15 The phone is ringing when I return to the apartment. Clara picks up the kitchen extension as I come through the doorway, and as I toss my keys on the foyer table, I hear her say, “Just a moment, please—she’s right here.”
A secretary is on the phone—will I hold for Bert Shields? Since he is my mother’s lawyer—and now mine—I agree.
A moment later Mr. Shields’s resonant voice vibrates over the line. “Good morning, Aurora. How are you?”
I haven’t seen Mr. Shields since the wake. Because I’m supposed to be in mourning, I try to match his sedate tone, but I’m still feeling slightly giddy from the excitement of my computer purchase. “I’m fine, Mr. Shields, thanks for asking.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, Aurora, we need to get together soon. As executor of your mother’s estate, there are some things I need to discuss with you. This is largely a routine matter because you are the primary beneficiary, of course, but you might have a few questions about a couple of provisions in your mother’s will. Can you come down to my office sometime this week?”
I stand in silence, blank, amazed, and shaken. It’s an innocent request; it’s not like he’s asking me to travel out of the city, and I no longer have to worry about leaving Mother.
But the thought of exiting this building fills me with atavistic and inexplicable terror.
I glance toward the storage room, where Clara has gone back to weeding through Mother’s desk drawers. If Mr. Shields were here, she would quietly cover for me, but she can’t help me now.
I bite my lip. Nothing to do, then, but try to hide my humiliation. “I hate to make trouble for you, Mr. Shields”—is that a tremor in my voice?—“but could you possibly come to the apartment? I’m in the midst of a redecorating project, and it’s going to be hard to get away. I’d really appreciate it if you would come here.”
I close my eyes, bracing myself for a refusal. Any man who has his secretary place his calls obviously considers his time valuable, and I’ve just asked for an unexpected chunk of it. Then again, my mother’s estate is large, and she did consider Bert Shields a personal friend.
The lawyer clears his throat, then coughs. “Well . . . I suppose that’d be acceptable. How’s Wednesday, sometime around noon? I have a meeting downtown at one, so the Westbury Arms will be on my way.”
My eyes flutter open in relief. “Thank you. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
I replace the old phone in its cradle, cling to it a moment in relief, then move into the storage room. A stack of folders clutters the desktop, a blizzard of papers lies around the trash bag, and Clara’s lap is covered in yellowed documents.
“Bert Shields,” she says, proving that she was listening to at least my half of the phone conversation. “Is it time for the reading of M.E.’s will?”
I lean against the wall and fold my arms. “He’s coming Wednesday.”
“That’s good.” She looks at me, thought working in her eyes. “Are you going to be able to handle that? Sometimes these rituals can be a little . . . disconcerting.”
“I don’t see why I should have any problem. Mr. Shields said everything will be largely routine. He’s only coming because he thought I might have a couple of questions.”
“Would you like me to be here with you?”
The question strikes me as odd until I look at Clara’s face. Her blue eyes, which have watched me for so many years, are shining with compassion and concern. “I know all about your mother’s will,” she says, giving me a slow, sad smile. “When she realized she could not escape her condition, she updated her old will and had me witness it. So you don’t have to worry about protecting me from what may or may not be in it. I’d be happy to be with you if you want some emotional support.”
I’m not sure why the reading of Mother’s will should require emotional support, but Clara is always welcome here.
“Thank you.” I pull myself upright. “If you want to stop by, he’ll be here at noon.”
I reach for the garbage bag, intending to fill it with some of the papers strewn about, but Clara grabs my arm. “Leave it, dear. I’m still sorting through things.”
“But these are all rejects, right? I can clear some of this stuff away—”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Let me do this while you prop up your feet and look through those library books. I found some really nice ones with lots of clever ideas.”
I am about to protest that I want to help her, but I’ve learned to carefully choose my arguments with Clara.
So I leave her at my mother’s desk, sorting through papers in which she insists I would not be interested.
