Thick as Thieves

by Peter Spiegelman

  “It’s hard to keep up,” she says. “He has so many subscriptions, they accumulate faster than I can get to recycling.”

  The piles of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, the Financial Times, The Washington Post, Foreign Affairs, and Foreign Policy are yellowed and dissolving. To Carr they look no different from the ones he saw the last time he was here.

  “I told him he can get them all online,” Carr says.

  Eleanor Calvin nods sadly. “It’s difficult for him sometimes, remembering the passwords. And then he gets angry.”

  “Nothing new there—angry is his usual state.”

  Calvin frowns and shakes her head. “It’s because he’s scared of what’s happening to him.” She pats Carr’s arm. “It’s what the doctor said, dear—there’ll be good days and bad, and over time more of the bad ones. But today he’s good, and you should enjoy it. I told the ambassador you were coming, and he’s looking forward to it.”

  Carr sighs, but doesn’t correct her.

  Inside the light is gray, as it always is, regardless of weather, time of day, or season of the year. Arthur Carr is in the dining room, at the head of a long table that is layered in newspapers, folded laundry, and heaps of unopened mail. He looks up from his FT, blinks his gray eyes, and pushes half-glasses into a still dark hairline. His face is long, angular, and academic-looking, the skin of his cheeks pink from shaving, the fine nose veined from drink. It isn’t Carr’s nose, which is twice broken but otherwise unmarred, and the eyes are different too: Carr’s are hazel, like his mother’s, but still the resemblance is pronounced. Which always startles Carr and makes him uneasy.

  “You’re sunburned,” Arthur Carr says. “How do you manage that from behind a desk? Or do they have you in the field now?” Still the Ivy League drawl, but higher-pitched now—an old man’s voice.

  Carr isn’t sure which they his father means. He’s left his employment status vague since being fired from Integral Risk, adopting Declan’s usefully elastic consultant when pressed. It’s been months since his father has pressed. “I had some vacation time,” he answers.

  “Well, don’t waste it here,” his father says. He points a long finger at the dining room window and the neon yellow form of Eleanor Calvin standing on the porch. “I told her not to bother you, but she gets so damned dramatic.”

  “It was no trouble—I’d planned to come next week. I just moved things up a little.”

  Arthur Carr turns back to his newspaper, rattling the page. “At any rate, you must be glad to get out of that sewer.”

  Carr has been vague about his living arrangements too. His father believes that he’s still in Mexico City. “It’s not so bad,” Carr says.

  His father snorts. “Long as you don’t need to breathe the air, or drink the water, or drive ten blocks in under an hour. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Carr says again.

  “Not so bad? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Twenty years down there, I could never stand it.”

  Noxious shitholes was the phrase his father favored, and he used it often—more often with a few drinks in him. Carr remembers him red and fuming, a glass in one hand, the other gesturing at a broad window, and the low, smudged skyline—of what city Carr can’t recall—that lay beyond, hunched under a shelf of smog. He remembers his mother too: pale and still and quiet before his father’s wave of complaint, always in a dress and heels, always with a cigarette. He doesn’t remember the details of his father’s rants, but the broad strokes were all the same: the wrong political connections, the wrong family ties, the wrong school ring; the inept boss, the paranoid boss, the vengeful boss; favors and grudges; being passed over, and passed over again. Thwarted. And so it went in Lima, São Paulo, Buenos Aires, Asunción, Quito, San Salvador, Managua, Ciudad Juárez, and Mexico City.

  Carr remembers his father’s rising voice, his mother’s massive silence, and his own clenched dread. It was a swooping, taloned thing that seized his chest, seized his voice, and chased him through the houses that blended one into the next.

  They were different, it seemed, only in their addresses. Always walled and gated, with leafy courtyards and burbling fountains, their rooms were cool and quiet, their furnishings heavy, dark, and carefully arranged—like store displays, and just as lifeless. Carr can still recall the sour odor of spilt wine that lurked in the sofa cushions, and the smell of singed fabric—the remnants of one of his parents’ parties, or maybe of a prior resident’s. Not their sofas, of course, and not really their houses: they were just the latest in a long line of temporary lodgers—in and out in two years, maybe three. The attendant cooks and gardeners and maids, always dark and wary, had greater claims on those places.

