by Jeff Lindsay
But Bio Dad’s beatings had also slammed Cody out of the world of sunshine forever, into the cool dusk where the predators live. It had made him into my true heir, the Crown Prince of the Dexter Dark, eagerly awaiting my training so he could take his rightful place on the Shadow Throne. I was fairly sure the meeting today would not touch on that part of Cody’s education.
“Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Hornberger said sternly. All eyes automatically swiveled to her, and even Rita stopped talking. Mrs. Hornberger looked at us each individually, to make sure we were all paying attention. Then the smile came back to her face, and everyone breathed again. “We were discussing Cody’s … conceptual difficulties … with socialization.”
“Oh,” I said, and because I had no idea what else to say, I added, “Yes, of course,” and she nodded at me approvingly.
And then we were off in search of Arriving at Meaningful Accommodation in a Context of Achieving Appropriate and Symmetrical Social and Educational Goals, stopping along the way to fondle every New Age–Feel Good buzzword ever coined. It was every bit as torturous as I had feared it would be, and it was clearly much worse for Cody. He could understand only one word in every four, and he squirmed and squeezed his hands together and moved his legs back and forth, and after only ten minutes he had taken fidgeting to dizzying new heights.
Rita followed every word that fell from Mrs. Hornberger’s lips with breathless concentration, her brow furrowed with worry. She would interrupt now and then with one of her fragmented sentences, ending with a question mark. Mrs. Hornberger would nod as if she actually understood, and slide another cliché out of the arsenal, and Rita would nod eagerly and go back to scrunching her face into a mask of concern.
I watched her face squeeze into its wrinkled mask, and I marveled again at how old Rita looked all of a sudden. The worry lines in her forehead seemed permanent, and they were matched by others around her mouth. Beyond that, her skin had lost color and seemed to be fading into a pale, sagging, raised relief map of some desert. Was it merely worry over Cody, or had she actually gotten as old as she looked? We were the same age—did that mean that I was getting old, too? It didn’t show when I looked in the mirror—at least, not to me. Perhaps I was blind to what I really looked like and I, too, was beginning to wrinkle and blanch. I hoped not; I had a great number of important things left to do yet, and I did not want to look like a pallid walking raisin while I did them.
It is strange where the mind wanders when it is being assaulted with earnest and needless platitudes. I am quite sure I should have felt more sympathy for Rita, more empathy with Cody, and more admiration for Mrs. Hornberger’s wonderful command of multisyllabic educational inanity. But I didn’t; all I really felt was teeth-grinding annoyance at the Ordeal by Jargon, and faint repugnance at Rita’s sudden vault into visible old age—and mild alarm at the thought that I might be sliding into senescence, too.
By the time half an hour had slogged by, I had lost every glimmer of the contentment that had so recently lit up my life and I was beginning to fidget almost as much as Cody. But it was another fifteen minutes before Mrs. Hornberger finally marched to her triumphant conclusion—Social Goals must be Integrated into an Individually Tailored Plan for Cooperative Learning, with a Full Commitment to Successful Goal Attainment at Home and at School, on Individual and Institutional Levels—and I could finally stagger weakly from the classroom, clutching my fevered brow and yearning, surprisingly but powerfully, for a cold mojito with Jackie.
I walked with Rita and Cody all the way to her car, where we paused to allow her to finish a sentence. And then she looked at me with that same faceful of worry wrinkles, and said, “Dexter—are you really …? Because I mean, I don’t know.”
“Absolutely,” I said. Surprisingly enough, I understood her, or at least I thought I did. “And I really will be home in a few days, with enough money for a brand-new pool cage.” And as I said it, I felt regret stirring; was it really only a few more days?
“Well,” she said. “But it’s just— I only …” She fluttered both hands helplessly. “It would be nice if you— You really can’t even tell me what you’re doing?”
