad you're here," Richard says. "Hi, Barth, hi, camera. I guess now I'm part of your story."
"He's going to do a lot of editing," Ben says.
The camera captures the complexity of Ben's arrival, the physical reaction, flickers of emotion that happen so fast Richard can't tell what's what — he sees it later on tape.
"Come in," Richard says, ushering them into the house.
Inside, Barth looks around, the camera as his eye. "Very white, like Dairy Queen, like vanilla. This isn't really your house, right?"
"It's a rental," Richard says. "I don't know if you heard, but I had some trouble with my house, a sinkhole, so I'm here temporarily."
And then, deciding it's time to take control, he says to Barth, "No filming inside." To Richard's surprise, Barth puts the camera down.
"Nice place," Ben says. "Is there anything here that is yours?"
"Something in particular you're looking for?"
"No, I was just wondering if this was your stuff."
"It's all a rental, everything came with it."
The dog comes up from the beach and in through the sliding glass door.
"When did you get a dog?"
"I didn't, he just appeared, and I let him stay."
Ben gets down on his knees and says hello to the dog.
"Let me show you around." Richard takes the boys onto the deck. It is a classically beautiful Los Angeles day — high visibility. "Down there is Santa Monica, and that's the pier, which is an amusement park — it's nice at night, when the rides are lit up. The airport is out that way. And then the mountains…"
"Your neighbors are right on top of you," Barth says, looking onto Nic's deck.
"It's all about real estate, the available inches of real estate."
"Do you know that woman?"
Richard glances onto the deck. It's Sylvia. He doesn't recognize her at first; she's lying back, eyes closed, topless. Her body is thin, more shapely than he would have imagined — her breasts, slack, half empty, with dark-wine-colored nipples, are deeply sexy. He feels excited. The idea of it, of seeing Sylvia topless, of feeling excited, of these things happening while Barth and Ben are standing there, is too much for him. The pain shoots through.
"Yep, I know her," Richard says.
"Is that weird, to be so close to people?" Barth asks.
For the moment, Richard can't answer.
"Privacy is overrated," Ben says. "Nice ocean, calmer than I would have thought. Looking at water makes me have to pee. Where's the bathroom?"
"Down the hall on the right. You can drop your stuff in the last bedroom. A friend has been using the middle bedroom."
"You're allowed to have a girlfriend, you don't have to put her in a separate room or call her your friend."
"She's not my girlfriend. And she just got a place of her own. You'll meet her."
"About the closeness of people," Richard tells Barth, "I grew up in an apartment building in Brooklyn, there were people everywhere."
"Yes, I know," Barth says. "So did my father."
And then there is silence. Ben comes out of the bathroom and Richard stands in the hall, looking at him. So this is it — the big meeting that he's been anticipating, dreading. It's a little anticlimactic.
"I have tuna for you," Richard says.
"I'm kind of tuna'ed out," Ben says. "I've had it every day for about three weeks."
"Would you like a root beer?"
"Thanks," he says, understanding that Richard made an effort to get the things he likes.