“He got to our house late on Friday, January twenty-fifth, 2013,” Joan says. “But I didn’t actually see him that night. I was asleep.”
Joan is telling me about the final time Sydney visited the Sullys.
Last night was so pure and gratifying, such a culmination, finishing our song, hearing it come to life. But now, this morning, I feel the natural comedown of having accomplished this big thing we were building toward. There’s an emptiness again and I’m not sure I’m feeling sturdy enough to tackle what I know is Joan’s only remaining memory of Sydney. At first I was hesitant to hear her recollections. Now I’m anxious at the thought of having no more left to hear.
I start out on the studio couch, sitting up, but once Joan begins, I feel the need to lie down. Resettled, I ask, “When did you see him?”
“The next morning,” Joan says. “I come out of my bedroom and pass my parents’ bedroom and Dad is still sleeping because he was up late in the studio. I get to the kitchen and I see Mom and Sydney sitting at the table with a laptop and Sydney says—”
“Wait,” I say. “Would you mind going a little slower? What does he look like? Tell me about his face.”
“Okay, well, he has brown eyes like me and his hair is short and gray and his chin is a little bit like a ball.”
“What about his ears? Do you see his ears?”
“No.”
“He had very droopy earlobes. They were so long they’d almost swing.”
Joan examines her own ears with her fingers.
“Sorry,” I say. “Go on.”
“Sydney says, ‘Good morning, Miss Joan. Quick, what’s today?’ and I say, ‘Saturday, January twenty-sixth,’ and he says, ‘What day of the week was January twenty-sixth last year?’ and I say, ‘Thursday,’ and he says, ‘What about the year before that?’ and I say, ‘Wednesday’ and he says, ‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, you should go on Ellen, she’d love you,’ and I ask, ‘Who’s Ellen?’ and Mom and Sydney tell me who Ellen is and now I’m excited because I would love to go on a TV show. But then they forget all about Ellen and they go back to staring at Sydney’s computer screen.”
“Can you see the screen?” I ask.
“No.”
I’m grilling her way more than usual. I have this savage thirst to squeeze every last drop of him from her mind. I know he’s not really here—he’s been gone for nearly two months now—but in a way it feels like I’m watching him leave a second time.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“I go into the fridge to get a drink,” Joan says.
“What is Sydney doing?”
“Talking to Mom, but I’m not paying attention. I’m too busy thinking about how cool it would be to go on TV. I pour myself some orange juice and I ask Mom to tell me more about the Ellen show, but she says, ‘Excuse me, I’m in the middle of a conversation.’ Now I’m paying attention to their conversation because I’m waiting for a space so I can speak. When I find a space I ask Mom again about the Ellen show and she says—”
“Hold on. What about their conversation? What are they saying?”
“I have no idea,” Joan says. “It’s very weird. First Mom says, ‘Personally I like wolf den,’ and then Sydney says, ‘Me too, wolf den or breakfast time. I’m also considering D and D.’”
It sounds like Joan is speaking in tongues. “Can you repeat that again slowly?”
She recites the same terms: wolf den, breakfast time, D and D. The words still don’t register. I’m not sure if they’re names or phrases or titles or what. But Joan is already moving on.
“And then Sydney walks into the living room to make a phone call. Mom asks me what I want to eat and I tell her I’m not hungry yet. I ask her what we’re doing today and she says she’s thinking about taking me ice skating.”
“Do you hear Sydney talking on the phone?” I ask.
“Only the very last part. Sydney says, ‘Perfect, see you at eleven. Looking forward to it,’ and then he comes back into the kitchen and—”
“Stop.” I’m sitting up on the couch now, hands out. This could be my best and last chance at figuring out what Sydney was up to in New York.
I make Joan repeat the whole thing and then I ask, “When he was on the phone, was he over in the corner, talking quietly? Did it seem like he didn’t want you and your mom to hear?”
“No,” Joan says. “He was walking around the living room, talking normally.”
“And you’re sure he made the phone call? Or did the other person call him?”
She takes much longer than usual to answer. “I don’t know. All I know is that his phone didn’t ring.”
It wouldn’t have rung. It wouldn’t have made any sound at all unless it had been resting against a hard surface. He always kept his phone on vibrate.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“I ask Mom about the Ellen show again and she tells me Ellen’s last name. I take my glass of orange juice to the computer and I look up information about Ellen and I watch some of her videos on YouTube.”
