17

IN THE CAMRY, WITH ROSE Marie in the passenger seat, they went down to Sunset and turned right, toward the ocean. This part of town had gotten more run-down, just a memory of what it had been years ago. Junkies on the street, the usual desperation and false atmosphere, women in fishnet stockings, young men in tight-fitting jeans who were already hungry by early afternoon. Today, in the morning, they had the air of people waiting for a disaster they knew was coming.

“What’s the rush?” said Rose Marie. “Why do you want to see the kids so soon?”

“I just thought I’d come along,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“I wanted to see you and I wanted to come along,” he said.

“Nothing else, huh?”

The door of the hospital, that enormous revolving cylinder, moved with its unstoppable motion, as though it was part of the inevitable. Farrell hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his face made a little static when he ran a hand over it. When they got out of the elevator Rose Marie said, “What are you trying to do? Look like a French actor? Sort of cute, though.” She blinked. She leaned close, the scent of her hair strong, the touch of it soft and reassuring.

“I don’t think I’m cute,” he said.

“No, I guess not. Not with that scar in your eyebrow and that shopworn look. No, not cute.”

The hall was clean and bright, the paint on the walls fresh.

“So, what’s that tremble in your voice all about?”

“Th-th-is and that,” he said.

The room was as before, a classroom, although the diagrams for math had been erased from the board. Now, “The Battle of Hastings” was written in large letters. “Offensive weapons triumphed over defense. Invaders had more archers than the defenders.” The zing, the vibration of a bow string, seemed to linger as he stood there, considering a fight a thousand years ago while a dead girl was left in the brush at the side of the road.

Gerry, Catherine, Ann, and Jack were there, a sort of chorus, but somehow all the more powerful because they were young and seemed innocent. The definition of the difference between the way things appeared and the way they were.

“So, back again, huh? Just can’t get enough of us, can you?” said Catherine.

“Most people who come here to see us are just faking it,” said Ann. “They want to see us, but then they move on.”

“I’m tired of things being faked,” said Farrell.

“You know people like to do things for sick kids. Right?” said Gerry.

“Not really,” said Catherine. “Once is usually enough. They pat themselves on the back, and that’s it.”

“What about that woman, the singer?” said Jack. “The blond . . . who came a couple of times?”

“Just as phony as the rest,” said Catherine. “She just did a better job. And look at you. Slobbering over her. I thought the chemo killed hormones,” said Catherine. “You better get down to the pharmacy and check your chemo. You’re still all wired up on testosterone or something.”

“Come on,” said Rose Marie. She turned to Farrell. “Tell us a story.”

“Yeah,” said Gerry. “Something juicy. Some actor, you know, who is in deep trouble . . .”

“Let’s talk about stuntmen,” said Farrell.

“Isn’t that what you do?” said Catherine. “Aren’t you a sort of stuntman?”

“Let him talk,” said Rose Marie, but her voice had an edge.

“In the old days, before digital effects and other tricks, stuntmen had to take some chances. For instance,” Farrell said, “milk used to come in flat-topped cartons. The stuntmen would put out a mattress, cover it with a layer of the one-quart, flat-topped cartons, then put another mattress on top, then another layer of cartons, then another mattress. This was the best way to absorb energy when a stuntman had to take a fall from a second-story window. He hit the pile of mattresses, buffered by the collapsing layers of one-quart cartons. The stuntman would walk away.”

“Wow,” said Gerry. “Those days are gone.”

“So, what’s your milk carton?” said Catherine to Farrell.

Jack took off his hat and his scars were still pink, although a couple old ones were as white as fish bones.

“The stuntmen weren’t afraid,” said Jack.

Catherine turned to Farrell. “Do you get used to being afraid.”

“Maybe,” Farrell said.

Her dark eyes, her eyeliner, her white skin all the more uncanny than the last time. It was as though she was becoming more knowledgeable and more ethereal. She turned that glance on Farrell. It was like having the light of a prison swing over someone who is trying to escape.

“You’ve come back so soon,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Those stuntmen were a dying breed,” she said.

They were quiet for a moment, not glancing at each other or the walls or the windows, either. Catherine sat there, her dark eyes with that odd, almost beam-like presence.

“You don’t lie,” she said to Farrell. “That’s important to us. What’s the percentage in lying to us? There’s none.” She kept on looking at Farrell. “So, what are you really doing?”

“Work,” he said.

“What kind of work do you really do?” said Catherine. “If you don’t talk . . .” She gestured to Rose Marie. “We will tell her not to bring you around anymore.”

“No lies,” said Ann.

“I try to get people out of trouble,” he said.

“You mean like actors and stuff,” said Catherine. “You always read about them taking drugs, rehab, quack, quack, quack.”

“I’ve worked with other people, too. Like baseball players. Athletes.”

“I bet they really fuck up,” said Jack.

“Language,” said Rose Marie.

“Well, you know what?” said Jack. “If this guy hasn’t heard the word, it’s about time he did. And if he has, one more time isn’t going to hurt him.”

Catherine giggled.

“You know there aren’t many people like you,” Farrell said to them.

“How’s that?” said Catherine.

“I can trust you,” Farrell said.

“You better believe it,” said Jack.

“So, what’s the problem?” said Catherine.

“It’s hard to say,” Farrell said.

“Oh, screw that,” said Jack. “If you can’t make it real, then it’s not a problem, right?”

“Right,” said Catherine.

“Well, yes and no,” Farrell said.

“Don’t get slippery,” said Catherine.

“Yeah,” said Jack.

