“Thanks, Mom!” she said. The two separated, and when her mother turned toward me, I got a good look at her. An attractive woman. Gorgeous blue eyes. Although the mother was a blonde, the resemblance to Marie was striking. And suddenly the pieces snapped together to a puzzle that I didn’t even know existed.
I ran for the parking lot, hid in the car, and waited for Cynthia.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked several minutes later, clearly annoyed. “I had no idea where you were.”
“I started to feel really ill,” I told her, and was a mile down the road before she even had her seat belt on.
After not sleeping at all, early the next morning I drove to the Timber Cove assisted living facility in Elizabeth to see who, exactly, occupied room 1615. Since I wasn’t a relative, doctor, or cop, I assumed that getting an answer might not be easy.
It was, though.
“There is no room sixteen fifteen,” said the friendly lady in the white uniform. She was behind the counter in the lobby. Beside the Danish and Styrofoam cup of coffee was a clipboard. She looked at it, flipped to the second page. “Maybe you mean room fifteen sixteen?”
I said that maybe I did. She probably wasn’t supposed to give me a name. “That’d be Len Burnham,” she said.
I asked how long he’d been living in that room.
“Mr. Burnham has been here for as long as I’ve been here.”
“And how long is that?” I asked.
Eleven years.
That afternoon I asked Joey for a few days off so that I could travel to San Francisco. He agreed to split the ticket with me if I set up meetings with a couple of record labels while I was there. Then I e-mailed Jeffrey, telling him I was visiting on business and wanted to see him.
His reply—It’ll be nice to get together after all this time—seemed innocent enough, but in its terse politeness I read guilt.
It was early evening, just a few days later, when I arrived in San Francisco, and as soon as I’d checked into my hotel I called his cell phone. “I’m glad to hear your voice,” he said, and asked if I’d like to come over to the house later that night for a drink. No, I told him, that wouldn’t work. We agreed to meet up at the Starbucks near my hotel the next day at noon.
The fog lifted in the morning to reveal a bright California day. When I arrived at the café, Jeffrey was already seated at a table with a drink. I noticed that he was clean shaven and had cut his hair short. The short-sleeved oxford shirt he had on was an olive color that showed off his tan. He looked healthy—way more fit than the last time I’d seen him.
He rose to shake my hand, and so I shook it. Then, while he waited at the table, I stood in line for the largest coffee in the place. It’d become a compulsion to ingest as much caffeine as possible in order to limit my sleeping to light, dreamless naps between recording sessions and during the commercials of TV shows. Most days, I went through at least a dozen cups of coffee in my ongoing struggle to avoid the terrors of deep sleep.
I set down my drink and sat across the table from Jeffrey. He hadn’t asked why I wanted to see him, and I hadn’t told him. But he knew. I could tell from the way he avoided my gaze, the way he seemed to be interested in the bags of coffee beans on display, in the people waiting for their drinks, in the words printed on his paper cup. I let him ask me a couple of polite questions—“How’s the family? How’s the house?”—and then we sat in uncomfortable silence, his eyes still looking around the café for anything that was not my face, until I said, “So who was she?”
Jeffrey looked at me and frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Was she Sara’s niece? Younger sister?” He shook his head slightly, still pretending not to understand. “I saw the girl’s mother,” I said. “She could be Sara’s twin.” And then to be as clear as possible, I added, “Don’t fuck with me, Jeffrey. I know. That’s why I’m here.”
He sighed, took a sip from his drink, then set it down again. Drummed his fingers on the tabletop. There was music being pumped into the café, soft jazz, but Jeffrey’s drumming had nothing to do with the beat. Finally, he said, “The mother is Sara’s first cousin. That makes Marie—I’m not actually sure. Her cousin once removed?”
I’d had little doubt about my suspicions, but hearing Jeffrey confirm them made me want to climb over the table and hurt him, witnesses be damned.
“Did you even lose your money?” I asked. “Or was that a lie, too?”
“Of course I did—I lost all of it, just like I said.” Now he stared straight at me, looking offended, as if I were being unkind to doubt him.
“So I guess the two million dollars came in pretty handy.”
“It wasn’t quite that much.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, a hundred thousand of it was already mine.” He bit his lip, as if trying to balance his need for secrecy against his need to show me how clever he’d been. “And then there was the cost of two years of living expenses in New York City.” I must have given him a confused look, because he added, “For Marie. She wanted to be an actress. This way she didn’t have to wait tables.” So that was their deal. “But yes, the money was extremely helpful. Sara and I live a lot more modestly now. I prefer it, actually.”
“You’re still together, then.”
He shrugged. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“Your marital problems . . . the guy she was cheating with at work . . . you made all that up?”
“Sara and I are peas in a pod, Will. Same as you and Cynthia.” He saw me shaking my head. “Look—I needed money. Nolan had it. So I took it.”
“That simple, huh?”
“I didn’t say it was simple. Come on, you were there—you know it wasn’t simple. It was probably the hardest thing I ever did. But he had it coming.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “College was a long time ago. People make mistakes.”
