In Wilmington, the same kids always turned up to see the punk shows, and among that particular clan there was not a whole lot of aesthetic variation; they looked the same because they had to, because that was how you recognized your people. But here there is no common denominator that Oliver can see, nothing that marks this group as a subculture. It’s more like a cult that has drawn every kind of person, and the woman with the microphone is their leader. And if the purpose of Minty Fresh’s band is cathartic stupefaction, to leave the audience feeling as though their brains have been scooped out of their heads like so many seeds from a pumpkin, then this music is meant to be the opposite. It’s meant to fill you up with joy. Behind the audience, people are still playing their games of nine-ball and air hockey. How can they concentrate on anything other than this woman’s sublime voice?
The band plays for over an hour. Will has forgotten his rush to get back uptown to the hospital and get busy with the devil he doesn’t know. When the woman announces their last song, Oliver can’t even bring himself to be disappointed, still reeling as he is from their amazing fortune at having stumbled upon them at all.
As the singer makes one final pass down the length of the crowd, Oliver reaches his hand out and she takes it. Her skin is warm and dry and chapped. For a few seconds, she sings directly to him, and that sense of possibility yawns before him again. Hopelessness? Is that what that is? he had asked the doctor, and it’s still there, but it’s turned transparent and he can see through to the other side, to a time when this will be the origin story he tells, the History of Oliver 101, and this moment was just the beginning. Everything is going to be okay—not now, not yet, but eventually he’s going to have some kind of a life again.
And it’s going to be awesome.
When the set is over and the band has departed, their listeners in a happy daze, Oliver and Will stumble around looking for their jackets.
“I didn’t know I like gospel music,” Will says.
“Today has been full of surprises.”
On their way out, they pass a couple in a booth huddled over a game of Candy Land. Oliver pauses, watching. He wonders why these adults would be playing such a simple game, one without strategy that requires virtually no thought. All you do is pull a card from the deck and move your piece to wherever it tells you to go, and if you happen to cross the finish line first it’s a testament to luck, not skill. But they don’t care about who wins; he can tell by their faces. The game is just an excuse to sit together drinking beers and laughing, their feet touching slightly under the table, coats in a heap beside them. Whoever loses is not going to throw a fit, hurl their pint glass to the floor, and stomp out of the bar; there’s no drunken confrontation brewing, no uneasy subtext beneath their conversation. They make it look so easy.
“I want to talk to her,” Oliver says. “I want to talk to her right now.”
“Then do it,” says Will.
It’s still snowing outside, and the street around the pay phone seems to shimmer. Oliver listens impatiently as the phone rings and rings in Althea’s house, and just when he thinks no one is going to pick up, Garth answers in his very sleepiest voice.
“It’s me,” Oliver says.
“It’s a little late to be calling, Oliver.”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right, you didn’t really. Are you still in New York?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s it going up there?” Oliver can hear Garth rearranging himself on the couch in his study, sitting up, taking a sip of his drink, moving a sheaf of papers from one place to another.
“I don’t like hospitals and I don’t trust doctors.”
“Sounds like you’re learning all kinds of things about yourself.”
“The revelations, they just keep coming. How’s the book?”
“Great fun. I’m leaving soon on a research trip to Mexico.” Garth sounds strange, unusually loose and jovial.
“You gonna stay at one of those resorts with the cabanas and a swim-up bar?”
“Think ancient temples and dusty manuscripts.”
He’s drunk, Oliver realizes with astonishment. Garth Carter has been hanging out alone in his study getting lit on his good scotch. Garth always has a drink in his hand, but Oliver has never once seen him intoxicated. “So, more Indiana Jones than winter break?”
“Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory.”
Oliver’s shock must be showing on his face. Will is gesturing wildly, trying to get Oliver to give him some clue of what’s going on. It’s her dad, Oliver mouths. I think something’s wrong. “Just don’t drink the water,” he tells Garth.
“Don’t worry, Ol. It’s not my first rodeo.”
“What’s Althea going to do while you’re gone?” Oliver looks at Will and shakes his head. He pulls the handset away from his ear a little. Will squeezes into the kiosk, leaning in to listen.
“She’s going to go with me. We’re leaving after New Year’s, as soon as she gets back from New Mexico.”
“New Mexico? But she hates Alice.”
“There’s been some trouble since you left. Althea managed to get herself expelled in a particularly spectacular fashion, and things have been very difficult for her. Trust me. The best thing was for her to leave Wilmington for a little while.”
Will covers the receiver with his hand. “Maybe I was wrong,” he whispers. “Maybe it wasn’t her.”
Oliver shakes his head again. “Now I know for sure that it was. She hates her mother.” He speaks into the phone. “I want to talk to her. What’s Alice’s number?”