My heart thumps almost painfully in my chest as I approach Philip Cannon’s apartment for the second time in a single day. I’m not exactly sure why I’ve been drawn back here—maybe I’m bored, or maybe I’m infatuated with the thought of my new computer.
All I know is I can’t sit in my apartment doing nothing for another minute.
Clara finished emptying Mother’s desk at three and left, taking the bulging trash bag with her. By four I had skimmed all the decorating books she brought from the library; by four fifteen I had decided to paint my bedroom and den in a yellow shade called “buttercup buff.” I called a local paint store and ordered two gallons of a national brand; the store promised to deliver the paint and supplies within twenty-four hours.
At four thirty I did something I hadn’t done in years: I walked to the yawning emptiness beneath the staircase and descended halfway to the fourteenth floor. I turned around and ran back up the staircase two steps at a time, but I didn’t faint or fall apart.
Amazed at the baby steps I squeezed into a single day, at four forty-five I sat down to catch my breath and sorted through the mail. A home decorator’s catalog caught my attention. Within ten minutes I had found a wonderful bedspread and coordinating carpet, and best of all, I saw that I could order them online.
I could order them today . . . if I had a computer. Or if Philip Cannon will let me use his.
I am embarrassed to go over and beg for Internet access, but I do still have his book, so at five o’clock I find myself outside Philip’s door. I knock lightly, reasoning that he won’t hear me if he’s deep in concentration, but suddenly the door opens and his eyes are smiling at me through round glasses.
“Don’t tell me—now you want to order a Hummer.”
My mind goes blanker than a slab of granite, then I remember—Hummers are huge, boxy, military-type vehicles favored by athletes and movie stars. You can order them online?
“I don’t drive,” I tell him. “But I’ve seen them on TV.”
His smile diminishes a degree. “I was kidding.”
“Oh.” I bump up my own smile to assure him that I do have a sense of humor. “Listen, I don’t want to bother you, but I did promise to return your book—” I wave the book at him, but he is stepping back, silently inviting me to enter.
“I’ve just quit work.” He holds the door as I pass by. “I work for as long as my brain cells will fire, but when I start typing typos, I know I’m done for the day. Right now nothing would please me more than a little conversation. Come on in.”
I walk through the long gallery and lower my head, painfully aware that I’m blushing. It’s been so long since I made casual conversation with a man that I’m not sure how to respond. Is he flirting? Or just being nice?
Once inside his apartment, I hold up his book again. “Thanks for letting me look at this. It was . . . interesting.”
He leans forward and crosses his arms on the large kitchen island. “You didn’t read it, did you?”
“I did—well, I read most of the first chapter. But I told you, I’m not religious. I don’t think God speaks to people in dreams.”
“Don’t you think he can?”
“Well . . . if God exists, I suppose he can do anything. But just because he can doesn’t mean he does.”
“I thought it might be helpful.”
“I’m not sure there’s any help for me—apart from time, that is. I’ve been through some rough spots, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately and I’m sure I’m going to be fine. I’ve been making some small changes, trying to figure out what to do next—”
“Like buying a computer?”
“Exactly. And redecorating the apartment. I’m ready for a fresh outlook on life.”
I half expect Philip to frown, but he just reaches out for the book. “Thanks for bringing it back so quickly. You can’t believe how many books I’ve loaned out and never seen again. You must be a thoughtful and responsible person, Aurora Norquest.”
“I don’t know about that.” I look away as heat burns the back of my neck. I shouldn’t be talking about myself. A good conversationalist always turns the dialogue toward the other person, so I gesture toward the computer in the next room.
“So, neighbor—what, exactly, do you do all day?”
“Not much.” He straightens and slips his hands into his pockets. “When I’m not teaching at NYU, I write and research reports about economics. I know that sounds about as exciting as watching trees grow, but it’s fairly lucrative and sometimes it can be interesting.”
“For you and who else? I mean, who hires you?”
“Various companies.” He moves toward his office and beckons for me to follow. I wait until he slumps into a rolling chair before I slide into the empty seat next to the desk.