I opened my mouth to tell her that no, I couldn’t really—and then I remembered that yes, I sort of had to, in a way: captain’s orders. “Um,” I said, not really sure where to begin. I suddenly felt a little bit like a kid asking permission to have a cookie after eating all but one, and I didn’t know why. There was no reason for me to feel guilty or uneasy; I had done exactly what I was supposed to do, and all for the noblest motive of all—a pool cage. So I shrugged it off as a hangover from Mrs. Hornberger’s tirade and plunged right into it.
“There’s a TV show shooting in town,” I said, and Rita lit up like a birthday cake and took off into breathless response.
“Oh!” she said. “Yes, it was in the paper? And they said that Jackie Forrest— Did you know she’s thirty-three? I don’t think she looks it, but of course she must have had a lot of— And Robert Chase! He is so handsome, but he hasn’t done anything in practically— Is that what you— Oh, my God, Dexter, has something horrible happened to Robert Chase?”
“Not yet,” I said, fighting to keep the regret out of my voice. “But the point is, Captain Matthews assigned me to be a technical adviser to the show. And, you know, teach Robert about what I do.”
“Oh. My. God!” Rita said. “You’ve actually met— Dexter, I can’t believe it— I mean, this is just amazing!”
“It’s just more work,” I said, and I admit I was a little irritated at seeing Rita so excited over the mere idea of Robert Chase. “Anyway,” I said, hoping I could get the whole thing out without another of Rita’s verbal frenzies, “there’s another guy in the cast, a comedian, Renny Boudreaux?”
“Yes, he’s very good,” Rita said very seriously. “He uses some words that— And you met him, too?”
“Yes,” I said. “And he’s taping a special Saturday night. And the captain wants me to go.”
“Wants you to go?” she said. “That doesn’t make any— And why wouldn’t you want to go anyway? Because—”
“He thinks it’s good for the department’s image,” I said. “To show cops and the stars all together. And so I have two tickets—”
“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!” Rita said. “Really? Oh, Dexter, oh, my God! This is amazing— But I can’t possibly get a sitter in time!”
It took another five minutes to get Rita calmed down enough to utter a coherent agreement to meet me at seven thirty in the lobby of the Gusman Saturday night, and I found myself growing increasingly anxious for my mojito. It was very odd; I have never been a drinker, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t turned into one overnight—and certainly not enough of a drinker to get the shakes when five o’clock approached without my usual dose. But I could almost taste the cool drink sliding over my tongue and down my throat, almost see Jackie looking at me over the rim of her dew-beaded glass, her large violet eyes alive with amusement at something I hadn’t said yet, and I felt myself growing increasingly irritated with Rita’s high-speed dithering.
And dither she did: She babbled reverentially about Jackie, and actually giggled over Robert, and tossed in several disjointed compliments to Renny and how smart he seemed, even though he did use some very rough language. And then she slid into a totally paralyzed frenzy because she didn’t have anything at all that she could possibly wear—although I knew for a fact that her closet was overflowing with clothing—and how could I possibly expect her to appear in the same room with someone like Jackie Forrest …!
I’d had no notion that Rita actually knew anything about TV stars, and even less idea that she actually cared, that she would be impressed to the point of girlish incoherence at the thought of meeting Robert Chase, and seeing Jackie Forrest in a fancy dress. I mean, I sat on the couch beside Rita every night, and we did watch TV together—but to see her collapse into a kind of babbling hero worship because she was going to see Renny’s show, and might even
breathe the same air as Robert Chase! It was a side of her I had never even seen a hint of before, and I wasn’t really sure what to do with it now.
But happily, even Rita needs to breathe every now and then, and when she finally paused to do so, I jumped in quickly and firmly.
“Rita, I have to get back,” I said. “You will be there on Saturday?”
“Of course I’ll be— I mean, I’ll have to find some kind of dress somewhere, and I don’t have any idea—maybe Nancy’s daughter, Terri? But she’s in marching band, so I don’t know—”
“You don’t really need to wear anything fancy,” I said. “I’m not even wearing a tie.”
