The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  Caroline did not join them for dinner. “I would like to talk to her,” said Deirdre, as the meal concluded. “Do you think I might?”

  Arden paused. She knew that Caroline considered social interaction she had not herself initiated an intrusion, but she saw no reason to protect Deirdre from Caroline. She was trying very hard to like Deirdre, as she thought not liking Deirdre would be petty and mean-spirited, but she was finding it difficult to like Deirdre. She was perfectly nice, considerate, polite, appreciative, even helpful—she helped with dinner and offered to help with the cleaning up—but there was something just a bit unperceptively aggressive about Deirdre that put her off. Like this asking to see Caroline. And asking to see Adam. She was, after all, the guest here, and it seemed odd to Arden that she was initiating all the meetings. She had been very unforthcoming about her meeting with Adam: Arden had asked her about it again at dinner and her reply had been equally terse and vague. Arden supposed that meant it had gone badly, as so many meetings with Adam were apt to go, and she felt that Deirdre would not fare much better—or worse, perhaps—with Caroline. In a way, she did want to protect Deirdre by dissuading her from accosting Caroline (for that is how it would seem to Caroline), but then she thought: Is it Deirdre I want to protect or Omar? And she thought: This is absurd, I should just stay out of it all.

  She told Deirdre that she would probably find Caroline in her studio in the tower at the top of the stairs.

  Something about climbing up to the tower intimidated even Deirdre. She paused outside the closed door and tried to listen, to intuit if Caroline was in fact there. But before she could discern any sound the door opened.

  “Hello,” said Caroline. “I thought I heard someone coming up the stairs.” She was wearing a man’s white dress shirt, untucked, over a pair of beige slacks. She had her hair pulled back and twisted and stuck up with a paintbrush.

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Caroline corroborated this supposition by not refuting it. She just stood there, holding the door open, smiling a bit oddly at Deirdre.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Deirdre continued. “But I can come back, or meet you elsewhere later …”

  “No, no,” said Caroline brightly, having seen the effectiveness of her pause. “Come in. Now is fine. Come in and sit down.”

  Deirdre entered the studio. She looked around for a painting to compliment, but all the canvases were turned toward the wall. There was only one painting visible, resting on an easel, a rather insipid-looking still life, one of those paintings Deirdre hated, in which a bunch of hard-to-paint things that didn’t belong together (in this case grapes and dead rabbits and a crystal decanter filled with wine) were thrown together on a table so the artist could show off. “It’s very nice,” said Deirdre, nodding at the painting.

  “It’s a Meléndez,” said Caroline.

  Deirdre was not sure if this referred to an artist or a technique—she had mostly snoozed through Art History—so she said nothing.

  “Sit,” said Caroline, as if Deirdre were a dog.

  There was a low, modern—well, fifties—couch mostly covered with art books, and an easy chair facing it. Deirdre shifted a pile of books and sat on the couch. Caroline sat opposite her.

  “It’s lovely,” Deirdre concluded. “Those grapes look delicious!” She realized this sounded absurd, but Caroline’s wary, silent regard of her was unnerving. “Do you only paint still lifes?” she asked.

  “No,” said Caroline, without amplification.

  Deirdre looked around for another painting to comment on, but her initial impression was accurate: all the other canvases were turned against the wall. It seemed to Deirdre that although Caroline sat facing her, smiling faintly, she, too, was also, somehow, turned against the wall: there was something absent, almost hostile, about her presence. “What a lovely room,” said Deirdre. “It must be wonderful to paint up here.”

  Caroline acknowledged this remark by slightly amplifying her tight-lipped smile. Then, after a moment, she said, “Would you like a drink? I have some scotch.”

  “Please, yes,” said Deirdre.

  Caroline got up and went over to a table, where she poured some scotch, neat, into two glasses. “Water?” she asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t got any ice or soda.”

  “A little water, please,” said Deirdre. She watched Caroline pour water from a plastic bottle into one of the glasses, and return with the drinks. She handed one to Deirdre and sat back down.

  “How is Omar? I assume you’ve seen him.”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “He’s doing well, considering. I believe he will come home tomorrow—well, come here, I mean.”

  “Ah, good,” said Caroline. “And then you will leave?”

  “Not for a week,” said Deirdre. “The doctor says he can’t travel for at least a week.”

  Caroline said “Ah” again.

  Deirdre sipped her drink. “Mmmmm,” she said. “Thank you. It’s lovely.” Then she remembered she had said the painting and the room were lovely. Lovely, lovely, she thought: everything can’t be lovely or she’ll think I’m simple. She sipped again. “Smoky,” she said. “Is it single malt?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “Laphroaig.”

  Deirdre could feel the warmth of the scotch spreading in her. Her father had called alcohol “Dutch courage.” Take courage, she thought: be brave. She took another sip and then said, “You must wonder why I want to speak with you.”

  “In fact, I don’t,” said Caroline, pleasantly.

  “Oh,” said Deirdre. This was a rather dampening response. But, courage. “Well,” she said, “may I tell you?”

  “Of course you may.” Caroline laughed.