“People hire me to study markets and extrapolate data to help them forecast trends in industry and business. For instance, last year I did a study for a homeowner’s association and proved that realestate agents who represent their own properties tend to sell for more profit than their average client.” He chuckles. “That one didn’t go over well with the realty companies.”
“Because . . . you discovered that Realtors are cheating their clients?”
“They’re not cheating—but they do tend to move their clients’ sales along to make a quick buck. A lot of Realtors tell their clients to jump at a contract when it’s highly likely a better offer will come along if they’ll only wait awhile. Realtors know this; their clients don’t. And statistics demonstrate that Realtors profit from their knowledge.”
“Wow.” I have never purchased a piece of real estate, but I can see how Philip Cannon’s work might be valuable. “What else have you learned?”
“Well”—he grins—“a study I did for the mayor’s office proved that crime isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We tend to think of the typical drug lord as living in a luxury apartment and riding in limos, but most urban drug dealers live with their mothers.” He lifts a brow. “So what do those facts tell us about crime and its wages?”
“That crime doesn’t pay?”
He winks at me. “You got it, sister.”
I chuckle, but I can’t help wondering if he thinks it odd that his thirty-something neighbor was living with her mother until last week.
“So how do you do this work?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Do you go out and canvas drug dealers, or what?”
Philip folds his hands. “I notice things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Little things—telling things. Okay, here’s an example. A few months ago I had to go out of town. I was stopped at a traffic light in this little city upstate and noticed an attractive woman by the side of the road. She was getting out of a new SUV.”
I lower my gaze as my cheeks heat again. The man notices attractive women—has he noticed me in that way?
“I watch her for a minute, trying to see if she needs help. I’m not much good with cars, but I thought I could at least call her a tow truck if her car was dying. She was nicely dressed—pleated shorts, a leather belt, the sort of shirt women wear to play golf. But she doesn’t go to the hood of the car—she goes to the back, opens it up, and takes a brown paper bag from a cooler.”
“She was eating lunch?”
He laughs. “I was curious, too. Plus, by then my internal alarm systems were on full alert because this scraggly looking bum on crutches starts walking toward her from the street. I had barely noticed him before—he had been panhandling at the intersection—and all of a sudden I realize he’s going to approach this woman. He draws closer as she’s closing the back of the SUV. Just when I’m about to blow my horn to warn her, she sees the guy, smiles, and hands him the brown paper bag.”
“What was in it? Alcohol? Food?”
Philip blows out his cheeks. “His lunch. She was his wife, so I deduced the guy wasn’t broke. According to the obvious economic markers—the woman’s clothes, the new car—he was doing about as well as I am.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if you can safely make those kinds of assumptions. What if she was a friend? Or a volunteer from some social agency?”
“She kissed him good-bye—and trust me, it was more than a friendly kiss. But to be sure, I gave the guy a good look as I drove away. He had a Walkman in his pocket and an expensive pair of Sony headphones dangling from his neck—not the kind of thing you buy when you’re on a tight budget.”
“Who hired you to do research on that?”
“No one.” Now he’s blushing. “I just . . . notice things. After a while you learn to see everything in the light of economic theory.”
I look toward the window and reconsider my goal of ordering my bedroom furnishings from his computer. Philip will notice what I order, he’ll see the price, he’ll guess my taste, and he’ll probably figure out my entire pitiful life history within an hour.
I’m not sure I’m ready for him to know my history. I like him, I’m excited about having a new friend after all these years, but there’s only so many baby steps a girl can take in one day.
So . . . how can I make a tactful exit after barging in like this?
“Your work sounds interesting,” I say, “but I really stopped by to let you know I’ll be doing some renovation next door. Nothing major—I’m not tearing out walls or anything—but I will be painting and maybe scraping off some old wallpaper. I hope the commotion won’t bother you.”
“Not at all. But I thought you dropped by to return the book.”
