The Good Neighbor (47 page)

Michael opened the door wider now and stood there, grinning at her sheepishly. “Nope,” he said. “I came here instead.”

“What on earth are you
doing
here?”

“I got rid of all the—the
stuff
,” he said, looking up and down the hall to make sure no one was listening. “Just like you wanted me to. And I’ve been helping Colt. He gave me a job.”

“He gave you a
job
?”

“Yeah. I’m his assistant. You coming in?”

Francie stepped in and Michael closed the door behind her. She stared at him a moment longer, as if still unable to believe her eyes. “Oh, Michael, you little weirdo,” she said, holding out her arms. He fell into them gratefully and squeezed her around the middle. “I’m so glad to see you.”

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“You’re not mad anymore?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sorry about that, honey,” she said, kissing his ear. “I just—” “I know,” said Michael. “I was being really stupid. And I’m sorry. I learned my lesson, believe me. I’m not running errands for

any more friends.”

“Or picking up girls in parking lots?” “Or that, either.”

“Where is Colt? That bastard changed the locks on me.”

“He had to,” said Michael. “Flebberman threw away his keys.” “He did?”

“Yeah. He didn’t do it because of you. He had no way to lock it otherwise.”

“Oh.” Deflated now, Francie felt slightly foolish. “Well, where is he, anyway? Not here, I hope.”

“He’s out clothes shopping with his father,” said Michael.

Francie cocked her head and stared at him, not sure she’d heard him right.

“What did you say?” she said. “Clothes shopping? With his—” “Father,” Michael said. “We went and got him out of jail.” Francie shook her head, as if to clear her ears. “You got Colt’s fa

ther out of—”

“Yeah. He was paroled. Colt stuck up for him and they let him out early.”

“Mikey, you must be confused,” Francie said. “Colt’s father is dead.”

“Oh, right,” Michael said. “Shit, maybe he wanted to tell you about this himself. Well, too late. His father wasn’t dead. He was in prison.”

Francie sat down on the sofa. “Good Lord,” she said, stunned. “What next?”

Michael shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “That’s all I know. Listen, Francie, when you meet him, try and act surprised, okay?”

“Michael,” said Francie, “I won’t be acting. I can promise you that.”

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“I’m really glad to see you again,” he said. “I was sort of afraid you would never want to see me again. After all the—”

“Of course I would want to see you again,” Francie said. “I can’t explain what I was going through, Mikey, it was just—”

“I know. It was that freaked-out supermarket, right?” Michael said.

Francie laughed. “I told you, the supermarket had nothing to do with it. I was going through something really strong, Mikey. Something really powerful. And I’m out the other side of it now, and I feel—better.”

“I heard you guys are getting divorced,” Michael said. “Yes. That’s true.”

“Well, you know what I say—better late than never.”

“That’s true of me in a lot of ways these days, Michael,” said Francie. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“That Colt, though—he’s full of surprises. I’m starting to think he’s not so bad. He did give me a job, after all.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“Well—nothing. At first. But he’s letting me stay here. Which is cool of him. He said maybe later he would put me on the payroll.”

“I’m proud of you, Michael,” Francie said.

“And then he goes and springs his dad from prison.” “This I have to see,” Francie said.

35
‌

Everything Is Connected

C
olt had taken his father to a department store with the in tention of making only a quick foray into the men’s department,

but as soon as they came in the front door, Nova seemed to be come paralyzed and disoriented. It had been fifteen years since he’d worn anything but an orange jumpsuit, he told his son, and he was afraid he’d forgotten how to wear other kinds of clothes. Colt told him that was impossible; you didn’t forget how to wear clothes. It wasn’t like riding a bike, after all.

“No, but you forget how to act when you’re wearing them,” Nova said.

“Come on,” said Colt, growing impatient—for the last five min utes they’d been standing by the front door, and the security guards were beginning to look at them with suspicion. “It’s not like you’re going for a job interview. You just want something to wear that doesn’t scream ‘convict.’ ”

Nova looked around with wide eyes at the huge store, and the crowds of people moving through it. Tinny Christmas carols drifted down from the ceiling—the happy, unconscious sort of crap they

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played to keep you shopping, Colt thought. He tried to remember what had happened to Thanksgiving. It must have only just passed, but he had no memory of it. He and Francie always had a turkey din ner, at least. But this year, of course, there was nothing. He hadn’t even noticed it was missing. And now it was somehow December.

“Everything about me screams ‘convict,’ ” said Nova. “Every thing. Do you know I can’t even take a crap any more unless I’ve been given permission?”

“There are some things I don’t need to know,” said Colt.

“Can I help you with something, sir?” said one of the security guards, a large man with a crew cut and a blue blazer, finally com ing over to them.

“We’re just looking,” said Colt.

“I haven’t been out in public in fifteen years,” Nova told the se curity guard, who raised his eyebrows.

“All right, you don’t need to tell your life story to everyone you meet,” Colt said. He took his father by the elbow and steered him toward the men’s department. They went up the escalator to the second floor, with Nova latched firmly on to the moving handrail and peering over the side at the shoppers below. They entered a landscape of ties and shirts, and once again Nova froze.

“Are you kidding? I don’t need any of this stuff,” he whispered. “Come on. We’ll just get you a couple of pairs of khakis or something. Some more denim shirts. You have to have more than one outfit . . . Nova.” Colt still wasn’t sure what to call his father.

“Dad” was out of the question. “Father ” sounded ridiculous. “I’m not going to need it.”

“Yes, you are.” “No, Colt, really.”

They were approached now by a matronly woman in a skirt suit, who exuded the scents of brand-new fabric and flowery per fume; Colt could hear the plump sausages of her thighs, encased in dark panty hose, whisking together as she walked.

