by Jason Starr
Simon was actually terrified, but his reaction must have come off as anger or frustration because Dorsey said, “Take it easy, Mr. Burns. I understand you’re upset, but you’re gonna have to calm down. I’m just doing my job, following up leads, trying to close this case.”
Simon collected himself the best he could and said, “I’m sorry. I was just surprised, that’s all. You said someone saw me?”
“Yeah, neighbor on the block,” Dorsey said. “He said he saw you at the funeral home and thought you looked familiar.”
Simon remembered that guy—what was his name?—who’d spoken to him while he was giving his condolences to Tom’s wife. Feldman? No, Freedman—Alan Freedman. If Freedman claimed he’d seen Simon that night at the house, he probably had seen him. But Simon was relieved that they didn’t have the shoe. He could deny that he’d been seen—it was his word against Freedman’s—but he couldn’t argue with a shoe.
With confidence Simon said, “Well, I wasn’t there. That’s absolutely ridiculous. And what’s this all about? Are you trying to accuse me of something?”
“Like I said before, sometimes people keep pets illegally. So we’re just checking out if someone might have had a wolf and brought it there.”
“Wait, so let me get this straight. You think I brought my illegal wolf all the way out to Bernardsville and my wolf mauled my old boss to death?”
“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Burns. We have a witness who claims he saw you in the area, so I have to follow up the lead. But if you say you weren’t there, then I apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“I wasn’t there,” Simon said, maintaining eye contact, trying to come off as earnest as possible.
“Were you in the city that night?”
“Yes,” Simon said. “I spent the night at a friend’s place.”
“In that case, I’m sorry,” Dorsey said. “Trust me, there are things I’d rather be doing today than wasting your time. But look at it from our point of view. First we thought a rabid dog or something attacked him, and then the ME determined it was a wolf. Trust me, if this had happened in Newark instead of Bernardsville they wouldn’t’ve even bothered with DNA or any investigation. But it’s an affluent neighborhood and people are concerned that there could be a wild wolf running around, so . . .”
“Isn’t that the most likely explanation?”
“Yes and no,” Dorsey said. “There’s a wolf preserve all the way out in Knowlton Township, about fifty miles from Bernardsville. Even if a wolf somehow escaped the preserve, it seems highly unlikely that the wolf traveled all the way to Bernardsville. So then we started looking into the domestic pet angle. Believe it or not, we found a guy with a pet half-wolf about a ten-minute drive from Harrison’s house. We confirmed that that wolf didn’t escape that night. We were getting ready to drop the case, or at least put it way back on the back burner, when we had this witness come to us, saying he’d seen you at the house. So, yes, I agree it does seem bizarre, but you can see why we had to check it out.”
Simon stood and said, “If that’s all, I have to take my son upstairs now.”
“Just one more thing,” Dorsey said, standing as well. “You said you were at a friend’s that night. Do you happen to have the friend’s phone number?”
Simon had all the guys’ numbers on his cell phone. He said, “Sorry, I don’t.”
Dorsey seemed confused.
“He’s just an acquaintance really,” Simon explained, “the father of one of my son’s friends. Maybe I can get it for you, or—”
“It’s no big deal right now,” Dorsey said. “I’ll tell you what, if I need it, I’ll call you. Thanks for all your help, and sorry for the inconvenience, but, hey, at least you didn’t have to drive two hours and sit in traffic on the GW Bridge to get here.”
Dorsey smiled, as if trying to make light of the situation, then thanked Simon for his time and said to Jeremy, “You can have your father back now,” as he left the building.
