“Same here.”
“Did you know he was connected with them?”
“I had a couple of suspicions. But no.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to you.” She rubbed my arm, considering the matter at hand. “But then again, if it happens to anyone…”
“I know. I’m a top candidate.”
Her laugh was a nervous one. “Yes. It’s never-ending with you, the stories you tell about your travels. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who was in the North Tower. I’m convinced there’s a cosmic writer out there who has it out for you.”
I said: “God, you mean.”
“Yes, God.” But she didn't seem convinced on that point. “I can’t wait to see how the story ends. I hope it ends with us.”
“I do too.”
Elise rubbed my chest as she thought about it. But she didn’t stop there. She bent in to kiss me on the lips, and I pulled just as quickly away.
“Elise, no.”
“I’m your wife.”
“If you’re here for a booty call, you thought wrong.”
“Don't be insulting. That’s not why I came. I just thought…”
“When was the last time that you and Phillips Screwdriver were together?”
“I don’t know.” She looked away. Good-bye ocean eyes. “You’ve been hanging around my apartment. You tell me.”
“You don’t sound sorry about San Francisco at all.”
“I am sorry about that. You did me no wrong. But I wronged you in every way possible. I.... I don't even know what happened to me. It was this uncontrollable tug.”
“Have you gone to confession?”
“No. Not yet.” She lowered her head. “Should I have?”
“You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.” I quickly considered the matter. “But I think you should. Father Williams thinks the world of you. If you say you’re sorry…”
“And I am sorry.”
“Then you should.”
“The Country Squire's still parked in front of my apartment. The next time you want to pay me a visit, pick up the phone. I’d love to have you.”
“That would be difficult since Tom was there.”
She took a step back. “I wasn’t sure if you saw us.”
“And speaking of Tom, I went to your hotel on the night of the wedding.”
“Did you?”
“The Lost Boys showed up.”
“Not this again.”
“You said it yourself. My life isn’t exactly normal.”
“But this is different. They’re not......logical.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to see that what’s happening. It’s a spiritual battle.”
“Mm-hmm, Nathaniel Hawthorne's Young Goodman Brown, the devil and all that. I'm no expert on American literature and Puritan superstition, but I remember reading that bedtime story in high school.”
“We were in the same class. You were a cute reading partner.”
“That’s the worst thing about religion, the guilt.” She abandoned any thought of physical contact, crossed the room and plopped down on the leather sofa, tucking her forehead into both hands.
“Also the reason why you left Catholicism, because your current decisions don’t fare well with accountability or judgment.”
“I never said I left Catholicism, though the logic behind it has been falling away for years, Joshua. I was raised Catholic, but suddenly I woke up one morning and its worldview didn’t hold up so well with reality. Any thought to judgment’s been coming down as a natural fallout.”
“It’s what they want.”
“Mm-hmm; what else do these mystery demon people want with me, that is, after my faith is eliminated?”
“I don’t know. Destroy your life maybe.”
“Do you know how illogical and ironic that sounds? Don’t you think they’d have better things to do than play puppetry with my life? There’s ass-hole dictators like Kim Jung the Second and terrorists like Bin Laden to interact with. Either way, it doesn’t sound like they’ve put much strategy into it.”
“Sin is only pleasurable for a season.”
“Any psychologist could tell you that unhealthy decisions lead to an unbalanced life.”
“Josephine believes me.”
“We’ve been over this before.”
“She says you saw your father on the Embarcadero Freeway seconds after the earthquake, that you were in the car with him, and you spoke with him, despite being at the Sisters when it happened.”
“Joshua.” She lowered her head for dramatic effect, sighing sarcastically, and stood. “I imagined the entire thing. I had to have. There’s no other plausible way to explain it.”
“She says that’s not everything.”
“I had a vivid imagination as a girl; unfortunately a lot of terrible headaches to accompany it too. The fact is, Josephine and I define our childhood experiences in very different ways. You must not think I’m a very good psychologist.”
“You’re wrong about that. I think you’re one of the best damn psychologists around, or will be once you finish your doctorate. And it’s true what Josephine says. You have a gift. You see things in people. You can look into their minds in a way that nobody else can, and it’s what attracted you to the field.”
“My ability to dissect my patients is nothing but a girl’s inclination matched with countless hours of professional training.”
“You’ve tried your damndest to turn it off, but it’s there. And you can’t deny it.”
“Then why do I feel so lost all the time?”
“I guess that’s what astounds me. You have such an amazing gift of dissecting the lives of others and yet so completely handicapped in evaluating your own life decisions.”
“Joshua, what happened to us?”
“Elise, I’m still the same person I’ve always been.”
“And that’s the man I fell in love with.”
She found the courage to touch my chest again, just as Shania Twain let out a Let's Go Girls on my iPhone.
“Who’s this?” She picked it from my pocket.
“Probably no one. My website is online for all to see, contact information and everything. The press has been hounding me all.....”
“Is Leah Bishop a no one?”