  She’s really horrible, thought Deirdre, she’s enjoying this. These people are awful. They’re all thwarted and poisonous. They need lots of therapy.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m aware that you are the only executor who is withholding authorization. I don’t know what Omar has told you, but I’d like to assure you that he intends to work very closely with you all on the biography, and respect your wishes. You have nothing to fear.”

  “I do not withhold authorization out of fear,” said Caroline.

  “Of course,” said Deirdre. “I didn’t mean fear, per se.”

  “What did you mean?” asked Caroline.

  “I meant—I meant … well, why are you withholding authorization? Perhaps if you told me, I could address your concerns.”

  “I have already discussed this with Omar. Several times. Forgive me if I do not see the need to discuss it with you.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Deirdre. “I don’t mean to be rude. Really, I don’t. It’s just that if you knew what this meant to Omar, how very much is dependent upon his getting authorization and writing this book, I think …”

  “You think what?”

  “I think you might reconsider. At least, I hope you would consider reconsidering.”

  “But my decision has nothing to do with Omar. I don’t doubt for a moment what this means to him. After all, his coming here—well, what better illustration is there of his need? But I am not concerned with his need. I have other—different allegiances in this matter.”

  “To Jules Gund, you mean?”

  “I don’t think it is really any of your business, what I mean. But, yes—to Jules Gund. And to myself, for that matter.”

  Deirdre thought for a moment. It was all going wrong. These people were impossible. She had wanted to fix it all for . It was a gift she wanted to give him, the authorization. She had pictured herself handing him the form, complete with its triumvirate of signatures, when he returned from the hospital. Perhaps they would have a little celebration, to welcome him home and toast the biography. And he would be so pleased and grateful. If only these people listened to reason!

  She looked over at Caroline and said, “I’m sorry. I think I’m wasting your time.”

  “Time is not such a precious
commodity here,” said Caroline.

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “But nevertheless. I feel you’ve made up your mind. There’s really no point in me, or Omar, talking to you.”

  “We made up our mind months ago. Before Omar came here. We made up our minds then.”

  “But Arden changed her mind,” said Deirdre.

  “Yes,” said Caroline, “she did. But I will not change mine.”

  “Then I am wasting your time,” said Deirdre.

  “If that is the only reason you are talking to me then yes, I suppose you are,” said Caroline. She seemed a little hurt.

  Deirdre stood up. “I’ll leave you, then. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “You have not bothered me,” said Caroline.

  I wish I had, thought Deirdre: I wish I could. “Thank you for the scotch,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” said Caroline. She stood up and opened the door. “Good night,” she said.

  Instead of going back into the house Deirdre crossed the courtyard and walked out through the arch in the back wall. She didn’t really want to deal with anyone at the moment, not even Arden. There was something a little weird about Arden, too: something she couldn’t put her finger on. She seemed to think too much about everything she said and did, so it all came out perfect.

  The sun had not yet set but the tall, dark pines planted all around the house created an early dusk. If I lived here the first thing I’d do is cut down some of these trees, Deirdre thought. She walked out the gravel path and through the arch in the hedge. She paused at the garden fence. A sprinkler set up on a sort of platform in the middle of the garden cast long, shaking spurts of water. The plants were all dripping in the fading light. The air smelled of herbs. Some large black birds—crows perhaps—were pecking at the moist earth.

  She stood there until it was dark, or almost dark. The sprinkler went off by itself. It must be on a timer, she thought. It was very quiet then. She had not realized what a racket it had made. She looked up at stars that were just beginning to appear, pricking themselves into the sky. She shivered, although it was not cold: just a little cool, a breeze. If Omar does not get authorization, what will happen? she wondered. What will happen to him? To me? To us?

  She closed her eyes. The scent of herbs again, and pine, and wet earth. She felt like she wanted to pray but it went no further than that. But for Deirdre that was quite far.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Omar was delivered to them the next morning in a station wagon masquerading as an ambulance. He had been heavily if not excessively drugged for his journey and arrived in a stupor from which he did not recover until early evening. Deirdre made him some soup—well, she reheated soup that Arden had made—and brought it up to him.

  He was lying in bed, a bit glassy-eyed, but alert. His gauze mitt had been removed, revealing an elastic brace that covered his right wrist and palm but left his fingers and thumb free.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said.

  She was irked by this response—who else would it be?—but tried to remain bright and cheerful. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve brought you some soup. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” he said, “a bit. What kind of soup is it?”

  “Avocado and cress,” said Deirdre. “I think it’s supposed to be cold but I heated it up. I thought something hot would taste good to you.” She put the tray with the bowl of soup and bread and glass of water down on the little table beside his bed. “Why don’t you sit up?” she asked. “Wait, I’ll get another pillow from my room. I’ll be right back.”

  When she returned with the pillow Omar was sitting up, eating the soup. “It’s very good,” he said.

  “Good,” said Deirdre. She sat beside the bed and watched him eat. He appeared to be very hungry, although his braced hand prevented him from eating neatly or expeditiously.

  “Do you want me to help you?” she asked. “Perhaps I should feed you? You’re making a mess.”

  “No,” he said, “I’m fine.”