  He made friends from time to time, other Foreign Service brats, and he remembers his quiet envy of the houses that they lived in. Not very different from his own in shape or size, they’d been transformed by an alchemy unknown to his family from anonymous showrooms into homes, with photos on the mantel, bicycles in the drive, and a carved pumpkin at Halloween. They made wherever he was living seem like a rented van.

  Arthur Carr wasn’t an ambassador; he wasn’t even close. The highest he’d climbed in nineteen years was to the number three spot in the Economic Section of the embassy in Mexico City. That was his final posting, and he’d lasted barely ten months.

  His father is up now, leaning at a sideboard that is littered with white plastic grocery bags. A flock of ghosts, Carr thinks, and they make a noise like dry leaves as his father brushes them aside to find a rocks glass. Carr checks his watch as his father pours an inch of scotch and swirls it around.

  “You look like your mother when you look like that,” Arthur Carr says.

  “A little early, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” his father asks, and lets his reading glasses fall to his nose. “And just what the hell do I have to wait for?”

  The rain has lightened to a mist when Carr returns to the porch, and the air is warmer and more cloying. Eleanor Calvin is staring at the treetops and the leaden sky.

  “There’s a salad for lunch,” she says. “There should be enough for both of you. And there’s roast chicken for dinner, and some new potatoes.”

  “I booked a room at the Red Lion,” Carr says. “I can eat there.” Eleanor Calvin sighs, still looking up. She’s waiting for something. “Do you need a lift home?” Carr asks.

  She shakes her head. “It’s just a mile, and hardly raining.”

  “It’s no trouble, Mrs. Cal—”

  “Do you remember my daughter, dear?”

  Carr recalls a rangy blond girl, a few years younger than he. A rider, he remembers. “Annabeth, right? She went to law school down south.”

  “She’s still there, in Atlanta. She had a baby six weeks ago, her second little girl.”

  Something frozen drops into Carr’s gut. “Another granddaughter—I had no idea. Congratulations.”

  Eleanor Calvin takes a deep breath. She looks at Carr, who is looking at the floorboards. “She wants to go back to work, dear, and she needs help with the children. She’s got plenty of room, and she’s asked me to move in.”

  Carr is focused on his breathing, fighting the light-headed feeling. He flexes his fingers, which are suddenly cold. “I had no idea,” he says again, softly. “Look, I know he’s difficult. If it’s the money, I could—”

  Eleanor Calvin frowns. “It has nothing to do with money,” she says sadly. “You’ve been more than generous, dear. And you know how fond I was of your mother. But Annabeth and her girls need me now, and truth be told these winters get longer every year.”

  Carr is still staring down, shaking his head slowly. “When?” he asks.

  “Two or three months, I think. I’ve listed the house. I’ve got some cleaning up to do before they can start showing it, but I can go before it’s sold.”

  “I need time.”

  “Of course you do, dear. It’s a big change. It’ll be a
big adjustment for your father.”

  “That woman who filled in for you—the one who came when you went to Florida—could she come on full-time?”

  A pained look crosses Eleanor Calvin’s weathered face. “But, dear, I thought you understood—your father needs more than home care now. Atlanta aside, I don’t know that I could do for him much longer. It’s getting more … complicated.”

  “Complicated how?”

  A blush spreads across her lined cheeks. “He’s … he’s starting to have bathroom problems, and last week the police picked him up at ten at night, a half mile down the road from here. He didn’t have shoes on and his feet were bleeding. I wish I could do more, dear, but really the ambassador needs a different sort of care.”

  “He wasn’t an ambassador,” Carr says, but only to himself.

