A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (26 page)

.. .that she would ever...

“
Where is he?
”
she asks.

Jesus. These people. I look down at the crowd, all the dumb people down there.

“
Toph? Oh, I haven
’
t seen him in weeks.
”

“
What do you mean?
”

“
I mean, he
’
s probably somewhere in the Dakotas about now.
”

“
What?
”

“
Yeah, it
’
s fucked up. He just took off one day. Hitchhiking. Around the country, with some friends.
”

“
You
’
re kidding.
”

“
I wish.
”

“
I
’
m so sorry.
”

“
Oh don
’
t worry. It
’
s partly my fault, I guess. He was a little pissed at me, I guess. Typical adolescent stuff.
”

“
What do you mean?
”

I have been looking down, watching a middle-aged man in a beret and black leather jacket mingle with two college-aged women, the poor man, not knowing that it
’
s all over for him, forever, beret and all. I glance over at Moodie to make sure he isn
’
t hearing us. He
’
d kill me. He
’
s not paying attention, so I look at Jenna, both for dramatic effect and also to make sure she
’
s still with me.

She is, so I continue. I am not sure why I continue. People ask questions, and before I can formulate a truth-oriented answer, I lie. I lie about how my parents died—
“
You remember that embassy bombing, the one in Tunisia?
”
—about how old I am—I always say forty-one—how old Toph is, how tall he is; when they ask about him they
get
the most elaborate lies—he just lost an arm, he
’
s got the brain of an infant, a halfwit, a badger (I only use that one in his presence); that he
’
s in the merchant marine, he
’
s in jail, in juvie, is back out, selling crack—
“
Oh, give him some crack and you should see his face light up!
”
—that he
’
s playing in the CBA.

“
Well, he got into some trouble at school,
”
I
tell
Jenna.

“
What kind of trouble?
”

“
Well, you know how you
’
re not supposed to bring guns to school?
”

“
Right.
”

“
Well, I had told him not to bring his gun to school. Simple as that. Everyone knows that. You can play with it in the house, in the neighborhood—whatever, I told him, but not at school, because rules are rules, right?
”

“
Wait. He has a gun?
”

“
Of course, sure.
”

“
How old is he?
”

“
Nine. Almost ten.
”

“
Huh. So they caught him with the gun?
”

“
Oh it was much worse than that. See, Toph has sort of a temper, you know, and so this kid, Jason somebody, had been bugging him, singing some annoying song all day, some song Toph didn
’
t like at all, and finally he just snapped—whack, just like that, he takes the gun from his locker and squeezes one into him.
”

“
Oh my God.
”

“
Yeah, I know.
”

No, I tell her, little Jason isn
’
t dead, he
’
s fine now, pulled out of his coma a week ago. And that naturally I took away Toph
’
s gun privileges, and of course beat him within an inch of his life, so zealously that something snapped in his leg somewhere, a tendon maybe, and he fell to the floor, squealed like a pig, couldn
’
t
get
up, had to be taken to the emergency room. That while we were at the hospital some doctor must have snitched or something, because a cop shows up and—

“
What did you tell the cop about his leg?
”
Jenna wants to know.

“
Oh, that was easy. I told her he and a friend were whipping each other with wet towels.
”

“
And she believed you?
”

“
Of course. Of course. You wouldn
’
t believe what people will
believe once they know our story. They
’
re ready for anything, basically—will believe anything, because they
’
ve been thrown off-balance, are still wondering if any of this is true, our story in general, but aren
’
t sure and are terrified of offending us.
”

“
Yeah,
”
she says, not getting it. I decide to wrap
it
up.

“
Anyway, then he
’
s on crutches for three weeks, really resenting me and everything, really holding a grudge, and then boom, the second he
’
s off the crutches he
’
s gone.
”

“
Hitchhiking.
”

“
Right.
”

“
I
’
m so sorry. Listen, if there
’
s anything I can do...
”

“
One thing?
”

“
What?
”

“
Don
’
t tell Moodie about this.
”

“
Okay.
”

“
He
’
ll worry.
”

He
’
s going to kill me. I better leave. She
’
ll tell him, and then he
’
ll kill me. He
’
ll punch me. He
’
ll punch me like he did in high school, after Homecoming, at the lake, when I was drunk and fell on him, from a tree. He
’
ll hit me like he hit me then—one good shot, in the sternum, sending a quick, simple message—You
’
re an asshole—that I felt for months, every time I breathed.