The rest of the afternoon, Simon and Jeremy hung out in the apartment. Simon tried to get Jeremy to nap, but it wasn’t happening so Simon parked him in front of the TV. Meanwhile, Simon couldn’t stop replaying the questioning from Dorsey. It seemed like Dorsey wasn’t incredibly suspicious, but maybe he knew more and was just playing cool at this point, trying to get Simon to slip up. But slip up about what? That was the craziest part of all of this. Simon hadn’t done anything. Though he couldn’t rule out that he’d gotten hold of a wolf that night, the idea seemed so remote, so totally out there, that he couldn’t take it seriously. He’d just been at the scene of a crime, or near the scene of a crime, but he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Then Simon had that feeling again of biting into Tom’s neck, tasting his flesh, and he suddenly shouted, “Stop it!”
Jeremy looked over, startled. Simon reassured him, told him everything was okay, but everything was far from okay. If he was really innocent and had nothing to hide, why did he feel like he had everything to hide?
Suddenly ill, Simon rushed into the bathroom, bent over the toilet, and started throwing up. The recent food he’d consumed—steak, sausage, and Angus burgers—didn’t exactly come up easy. As he was gagging, the back of his throat burning, he saw a glimpse of the nightmare again, himself as the wolf swallowing the deer’s flesh, and he gagged even harder. He felt as if he were going insane, and maybe he was. After all, insanity ran in his family. On his father’s side, his uncle Ken in Ireland was in an institution, and on his mother’s side, his cousin Roger in Michigan suffered from schizophrenia.
Simon needed to run. Lately running was the only time he felt truly happy and in control of his life, but he couldn’t go running and leave Jeremy unsupervised. He asked Jeremy if he wanted to go to the park to play soccer, figuring that would at least be some physical activity, but Jeremy was cranky and didn’t want to go out again. Instead, Simon did a hundred push-ups and a few hundred jumping jacks, but it didn’t help. A fourteen-hundred-square-foot apartment had never seemed so small. He might as well have been spending the afternoon in a coffin.
When Alison came home she looked at the kitchen, at the dirty dishes in the sink, and at the toys strewn in the living room, and she immediately shook her head a few times; then, exposing her lower teeth, the way she did when she was really angry about something, she said, “This isn’t fair. I shouldn’t have to come home to this.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said, rushing to pick up some toys from the floor. “I was planning to straighten up before you got home, but I got kind of sidetracked.”
“Isn’t fair, just isn’t fair,” Alison said, maybe to herself as she started to angrily load the dishwasher, clanging the dishes. “I have to work all day, giving up everything, and then I have to come home to this? You have to help out more. You can’t do this to me.”
Simon, holding a Nerf football, the Leapster, a bunch of stuffed animals, and several other toys, said, “You’re right. I’ll clean more from now on and make more of an effort. I promise.”
Alison didn’t accept his apology, or not accept it. She went into the bedroom, muttering, “Isn’t fair . . . Just isn’t fair.” Even though Simon was in the living room and shouldn’t have been able to, he heard her clearly.
Dinner for the grown-ups was ordered-in Japanese. Simon had the sashimi deluxe, and though the salmon and tuna and yellowtail gave him a nice jolt, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as a good piece of steak.
The focus at the table was on Jeremy. Simon tried to engage Alison in conversation a few times, but she replied each time in a clipped way and mainly seemed to be ignoring him, avoiding eye contact.
Until Jeremy blurted out, “The police came to see Daddy today.”
“The police?” Alison looked at Simon for the first time during the meal.
“Yeah,” Jeremy said. “A detective.”
Alison asked Simon, “Is this true?”
“Yeah,” Simon said. “It just had to do with what happened to Tom.” Since Jeremy was listen
ing, Simon purposely didn’t mention anything specific about the mauling.
“Why did they want to talk to you?” Alison said.
“They’re talking to everyone Tom worked with, and his friends and neighbors too. They’re looking for the—” He spelled, “W-O-L-F.”
“I don’t get it,” Alison said.
“W-O—”
“No, I mean, I didn’t get why they’d talk to you.”
Wishing he hadn’t gotten into this, that he’d thought up a good lie instead, he said, “They just want to know if anyone knew about any friend of Tom’s who’d had one as a pet, that’s all. I guess they think somebody’s pet attacked him.”