  Eleanor Calvin gives him three months, and leaves Carr on the porch, figuring furiously. Some of his figuring is about timing: three months is bad. He has scheduled thirteen more weeks for the job, including a one-week contingency. Three months would fall at the endgame—the close of the third act. It couldn’t be worse, and he’ll have to beg or bribe her for an extra two weeks.

  But most of his figuring is about money. His father has next to none, and Carr has been paying for his care for several years: every month an envelope stuffed with used hundreds to Eleanor Calvin. The arrangement works well for both of them: a tax-free income for her, and the anonymity of cash for him. But cash won’t fly with a nursing home. They will have forms to fill out, contracts to sign, and bank accounts, employment, and income to verify—and all in his actual name. Which is, of course, impossible.

  And which assumes he can even find a place that will take his father. Eleanor Calvin had done research and pressed some papers on him—a list of websites with information on facilities for the elderly, and on Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security, is folded in his pocket, along with a list of nursing homes in the Berkshires. He scanned them once, twice, but they turned to Greek.

  Arthur Carr calls from the front hallway: he wants his lunch. Carr goes inside and finds Eleanor Calvin’s salad, and watches his father eat it and drink more scotch. Clouds thicken in his head as he listens to his father’s monologue, which skips like a stone from war to stock markets, to the decline of the West, to Eleanor Calvin’s cooking, to her designs on the family silver.

  Eleanor Calvin thought Carr should tell his father sooner rather than later about her move, but Carr has no stomach for the conversation. His father’s talk grows angrier and more tangential with each refill, and as the day fades Carr wonders if his father will sleep soon, or if he should start drinking too. Instead he walks across the hall into the living room.

  It’s dimmer than the dining room, and more chaotic, with newspapers and magazines and precarious stacks of books on nearly every surface. There’s an upright piano against one wall, a block of ebony and dust, and on top, in tarnished silver frames, lying facedown, are photographs. Carr stands them up.

  They’re desiccated and yellowed behind their smudged panes—ancient-looking, like bugs in a collection. His grandparents—his father’s parents—starched, pale, and unsmiling beside a long, dark sedan. His father, young and smirking amid a group of distant cousins. They are gathered by a pine-edged lake, all in dark shorts and white shirts, like campers or a Bible study group. His father again—older, taller, in cap and gown and an already bitter smile, the Battell Chapel and a bit of New Haven street behind him. And then, in the most tarnished frame, the photo he is looking for, of his mother, her black hair loose, her eyes shining, her white teeth and a curl of smoke visible between her parted lips.

  He called the picture by different names as a child, because he didn’t know where it was taken or what she was doing in it, and so he made up different stories about it. En el jardín. En la fiesta. En el baile. In the garden, because his mother stands before well-tended hedges, with a bed of blue flowers visible over her shoulder, and a vine with red blossoms winding up a trellis. At the party, because she wears pearls and a floral dress, and holds a champagne flute, and because she might be laughing. At the dance, because her hair is sweeping past her shoulder, her neck is long and curved like a dancer’s, and she might be looking at someone—a partner—outside the frame. He still doesn’t know which of those stories was the right one. Maybe all of them.

  His father says something from the dining room, but Carr can’t make out what. He waits for more, but nothing comes. After a while he sweeps a pile of magazines from the sofa and lies down.

  The phone, burring in his pocket, wakes him from a clammy sleep. It’s dark now and he turns on the porch light as he steps outside to answer. The air is like a cool cloth on his face. Mr. Boyce, who almost never calls, is calling.

  “You’re not in California,” he says. His voice is heavy and smooth, an amber syrup. “You’re supposed to be in California today, and you’re supposed to be out here tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there. I’m flying out of Boston first thing.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. No problem.”

  7

  Backlit on the fourteenth tee, Mr. Boyce is a slab of granite escaped from the quarry, or spare parts from Stonehenge. Carr walks up the cart path, and from fifty yards features emerge in the monolith: massive arms and shoulders, a corded neck, a shaved head, black and gleaming against the blue sky. Rockefeller Center, Carr thinks, the statue of Atlas. He thinks it every time he sees Boyce. Carr stops walking as Mr. Boyce sets up over the ball. The driver is like a blade of grass in his hands, and though Carr has seen him play many times before, he is always amazed that the heavily plated torso can coil and release with such ease. There is a slashing noise, a gunshot, and Mr. Boyce looks down the fairway and nods. Then he beckons to Carr.

