The Good Neighbor (48 page)

“That was a lie,” said Nova. “You tell them that because they don’t like to hear how corrupt the prison system is. You don’t want to remind them of what a joke the whole thing is. They have this happy little fantasy that prison is a place where people get rehabilitated, and where bad things never happen.” He laughed disdainfully. “Those motherfuckers are so full of shit, I’d like to cut every one of their throats,” he said. “You know where I got the stuff from? The guards,” he said. “They smuggled it in up their asses. They packed it in balloons, and up the poop chute it

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went. Those guards are looser than the biggest queens in the pen. We bought it from them. And we shared needles, us prisoners. We only had one or two. We had to sharpen them against the wall, they got so dull.”

Colt felt vaguely nauseous. “How long did that go on?”

His father shrugged. “Years,” he said. “I don’t know exactly. I really am clean now, though. Have been for a long time. But at first, it wasn’t any different on the inside than it was on the out side. It’s a fucking joke. Just so you know your taxpayer dollars aren’t accomplishing much.”

Colt chose to ignore that comment. “So you got it from one of your prison buddies.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m telling you, boy. It was a mess in there. The whole system is a big joke. Don’t ever go to jail. It makes you crazy just trying to figure out how things work.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Colt said. “Good.”

“So,” said Colt. “Well, I’m—sorry. That you’re sick.” Nova looked at him.

“Thanks,” he said.

They were silent for a long time, the cab stopping and starting in the traffic. After a while Nova turned to Colt again and asked, “Do you believe in God?”

Colt was surprised. “In God?” “Yes.”

“Well—no. As a matter of fact, I don’t.” “Oh. Why not?”

“I don’t know. Because it seems like a kind of primitive idea, that’s why. Like the kind of thing people believe only because it makes them feel better. Why?”

“I just wondered if it’s because of me that you don’t believe, or if you had another reason.”

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“Well,” said Colt, “we weren’t exactly a churchgoing family.” “No,” said Nova. “I never could stomach it when I was a kid, ei

ther. But I guess I been thinking about it a lot more lately.” “Do you? Believe in God?”

“Me?” Nova frowned. “I don’t know. All I know is, I used to pray that I wouldn’t die in prison. I didn’t think anyone was lis tening. But then—you came along.”

Colt snorted. “I’m not God.”

“No. I know that. What I’m saying is, maybe something sent you to my parole hearing to get me out.”

“I don’t know why I went to that parole hearing,” said Colt. “Maybe God is as good a reason as anything else. But I didn’t hear anyone talking to me.”

“No. Of course not. That’s not really what I meant.” “Well, what did you mean, then?”

“I guess I just wonder that if there really was a God, and he re ally did send you to the prison, maybe you wouldn’t even know about it at all. In case that’s the way it works. I don’t know. I’m really just guessing.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah? Waddaya think?”

“I don’t know,” Colt said. “It’s not something I ever think about.”

When they were just a few blocks from the apartment, still stuck in traffic, Colt said, “You wanna know what I do think about?”

“Sure.”

“It’s not going to make any sense. And it doesn’t have anything to do with what we were talking about. But I was just thinking about this idea I have. Kinda hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“It’s about the stock market,” Colt said. “Did you ever notice— well, no, you probably never did. It’s . . . it’s got to do with the way the market is connected to the rest of the world.”

“I see,” said Nova.

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“It’s something that just calms me down to think about,” Colt said. “It makes me feel like there really is a reason for everything. It has to do with—I don’t know, with the way the universe works, or something. See, all those numbers, when you put them together in a matrix, they form a pattern. You look at them one way, they’re just values, and that’s it. They don’t have to do with anything else. But you look at them another way, and things start to emerge. You see how world events have an impact. This is not just conjecture—it’s real. A natural disaster happens, or a war, and the market reacts. That’s not hocus-pocus.”

“Right,” said Nova.

“So then one day I started thinking, if big things have a big im pact on the market, then little things must have a little impact. See what I mean? I’m not talking about things that make the newspapers. I mean the little everyday things that happen to everybody, all the time. Those things must show up, too. Because you know why?”

“Why?” asked Nova.

“Because everything is connected,” said Colt. “The more you’re in the business the more you realize that. Everything is connected to everything else. Joe Shmoe in California wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, has a bad day—that shows up in the num bers. Somehow. Don’t ask me how. I’m still trying to figure it out. But I know it’s true. It has to be.” He glanced at his father to see how he was digesting this information. “It’s not something I ever talk about with anybody,” said Colt. “But you asked me if I believe in God. I don’t, but I do believe in this. Not just in the stock mar ket. In that everything is connected. I know we all believe it, all us traders. Or something like it, anyway. A lot of us carry good-luck charms, did you know that?”

“No. What’s yours?”

“Well, I lost mine,” said Colt. “A couple of months ago. I guess I knew that was when things were going to start falling apart for me. But I pretended not to notice. Or to care.”

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“Yeah, but—what was it?”

“It was a ring,” said Colt. “A simple little gold band.” “Why that? What did that mean?”

“It was Mom’s,” Colt said. “The day I moved out, I took it with me. I wanted something of hers, but I knew she wouldn’t give me anything. Or she would give me the wrong thing. And I didn’t want to tell her I was leaving, anyway. I just wanted to go. So I went into your room and I took this old ring out of her jewelry box. I wore it on a chain around my neck for years. But it fell off when we moved, I guess.”

“I remember that ring,” said Nova. “It was her father ’s. Solid gold. His wedding ring.”

“Yeah. It had engraving in it. Initials and a date.”

“Yeah, that was it. Good thing you took it, you know. When you did.”

