Goodnight Beautiful

by Aimee Molloy

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” Josephine says as one of the women from the kitchen appears with a plate of fettuccine Alfredo wrapped in plastic.

  Annie can’t pull her eyes away from what she’s reading, shocked Sheehy didn’t take it a step further and tell the reporter about the text exchange he read on Annie’s phone. According to Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy, Mr. and Mrs. Statler also enjoyed a perverted sexual ritual in which Mrs. Statler pretends to be a patient named Charlie.

  She stuffs the newspaper in her bag, takes the food, and exits the dining hall. Margaret is watching television in her armchair, a blank look on her face, when Annie enters.

  “Here you go,” Annie says, trying to sound cheerful. “Lunch.” She puts the tray on the metal cart next to Margaret’s bed and unrolls the silverware from the napkin. “And remember, Sam’s away for a little while. I’ll be coming on his days. I have to go to class. You need anything else?”

  Margaret stares silently at her plate of food and then begins to eat. Annie kisses her cheek and steps into the hall as a woman with a walker is about to knock.

  “Here, give this to Margaret,” the woman says, handing Annie a purple bingo dauber. “Her son left it behind last night.”

  “Her son?” Annie says, taking it from her.

  “Yes. They were at my table, and he gave me this. It’s no good. Leaks everywhere.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She holds up her right hand; blotches of purple dot her wrist. “Can’t get this stuff off.”

  “No, I mean about her son being here.”

  “Oh. Yeah, he was here. He comes every week for bingo.” She shoots Annie a look. “I’m one of the few people here who’s still with it. Trust me, it was her son.”

  “Thank you,” Annie says. The woman turns and shuffles down the hall into her room. Annie heads to the lobby, dropping the dauber into a trash can she passes. There’s no one at the desk, and Annie pauses to scan the guest register, trailing her finger down the list of signatures, searching for Sam’s name. She shakes away the thought. Of course he wasn’t here yesterday, you idiot, she thinks. That woman is demented. She exits through the sliding doors, but when she gets to the parking lot, she turns around and hurries back inside, unable to stop herself. The door to Sally French’s office is slightly ajar. She knocks and peeks her head in. It’s empty.

  “She’s getting lunch in the dining room,” a young woman says as she passes. “She’ll be right back. You can take a seat and wait if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Annie says. The young woman enters the staff room, and Annie finds her phone in her bag.

  “This is Annie Potter,” she says when John Gently answers. “Is Chief Sheehy there?”

  She hears a clicking noise, and then Sheehy comes on the line. “Good morning, Mrs. Statler.”

  “It’s Potter, and why the hell did you go to the newspaper about Sam’s debt?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She lowers her voice. “Don’t play dumb, Franklin. Why on earth would you call a reporter and tell her—”

  “First of all,” Sheehy says, cutting her off, “I didn’t tell her about the debt. She knew about it already.”

  “What do you mean, she knew about it?” Annie asks.

  “I mean she knew about it. ‘Hello Chief, this is blah dee blah,’” he says, apparently imitating the reporter. “‘We received a tip that Sam Statler was in significant debt at the time of his disappearance. What do you have to say?’” She can hear the springs of Sheehy’s chair squeaking under him. “What do you want me to do? Unlike some people in this country, I still believe in a free press.”

  “A tip?” Annie says. “Two people know about the debt, Franklin. You and my cousin. And it wasn’t my cousin.”

  “And it wasn’t me, Mrs. Statler.”

  “It’s Potter,” she says. The door to the outside slides open, and a couple in their seventies enter. “I think I understand what’s behind the debt.”

  “Oh? Please, go on.”

  “Sam has some money coming from his father,” she says. “It’s a gift.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Sheehy asks.

  Annie turns her back and speaks softly. “Two million dollars.”

  Sheehy whistles softly. “Guess Ted did even better than I thought, chasing that girl. Funny you didn’t mention this to me earlier.”

  “It didn’t seem relevant,” Annie says, watching the couple sign the guest register before disappearing down the hall. “The money’s been fraught for him.”