  This is the twenty-second time they have met, and their twenty-second meeting on a golf course, though never on the same course twice. Today they are in Wisconsin, just outside Madison, at a private club set beside a lake, amid hills drenched in green. As he was the first time Carr saw him, in Atlanta, under a punishing August sun, Mr. Boyce is wearing tailored black. And, as always, he is golfing alone, walking the course, and carrying his own bag.

  Which isn’t to say he is without retainers. There are two of them today, trailing behind in a golf cart: a large man in khakis and sunglasses, with short red hair, whose name Carr has never learned but who drives Mr. Boyce’s cars, and next to him Tina, who is slim and white-blond, whose oval face is as smooth and empty as a mannequin’s, and who, Declan once told him, kills people for Mr. Boyce. Tina looks up from a glossy magazine through dark, rectangular glasses and smiles.

  A frisson of tension ripples through Carr’s gut as he walks down the fairway and cuts through the dull throbbing in his head. Ahead, Mr. Boyce seems too large for the landscape. It’s an illusion, Carr knows, though not of the light off the lake, nor even of Boyce’s considerable mass. Rather, it’s the aura he casts—of power barely controlled, of destructive potential contained, but just for now.

  “Like a chainsaw,” Declan said that first time in Atlanta, “or a crate of blasting caps. You want to walk careful around him, young Carr. You want to keep a little distance.”

  The menace is palpable, but always implicit. In all their meetings, Mr. Boyce has never been other than exact, economical, and watchful. Still, he’s the only man Carr knows of who made Declan nervous.

  It was a long drive, three hundred yards at least, and the ball sits on the right side of the fairway, at the bend of a dogleg left, not far from the rough. The green is uphill, 150 yards away, and ringed by bunkers. Mr. Boyce walks slowly around his ball. In person his voice is even deeper—the rumbling of an earthquake.

  “I expected you earlier,” he says, “by the ninth hole.”

  “My flight was delayed.”

  Boyce nods. “Thunderstorms over New York, I know.” The wind is gusting off the lake and Boyce studies the treetops and the distant flag. He sca
tters bits of grass from his fingertips and watches them fly.

  “What do you think—blowing left to right, about twenty miles an hour, a little less on the green with that stand of trees. You make it a seven iron from here?”

  “You know I don’t play,” Carr answers.

  Mr. Boyce shakes his head. “Too bad. There’s a lot you’d like about it. The precision, the planning—everything just so.”

  “Maybe in my retirement.”

  Boyce chuckles, which sounds like an air horn. “I admire your optimism.” He pulls a seven iron from his bag and takes an easy practice swing. “Everything fine with your father?”

  “Sure,” Carr says quietly.

  “Sure,” Boyce repeats, and then all his attention is on the ball. Again there is the slash, the gunshot, an arc of cut grass in the air, and the ball bounces on the green—once, twice, now rolling toward the pin. Boyce turns back to Carr. “So tell me how you’re spending my money.”

  And for the next two holes Carr does exactly that, pausing only for Boyce to strike the ball. On the seventeenth tee he finishes, and Boyce asks questions.

  “Where are the stones now?”

  “Here.”

  “On you?”

  “They’re in the trunk of your Benz, in the first-aid kit, underneath the cold packs.”

  A rueful smile crosses Mr. Boyce’s face. “You broke into my car?”

  “I’ll need them in the Caymans. I need you to hold them for me till then.”

  “And what about the cash?”

  “I’m using it for expenses.”

  “I want receipts,” Boyce says.

  “You’ll get them.”

  Boyce looks down the fairway. It’s a short par four, 330 yards, and he takes the driver from his bag. “You think three’s enough to buy you in?” he asks.