“Oliver, do you remember the story I told you about Cortés? How he burned the fleet of ships he used to cross to the New World to force the loyalty of his soldiers?” Garth uses a cautionary tone that’s hard to take seriously, considering he’s slurring his words.
Is he drunk? mouths Will.
Oliver nods, bewildered. “That guy was messed up.”
“Just be careful. Loyalty isn’t always the virtue we think.”
“If it hadn’t been for Cortés, those guys would have been stuck in Spain, laying bricks or breeding pigs. Instead they died in battle, their pockets filled with gold. And they gave you something to write about.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Don’t forget your fedora.” Oliver hangs up. “She didn’t go to New Mexico,” he tells Will. “She came to New York because I’m here, and I still am, so that means she must be, too.”
“Call him back. If you’re right, then his kid’s missing and he doesn’t even know it.”
“She’s not missing. She’s around here somewhere.”
“She’s not your misplaced fucking sock, Oliver.”
“I’ll find her. If I find her, then she’s not missing, she’s with me.”
“It’s been a month. Where are we supposed to start looking? Should we go back to the park and check under all the benches?” Will says.
“I thought you wanted to get back to the hospital and put it all on black.”
“I’m not going alone. What am I supposed to tell them—you heard a little gospel music and now you’re off on a mission of mercy? They’ll think I killed you and dumped your body in the river. Which I’m considering.”
“Thanks.”
Will arcs a foot across the sidewalk, making a blurry comma in the snow. “So? Where do we start?”
“What do you mean?”
Will buttons his jacket, adjusts his baseball cap, and rubs his frozen hands together. “If you want to find this girl, then come on. Let’s do this. Let’s go.”
• • •
Oliver is trying very hard not to think about his mother. Did she know by now that he was on the lam? Would she still be in North Carolina if she did? Nicky isn’t much for sitting by a telephone waiting f
or news. She’s more of a proactive type, although proactive in this case might simply mean showing up at the hospital and screaming at the staff. He hopes that prick of a doctor is getting the worst of it.
“You’re doing this all wrong,” says Will, flagging down the waitress for another cup of coffee. They went into the first diner they saw in order to strategize. “You’ve got ten years’ worth of clues. Imagine you’re at home. Where would you look for her in Wilmington?”
“I never have to look for her. She lives down the block.”
“Use your imagination. If she wasn’t at home, how would you find her?”
“I’d ask her dad.”
“You tried that. Think harder. Use your imagination,” Will repeats.
Oliver closes his eyes and pictures himself back home. The last time he’d woken up from an episode, he’d gone to Althea’s house first, and only one place after that. “Coby’s,” he says finally, reluctantly. “I would look for her at Coby’s.”
“Is he a friend of hers?”
“More like a nemesis.”
“She has a nemesis?” Will looks impressed.
“He had something to do with her getting expelled.”
“Call him.”
“He’s in North Carolina. What could he possibly know?”
“Nemeses know things.”
“This guy is not exactly Keyser Söze.”
“Just do it, ace.”
Oliver looks around the diner, where the inebriated revelers who struck out tonight are slowly sobering up over waffles and coffee and matzo ball soup. The people outside walking their dogs and buying their newspapers are beginning to outnumber those who have not yet gone to sleep, a sure sign that another night has given way to morning. They pay the check and go outside to find a pay phone. The weak December sun casts a pearly, blue-gray light over Avenue A, and Coby’s phone is ringing in North Carolina.
“Yeah?” Coby answers, sleepy and irritated.
“It’s Oliver.”
“McKinley. What’s the good word?” There is a new nasal twang to Coby’s voice.
“You sound different. You have a cold or something?”
“More like a deviated septum.”
“You broke your nose?”
“Someone broke it for me.”
This is welcome and surprising news. “Who?”
“I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re only gonna need one.”
“I think there’d be people lining up to do the job.”
“Maybe so, but we only know one with anger management issues.”
Oliver laughs. “Althea broke your nose? That explains so much.”
“And split my lip, and gave me two black eyes. Why do you think she got expelled? They don’t kick you out of school just for cutting a few classes.”
“Atta girl. What did you do to make her so mad?”
“I don’t think I’m the one who made her mad. You still up there in the Big Apple?”
Oliver winces. The Big Apple. “Yeah.”
“Then how do you not know all this? She went up there to find you, didn’t she? Made some sort of pathetic last-ditch effort to get you to be her boyfriend?”
It stings to learn that Will was right, that loathsome Coby could still be a source of information. “Did she confide that to you before or after she gave you a concussion?”
“She didn’t confide shit. But I don’t think she went all the way to New York just to learn the fine art of Dumpster diving and serving food to the homeless. Not when she’s got two vegan gurus right here at home. She went up there for you. That’s the only reason she ever does fucking anything.”