“What are Sydney and your mom doing?”
“They’re talking, but I’m not listening, and then Sydney goes down to the studio and that’s the last time I see him.”
Joan doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. I already know from her silence.
I sit on the couch, feeling impossibly tired. It’s as if I’ve been made to stay awake for the past two months, and only now do I realize how badly I need sleep.
But Joan isn’t finished. “He came back to the house later that day. I was out with Dad, I never actually saw him, but I did eat one of the mini-cupcakes he brought for us. It was the best cupcake I ever had because it had crushed Reese’s Pieces on top and there was even one cupcake in a special container for Mom that didn’t have any gluten in it because that was the week she was convinced she was allergic to gluten.”
“And you have no idea where he went?”
She shakes her head.
“Joan.”
“Yes?”
I fear the answer, but I have to ask. “Is there anything else? Anything at all you can tell me?”
She lowers her eyes, shakes her head again.
I sit there, staring. I feel an itch on my cheek but I leave it unscratched. I couldn’t lift my arm if I tried. My mind has abandoned its post, rendered me motionless. All I can do is stare forward, past the girl in her father’s desk chair, across the room, through the walls of the house, into open air, into space. I’m still here, my body is, but I’m so far away.
When my mind reconnects with my body, I rise up off the couch and head for the stairs. Joan follows me up to her apartment. We find Paige stuffing a book into her bag.
“I was just going to call you,” Paige says. “Can I leave Joan with you? One of my students was supposed to come here, but now she needs me to go to her. I can send Joan next door, but I know she’d much rather be with you.”
Joan is nodding. “That’s fine,” I say, barely computing. “Are you leaving right now?”
Paige fills up a water bottle, screws the lid on, slings her bag over her shoulder. “Yeah. I’ve got to run.”
“Before you go.”
She pauses at the door.
“Joan was telling me about the last time Syd was here, back in January. She said Syd was on the phone talking to someone he was meeting later that morning. Any idea who that could’ve been?”
Paige contorts her mouth as she thinks it over. “Maybe a broker?”
“Maybe,” I say, but it would have to have been someone other than Claire, who claimed she saw Syd only that one time in February. I find it hard to believe that Syd would fly out here three separate times just to look at properties and, on top of that, lie about it. It makes no sense. None of it does. “Before that phone call, you and Sydney were looking at his computer and you were talking about something. Joan, what were those words again? Wolf den. Breakfast time. And what was the last one?”
“D and D,” Joan says.
“Does any of that ring a bell?” I ask.
“D and D,” Paige repeats, working it into her brain.
“It sounded like you guys were trying to choose between the three,” I say, hoping to jog her memory. I’ve been spoiled by Joan.
“You know what?” Paige says, arriving at an idea. “Maybe he was showing me different ads his company was considering. He’d ask my opinion about that sometimes. But honestly, I can’t say for sure. It was more than six months ago. I’m sorry.”
I feel myself heating up. I know if I’m not careful I might end up igniting again. I left California in the hopes of cooling off and it almost worked. I’ve done my best to face up to the past, between the memories and writing the song and finally going home to see my mother, and I was nearly to the other side. This close to regaining some sense of control over my life. But now I’ve been blindsided again.
“Gavin.” Paige has her hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
She inspects my eyes. “You sure?”
“Yes.” It’s some of my best acting.
She heads for the front door, opens it, turns around, says something about a family outing that she’d like me to be a part of.
“Sounds good,” I say. But I barely heard a word she said.
Wolf den. Breakfast time. D and D.
I plug each of the three mystery items into Google and get a wide range of results. On the side of the results page is a list of nearby places whose names contain pieces of my search words. One place is essentially an exact match: a restaurant right here in town called D&D’s. It’s located near a stop on the Light Rail.
Joan and I are on the train before I have time to second-guess myself. I figure it can’t hurt to take a quick trip downtown to see what we can find. On that day in January, Syd was back at the Sullys’ by the afternoon and on a plane that same night, so he couldn’t have traveled far that morning. Maybe he was looking on his computer for a meeting place. Maybe, just maybe, he chose D&D’s.
It’s a long shot, I know. I turn to Joan, seated on the bench next to me, and ask her to write down the three mystery items on a clean page in her journal. As the train glides along, the two of us stare down at the page, hoping for enlightenment.
“What were the exact words Sydney said when he was getting off the phone?” I ask.
