Brad says through a spurt of bile, ‘You might wanna split before it hits the fan here. I’m gonna puke.’
30
Bobby
Al and depressed Margaret just came in from Homosassa Springs with a pelican mounted on driftwood, a souvenir for him. Al is busy putting his arrangement of newspapers and empties back exactly how he had them, although Brad didn’t disturb much that Bobby can see. Margaret is tending her African violets with that apologetic air, as though she’s lamenting something so intense that she’s sorry Bobby’s not in on it. She bobs in the turret like a faded paper doll, picking off dead blossoms with a half-smile because death, at least, is something she can count on.
Ever since 9/11, Margaret’s had trouble going out. Bobby only lured her into the yard last month and Al got her into the car so she’s improving, but it’s slow. She claims it’s chronic fatigue syndrome, but Bobby is secretly convinced that after she lost the baby and her husband bailed, she just quit. She hasn’t exactly turned her face to the wall, but it’s close.
He’s grateful and singularly touched when he makes her smile.
Al is the most nearly content of the three. He never aimed all that high, which means he’s always been pretty well satisfied with whatever mark he happens to hit. Golden parachute, few demands, why not? He has something going with a waitress out at the Lighthouse; that’s all he seems to need, but Bobby. He had dreams.
He walks through these rooms grieving, but the other two will never guess. He’s that good at dissembling. It isn’t exactly the Fall of the House of Usher, but it’s close. How did we get this way, Bobby wonders. How did we go from being what we were to this?
Margaret floats by. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Not really.’
‘You look awful.’
‘Late night.’ Before they can ask questions he adds, ‘No big.’
Al says, ‘I’ve got Domino’s on speed dial.’
Margaret shudders. ‘All that grease! I’ll thaw my turkey soup.’
She’ll cry if Bobby doesn’t say, ‘Sounds good.’
‘And hot croissants,’ she adds. ‘Poppin’ Fresh.’
In New York, Bobby ate business lunches in the Oak Room and dinners at Lutèce and the old Le Cirque – all places, he realizes, that have ceased to exist, at least as he knew them. ‘That would be lovely,’ he says, just to see her smile.
‘I’m at the Lighthouse,’ Al says. ‘If anything comes up, you’ve got my cell.’
‘You don’t mind canned peaches, I hope.’ Margaret drifts into the kitchen. It’s a foregone conclusion that he’ll sit down and pretend to enjoy her idea of food.
How did it get to be twilight? Hard night, he supposes. Long day. It was nearly noon by the time he offloaded Brad and hosed down the Kalen laundry room, and the afternoon? He doesn’t know. He spent a certain amount of time roaming the house because he thinks somebody broke in last night, but he can’t prove it.
In the uncomfortable fug of Brad’s incursion he didn’t pick up on it, but when he walked into the house after delivering him, he got the idea that the air in here had changed. First he checked the obvious: strongbox. Yes. Family silver. Untouched. Then in a panic he upended the right-hand top drawer to the dresser he had as a kid.
The ring was still taped to the underside where he put it for safekeeping. He closed the drawer with an almost-sob, unless it was a groan.
Alarmed, he scoured his hard drive, but he found no tracks. Every file is timestamped: last accessed 6 a.m. yesterday, when he gave up on his piece about Fort Jude in the late 1800s and shut down. He headed downstairs, relieved.
There had, however, been a breach in security. He just didn’t pick up on it. Now, lingering in the shotgun hallway because he can’t bear to watch Margaret stirring her gummy turkey soup, he jerks to attention. The shelf with all their copies of The Swordfish is missing a tooth. He drops to his knees, disturbed.
His yearbook, the one with so much of his past in it, is gone.
Like the maid in that Ionesco play Bobby liked in college, he thinks, My name is Sherlock Holmes. He is sitting on the hall floor, double-checking, when Margaret sticks her head in. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I was just. Ah. Getting a rock out of my shoe.’
‘Don’t give me that. You were looking at Lucy’s picture.’
She doesn’t need to know that he razored it out. It’s in the back of