Palindrome
Page 34
I polish off the colada in my hand, savoring the cold rum on the back of my throat.
“Frank?” Courtney is leaning in close, looking desperate. “So?”
But because I didn’t hear the whole cassette, nothing was proven to me, as it was to Greta and the Beulah Twelve and ostensibly Candy. There’s still a skeptical—or hopeful—part of me that’s sure the snake hallucination was some kind of self-induced placebo effect, like speaking in tongues. All the images I saw of myself are obviously things my subconscious could have summoned on its own. And so I’m fortunate, in a way, to be struggling in the nether zone that nun on the plane described. A place of belief, just short of knowing.
Still, it’s kept me from a good night’s sleep ever since I put a bullet in Hannah Graham (admittedly, fleeing the country hasn’t helped either): I can’t shake the thought that one day, I’ll echo back this way, then back again. Every moment repeated and analyzed forever. It’s too much pressure to live with. I wish with every cell in my body that Greta hadn’t let me hear that thing. I keep thinking about those divine first few seconds, and then the low bass note. The snake. Some things can never be unheard.
“Frank?”
Before I can think about how to answer, we’re interrupted by Sadie emerging from the pool. She patters over to us, dripping on the polished stone.
“Courtney!” she says.
“Hello.” He gives her a weird smile as I wrap a green towel around her shoulders.
“Are you staying here with us?” she asks.
Courtney looks around, as if considering whether this resort is up to his lofty standards.
“I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to checking in here for a week or so if your father doesn’t mind the company.”
“Wanna go swimming?” she asks Courtney.
“I . . .” Courtney looks longingly at me. “Maybe a bit later, Sadie.”
“Then why are you wearing a swimsuit? Come on.”
“Go on, Court.” I grin. “We can talk later. Live a little.”
“Yes, live, like you’re doing.” Courtney rises to his feet. Gives me a look of disapproval. “Live with skin cancer and liver failure.”
“Courtney. Come on!” Sadie tugs at his hand.
Courtney sighs, takes Sadie by the hand and leads her back to the pool. Removes her green towel and sets it carefully on the edge of the cement. She jumps in, trying to tuck in her knees for a cannonball, but fails miserably. Courtney tentatively sits down on the edge and dips in his feet.
I watch Sadie paddle over to him and splash him, prompting him to flail spastically and try to escape, but Sadie is suddenly clinging to his leg, trying to pull him in with her. I laugh a little, watching him try to extricate himself from her puny grip without hurting her. I set down my empty glass and stagger to my feet, head swooning a bit. Gaze up at the clear azure sky and breathe deep, then walk over to the edge of the pool and push him in from behind.
He disappears under the water for a moment, leaving his sombrero hovering on the water, and then he surfaces, gasping.
Sadie splashes him again, and he tries to shield himself from her, using his ruined sombrero.
There’s only one thing I can’t even start to figure out. And it’s nagging at me more than any other, because I know even Hannah didn’t know the answer: Why did this process “work”—do whatever Hannah wanted it to—that time with Savannah, and not with anyone else? Savannah probably wasn’t the first attempt, and Hannah surely tried to replicate the process many times afterwards—she intended to with Silas, and actually did with Orange. This is the most tempting reason to tell Courtney exactly what I saw—the possibility that he’ll be able to help me figure this out.
I put my sunglasses on Sadie’s towel and prepare to join the two of them in the pool. Sadie spots me and gives Courtney a respite.
“Do a cannonball!” she says.
Courtney looks concerned as I teeter at the lip of the pool.
“You really shouldn’t swim when you’re this drunk, Frank. Go sleep it off—”
“No, no,” Sadie screams over Courtney. “Cannonball!”
I shrug. “You only live once, Court.”
I leap into the air, simultaneously grinning at Courtney and clumsily trying to tuck in my knees. Just moments before executing a flawless belly flop, I realize that the kindest thing I can do for my friend is to tell him nothing about what happened in that hotel room. And I certainly won’t mention that the tape—undamaged—is upstairs in my bag, tucked into a dirty sock.
Acknowledgments
MY AGENT, ELIZABETH COPPS, is an absolute pleasure to work with in every capacity—without her guidance, wisdom and patience, none of this would have happened. Additionally, everyone else at MCA including: Maria Carvainis, Martha Guzman and Sam Brody.
Everybody at Witness Impulse, particularly my editor, Chloe Moffett, whose enthusiasm, brilliant sensibilities and humor have made this whole process a delight.
Maxx Loup—without his support I likely would have stopped writing years before Palindrome was even born. He’s nurtured my writing career as a gifted editor, sounding board and dear friend. Every artist should have someone this interesting to talk to in their lives.
My brother and writing partner, Noah Rinsky, an incredibly talented reader, whose prose, company and music have influenced me far more than he realizes.
Chelsey Emmelhainz now at SkyHorse, the first editor to champion this manuscript.
12 Corners coffee shop on East Broadway, where I wrote almost all of this book.
Eric Alterman, J. P. Medved and “Uncle” Mark Rinsky, who have been giving me astoundingly thoughtful notes since I started writing.
Asking Jonah Bromwich, Avishay Naamat and Lori Ungemah to read early drafts of this is among the best decisions I’ve ever made, and their fingerprints are all over this book.
Robert McGuill, Steve “Mr.” Schriener, Carly Silver at Harlequin, Daniel Millenson, Shira Schindel, Jacob Hartz and Laura Rogers all helped my career at critical junctures, sometimes unwittingly.
And Mom and Dad, my biggest fans.
About the Author
E.Z. RINSKY has worked as a statistics professor, copywriter and—for one misguided year—a street musician. He currently lives in Tel Aviv. More at ezrinsky.com.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PALINDROME. Copyright © 2016 by Ephraim Rinsky. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780062495488
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062495471
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