I find my car and drive across town, all the passing headlights glaring, mocking—that was probably bad, what I just did to Jenna; a therapist would say that was bad—up Ninth, across Market, up Franklin and down to Cow Hollow, where Therese lives. Down the hill and over a few blocks and her turreted third-floor apartment comes into view. Therese lives in the top floor of a huge light blue house on Gough, a few blocks up from Union Street, in an apartment she decorated with her mother, complete with pot holders and curtains and about a hundred overstuffed pillows. The plan is
for me to end up in her bed. Her bed is huge and has posts.

I pull up across the street, which is set on a forty-five-degree angle, and look up for a light in her window. It
’
s dark. There
’
s that little plastic owl on her fire escape. She is asleep. No, no, a faint light near the kitchen. A TV? She could be up. She could have gone out and come home and could be up. It
’
s only eleven-thirty—
Oh, to be inside!
No, no, no. This is stupid. I drive around the block. I have no excuse to be there.

I turn and go back. I will think of something.

I park in the driveway behind her car and jump up the wooden steps of her porch and ring the bell. I will say I want to sleep there. I will say that I need to sleep there—that I was locked out of my house. This is so embarrassing, I will say, chuckling. Heh heh. One of those weird things, I will say. Was close by, was in the city when I realized. Toph
’
s at Beth
’
s, I
’
ll say. Sorry.
How are you? Were you
asleep?

She
’
ll let me in. We
’
ll go to the beach, like we did that other time, the last time I showed up at midnight, needy. When I asked her to come to the beach she had been in her pajamas but had gotten excited about going, had gotten dressed, and while she got dressed I packed a bag full of bananas, Fig Newtons, and a bottle of wine. She brought blankets and when we got in the car, dark, seats cold, we turned on the heat, squeezed each other
’
s hands, and sped over the Golden Gate and through the Headlands, the black road winding through purple hills, like driving around the contours of huge sleeping bodies. Past the old rickety wooden military buildings, the gun turrets high over the Pacific, and to the beach at Fort Cronkite. We parked by the darkened barracks and got out and took off our shoes and walked over that little pond on the gray wooden bridge—so loud—and the ocean was black, the wind was coming straight off the water. We huddled under the blanket, still barefoot, warming our hands in each other
’
s armpits—

She is not answering her bell.

She will shake her head when she sees me but she will let me in. I push the bell twice more. I turn around and face the street.

A car, black, shiny, comes up the hill and stops at the corner. Inside is a woman, maybe thirty-five, dressed up and driving alone. She sets the brake and fumbles for something in her purse. I am no more than twenty feet away. She will look up my way. She will look up at the porch and see me. She will open the passenger door and tell me to come with her and share her bed. /
was hoping you
’
d ask,
I will say, kind of suavelike. I will not care what we do, anything would be fine, nothing is okay, too. It does not matter. A bed with room and warmth and her legs entwined with mine underneath. I will comment on how cold her toes are and she will rub them against my legs—

Things like that often happened. To people all over the world.

The woman finds what she wants in her purse, relaxes the brake, drives up the hill and turns. Therese is not home. I leave.

At Union Street the bars have just let out and there are people everywhere. Julie bartends at a bar called the Blue Light, which, besides being imbued with just that, is full of mirrors and people wearing loafers and white pants. Julie I met at Moodie
’
s last party; I will drop in on her. I will pretend I
’
m looking for someone there, or else I
’
ll be forward and tell her I just came to see her, because suddenly I was thinking of her and wanted to see her. She will like that. She will be surprised and flattered. She might say it: /
am both surprised and flattered!

I park five blocks down. Union Street is bustling with people in white pants and loafers. People from Marin, New York, Europe. At the door the bouncer will not let me in. I
’
ve left my driver
’
s license in the car.

“
Need I.D.
”

“
I know, but—
“

“
Sorry. Go away.
”

“
I just—
“

“
Turn around. And walk away.
”

Of course I picture killing him. For some reason with a huge, two-handed sword. Just lopping off his bald melon of a head.

“
Listen, just— Is Julie here?
”

“
No.
”

“
Did she leave?
”

“
Didn
’
t work tonight.
”

I walk back toward the car, past a few dozen more people in white pants. A few loners in khakis. Oh if only something would happen. Nothing ever happens. This is all some terrible machine, where only the expected passes through.

I go to the White Hen Pantry to use the pay phone. I
’
ll call Meredith. Meredith will come out.