“A pet attacked somebody?” Jeremy asked.
“How’s that ravioli?” Simon asked, trying to nip the curiosity in the bud.
Alison still seemed confused, but she let it go, probably because she still seemed angry at him in general and didn’t feel like having a conversation.
Simon bit into a piece of yellowtail and imagined biting into Tom. He gagged a couple of times, but he wasn’t choking.
“You okay?” Alison asked.
“Fine,” Simon said. “It’s nothing.”
She didn’t seem convinced.
He couldn’t eat anymore—partly because he was afraid he was going to choke to death, and partly because he was worrying about Dorsey’s questioning. Although Dorsey hadn’t seemed overly suspicious—actually, he seemed like he was just going through the motions—it was possible that his lackadaisical attitude was just a ploy. Maybe he actually had information, or at least a lead about where Simon had gotten the wolf, and he was waiting for Simon to slip up. Maybe Dorsey had said he didn’t need Michael’s contact info because he was planning to contact Michael on his own, before Simon had a chance to contact him.
Simon excused himself and went into the bathroom with his cell phone. He texted Michael:I need to talk to you right away. can i come see you?
Simon wanted to talk to Michael in person in case the cops had tapped the phone line.
Okay, he knew he was probably being totally paranoid, but he couldn’t help it.
A few seconds went by, then Simon got:come to the brewery
They continued their text conversation:ok great what time??
come to the brewery
now?
come to the brewery
great!
Alison was giving Jeremy a bath.
Poking his head into the bathroom, Simon said, “I’m meeting my friends for a drink.”
“Now?” Alison sounded pissed off.
“Yeah,” Simon said. “They just called and they’re at a bar in midtown and they want me to swing by. I won’t be out late, I promise. Is it a problem?”
“Is this with your playground friends?” Alison asked, in an accusatory tone, as if he were on his way out to meet a group of pedophiles.
“Yeah,” Simon said. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to discuss it now,” Alison said, handing Jeremy his rubber ducky.
“I don’t under—”
“I said I don’t want to discuss it.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Simon said, actually relieved, because he didn’t want to discuss it anymore either; he just wanted to get to Michael’s ASAP. “Talk to you later.” He leaned over the tub and kissed Jeremy’s wet head and said, “Daddy will see you later, okay?”
“Okay,” Jeremy said.
But Alison followed him out of the bathroom to the hallway and asked, “Are you gay?”
“What?” Simon asked.
“Just tell me the truth and I’ll understand,” she said. “There’ll be a lot less humiliation if you’re just up front about it.”
“Is that what this is about lately? You really think I’m gay?”
“Are you?”
He couldn’t believe this. “I’m not gay, okay? Hasn’t that been evident lately?”
“I saw you hugging him.”
“Hugging who?”
“Michael,” she spewed.
“When did you—”
“At the park yesterday. I was in the area so I thought I’d surprise you guys, and I saw you hugging him for a long time.”
Simon laughed; Alison didn’t.
Simon said, “I know it probably looked weird to you—it was weird for me at first—but that’s just the way the guys are.”
“Mommy, the water’s too cold!” Jeremy called out.
“Coming,” Alison said. Then to Simon, “I know something’s going on with you. You suddenly have all these secrets. You have these secret friends, you somehow learned to run really fast. What other secrets are you hiding from me?”
Tasting Tom’s blood, Simon gagged. But he recovered quickly, saying, “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just going through something, a midlife crisis or whatever. I don’t know what it is, but I promise I’ll work through it.”
“Mommy!” Jeremy called.
“You’d better work through it,” Alison said, “if you’re serious about saving this marriage.”
She marched back to the bathroom and Simon went the other way, toward the front door.