“Dexter, I’m going to be on TV! With Jackie Forrest! Of course I have to wear something— Oh, honest to God, you don’t have any idea— Maybe I could still fit into that thing from Key West? You know, that you said looked like a nightgown?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven thirty.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “But I really don’t know—”
I leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Bye,” I said. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
Rita pecked me back, and I turned to go at last.
“Dexter,” she called after me, and I sighed and turned back to her. She opened her mouth to say something, and then didn’t say it. For a long moment she didn’t say anything at all, just looked at me, and I wondered what had derailed her frenzy. I was finally about to speak myself when she said, “It’s just that … Do you have clean clothes?”
“Socks and underwear,” I said.
“And a decent shirt to wear to this thing?”
“Yes,” I said, extremely puzzled at the paradigm shift. “A nice guayabera.”
Rita nodded, still looking at me intently. “Because it’s just …” She fluttered one hand, like a small bird with a broken wing, and looked at Cody, then back to me. “I miss you,” she said. “We all do.”
“Me, too,” Cody said in his husky, too-quiet voice.
I blinked at the two of them with surprise bordering on shock. Not merely because the thought of my laundry led Rita directly to saying she missed me. I found it shocking that she missed me at all. And Cody, too? Why? I know exactly what I am—although happily, no one else seems to—and what I am is no great prize, unless we are now awarding medals for inspired vivisection. And so to hear her say they all missed me? What did that mean? Why would anyone miss me? All I did was come home for meals, sit on the couch for an hour or two, and go to bed. Why would anyone miss that?
It was a wonderful conundrum of human behavior, the kind that I had been puzzling over my entire life, and ordinarily it would have been fun to mull it over for a while. But Rita was looking at me expectantly, and years of studying how people act, mostly on daytime dramas, has taught me to recognize a cue when I hear one. So I gave Rita a warm synthetic smile and said, “I miss you, too. But it’s just a few more days. And,” I added when her face stayed locked into that same worried look, “we really do need the money.”
It took her several moments, but Rita finally nodded and said, “Well, yes. But it’s just—you know.” I didn’t know, and she didn’t tell me. She just shrugged and said, “All right then.” She walked the three steps to me, then leaned in, and I gave her a small kiss on the cheek. I looked at Cody, who was watching with his usual alert stoicism. “Relax,” I told him. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“And I’ll see you in a couple of days,” I said. “Remember to Visualize your Procedural Templates.”
Cody made a horrible face and shook his head. “Yuck,” he said, and I have to admit we were in complete agreement.
I turned away again and Rita called after me, “Dexter—just call a few— I mean, if it’s not too much?”
“All right,” I said, seeing the mojito floating in front of me in the air. “I’ll call.”
It was just past four o’clock. Traffic was beginning to slow with the start of rush hour, and the steady lines of cars were squeezing together, coagulating into loud, angry knots and beginning to form a motionless scab on the highways. It took me most of an hour to work my way through the snarls and get back to my office, and along the way I had plenty of time to reflect on what had been, after all, a very full day. Even though the teacher conference had washed away the afterglow of my encounter with Patrick, I felt no worry and no regret. No one would miss him, and it had been far quicker than he deserved.
Jackie’s Town Car was waiting outside headquarters, motor running, when I finally got back. The driver was leaning against the front fender, smoking a cigarette, and he waved to me as I approached. I stepped over to the car, and the rear window slid down.
Jackie looked out at me with a smile that was small, but somehow made me feel like everything was going to be all right. “Hey, sailor,” she said. “Would you like a lift?” And the smile got just a little bit wider as she said, “I think it’s mojito time.”
I thought so, too. I got in the car.
TWENTY-ONE
SATURDAY MORNING JACKIE SLEPT LATE. I AM AN EARLY RISER, and in any case it’s hard to drowse in bed half asleep when you’re on the couch in a luxury hotel. So I was up at seven, and sitting on the balcony with breakfast by seven fifteen. The sun came up right on time, just the way it did on weekdays, but I tried to work through my meal a little slower, in honor of the weekend.