  “Makes sense,” Sheehy says. “Getting two million dollars can be hard on people.”

  Annie bites back her annoyance. “Sam’s been auditioning for his father’s love his whole life,” she continues. “Getting the money felt like he’d earned that love. But it also felt cheap, like he’d allowed his father to buy him. So he spent it as quick as he could on some incredibly stupid shit.” She’s studied the bills, shocked at what he paid for things. The top-of-the-line lawn mower and professional surround sound installed in the house. $5,000 chair for his office. “He got carried away, and before he knew it, he was in over his head. He kept telling himself everything will be fine—it’s a thing he does—because the debt was temporary. As soon as his dad’s money comes, he’d pay it all off.”

  “I see,” Franklin Sheehy says. “And let me guess. There’s a twist.”

  “The money hasn’t come yet, and it’s taking longer than Sam expected.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “His mother has to sign papers over to him, but her health hasn’t been good, and the money is delayed.” It became clear to her yesterday, as she paced the house, nursing her third cup of coffee. His mother hasn’t signed the papers yet, and the debt’s been adding up, stressing him out. That’s why he’d been in such a bad mood the last few weeks, too anxious to sleep.

  “Sounds innocent enough,” Sheehy says. “But then why not tell you about it?”

  “He was ashamed, and scared I might leave him.” She takes a breath. “I’m telling you, Franklin, you can’t allow this to sidetrack the investigation. Something has happened to Sam. I’m sure of it.”

  Sheehy is quiet on the other end of the line and then sighs. “Two million dollars sure would be a nice amount to start over with. You sure he didn’t get it?”

  “Yes, Franklin. I’m sure. He would have told me.”

  “Listen, Annie. Like I told that reporter, we’re doing everything we can with the information we have.”

  She’s done wasting time. “Well, thank you for all your hard work. Have a nice day, Officer Sheehy.”

  “It’s Chief Sheehy.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she says. “I keep forgetting.” She ends the call, her hands shaking.

  “Annie?” She turns around. It’s Sally French. “Josephine said you wanted to speak to me.”

  “Yes.” Annie manages a weak smile. “A resident told me that Sam was here yesterday. I know she’s probably confused, but I need to at least ask if anyone saw him.”

  Sally hesitates, and there’s something about the look on her face that makes Annie uneasy.

  “What?” she says.

  “I haven’t seen Sam here in several weeks, Annie.”

  “What do you mean? He comes every other day. We take turns.”

  The door opens again, and a woman enters, clutching the hand of a little girl, her face painted like a cat, a red helium balloon gripped in her fist. Sally nods. “Let’s ask Josephine. She’d be the one to know.”

  Annie follows Sally to the front desk.

  “A resident said Sam was here and took Margaret to bingo,” Annie says to Josephine. “Any chance . . .” She allows the sentence to trail off.

  “No, sorry.” Josephine flashes a tight smile. “A volunteer has been taking Margaret to bingo. The resident was probably confused.”

  “When did you last see him?” Annie asks.

  “It’s been a while,” Josephine sa
ys. “Two months, maybe?”

  “You’re sure?” Annie’s voice is quavering. Because that would mean he’s been lying to me.

  “Yes.” Josephine’s expression is pained. “I’m here every day, and pretty much see everyone.”

  “Okay,” Annie says, as the little girl with the cat face abruptly lets go of her balloon. “Thank you.” She heads toward the doors, watching the balloon float slowly toward the ceiling, where it settles against a light fixture. She hears a loud pop, followed by the young girl’s shrieks, ushering her into the cold, gray afternoon, transformed just like that into the most cliché character of them all: the guileless wife.

  Chapter 37

  Sam stares at the notes he jotted down in one of the grid-lined notebooks Albert brought up from his office yesterday.

  Client initials: KJ

  Marital status: Newlywed

  Presenting problem: Got married in a secret ceremony in Mexico and is feeling conflicted. Also devoid of a conscience, grandiose sense of self-importance, and exploits others without guilt or shame.

  Treatment plan:

  Sam pauses to think about it.