“‘Perfect, see you at eleven. Looking forward to it.’” Joan turns to me. “What does it mean?”
I have no idea.
And unfortunately, D&D’s is not going to provide the clarity I’m seeking. I know this as soon as Joan and I step inside. Syd would never set foot in a restaurant like this, if you can even call it a restaurant. It’s a tiny takeout joint serving mainly fried chicken. The numerous chicken variations are pictured on an illuminated box and the only place to sit is a shallow counter facing the street.
Joan approaches the large woman manning the deep fryer. “Excuse me,” she says, presenting her journal. “Do these words mean anything to you?”
The woman shimmies over, her puffed lips oozing annoyance. She sizes us up before deeming the journal worthy of her eyes. “Is this supposed to be your order?”
“No,” I say. “We’re not sure what it is.”
The woman takes the journal from Joan and holds it up to the light. Her coworker arrives and now they’re both inspecting it. “What is it?” the new woman asks. The previous woman grunts and hands it back.
My next question is asinine, given our surroundings. “I don’t suppose you keep a record of who dines here?”
She answers my question with a question of her own. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”
I turn to leave, but then I notice Joan ogling the soaking fries rising out of the oil. I place my wallet on the high counter.
“We’ll take a side of fries to go.”
We’re seated on a bench, waiting for the next train to arrive to take us home. Joan is munching on her fries, using her shorts as a napkin.
Now that my internal temperature has fallen, I see how ludicrous it was to come out here. All on a whim. And to drag poor Joan along with me. At least this time I was able to buy her some food she actually enjoys.
“You sure you don’t want any?” Joan asks, proffering a soggy fry.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
But I’m not good.
“I’m sorry,” Joan says.
“For what?”
“For not paying more attention to what Sydney was saying.”
I look over at her. I mean, I really look. Her scrawny but formidable presence. Her clothes in a mishmash of colors. Her determined eyes. She’s been a beacon for me this whole time. And I hardly noticed that somewhere along the line, I had adopted a trusted sidekick. That’s how organic our alliance was. She deserves my best attempt at a smile.
“It’s not your fault, Joan. Not at all. You’ve been a big help. Believe me.”
“What time is the next train supposed to come?” Joan asks.
“One twenty-four.”
“What time is it now?”
I take out my phone to check and get sidetracked by a new text message. It’s from my agent. He wants me to call him. Following some gut instinct, I scroll past it, keep scrolling, moving backward in time, passing older and older conversations, until I find one name.
“Hello?” Joan says. “The time?”
“Sorry.”
I give her the time and then I do something I haven’t done since Sydney died: I open our old message thread.
I had avoided this for the same reason I avoided all reminders. I feared the pain would be too extreme. But I’ve come a long way since setting that fire. Like Paige said, I can’t put it off forever. And besides, now I have a reason to look.
I scroll down, down, down, until I arrive, finally, at the date in question: January 26 of this year.
Sydney (1:31 p.m.): Mr. Winters. Plane gets in at 8:20. Can’t wait to see your battered face!
I feel that brief thrill, the past awakened. The words are unmistakably his.
The day before he left for New York, there was a minor accident on the set of The Long Arm. During a staged fight scene, another actor landed one of his pretend punches on my face and left me with a shiner on my left cheek.
Me (1:32 p.m.): Meet you at the terminal. I’ll be the one in the mask.
Sydney (1:32 p.m.): I got us a gift.
Me (1:33 p.m.): Sounds kinky.
Sydney (1:33 p.m.): Xoxo!
I wonder if the line about the gift could be a clue. For the life of me I can’t recall what it was that Sydney brought home with him. There were always gifts and souvenirs. Between his clients constantly unloading presents onto him—everything from cheap swag to expensive booze—and his own love of shopping, Syd rarely returned home from anywhere empty-handed.
After that message, there’s a break in our correspondence until I arrive at LAX. Then, just two more messages.
Me (8:39 p.m.): Here.
Syd (8:47 p.m.): Coming out now!
I shut my eyes, try to picture him walking toward me. A full memory of that night at the airport doesn’t exist. This is something different, based in truth but fabricated. I see him in the distance, exiting the glass doors, but it’s too dark to make out his face. He’s too far away. He’s moving, but not getting any closer, never reaching me. I’m still here, waiting. But for how long?
“Gavin.”
I feel Joan’s hand on my arm. Our train has arrived. The doors are open. Time to go home. Wherever that is.