“Make it concrete or go home,” said Catherine. She began to cry a little, not much, and then touched the side of her face with the back of her hand.

Don’t fail them, he thought. What would it feel like to walk out of here and not be able to come back?

“Let’s say you get into something for a simple reason. You think a lot of people are in trouble because they are judged by hypocrites. You know, you use a drug, you sleep with someone’s wife, or husband, you make a promise you don’t keep, you get married more than once without getting a divorce, you hide the fact that you have a kid, that you stole some money, that you have been in jail, and the people who judge you do the same thing. And they want to ruin you for it.”

“Sure,” said Catherine. “Sure. But that’s just the beginning.”

She knows, thought Farrell.

“After a while it gets complicated,” said Catherine. “It was pretty clear, then it got gray, then . . .”

“Dark,” said Farrell.

“And you’re in the darkness now . . .” said Catherine.

He shrugged.

“Yes,” he said.

“So, get out,” she said.

In their glance Farrell saw that glassine clarity between them.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “I get it. You’ve become part of it. Is that it?”

“I wish I knew,” he said. “If you say you are going to do something, and then you don’t do it, are you still the same person as when you said you would?”

“No,” said Catherine. “You’re a punk. Especially if it’s a promise like the one you made to me.”

“It’s not that kind of promise,” said Farrell.

“So?” said Catherine.

“What if the thing you said you were going to do has changed, or what you have to do to finish the job has changed? And that even though things have changed, other people might benefit if you keep the commitment.”

“You mean like a lot more serious?” said Catherine.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You are just trying not to be less of a person,” she said. “Is that it?”

Rose Marie kept her eyes on Farrell.

“Listen to this,” said Catherine. “We had some jackass in here the other day from UCLA philosophy. Like he wanted to talk philosophy with us. He talked about Hegel.”

“I’ve read a little,” Farrell said. “A little heavy going sometimes.”

“You might read what he has to say about tragic heroes,” Catherine said.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Look it up,” she said.

“I haven’t got the time,” said Farrell.

“I don’t want to show off,” she said. “But then, you know, you’re scared shitless. That’s something I know about.”

“That’s right,” Farrell said. “I’m trying not to show it though.”

“It’s like this,” said Catherine. “You want the heart of it? What the jackass from UCLA gave us? See, a man can have a lot of obligations. To his family, to his wife, to society, to himself. And mostly they work together.”

“Do you remember what that was called . . .” said Rose Marie.

“Apa . . . something,” said Jack.

“Apollonian,” said Rose Marie.

“Yeah, that’s it. When it all works together. But every now and then something goes wrong. The obligations are opposed to one another. Does that sound familiar?”

“Yeah,” Farrell said.

“The tragic hero, according to the UCLA jackass, will stick with only one. The other bonds pulled him down.”

“Okay,” Farrell said.

“All that shit is gone,” said Jack. “It’s like the stuntmen. Bunch of dead ducks.”

They had that stare again, not at the walls, not at the window, not at each other.

Catherine put her hand, so cool and white, on Farrell’s arm. Just for a moment, as though she wanted to take a temperature, or to feel the warmth of someone who was healthy.

“I understand,” she said. “Just by touching you. I don’t want to go downstairs tomorrow and let them put some more of that poison into me. That chemotherapy. It’s cold when it goes in.”

“Yes,” Farrell said. “I believe you.”

“But I have to do it, to go on being me,” she said. “Because if I don’t, then I . . .”

She shrugged.

“I won’t be here anymore to give you shit,” she said.

The others laughed. But not Rose Marie.

“And you like that?” Farrell said. “Giving me shit?”

“I love it,” said Catherine.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a relief.”

She smiled. But her eyes had that same dark light sweep, like the negative of a lighthouse.

“So, tell me,” said Catherine. “Details.”

“I can’t do that,” Farrell said.

“I guess that means someone died,” said Catherine. “But I won’t push you.”

“Maybe it was a mistake,” Farrell said.

“Don’t you hope,” said Catherine. “You’re looking at a walking, talking mistake.” She shrugged in the direction of the others. “Them, too.”

Rose Marie said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

Catherine went on staring at Farrell.

“You can run away,” she said. “But that’s not going to help, not long term. You’re like one of us. You’ve got something and you can’t fix it. Welcome to the club.”

The sensation of this particular trap was at once soft as a cloud and yet like being caught in barbed wire, since Farrell’s constantly changing estimation of it left him aware that in addition to the facts, he was trapped by his mood.

“Rose Marie wouldn’t think much of you if you ran away,” Catherine said.

“You know what I’d like to be,” said Gerry. “I’d like to be a homicide detective.”

He looked right at Farrell.

“Good luck,” said Catherine.

“We’ve got to go watch a movie downstairs,” said Jack. “A romantic comedy. Girl gets boy. Girl loses boy. Girl gets boy. Just like clockwork.”

“Everything goes like clockwork here. Everything is figured in terms of time.”

“Survival rates,” said Jack. “How many years, months, weeks?”

Then the kids got up and went to the door, although Catherine looked back at Farrell. “It’s simple, really. Just do the right thing.”

In the hall their footsteps were like those of a small herd of goats.

In the elevator, when they were alone, Rose Marie said, “You can cry if you want. It’s only me.”

“I’ll save it for later.”

From the parking lot the aluminum and glass of the building were dull in the California light.

“I thought you were going to save that for later,” she said.

“Some things can’t wait,” he said. “They’re good kids.”

“Yes,” she said. “They are. And they like you, too.”