  Annulment, followed by round-the-clock therapy in an inpatient environment and a lifetime ban on interacting with impressionable young women.

  Pretty good, Sam thinks, dropping the pen on top of the copy of In Touch magazine with Kris Jenner on the cover. Kris Jenner: his imaginary patient Nancy Neumann (Tuesday, 10 a.m.) had accidentally brought the magazine in from the waiting room and left it on the side table in his office. It included a famous actress’s weight-loss program and a two-page interview with the cover girl, which he is bored enough to have read four times in the last six hours. He grips the arms of the chair and begins a set of tricep dips, telling himself that’ll be him one day, on the cover of all the magazines.

  Therapist Held Captive by Landlord Speaks!

  Dr. Sam Statler, pictured here, at home with his wife Annie and two perfectly good legs, escaped after murdering his deranged landlord, Albert Bitterman, in a tremendously violent manner. He says the experience only made him a better man.

  The ladies of The View will dig up a photo of Albert as a kid and beg to know more about him. Sam will use a professional tone, and explain that according to his assessment, Albert Bitterman is, as they’d say in the business, batshit crazy.

  A picture is emerging. Emotionally stunted by his mother’s death at a young age, Albert was left in the care of an abusive and distant father, whose ideas of masculinity were at odds with his son’s sensitive nature. As an adult, he was deathly afraid of rejection, making it difficult to form attachments, leading to a lonely and isolated existence and an obsession with his tenant, whom he would eventually attack with a shovel and then keep him captive in his house. The ladies will all want to know the same thing—why was Albert Bitterman, a single fifty-one-year-old man, living alone in a five-bedroom mansion in the first place? But Sam will only shrug, explaining that this was one topic Albert wouldn’t touch. Twice now Sam has broached the subject, asking what brought him to Chestnut Hill, sending Albert abruptly out of the room both times.

  He starts another series of reps, imagining the live studio audience cheering his bravery for surviving an entire week without Annie. One week, that’s how long Sam’s been in this room. He’s been keeping track on the hand-drawn October calendar Annie made, which he found folded inside the academic paper Albert also brought up from downstairs. Pink-and blue-shaded boxes, “Visits to Yo Mama!” written across the top in Annie’s perfect handwriting. Each morning Sam makes a light mark, keeping track of another day.

  Annie’s one of the smartest people Sam has ever met, which means that it’s only a matter of time before she knocks on the door of Sam’s (lonely and apparently deranged) landlord to ask if he’s seen Sam. Or maybe she won’t even have to knock. Maybe she’ll drive by and see Sam’s car in the driveway—because where else would it be? She’ll do the smart thing and call the police, who will confirm that it’s Sam’s car, and then open the door and ask if he’d like to go home.

  Then again, maybe she’s not looking. Maybe, instead, she’s discovered the variety of ways he’s been lying to her. Chances are she’s going to open the credit card bills that are likely arriving in their mailbox, addressed to her missing husband. He hates himself for chickening out and not telling her the truth like he’d planned. The events of that evening have been on repeat in his head—the speech he’d rehearsed all day, preparing to spill everything. The made-up money. The credit card debt. The fact he hasn’t visited his mother. And then the invitation from “Charlie” arrived, which Annie had obviously sent from their driveway, inviting him to trade in all his worries for an evening of incredible sex. How could he say no?

  His triceps are stinging as he slides his casts to the edge of the ottoman and then onto the floor. Using his hands, he pulls himself around the room, from one stupid end to the other, dragging his useless legs behind him. He passes the door to the hallway (locked!), the wall with the window (boarded up!), pausing after the tenth lap to catch his breath. When he rotates the chair and begins to move again, he notices a flash of silver on the floor underneath the nightstand. The toilet flushes upstairs, and he checks the clock on the floor: 8:46 p.m. Albert will be down any minute to put him into bed. Quietly, Sam scoots himself forward to the nightstand. He reaches down.

  A four-inch putty knife. The sharp metal edge is sticky with wallpaper paste; the sturdy wooden handle is emblazoned with the logo of the hardware store on Main Street. Hoyts Hardware: Open Every Day ’Til 6!