My first instinct was to tell her this Leah person was a bride in an upcoming wedding, probably this weekend’s, and that I'd chosen Shania as the theme song for all future brides. I chose to remain silent. Silence was the best way of letting her know that I’d be lying if I spoke.
“She has a 212 area code. Susan has a 212 area code on her phone. That’s New York. Aren’t you leaving for New York this weekend?”
“First thing tomorrow morning.”
“You’re staying with her, aren’t you?”
“She’s an old friend. That’s all.”
“And you’re staying with her.”
“Yes.”
“Married men don’t stay connected with old friends, Joshua. Not if they’re female, anyways. You have a black book lying around that I don’t know about?”
“You remember Leah from high school?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“All three of us were in homeroom together. But you’ll recall she and I performed a few plays here and there.”
“Leah? Leah Bishop?” Ancient memories reawakened. “She still acting?”
“Ever hear of REPUBLICAN BLUE?”
“Who hasn’t? I was hoping to see it someday.”
“She plays the President's wife, Isla Elliot; the leading role.”
Elise frowned. “I think I’ve just lost all desire to see it. And let me guess, she’s still a Bishop, isn’t she?”
“There’s a slight possibility that she has a fear of commitment.”
“Mm-hmm, sounds like a marriage wrecker to me.”
“Leah’s just a shoulder to lean on.”
“You can have my shoulder.”
�
��The last time I leaned on your shoulder, we were in San Francisco, and if I recall, I fell flat on my face.”
“I apologized about that.”
“I'm still getting over it.”
“Well, don’t expect anything different from Miss Sixth Period Drama Bimbo.”
“Elise, I really love you, but taking everything into consideration, I wish you could hear yourself right now.”
“I’ll have you know that I came here because I’m genuinely concerned about you. I love you. I don’t want there to be a continual conflict between us.”
“I don’t want that either.”
“And now you’re running away with some politician’s wife.”
“It’s acting, Elise. She’s not really a politician.”
“I know that.”
Elise opened the front door. Aristotle was alert and poised at the ready, suddenly a gentleman, except she paid no attention to him. Outside, the mystery Chrysler with Mister Fedora was still parked across the street.
“It’s only the real politicians that screw me over. And I’m not running away.”
“Well, it feels that way.”
“Let me walk you home. It might not be safe.”
“I drove.”
“Let me see you to your car then.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I knew my wife well, and the way she tightened her mouth announced to me that she wanted to cry. The extra layer of disgust was just a secondary measure to keep it from happening. Of course, I couldn’t blame her. I did too.
“Goodnight, Elise. Stop by anytime.”
“Don’t do this.” She lowered her head. “Don’t go to her. Nothing good can come of this.”
“I’m not waiting around forever.”
“I need a little more time.”
“And you can have it, as this weekend is concerned. You know the drill. I have two weddings to shoot and I need a place to stay. That’s all.”
Anger filled the sad areas in her eyes. “Then sleep on the subway.”
The door abruptly closed, but hopefully not forever.
A SHOULDER TO LEAN ON
1
MY GRANDMOTHER ADELE WAS UP at 5am. I know this to be true because I was too, slipping through the double French doors that led out to the iron balcony and courtyard below instead of the front staircase, where members of the press were having a pajama party in their vans. They'd started arriving just as soon as Elise left, which meant I was calling up the pizza guy for dinner. It was a Thursday morning now. Everything that I needed for my weekend on the east coast was hung from my shoulders, and Aristotle followed at my heels. He might have even been pushing me, I don't know. Aristotle ruled this castle in my absence, and probably would have been up all night polishing his crown if he owned one.
“You missed breakfast,” the silhouette standing behind the screen door of Apartment 7 said.
I stopped in my tracks, as the saying goes. “Yes, I'm terribly sorry about that, Grandma. I had no clue that a couple of police detectives had a bed and breakfast reserved in my name downtown.”
“The sun hasn't even risen yet and you're slipping out the back. Looks to me like you're running away somewhere. I don't collect rent until at least 7am on Thursdays, you know.”
“The press is camped out on the street. I was hoping to avoid them. It's probably better if they don't know where I'm going.”
“If they ask, I'll tell them you've got yourself a gig in Albuquerque.”
Back in the day, Albuquerque was always the place my grandfather went to, at least that's what he'd tell his family whenever dropping into a potentially dangerous zone. Korea was Albuquerque and both Israeli wars were too, 48 and 67, and that entire Second World War fiasco was one visit to Albuquerque after another.
“Much appreciated. But I highly doubt there'll be bullets where I'm going.”
“You never know. Ira's brother Jack was always shot in the unlikeliest places.” I assumed my grandmother meant that as some sort of homonym, not only the geographical locations that he took a bullet for the cause of private eying, but the physical places on his body as well. “Your mothers been calling about twice an hour, sick as a dog over the whole thing.”
I bent down and stroked Aristotle's long leathery ears and then kissed him on the nose, our usual good-bye routine before he pushed me out the door. Dear God, I loved that dog. “You'll tell her all is well, then. And I'll make up breakfast with the both of you when I get back. Maybe I'll even have rent money.”