Far out over the water a flock of boats moved by, heading south to the Keys, or east to Bimini, the Gulf Stream, and even beyond. A large sportfisher went roaring right over the deep spot where I had put Patrick, kicking up a high rooster tail in its wake. I wondered whether it would make enough turbulence to rip him free of his anchor; perhaps he would shoot up to the surface like a nightmare cork, and bob along behind the speeding boat, all the way to the Bahamas.
Probably not. And if he did, I doubted that the big cruiser would slow down, not with marlin and sailfish waiting.
I sipped my fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was very good. So were my Belgian waffles, and the bacon was cooked just right: crisp without being dry. And the fruit on the side was excellent, too, maybe the best I’d ever had—except at breakfast yesterday. And the day before. It didn’t taste like the fruit normal people can get in the supermarket, which always seems diluted, like it has been shot full of water to make it bigger and brighter. This stuff actually had real flavor. It tasted just like you always think fruit ought to taste, but never does.
I sipped. It really was wonderful to be me, at least for the time being. I wondered if you ever got used to this kind of thing, jaded enough to call the waiter and send it all back if a pear slice had a blemish. I didn’t think I would, but who knew? Living this way changed people, and perhaps I would eventually turn into a self-centered dolt—like Robert, for instance. He couldn’t possibly have started out in life the way he was now, or his parents would have strangled him in his cradle.
So maybe I would change, too, after a couple of years of penthouse living. Of course, we would never know; this was all ending soon, far too soon, and I would be back to the world of bruised pears and watery-tasting apples. Sad, depressing, and inevitable—but why let the future ruin the present? For the moment, life was good. I was alive, and Patrick wasn’t, and I still had two strips of bacon left, and most of the fruit.
By seven forty-one I had eaten the last piece of perfectly ripe cantaloupe, pushed the plate away, and refilled my coffee cup. I had tried, but I really couldn’t make the meal last any longer without moving in slow motion. So I sipped my coffee and just sat there in the sunshine waiting for Jackie. In spite of the coffee, the size of the meal and the sun on my face made me feel a little drowsy, lazy, like a large and well-fed lizard on a rock.
By eight thirty I was saturated with coffee, and filling up with impatience. There was not even anything to be impatient about; it was Saturday, after all, and I knew of nothing urgent going on anywhere that required my presence.
Even so, it made me nervous to sit there and do nothing. I suppose it seems a bit much to complain about having nothing to do except sit on the penthouse balcony and drink coffee. There are worse fates, after all—I have personally delivered many of them. But the truth is, I felt ignored, even slighted, and I wanted Jackie to spring out of bed and run to me so I could protect her—doubly stupid, since I knew very well that there was nothing left to protect her from.
But it was eight forty-two before she finally made her appearance, and it was not so much a spring-and-run as it was a stumble-and-trudge. She fell into the chair opposite me as heavily as if she had been dropped from the roof, and she stared at me for several seconds before she remembered how to speak.
“Guh mornuh,” she said, in a voice that was somewhere between a croak and a rasp. She cleared her throat, then closed her eyes, swaying slightly. “Coffee,” she said, and if a growl can sound both demanding and plaintive, hers did. I stared at her; her face looked puffy, rumpled, and her hair was scruffy and unbrushed.
She opened one bleary eye. “Please,” she croaked.
I reached for the coffeepot and she closed her one eye again. I filled a cup and put it in front of her, and when she didn’t move, I leaned over, took her hand, and placed it on the handle of the cup. Still without opening her eyes, she drained the cup and held it out toward me. “More,” she growled.
I refilled her cup. She drank this one a lot slower, and about halfway through it her face began to shrink back to its normal shape, and then she opened her eyes. They were violet again, and most of the red was gone from them. She finished the cup, refilled it herself this time, and sipped slowly.
