Though Peter had been curious about the museum, he was happy to be on the plane. He finally had a job to do. Even if babysitting underutilized his skill set, Peter liked having expectations that he could meet.
To entertain himself, he sent two picture messages to Martin. The first shot, a fish-eye portrait of the plane’s interior, failed to illicit a response from Vinoray. Upping the stakes, Peter sent a close-up of the singer’s monogrammed kangaroo-leather cowboy boots.
Bring me those boots, Martin replied, and I’ll make you the hospital’s liaison to Rochester’s Junior League.
Peter lifted his phone to capture the coup de grâce, a photo of the sleeping singer. But, though Cross still snored, his eyes had opened.
The singer wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Were you taking a picture?”
Peter waved the phone around. “I was checking my reception.”
“People used to say hi. Now they just shove a phone in my face. When I have to piss, I make Cyril clear the place out first.” Cross swiveled his head. “Where’d everyone vanish to?”
Peter explained about the Warhol Museum.
“Maybe thirty years ago I got invited to this party in a warehouse on the East River. The warehouse didn’t have rats because the rats expected the place to fall into the water. But the place was infested with artists. The owner was a Getty and he had ten million reasons to hate his family.
“This woman and I were dropping hot dogs through a hole in the floor, trying to get a seal to eat them. Someone came over and told me Andy wanted to say hi. I’d met him a couple of times, so I said, Send him over. Andy was pink in real life, not gray like his estate would have you believe. He came over accompanied by this cosmonaut — his friend’s wearing the full getup, boots, gloves, helmet, those crazy Cyrillic letters on everything. The guy inside the suit is sweating so much it looks like he’s having an attack of malaria. There’s condensation on the inside of the face mask. I said, Andy, who’s your friend? You know who it was?”
Peter couldn’t have imagined a name that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.
“It was Rocky! Sylvester Stallone.” Cross kicked off the blanket, walked to the back of the plane, and ducked into the restroom.
Peter checked his phone. Martin hadn’t texted back.
When Cross returned, he said, “How does Allie seem to you?”
The singer wanted a first impression? A diagnosis? The truth: Alistair looked like a candidate for coronary artery disease. In another ten years he might give himself a heart attack by shoveling snow, or sleeping with a twenty-year-old. “I offered to look at his back, but he seemed a little suspicious of me.”
“He’s suspicious of people in general and you in particular.” Cross pressed his hands up against the ceiling of the plane, stretched. “Of all my kids, Allie’s the only one I worry about. His sisters call him ‘Baby Allie,’ even though he’s the oldest. And he’s the only one who calls me Dad; everyone else calls me Gramps.”
Peter said, “He’s made it this far.”
“That’s what I tell myself. At some point the numbers start to mean something. Maybe he’ll read a book, or get his heart broken by a dog, and everything will start to click.” Cross scratched the loose skin under his neck.
“I heard he’s been away for a while.”
Cross turned his head snake-fast. “Who told you that?”
Peter had been under the impression that it was something of an open secret. Ogata had said something the first time they’d spoken. “Is that not the case?”
“I see all my kids. We talk on the phone, do the video thing, get together for holidays. I guess Allie hasn’t been on the tour for a little while, but he’s been holed up overseas. He’s got his own life to lead.”
“That must be it.”
“That must be what?”
“I guess I’d heard he’d been overseas.”
“Well, he’s here now.”
Peter had waited for a plane to get clearance and he’d waited while a plane got de-iced, but he’d never waited like this. All Cross needed to do was snap his fingers and they could be off for Toronto or Rome. It wasn’t the freedom that appealed to Peter as much as the sense of exclusivity, being inside this little bubble. Judith had raised her son to be suspicious of privilege. She believed in waiting in line, in being part of the multitude. Just beyond the jet’s wing a town car waited to take Cross wherever he wanted to go. That idling car would have sent Judith around the bend — something like that would be enough to trigger one of her spontaneous migraines.
Cross opened a bulkhead and retrieved a coat. “Allie wanted to see you for himself.”
“He wanted to see your doctor?”
“Do you feel like you’re my doctor?” The singer still had his back to Peter.
Their conversation had reached a level place. They could leave things as they were and trust that they wouldn’t shift. Cross turned around. He’d wrapped a scarf around his throat.
“The other night, when you mentioned Judith, I assumed she owed you money. Then, after I realized who you were, it seemed funny that I’d mistaken you for a collection agent.” Peter glanced out at the idling car. “It’s weird that she does kind of owe you money.”
Cross’s face became serious. “Look around. Do you really believe I’m owed anything?”
The jet shifted.
“That’s going to be Cyril hurrying us along.”
The bodyguard ducked into the cabin. One of his pant legs had gotten bunched up on the shaft of his boot. “Bluto called to tell you the people of Pittsburgh don’t deserve any mercy.”
Cross smiled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked.
The bodyguard bent over and dressed his pant cuff. “It means the people of Pittsburgh don’t deserve any mercy.”
43
Fuck Cyril Coleman. Fuck his Brioni suits and his calfskin gloves. Fuck his nineteen-inch neck and his sweet voice announcing “Big man coming through.”31 He didn’t take my ticket in order to keep me out of the show. If that had been his goal there’d be attorneys involved and court orders, the folks scanning tickets would have a color-copy photograph of my driver’s license taped to the backs of their stations and in the break rooms.
Cyril took my ticket to let me know he knows my habits, too. Ours is not a cat and mouse game. It’s cat and cat.
SINCE SCALPERS DON’t take credit cards, I head off in search of an ATM. A few blocks away, I spot one in a Subway restaurant. After grabbing some cash, I decide to get a sandwich, since the juice wasn’t exactly filling.
I always get the same thing at Subway, a turkey sub on whole wheat with spinach, tomatoes, green peppers, black olives; I avoid salt, mayo, and cheese because coronary disease killed my father and, indirectly, my uncle. I ask for olive oil and vinegar (every so often my body craves vinegar). The sandwich artist hands me my bagged food and I carry it over to one of their anti-ergonomic booths — they could make the seats more comfortable, but they don’t want people to loiter.
I start feeling blue, which could be the booth design’s real intention, since so many people use food to self-soothe. If I wasn’t so aware, I might try to comfort myself with one of their peanut butter cookies.
When Gabby felt down — the smallest things used to set her off, a shoelace breaking, if you put catsup on her fries as opposed to next to them — Patricia used to throw a pity party. We’d make a box cake and sing “It’s a pity for you” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” It worked like a charm. I’m not sure what Patricia did as Gabby got older. A pity party probably wouldn’t help ease heartbreak or being ostracized, or feeling like you’d been abandoned.