He was about to take a drink, and he slammed his cup down on the table, spilling some of his hot coffee. “We were in love! And he knew it. And he slept with her anyway and didn’t even have the balls to tell me.”
“Then who did tell you? Was it Sara?”
“She didn’t have to.” He looked at me as if I were being obtuse. “It was all in her story. Look, you read it, too. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“So you planned this for, what, ten years?”
“Of course not. I had no idea Nolan inherited all that money. But I was online one day, reading about his campaign, and all the information was right there in the article. I knew right away what I had to do. I knew what he deserved.”
Jeffrey looked better than he had in a long time. Even his teeth looked whiter. He was definitely feeling clever, and I hadn’t counted on that. He seemed almost to be enjoying himself, revealing to me how wise and cunning he thought he was. But he didn’t know anything. I sat there looking at him, thinking about how easy it would be to change him forever. Reduce him to dust.
“Honestly, Will—I wasn’t sure I could pull it off,” he was saying, “and I was so fucking scared the whole time. But it worked. She’s a good little performer, isn’t she?”
Yes, I thought. She was a true triple threat. “You robbed me, too, you asshole. And Evan.”
“Oh, come on. Evan made partner. He’s probably pulling in a million a year. I’d say that dwarfs his contribution to the cause.”
“And what about me?” I asked.
“Now that I felt bad about from the beginning, honest to God. Hell, I almost called the whole thing off the week before. But you know all about that.”
The late-night phone call.
I shook my head. “And I talked you into coming.”
“Oh, don’t beat yourself up over it. I probably would’ve come regardless of what you said—because there’s something you don’t know about yourself that I know.”
I stared coldly at him.
“Well, don’t you want to know what it is?” he asked.
I didn’t want to take the bait. I really didn’t. But I’d flown all the way to California for this. “Why don’t you enlighten me.”
He actually grinned. “You’re a winner.”
“Fuck you.”
“You are. You’re ambitious, same as the rest of us. Even though you won’t admit it to yourself. Hell, if I know you, I’ll bet you never even lost a beat. I’ll bet you’re doing better now than ever before.”
I looked away, because I did know this about myself. I hadn’t known it before the kidnapping. But I knew it now. I was one of us. I was my own nightmare, a monster hiding in the woods, waiting for me.
“I hope you aren’t planning to tell anyone about this,” he said. “The publicity would kill Evan’s career. He’d lose his license. And it wouldn’t be good for you, either. Or Cynthia.”
And there was a dead man in the ground. There was nothing to say except for what couldn’t get said.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, and his mouth curved into a tentative smile. “And don’t pretend you aren’t a little impressed. Admit it. You’d have done it, too, if you were me.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “There are things I wouldn’t do.” But my words rang hollow, even to me. “I’ve got to go.”
“Do you want your money back?” he asked. “Is that it? Because I’d be happy to pay you back. I could write you a check.”
“Good-bye, Jeffrey,” I said.
I was about to stand up when he said the most peculiar thing. “You know, we can still be friends. I hope you know that. I mean, we’ve been through some crazy shit together, and now we have kids the same age.” He leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, man, why don’t you come over to the house tonight for dinner, and I’ll write you that check.”
All around us, people traded stories of their lives in the pungent meeting place of a new millennium. An espresso machine whirred like an alarm clock telling me it was time to rise and shine. Get a move on.
I stood up, grabbed my coffee, and left him sitting there. From my rental car, I confirmed my next appointment with Bay Area Records. They were interested in using our studio for one of their Pennsylvania bands. “Yes,” I said, unfolding my directions. “I’ll see you soon.” I hung up my cell and lit a cigarette. And before pulling away from the curb, I looked in my rearview mirror and happened to catch a glimpse of myself. I saw a thirty-three-year-old man with sleep-deprived eyes tinged with horror, but hope, too—hope for his wife, for his child, and, above all, for the day when the radioactive rock on his bedside table might cease to glow.
I took a long swallow of coffee and secured the cup in the car’s cup holder. As I pulled into traffic and slowly coasted down the steep San Francisco street, I began to rehearse my presentation out loud, so that once the meeting started I would say everything right. I would be perfect.
CHAPTER 28
A long time ago, jeffrey told me that were he to write Sara into a story, he’d never demean her.
What would he have written? How would he have begun?
How would I?
Maybe I’d begin with the tiny mole, the dark speck so easy to miss in the tan sky of her inner thigh. Or maybe I’d describe the curve of her hip.
Or the face she made when the take-out Szechuan shrimp was too spicy, or the Riesling too sweet.
I could describe the sight of Sara wet from the shower, beads of water clinging to her body, as she stood brushing her blonde hair, which darkened to luminous gold when wet.
I could describe how, when she made love, she became deadly serious and she gritted her teeth and locked her eyes on yours. Or the downy hairs on her smooth face that could only be seen from inches away under a pink late-afternoon light.
I could describe the sound coming from deep in her throat, the low moan that she herself had failed to present on the page in all its textured sensuality.
These things I could describe easily.
Romantic drivel? Maybe. So sue this second-rate sound engineer.