He grins as heat creeps up my cheeks again.
“Yes. That too.”
“By the way”—his eyes narrow slightly—“how did you sleep last night?”
Aside from that mystifying dream about the flying puzzle pieces, I’d slept like a baby.
I try to smile naturally, pretending his intimate question doesn’t fluster me, though my pulse rate would tell him otherwise. “I think I’m going to be sleeping very well. I’m going to keep busy from now on. I’m redecorating, I’m going to check out some online courses, and I have lots of reading to do. Busy, busy, busy.”
“That’s good—if you like to keep busy.” He props one ankle on his knee, then points at me. “Hey, do you want to stay for dinner? I have some frozen chicken breasts I was about to toss into a salad. I only need to shred some cheese, tear the lettuce, and nuke the chicken.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he springs up and moves toward the kitchen. “I really shouldn’t stay,” I call after him. “I’ve come barging in without an invitation—”
“I’m inviting you now. Please stay and be my first dinner guest.”
I press my hand to my chest, half-afraid the unexpectedness of this invitation will prod me into panic mode, but my heartbeat remains strong and steady. Still fast, but strong. Somehow it is easier to say yes than no.
Ten minutes later I am sitting at the kitchen counter, running a block of Parmesan cheese over a grater while Philip slides two chicken breasts into the microwave.
“Tell me about Clara Bellingham.” He closes the oven door. “You two seem close.”
“We are.” It’s been years since I’ve shredded anything and my fingers feel uncoordinated. “Clara was my mother’s best friend and the only person who came around after Mother got sick. You’ve probably noticed that she’s still keeping an eye on me.” I frown at the miniscule mound of cheese. “Sometimes I think she keeps too close an eye on me.”
“She’s obviously fond of you.”
I laugh. “She likes you, too. And Clara doesn’t like everybody. She wasn’t terribly fond of Mr. Williamson. She’s opinionated, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. Uncle Charley, her late husband, died years ago, so she and Mother had to learn to get on as single women. They had to be strong.”
“Clara has no children?”
“None.”
“And you’re an only, like me.”
“An only . . . oh, an only child?”
“Right. I used to beg my parents for a brother, but they told me one was enough. My dad said the only way I’d ever have a sibling was if I’d been born second, not first. I guess I wore them out.”
I lift the grater and again check the miniature mountain of cheese beneath it. I think it’s enough for two. “Do you get along with your parents now?”
“Oh, sure. They’re not wild about me living in New York, and they’re not thrilled that I haven’t given them any grandchildren. But I tell them the only way they’ll have grandchildren is if I’d been born”—something that looks almost like bitterness enters his face—“a sports star instead of a geek.”
“You’re not a geek.” The words spring to my lips before I know what I’m saying.
A reluctant grin tugs at his mouth as he tears at a head of lettuce. “You don’t get out much, do you, Aurora? Don’t feel bad; I don’t mean that as a slap. But if you did get out, you’d realize I’m a far cry from a metrosexual or a dude or whatever they’re calling the hot guys these days.”
Awareness thickens between us. He’s braver than I am, quick to acknowledge his reality as well as mine, but I’m not yet ready to admit defeat.
“I don’t like to go out. While other people are out in the rat race, I’m at home . . . reading, mostly. But I’m not completely cut off from the world.”
I slide the plate of cheese over the counter. “I hope this is enough.” And I hope that’s the end of this conversation.
“I suppose I’m happy to be who I am.” He tips his chin downward, forcing his glasses to the end of his nose, and peers at me over the tops of his specs. “Do you know why God created economists?”
“No. Why?”
“To make weather forecasters look good.”
Groaning, I bring up my hand to cover my eyes. “Is that your idea of before-dinner entertainment?” I feel like a character on one of those reality shows, trying to make up witty repartee before an unblinking television camera.
“Afraid so. Mrs. B. laughs at my jokes. You should laugh more, Aurora. Despite what you see on the news, the world isn’t such a terrible place. If you stepped outside every once in a while, you might find that it’s pretty wonderful.”