“So that’s where she is? With Bread and Roses?” For some reason this is the last thing Oliver expected to hear—that Althea had taken shelter with other people somewhere.
“Wait, you don’t even know where she is?”
“Did you think I called just to hear your voice? She tried to visit me in the hospital when I was sick. I’ve been trying to find her since I woke up. Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”
Coby groans. “Oh, fuck everything. Fuck you, too.”
Talking to Coby over the phone, being spared the sight of his smug little face—rearranged though it may be now—makes it possible for Oliver to pity him, sounding all nasal and lovelorn like he does. “If she didn’t tell you where she was, how did you know?”
“The Brooklyn Bread and Roses kids called Valerie and asked a bunch of questions. Did she know Al”—Al? What? Oliver stops pitying Coby—“why did she leave town. They wanted to know if she was someone they’d want sleeping on their couch. Valerie said she was, but she asked me if I had a different opinion.”
“And you said no?”
“I’m not about to get her booted. It sounds like they like her. It sounds like she’s making friends. Of course, now you and your dimples are going to walk in and shit all over it, but that’s on you.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been so deprived of the pleasure of her company,” Oliver says dryly.
Coby snorts. “Yeah, it’s been a real fucking pleasure. Do the three of us a favor and let her off the hook once and for all. Set her straight. Minty Fresh told me they stood on your porch when you were leaving and asked for your help and you didn’t even care that she was in trouble. Why don’t you tell her that when you two have your magical reunion?”
“I was on my way to the airport so I could check myself into the goddamn hospital. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her shit.”
“No, fuck you—fuck you, McKinley. You strung her along and you broke her heart, and now you’re going to swoop in and be her hero and that’s fucking tremendous, I’m sure it’ll put a real smile on her face, because for five minutes she’ll think that it’s all finally going to shake out the way she wants. But sooner or later you’re going to end up back in the same place because it’s never going to shake out the way she wants with you. And you should tell her that before things start to get too cinematic.”
Oliver clamps the phone tighter to his face, as if it will help him get his point across. “Don’t do that, don’t talk about us like you know us. And don’t act like if it weren’t for me Althea would realize you’re the greaser stooge of her dreams, because you are not. You are not some misunderstood Bukowski character, and if she rattled your cage hard enough to get thrown out of school, then it sounds like she’s got the right idea about you after all.”
“The best things about Althea are the things that you can’t stand,” Coby barrels on, as if he hasn’t heard. “You’re like a blank piece of paper, and she can color you any way she wants. You know why you won’t just let this thing go? Because you need her to dictate your next move. You need her to push so you know when to pull. I might not be the stooge of her dreams, but when she pushes I push back, and broken nose or not, I’ll say this about Althea: She doesn’t always need to know what’s going to happen next. Sometimes she likes it better when she doesn’t. But go ahead, call Val, she’s got the address. And when you see Althea, you tell her I said no hard feelings.”
All of Oliver’s satisfaction and annoyance disappears as he listens to Coby speak about Althea with an authority and intimacy that scares the living shit out of him. Halloween night, after the show at Lucky’s, he had seen them off in a corner of the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and talking in a way that would have made them appear, to the uneducated eye, like a couple, and he finally had an idea of how he and Althea must have looked. Something had happened after that, something that had nothing to do with him, and he’s not sure he even wants to know what it was, but he still hates that he doesn’t. “Seriously. What did you do to her?”
“Nothing she didn’t beg me for,” Coby says, and hangs up.
“What did the nemesis say?” Will asks.
“You were right. Nemeses know things.”
“We’d better hurry and find her, then.” Will’s grin fades, and all evidence of gleeful mischief vanishes from his face. He looks at Oliver with a painful seriousness. “I’m starting to get pretty tired.”
chapter fourteen.
MATILDA WAKES ALTHEA by snatching back her quilt and throwing open the kitchen curtains. “Rise up, Gemini!” She claps briskly.
“Don’t clap at me,” Althea mumbles.
“Get up, you foxy fucking bitch.” Althea doesn’t move. “Now!” Matilda yells. “Today is going to be the greatest day of our lives.” She says this every morning that she doesn’t have a hangover.
Althea fixes herself a cup of coffee and follows Matilda upstairs for their morning cigarette-in-the-bathroom ritual. Ethan is on his way from the shower to his room, wearing only a towel around his waist, dripping all over the floor. He isn’t scrawny like Althea thought he would be, although he’s so pale, he’s practically luminescent. Without asking, he takes Althea’s mug and drinks half its contents before returning it.
“Thanks,” he says. She watches the muscles in his back as he walks away.
“I know,” Matilda says when they’re safely in the bathroom with the shower running. “His body is like a hidden treasure. Once in a while I do his laundry so I can shrink all his T-shirts.”
Althea and Oliver Page 25