“Why?”

“Because she probably would have ended up hocking it for dope. That’s what happened to all our stuff. She looked for that ring. I remember. She was hoping to get twenty bucks for it, but we never could figure out what happened to it.”

“Oh,” said Colt.

There was another long silence.

“You know, that idea you have—how things are connected. To the numbers.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s pretty good,” said Nova. “It’s not so different from what other great thinkers in other times have believed. Did you know that? The ancient Chinese sages believed something very similar. I mention them because I’ve always found them kinda interesting. I would read about ’em in the library. The Taoist masters. They thought that if you were good enough at meditation, you could see the nature of everything reflected in everything else. Didn’t matter what you looked at. A flower. A bug. You could see the en tire structure of all creation, mirrored in that one little thing.”

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“Yeah,” Colt said. “That’s it.” “That’s what you mean?” “Yeah. Exactly what I mean.”

“Far fucking out,” said Nova Hart, as they finally emerged from the shiny snarl of cars that clogged the intersections and pulled up in front of the apartment.

36
‌

To Live At Adencourt

C
olt opened the door to the apartment and entered. Then he stopped, surprised, for there, sitting next to Michael on the couch,

was Francie.

“Oh,” he said. “Hi.” “Hi,” said Francie.

“The Coltster!” said Michael.

Nova Hart trailed him in, and he, too, stopped upon seeing Francie. “Hello there!” he said.

“The Novarama!” said Michael.

“Oh, my God,” said Francie, staring at Nova. “So you
are
real.”

Nova smiled, pleased. “Yes!” he said. “Depending on what you mean by ‘real,’ of course.”

Francie stood up. “I’m Francine. Francine Hart,” she said. “For the moment.”

“Yes, I heard the bad news,” said Nova, shaking her hand. “I’m Nova Hart.”

“It’s a—a great surprise to meet you,” Francie said. “It’s funny,

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but Colt never said anything about you to me.” She looked at Colt archly, but he pretended not to notice.

“Yes, well, I don’t blame him,” said Nova. “You certainly are a very beautiful girl.” He looked at his son, who studiously avoided his gaze, too.

“Thank you,” said Francie. “Colt, can I speak with you in pri vate, please?”

“Ah, okay,” said Colt. “Sure. I guess.”

❚ ❚ ❚

They went into the bedroom and Francie closed the door. Then she turned and put her hands on her hips.

“You’re just full of surprises,” she said.

Colt shrugged, with his good arm. “What can I say?” he said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me your father was alive?”

“Why do you think?” “You were ashamed.”

He nodded. “That’s pretty much it,” he said.

“And yet Michael tells me you’re responsible for getting him out of prison.”

“Yeah. That’s true. But they were gonna let him out, anyway.” “But you took him home with you.”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

Francie shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Yeah, well, neither do I, to tell the truth,” said Colt. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. At the time. I wasn’t really thinking when I did it.”

“Well, Coltrane Hart,” said Francie, “in all the time I’ve known you, I have to say that is a first. You could have told me about him, you know. I wouldn’t have judged you for whatever it was he did.” “That wasn’t the point,” Colt said. “I guess I felt like maybe it was time to... well, not start over, exactly. It’s a little late for that.”

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“What
did
he do, by the way? He didn’t kill anyone, did he?” “He was trying to smuggle heroin from Mexico,” said Colt. “So

he could sell it and get rich. He got caught at the border. And I didn’t tell you, not because of what you would think. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to know him anymore. There’s— there’s a lot of history there, Francie. A lot of stuff happened to me that I just wanted to put behind me. When I was a kid, I mean. He may seem like kind of a neat old guy now, but he was a miserable father. Really bad. And for a long time I just wanted to pretend that it had never happened. But—”

“But you figured out you can’t do that,” said Francie. “Yeah,” said Colt. “That’s right.”

“Yes,” said Francie. “Well. I don’t really know what to say. It’s weird, Colt. We’ve been together all this time, and all of a sudden I feel like we’ve only just been introduced.”

“Yeah, well,” said Colt uncertainly. “So you just stopped by to—” “Yeah, right. I just wanted some of my old stuff,” said Francie.

“My papers and books and so on.”

“Yeah. Okay. Well, you know where they are.”

“Yeah. And there was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“Jennifer Flebberman came to see me yesterday.” “She did? What did she want?”

“What do you think she wanted?”

Colt rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t tell me. She wants me to drop the charges against her husband. And you agree with her.”

Francie folded her arms. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

“Because you think I had it coming. That’s what you said to me in the hospital, when I was lying there in agony. That I deserved it.”

“Well, Colt—”

“Don’t say it again. Just don’t. I already know what you think.”

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“Fine,” Francie said. “That woman has four children, Coltrane. They’re already in trouble financially. If Randy Flebberman goes to jail—”

“I know, I know,” said Colt. “I already dropped them.”

Francie stared at him for a long moment, not sure whether she believed what she was hearing. “What did you say?” she asked fi nally.

“The charges. I dropped them. I called the police yesterday and told them I wasn’t going to press charges. I guess she just hadn’t heard yet. He’s going to be trapped in bureaucratic limbo for a while, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But he’s going to be home soon.”

“Oh, my God,” said Francie.

“Yeah. You misjudged me.” Colt smiled, a self-effacing grin, a look that said, for once, that he had been wrong and was now try ing to make things right. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of stuff, you know. I had a lot of time to think in the hospital. And—there was this dream I had. Three dreams, actually. More like night mares. And I realized I never should have tried to move that ceme tery. All this—” he gestured to his broken arm—”and everything else besides, happened because of that. It’s like—I don’t know. Signs.”