“May I help you gentlemen?” she inquired sweetly.

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“Here you go,” said Colt to his father. “This man—my father, I mean—needs a few new things. But he’s not sure what he wants.”

“What style of clothing?”

“Casual,” said Colt. “Some chinos, some shirts, a pair of shoes.” He’d forgotten that he himself was dressed in the only thing he could wear over his upraised cast, which was a sweatshirt with one arm scissored neatly up the seam, and a pair of jeans; yet he was pleased to see that the saleswoman bowed her head deferentially just as if he was dressed in his best suit. Maybe she recognizes me, he thought. “I’ll just hand him over to you,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

“Won’t you come with me, sir?” said the saleslady. With his eyes wide and his expression suddenly beatific, it seemed that Nova had already become entranced by the woman. Colt realized, with some amusement, that it had likely been fifteen years since his father had been this close to a female, at least one that wasn’t in uniform.

“I’ll be right over here,” Colt told his father, pointing to a row of armchairs. “And then we’ll get you a suit.”

Nova Hart shot an anxious look over his shoulder as he was be ing led away. Colt made himself as comfortable as he could on one of the chairs and perused a magazine, waiting. About fifteen min utes later the saleslady reappeared.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “The gentleman . . .” Colt looked up. “Yes?”

“He’s locked himself into one of the changing rooms, and he won’t come out.”

Colt struggled to his feet. “Well, maybe he’s just trying stuff on,” he said.

“I think I heard him—well, crying,” said the woman. “Is he ill?” “Crying?” Oh God, he thought.

“Come this way, sir. I’ll show you where he is.”

The woman brought Colt to the dressing rooms and pointed to one of the Venetian-style doors. Colt tapped on it.

“Nova?” he called. “Are you in there?”

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There was no reply, but he heard the snuffling and honking of a nose being blown.

“Nova,” he said. “Come on out.”

“No,” his father replied through the door. “It’s too—” “Too what?”

“—big,” he said. “Too big.” “You’re scared? Is that it?”

“I’m not scared,” said the old man irately. “I just feel better in here, that’s all.”

“You can’t stay in there all day, you know.” “It’s just . . . the walls.”

“The walls? What about them?” There was a long pause.

“I miss them,” came the reply.

“Is your father agoraphobic?” asked the saleslady.

Colt turned to her—he’d forgotten she was there. “No, he’s a— yes,” he said. “An agoraphobic.”

“I’m not . . . whatever you’re calling me!” said Nova Hart. “I’m a con!”

The woman’s eyebrows rose the same way the security guard’s had, and she took a tiny step backward.

“All right, all right,” said Colt, embarrassed. “Come on out, Nova. We’ll go home, if it makes you feel better.”

“It would,” said Nova, but still he didn’t open the door.

“I’m sorry, was it something I did?” said the saleslady. “I can’t imagine—”

“No, it’s not your fault,” said Colt. He tapped on the door again. “Nova, come out and we’ll go home.”

“Make her go away,” Nova whispered. “I can’t come out while she’s there.”

Colt looked at the saleslady again. “I think he means you,” he said. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Oh,” said the saleslady. “Well, I certainly am sorry.” “Nothing to be sorry about.”

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The saleslady whisked away again, looking back once over her shoulder.

“All right,” said Colt. “She’s gone.”

The door opened, and Nova stood there in the doorway, face red and flushed. “I—I don’t know what came over me,” he said. “Can we go now, please?”

“Yes, okay. We’re going.”

“I don’t really need any clothes,” he said. “I only need one suit.”

Colt sighed. “All right,” he said. “Why do you only need one suit?”

“Just something halfway decent, to be buried in. If I’d stayed in the joint, they would have taken care of all that. Funeral expenses and so on. They never shoulda let me out.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Colt said. “Didn’t they tell you, at the prison?” said Nova. Colt stared at him. “Tell me what?” he said.

“I’m dying,” his father said as they stepped onto the escalator. “I have AIDS.”

Colt felt a chill creep up from the bottom of his spine. The old man had related this as casually as if he was telling Colt he had a cold.

“No,” he said. “They didn’t tell me that.”

“I was sure they would have,” said Nova, without much emo tion. “Kind of like when you adopt a puppy from a shelter. They tell you everything that’s wrong with it. So you know what you’re dealing with.”

“Nobody said anything.”

“Well,” said his father. “Shame on them. That would have been a lot easier than me telling you myself. Now let’s get out of here,” his father said. “Please? I can’t take it anymore.”

“All right,” Colt said. “We’re going.”

❚ ❚ ❚

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They waited for a taxi for several minutes in silence. Colt couldn’t think of what to say, or rather, he couldn’t think of what to
feel
. Was he supposed to be sad about this? A part of him said yes, but another part of him remembered a time when he would have been almost happy to hear that his father was dying, or dead. And that had not been so long ago.

They got into the taxi and Colt gave the driver directions. “You’re mighty quiet all of a sudden,” said Nova.

“I’m just—taking it in.”

“I got it from dirty needles, you know. Not from—the other way.”

“Right,” said Colt.

“I could tell you were wondering.”

“No, I was just—well, yes. I was wondering.”

“Yeah. You never know with us prison types.” Nova grinned. “Jesus,” Colt said. “Come on.”

“Relax. Just a little joke.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because, I really thought you already knew. Besides, it’s not like I just found out. I’ve had it for years. For a long time I just had that HIV business. It didn’t turn into anything. But now—I’m starting to develop symptoms. Coughing a lot. Lesions on my lungs. I have to take a lot of medication.”

“When did you get it?” Colt said. “You told the parole board you hadn’t been using any drugs since you came to prison.”