“Mm-hmm, from now on let’s keep our conversations strictly in the realm of possibilities.”
I gave Aristotle one more kiss on the nose and then stood and went for the rear gate. “Goodbye, Grandma.”
“You take care of yourself.”
I turned around at the gate and gave my usual Han Solo swagger. “Hey, it’s me.”
As her final response, Adele had nothing but sarcasm to give. “Mm-hmm, that's what Ira told me before charging up the beachhead at Normandy.”
2
THERE WAS THIS TOM PHILLIPS for 47th District U.S. Congress sign on a neighbor’s lawn, about two houses down from Ira's apartment. I attempted to kick it over as I made my way down the street (in the opposite direction of the press), only it apparently didn't want to go down for the count, as was my intent. The stupid sign just stood right back up erect, which spoke more of Phillips campaign promises towards my wife than anything else, so I kicked it over again. Same lab results. The adulterer was persistent. I finally uprooted both metal poles from the earth, tucked the enormous sign under an arm, and hauled it off towards Michael's house, having absolutely no plan as to what I should do with it next. Maybe I'd take it on the plane as carry-on. I was always on the lookout for the next great conversation starter.
Michael was waiting out front in his Mustang convertible when I arrived, engine idling. I showed him the broad side of the congressman's sign and then dropped it in the backseat with my bags before climbing in. I'd let him dispose of it.
Before speeding off he said: “Great. Now we can add public vandalism to your charges.”
3
I NEVER COULD QUITE MASTER the concept of running away from it all. Take my flight from Long Beach Airport to JFK International, courtesy of JetBlue, and a certain flight attendant named Delilah. Everything about her was Greek and wonderfully sassy. Still, the last thing on my mind was her scrumptious hourglass figure, seemingly endless legs, amber lips, or fatty crack of flesh protruding from the dip in her button-up blouse. The fact that I'd stood outside her hotel room door only two weeks earlier, where we’d planned to commemorate our on-flight banter and mutual attraction with a long-lasting night to remember, and then left her hanging without the courtesy of an explanation, was.
Delilah probably wasn’t overflowing with joy at the thought of bumping into me either, but I lifted my chin in recognition of her as she made her first round down the aisle, regardless of my mixed emotions. Just as I suspected, she didn’t do the same. It was like being in the high school cafeteria all over again. There was a lot of that going around. And when the time came to scribble my drink order on her little notepad, she tightened the corners of her mouth and passed me over without saying anything.
I studied the pale strip of skin on my ring finger, flesh swollen on either side where my marriage band had only hours before been tightly bound. I felt naked without it, and yet the decision to leave it behind on the nightstand, next to the framed picture of the Bibeau twins, was a purposeful one. I set my poetry notebook on the empty seat, where Alex had once been ticketed, pulled Coldplay's new album Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends from my ears, turned around uncomfortably and watched Delilah as she smiled at each individual passenger, even taking the effort to flirt with a handsome businessman (she touched his arm, though I suspect she did it strictly because she knew I was watching), and then made my way down the aisle to the back of the plane. Delilah was packing bags of chips and cookies into a basket when I arriv
ed.
“Delilah.” I smiled at her. “How’s my favorite flight attendant in the lower forty-eight states?”
She scrolled the white of her eyes without turning her head and locked those hazel beauties onto mine. There was something so judgmental about their hook, and she never spoke my name.
“I’d like it if we could talk,” I said.
A Caucasian woman with a crying baby exited the lavatory. Delilah shifted uncomfortable eyes on the passengers and then set them back on me. “The captain says we’re approaching a patch of turbulence. I think you should return to your seat.”
“That never stopped you before.” My smile was a nervous one.
She didn’t find my attempt at humor funny. Of course, I didn’t either. A wave of disgust bled over her, and she sighed heavily.
“Look Delilah.” I gently touched her arm. “I really am sorry about what happened in New York…. or more specifically, what didn’t happen. For one, I didn’t act at all like a gentleman.” Delilah shifted her eyes uncomfortably, hunted for listening ears, and then removed her arm from my fingers. I lowered my voice. “I actually did go to your hotel, and in case you were wondering, that was me running around the corner in the hall.”
“You must be mistaken,” she said. “I don’t get involved with passengers. I value my self-respect, and my job.”
“Then you must have a twin.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Either way, that’s none of your business.”
“Your name tag says Delilah. Don’t tell me you and your sister was both given the exact same name.”
“It made it easier since our mother could never tell us apart to begin with.” Despite her banter, she clearly wasn’t happy, and had turned her back completely to me now as she finished packing the basket with Mix-Bits and those amazing key lime cookies that they served that summer.
“Then if you could relay this message to your sister, how very sorry I am for the deplorable method in which I treated her, not as a person, but as an object to release my frustration on, it would be appreciated. I don’t expect her to forgive me. I just want her to understand how lonely and vulnerable I was. And in the zero hour I decided to give my wife a fighting chance to come around.”
Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2) Page 10