I could describe how Sara took your hand before falling asleep and kissed it lightly, or how in the morning she’d lie in bed only so long before becoming impatient and poking your ribs until you awoke.
I could describe the abrupt sound, almost like a delighted laugh, when she came, and the sound of her catching her breath as you caught yours, and then how, just when you thought it was over, she’d snuggle close, bite your shoulder, and whisper: Do it again.
Had I known how often I’d find myself carrying my drums in and out of the trunks of cars, up and down staircases, down city streets, on and off stages, into and out of basements and attics, across restaurants and bars, through doorways and around drunken dancing revelers . . . had I known all of this when I was twelve years old and choosing an instrument, I might have chosen something smaller. Anything, really. Sometimes I’d even say it to myself—The harmonica, Will. A nice, little stick-it-in-your-pocket instrument—hauling gear to my car after a show when everybody else had already packed up and gone home.
One Wednesday afternoon in the April of my senior year of college, I was carrying my drums from my dormitory room, down a flight of stairs, and into my car. Ordinarily this took me five trips. I had just finished the third trip when I saw Sara coming back to the dormitory. Last week had been cold, but today was warm and breezy, and Sara was a snapshot of spring: short-sleeved pink shirt and blue jeans, hair blowing behind her as she walked along the flagstone path, knapsack slung over one shoulder.
When she got close, I noticed that she’d been crying. I’d seen Jeffrey cry twice before, the first time after accidentally driving over a cat, and recently—though he denied it afterward—during the closing minutes of the film Sleepless in Seattle. But never Sara.
“Do you need any help with that?” she asked.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
For a moment she looked surprised, as if unaware that her puffy red eyes had given her away. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She looked away. “How much do you have left?”
“I think we can get the rest in one trip.” I wasn’t going to pass up an offer that came along so rarely.
My gig that evening was in New York. All year I’d been going there fairly often to see bands and meet musicians. Back in the fall, I’d seen Fred McPhee play a couple of times and introduced myself after a show. When I ran into him again more recently, he’d told me that he needed a drummer to substitute with his band, High Noon, over the summer. Their regular drummer had accepted a two-month engagement to tour with another band.
So tonight’s gig was really an audition. They played every Wednesday night at Donny’s Den, in the West Village. If I did well, the summer gigs were mine. I could imagine no better way to transition from college student to New York musician than having a summer’s worth of performances lined up.
Sara and I went up to my room and came downstairs again with the last of my equipment.
“So tonight’s the big night,” she said.
“Yep.” I shoved the last of my gear into the backseat and shut the door. “But seriously, what’s wrong?”
I wondered if she’d had an argument with Jeffrey before he left for the airport. He’d been on edge all week. The other morning, when I went by his room for some book I’d lent him, he opened the door in his interview suit. He was trying it on, making sure it fit. He handed me my book and said, “I guess I won’t be needing these any longer. You know—books?”
“This is only a temporary job,” I reminded him. “One year—that’s all it is.”
“Assuming I’m lucky enough to get it.”
He made several sad attempts to put on the tie. Too long, too short, too long again. He muttered profanities each time. Finally, he crumpled up the tie, threw i
t in a corner of the room, and asked if I’d join him for a tequila shot or three.
It was a time of transparent emotions for all of us. Except for Evan, who was headed to law school at the University of Virginia in the fall, none of us knew what we’d be doing after graduation. And while we knew that we’d garner no sympathy from people facing real hardship, such knowledge didn’t lessen our anxieties.
Now it looked as if Sara could use a tequila shot. She leaned against the car and crossed her arms. “I just met with Tanya Mahoney in her office. She offered to help me find a job in publishing. Editorial assistant, or some job like that.”
The chance to study with Tanya Mahoney was one of the reasons why Sara had come to Princeton. Now her teacher, a renowned author and Pulitzer Prize winner, was offering to help her find work. I couldn’t see why this was anything but incredibly good news.
A Frisbee whumped into the side of my car. On warm days, campus became a battlefield for mad disk hurlers. I’d spent all spring ducking and dodging.
I picked up the Frisbee and threw it to the guy running toward me from the quad, who waved an apology.
Once he’d run off again, I asked Sara, “What am I missing?”
“I don’t want to be an editor. I want to be a writer.”
“Ah.” I didn’t know the ins and outs of publishing. “She must like your writing, though, if she’s willing to help you out.”
“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t. As a matter of fact, she thinks my writing is, quote, young. She said that to me today. And do you know what else she said? She said, ‘While you show promise, you are not yet ready for publication.’”
As she recalled her meeting, fresh tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away with her fingers.
Not being ready—that was my own biggest fear. I imagined Fred McPhee shaking my hand later that night, after our set, and saying, Thanks, Will. But don’t call us, we’ll call you. These were New York musicians, professionals, and I worried whether I’d be able to play at their level. All week I’d been having nightmares where I show up to the gig and my drums are set up all wrong, so that I can barely reach them. Or they’re set up correctly but my arms move in slow motion, as if I’m underwater.
The Three-Day Affair Page 21