Simon knew this wasn’t just melodrama—Alison was seriously upset. He was pushing her away and he knew if he pushed her too far he’d lose her. Alison was patient in some ways, but when she made a decision she stuck to it and didn’t look back. She’d hinted at divorce during past marriage counseling sessions and during arguments, never actually mentioning the word, but making statements like “I’m not sure I can continue like this” or “It might be time for a change.” Their past arguments were usually based on misunderstandings, but now it was particularly frustrating because he knew exactly what was upsetting her, but he didn’t know what to do about it. Though he was aware of his changed behavior, he didn’t know how to change it back, and—more troubling—he didn’t necessarily want to change it back. He felt like he wasn’t in control of the decisions he was making, like he was a visitor in his own body.
Oh, God, maybe he really was going crazy.
He left the building and was walking toward the subway on Eighty-sixth and Central Park West, but he had so much energy, he sprinted the rest of the way, darting through traffic. The sprint felt great, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to run for hours, for miles, forever.
Waiting on the platform, he was annoyed by the young blond guy next to him whose iPod was blasting Lady Gaga. Simon had nothing against Lady Gaga, but did the guy have to play it so freaking loud? Simon was going to say something, then realized that no one else on the platform was reacting and that it must be his ultrasensitive hearing acting up again. To get away from the guy, Simon went to the other end of the platform and stopped next to a short bald guy in a business suit reading the Wall Street Journal. The guy glanced at Simon in a weird, knowing way—or at least Simon thought it was weird and knowing. Simon tried to ignore him, but when he looked over, the guy was still looking at him and, paranoia taking over, Simon wondered if the guy was an undercover cop, someone Dorsey worked with. Maybe that was why Dorsey had been so nonchalant at the end of the questioning, because he’d put a tail on Simon.
A train was approaching—Jesus, the noise was deafening; Simon had to cover his ears. After it screeched to a halt, Simon purposely didn’t get on the same car as the bald guy. But he couldn’t relax, as he could hear the combined noise of music leaking from maybe a dozen iPods. He put his hands over his ears and felt like everyone was staring at him—probably because they were staring at him. But were they staring at him because he was acting strangely or because one of them was a cop? One Asian woman wasn’t staring at him, and he feared her most of all.
During the trip to Brooklyn, he switched cars several times but couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. His paranoia only intensified when he arrived at Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn and ran along the dark, emptyish streets toward the old brewery. He must have looked back over his shoulder dozens of times, and he felt unnervi
ngly out of control, as if some force beyond himself were guiding his behavior and he were merely a witness to it all.
At the brewery, he called, “Michael! Michael!” and the door buzzed.
A rat darted between him and the old elevator. Like the first time he’d visited the brewery, the ride up was excruciatingly slow. When he got out, once again he was startled by how upscale and immaculate everything was compared to the ground floor.
“Hello?” he said.
He waited. No answer.
He headed toward the windows with the panoramic view of Manhattan.
“You’ll have steak.”
Simon stopped, absorbing the jolt Michael’s voice had given him. Although he was here to meet Michael and the voice wasn’t particularly loud, the sudden noise was still startling, maybe because the room was otherwise so silent.
Simon turned his head and saw Michael standing near the entrance to the kitchen holding two plates, each with a T-bone steak.
Dying for a protein fix, he was about to say yes. Then he remembered the last time he was here, and how he’d had the steak and drunk the beer, and he decided that consuming nothing was probably the smartest way to go.
“I just ate,” Simon said. “But thanks.”
Michael didn’t seem at all offended.
“Sit down,” Michael said.
Simon sat on one of the sofas, and Michael sat across from him. Then Simon watched as Michael began eating one of the steaks, picking it up and eating it like corn on the cob. Simon knew not to interrupt his eating with conversation, as Michael wouldn’t have responded anyway. So Simon just sat there while Michael ate both steaks. After ten or fifteen minutes he finished eating and then, acting as if all of this were perfectly normal, he said to Simon, “You still have fear.”
“Yes,” Simon said. “It has to do with what I was telling you guys at McDonald’s today.”
“Your dream,” Michael said.