  He hears Albert’s tread on the stairs, and slips the putty knife under his hip, then scoots his chair back in place next to the table. He gets his legs onto the ottoman just as the door opens. Albert enters backward, pulling the cart behind him.

  “Good evening, Doctor,” Albert says, pressing the brake on the cart. “You’re looking robust.”

  Sam smiles. “Feeling great,” he says.

  “That’s what I like to hear. Time to get you into bed.” Albert approaches him, arms outstretched.

  “Would you mind . . .” Sam gestures toward the bottom of the cart.

  Albert stops abruptly. “Already? You went an hour ago.” He shakes his head as he gets the bedpan. “I knew I shouldn’t have given you that extra glass of milk so late in the day.” He places the bedpan on Sam’s lap. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Albert closes the door behind him, and Sam waits a moment before easing the putty knife from under his hip and sliding it down the front of his sweatpants. His hands are shaking as he picks up the bedpan and waits.

  “All good?” Albert says, opening the door an inch.

  “False alarm, I’m afraid,” Sam says.

  “Probably stage fright,” Albert says, entering. “I’ll leave it here on your table.”

  Albert pushes Sam’s chair close to the bed, hoists him up, setting him gently onto the mattress. “Either I’m getting weaker or you’re gaining some weight,” Albert says, standing up and massaging his lower back.

  “It’s all the good food,” Sam says.

  Albert laughs and pats Sam’s arm. “You keep it up, you’ll be able to get up and walk right out of here in no time at all.”

  As Albert grips the handle of the cart and heads toward the door Sam chuckles, feeling the hard edge of the putty knife against his thigh. “Won’t that be something?”

  Chapter 38

  Thistle, I scrawl.

  Lavender.

  Oil of—

  A thick black box appears on the screen, covering the rest of the list.

  Natural Remedies to Get Rid of Moths is available to subscribers only. To keep reading, log in or sign up.

  I close the website and shake my head. The Pigeon was right: consumerism is destroying our culture. She wrote that on Facebook yesterday, posted it under a photograph of a large pile of plastic floating somewhere in the Pacific. Only someone without a soul could see that and not respond with a frowny
emoji. (I recently read online about a growing movement of people who believe emojis were created to stifle humans’ ability to express emotion, which is certainly something to consider.)

  I return to the search bar and am typing in What is thistle? when the alarm on my watch beeps. I drop my pen and reach for my blue apron. Back to work.

  * * *

  “Come in,” Sam calls when I knock.

  His face brightens when I walk in. “Good morning, Albert,” he says, and then sees what’s in my hand. “Is that a coffee in my favorite mug?”

  “Yes it is.” A Le Creuset mug, identical to the ones next to the Nespresso machine downstairs in his office, which cost an astounding $34 apiece. (I’m loath to say it, but it’s exactly these kind of exorbitant purchases that explain why Sam’s photo was on the front page of the paper yesterday next to a story about his “financial troubles,” but I certainly don’t have the heart to tell him that.)

  I push the cart closer to his bed and step on the brake. “Guess who slept with a call girl?”

  Sam struggles to swallow a mouthful of coffee. “Wait, what?”

  Seeing the look on his face, I burst into laughter. “No, not me,” I say. “Sam Seaborne, deputy White House communications director in the Bartlet White House. Rob Lowe’s character.” I empty the pitcher of warm water into the basin and reach for a washcloth. “I’m watching West Wing.”

  “Is that right?” Sam says. “That’s my favorite show.”

  “No kidding?” I feign shock. “Mine too.” (This is not a lie. I finished the series last night, and I’m so hooked that as soon as the last episode ended, I went back to the beginning to watch it all again.)

  “In fact, I’m kind of a West Wing fanatic,” Sam says, animated. “The woman’s name is Laurie, and she’s played by the actress Lisa Edelstein. She’s a law student, trying to pay her way through law school. Sam Seaborne didn’t know she was a prostitute when he slept with her.”

  “At least not on a conscious level,” I say under my breath as I dunk the washcloth into the water.