I draw a quick breath. Maybe I should leave. He seems intent on probing at my sore spots, and nobody enjoys being probed, not even when the probing is gentle . . .
But it’d be rude to leave after accepting his invitation. And maybe he doesn’t realize what he’s doing, so if I can change the subject . . .
The microwave beeps for his attention. While he turns to grab the chicken, I pick up a framed photo on the island.
“This your family?”
He glances over his shoulder. “Yes. That’s Mom and Pop Cannon. My folks.”
“Do they ever visit?”
He reaches for a knife from a drawer. “Sometimes I think they’d rather visit Sodom and Gomorrah than New York. They’re real down-to-earth people.”
“You’re lucky to have them.” I run my fingertip over the image of the tall man in the photo. “I’ve never known my father.”
Blade in hand, Philip looks up. “Your father is Theodore Norquest.”
“Right.”
“You don’t know him at all?”
I shake my head.
He slices the cooked chicken with steady, deliberate motions. “That’s what Clara told me. I guess I was hoping she had exaggerated the story.”
I shrug. “Unfortunately, my father is a jerk. By the time I was born, Mother despised him. I’ve never even spoken to him.”
Philip tilts his head. “That’s hard to believe.”
“You think I’d make up a story like that?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. But when a person is famous, you want to believe they deserve that kind of fame, you know? It galls me to think the man is a jerk. I’ve always loved his books.”
Despite everything, my interest flickers. “You read his stuff?”
“Every Norquest book I can get my hands on. When I was a kid, my folks used to get me the latest Theodore Norquest novel every year for Christmas. I’d thank them and sit down to Christmas breakfast, but the entire time I was dying to get away and start reading. My mother used to say I was the only kid she knew who could go into his room on Christmas Day and not come out for twenty-four hours.”
For some inexplicable reason, this information thrills me. “Were his books really that good?”
“They’re still that good. Though he’s not publishing at the same pace he used to, I scarf up his stories whenever he puts out a new release. He’s grown better as he’s grown older . . . but his last few books have made me feel sad, and his stuff never affected me that way before.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m sad because I know he won’t be around forever.”
I can’t respond—I’m not sure I ought to respond. We are discussing the man who created me, but we might as well be discussing Al Capone. I think my mother would be more likely to forgive the infamous gangster than my father.
I press my hand to the countertop and study the tips of my fingernails. A hundred questions about Theodore Norquest have risen in the back of my throat, but for years the mere mention of his name sent tremors of revulsion through my household. To ask about him feels disloyal somehow, especially with Mother barely gone . . .
“Did you never read him?”
Philip’s question jars me out of my silence. “Are you kidding? Mother would have fainted if she’d seen one of his books in our apartment. For years she wouldn’t even go into a bookstore because she was bound to glimpse one of his novels on a table.”
Philip gives me a sidelong look of utter disbelief. “Would you like to read him? I have a few of his books packed away, and I think I could find them without too much trouble. I’d be happy to lend you as many as you like.”
My mouth goes dry. I feel like Pandora hesitating before that beautiful fatal box, enticed by curiosity and completely certain that unless I lift the lid I will never know happiness or contentment.
But what might that contentment cost me?
“I’ll have to hide the book from Clara,” I whisper, thinking aloud. “She might have a coronary if she sees one of his books in the apartment.”
“I won’t tell,” Philip promises. “Not a word.”
I bite my lip. My questions will never be answered unless I am able to judge my father for myself. So what if he is a cruel and callous man? He is also a literary genius. Surely I can enjoy the genius without endorsing the monster.
“If I were to take one of the books—I’m not saying I want one, but if I did—which would you recommend?”
Philip rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “That’s hard to say—some of them are very different. Norquest went through a dark phase a few years back . . . but some of his most memorable work came out of that time. One book scared the willies out of me when I read it, so I suppose it’s my favorite. I try to read it at least once a year.”