  She took the napkin off the tray and tucked it into his collar, spread it over his front. He was wearing the purple paisley pajamas again. “Where did you get these pajamas?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “They just appeared at the hospital.”

  “Perhaps they’re Jules Gund’s,” said Deirdre. “Arden might have brought them. Perhaps you’re wearing Jules Gund’s pajamas.”

  “I think they’re just hospital surplus,” said Omar. “Probably some dead guy’s.”

  “I should have brought some pajamas from home for you,” she said. “And a bathrobe. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I don’t have any pajamas,” said Omar.

  “I know,” said Deirdre. “I meant, I should have bought some, and brought them with me.”

  “These are fine,” said Omar. “I like these.”

  “Omar, they’re hideous.”

  He looked down at them. “No,” he said. “I like them. I want to take them home with me.”

  She decided not to argue with Omar about the hideous pajamas. “Well,” she said. “How do you feel? You were terribly drugged. I don’t know what they gave you. I think that doctor is a bit of a quack. As soon as we get home, you must see a doctor and have a thorough physical exam.”

  “I’m fine,” said Omar. “Is there any more soup?”

  “No,” said Deirdre. “Eat the bread. Listen, Omar. We need to talk. Are you okay? Is your head clear and everything?”

  “Of course,” said Omar.

  Deirdre moved her chair closer to the bed. “Well, we need to talk strategy. We need to strategize. I’ve been trying to push things along since I got here but it hasn’t been easy. They’re all a bit mad, I think. Adam and Caroline mostly, but Arden, too, although at least she’s agreed. It’s the other two we have to concentrate on.”

  “Adam’s agreed too. He was for it from the beginning. And I told you, he said he would help with Caroline—”

  “That’s what we need to talk about. Omar! I talked to Adam yesterday. He told me about your bargain. I can’t believe you would agree to that. You didn’t, did you?”

  Omar said nothing.

  “You told him no, didn’t you?”

  Omar shook his head. “No. I told him I’d do it. The way he talked about it made it seem okay. And he said he would convince Caroline and Arden. I don’t know. Maybe I was stupid. But it seemed like the only thing to do.”

  “Omar! You’re crazy. It’s smuggling. You’ll go to jail. Remember Midnight Express?”

  “He said it wasn’t. I really don’t think he’d ask me to do something that was dangerous, or illegal. I know that sounds naive, but I trust him.”

  “Well, I don’t. And you’re not smuggling things out of the country for him. I told him that. He got a bit testy and threatened to change his mind—”

  “Deirdre! Adam can’t change his mind. If he changes his mind, there’s no way I’ll get authorization.”

  “Don’t worry. I think he was just being contrary. I don’t think he likes women. Strong women. He’s one of those homosexuals who find women intimidating, I think.”

  “Well, then you shouldn’t talk to him. Everything was fine. He liked me.”

  “Of course he liked you. You’re cute and you were going to smuggle for him. What’s not to like? But that’s not the way to get authorization, Omar.”

  “Well, what do you propose?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we have to talk. Caroline is even more difficult, because she’s genuinely loony, I think. She can’t be reasoned with. I tried.”

  “I wish you had just stayed out of it,” said Omar. “I was doing fine. Everything was fine.”

  “Everything was not fine, Omar! You were in the hospital and on the way to jail. That is not fine!”

  “Well, I was doing it. I was doing it my way. And it was working.”

  “But it wasn’t working, Omar. If it was working I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I didn’t ask
you to come here,” said Omar.

  “Oh,” said Deirdre. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I flew twelve thousand miles or whatever because I heard you were in a coma—a coma! I’m sorry I’ve hung out with a bunch of lunatics for three days trying to convince them to authorize a book you need to write. I’m sorry—”

  “Stop,” said Omar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just meant I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a baby.”

  “Then don’t act like a baby! Don’t agree to smuggle contraband! Don’t fall out of a tree!”

  “Falling out of the tree was an accident.”

  “You know what I think about accidents.”

  Omar attempted to throw the crust of bread he was eating across the room, but his injured wrist prevented it from traveling beyond the foot of the bed. “Yeah, and I’m fucking tired of you making me feel guilty! I’m not a moron. I’m not inept. Accidents happen to people, Deirdre. We’re not all perfect like you.”

  Deirdre retrieved the bread. She put it on the tray, and wiped her hands. “I’m not perfect,” she said. “I know I’m not perfect. I don’t think I’m perfect. And I’m sorry if I’ve acted that way. I’m just trying to help you, Omar. Because I love you.”

  “I know,” said Omar. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you really wish I hadn’t come?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “Because I can leave. I can leave whenever you want.”

  “No,” said Omar. “I want for you to stay.”

  She took the empty bowl of soup from him and put it back on the tray. She took the napkin and began to wipe his face but he pushed her hand away.

  “Omar!” she said. “You’ve broken your wrist. Please let me wipe the soup off your face.”

  “Okay,” said Omar. He submitted to this indignity and then turned away from her.

  “Why are you so angry? Are you sure you feel all right?”

  Omar said nothing.

  “Omar?”

  He turned to look at her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No,” said Deirdre. “Don’t be sorry. Just—” She reached down and touched his face. “Just rest,” she said.