“Why on earth would you want to reread something that scared you?”
He dumps the sliced chicken into the salad bowl. “I think it helps me face my fears. I’m always at a different place when I read it, so the story resonates in a different way every time.”
I hesitate, not certain I ought to ask the question that leaps into my mind. “What are you afraid of?”
“That’s a personal question, Ms. Norquest. Are you sure our friendship has advanced to that level?”
Despite the twinkle in his eye, I’m ill at ease. I’ve gone too far. “Maybe not . . .” I force myself to keep my rear on the counter stool, but my leg twitches like it wants to bolt for home.
He laughs lightly and sprinkles the shredded cheese over the salad bowl. “I’m afraid of the usual stuff, Aurora—change, the future, loneliness. All the uncertain elements of the human condition. I’m afraid that some night I’ll be sitting in bed and choke on a ham sandwich with no one around to administer the Heimlich. Plus spiders. I don’t like spiders at all. And I seem to recall that Norquest novel as being liberally peppered with spiders.”
Spiders are an awful lot like cockroaches . . . a shiver runs down my back, but I ignore it and raise my chin. I will not be dissuaded.
I rap my knuckles on the countertop. “Okay, I’ll take one book. Not that scariest one—I don’t need any more fodder for nightmares. But another of your favorites. The least frightening one.”
He grins. “It’ll take me a while to dig through the novels, but I’ll find a good one for you. The man writes horror, remember, but there are some . . . well, you’ll just have to read it for yourself to see what I mean.”
“Thanks—but if I read it and hate it, will you be mad if I say so?”
“Honesty is always the best policy between friends, don’t you think?”
He sets a pair of salad tongs beside the bowl, then slides an empty plate toward me. And again I am reduced to blushing when I realize we have become something other than mere acquaintances.
By the time Jay Leno signs off, I can no longer stay awake. My visit to Philip’s apartment reminded me that nothing but a thin wall separates us at night. If I so much as whimper in a bad dream, he’s likely to hear me . . . and ask me about it the next morning.
Last night I was lucky—my dream was puzzling, but innocuous—but something tells me my luck won’t hold. My visit with Philip chased some of the shadows from my heart, but the moment I crossed my threshold, they came back, slinking and sliding into their accustomed places. They are with me now, smelling of Mother; they are in her room, hiding under her hospital bed and lurking in her closet.
Repressing a shudder, I step into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I keep my gaze lowered, afraid to look in the mirror, terrified of what I might see standing behind me. This feels real, this is real, but my nightmares are expert pretenders, counterfeiting the senses of touch and taste and smell to wreak their havoc.
After rinsing my mouth, I reach upward, feel the rim of the cup I use to hold my toothbrush, and drop the brush in. To avoid looking in the mirror, I grab the edge of the medicine chest and swing it open. Instead of staring at a ghost, I find myself studying glass shelves lined with amber-colored medicine bottles, souvenirs of Mother’s latter months.
One bottle, nestled between my razor and a container of dental floss, catches my eye. It’s Halcion, a drug the doctor prescribed for nights when Mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—sleep. “I always hesitate to do this,” Dr. Helgrin had said, “but we must face facts—you need your sleep, Aurora, if you’re going to care for your mother, and you can’t sleep unless she does. So I want you to give her these, but only occasionally, only as a last resort.”
I take the bottle out of the cabinet and twist the lid—at least a dozen pills remain. Mother had done well on the Halcion, waking the next morning with no apparent ill effects. Most important, she had slept deeply, and on those nights I hadn’t had to worry about her getting out of bed and wandering around in the dark.
If I take one of these, perhaps I will sleep below the level where dreams stir and nightmares make mischief.
Without further thought, I pop one of the pills into my mouth, then splash up a handful of water and swallow.
Nervous flutterings invade my stomach as I close the medicine cabinet and confront my reflection in the mirror. Mother is not standing behind me, hollow-eyed and accusing.
I am alone.