Part 18 (2/2)

”Oh, I see,” I said, relieved, somehow, that I hadn't been replaced. ”Because actually, there's something else. But I'd rather explain it in person.”

”Explain what?” She sounded deeply wary.

”Well, it's complicated,” I said. ”Could we just ... I'll come to your office if you want, or you can come here? Or we can meet at a cafe, or a bar ...” I stopped, disliking the begging note that had crawled into my voice.

”There's no reason for us to meet,” she said, ”and I don't have the time.” It was a no. She was saying no. ”That's my other line, Charlotte, I have to go,” she said. ”Good-”

”I'm coming to your office,” I said. ”At the Post. Post. I have your card. It's four-thirty. I'll be there in-” I have your card. It's four-thirty. I'll be there in-”

”No!” she said sharply, and I thought she sounded afraid. ”Don't do that.”

My G.o.d, I thought, was I really that bad? Bad enough that the notion of my arrival at her office was actually frightening frightening?

”I'll come to your apartment,” Irene said, her voice gritty with resentment. ”What's your address?” I provided it. ”I'll be there by six,” she said, and hung up before my ironic ”I look forward to it” had landed.

I sat on my couch looking over my balcony, trying to make sense of our exchange. Something was at work here that I didn't understand, some missing fact.

I pulled open my balcony door and let cold wind scour the apartment. Then I peeled off my clothes and abraded myself against a scalding shower. The past was up for sale.

Irene arrived ten minutes late, stepping into my apartment with visible trepidation. She wore a gray wool skirt and jacket. Her tortoisesh.e.l.l hair hung loose, just as before, but she wore mascara today, and light blue eyeliner which was back in style that season, though I doubted she knew it. The sight of her there in her too-dark stockings and clunky loafers and ridiculous gray wool filled me with unexpected pleasure. I was glad to see her.

I settled her down in a comfortable nook of couch and poured her a gla.s.s of water, which she chose over my offer of wine.

”So,” I said, sitting across from her and cradling my first drink of the day, a Riesling that winked at me so alluringly that I felt like dousing my face with it. ”What's new in the world of crime?”

She told me she was finis.h.i.+ng a piece on private detectives.

”I know a private detective!” I cried, with bizarre urgency. ”His name is Anthony Halliday.”

Irene gave me an odd look. ”I never came across him,” she said.

”Just wondered,” I said mildly. And then, without further ado, ”Listen, Irene, I have a business proposal for you.” I laid it out: Ordinary. Extraordinary. Options. Access. $80,000. $300,000. Exposure. Media. Soup. Nuts.

”I'm asking you to be the writer,” I concluded. ”We'd split everything fifty-fifty, beginning with the option. I'll get a check for seventy-five hundred as soon as I sign the contract.” I felt like Thomas. Except that Thomas believed his project would revitalize the world, whereas I believed-well, I didn't believe that.

Irene's face underwent myriad changes while I spoke: confusion, intrigue, disbelief. Finally she said, ”That's one of the more surreal things I've heard lately.”

”I knew you would say that!”

”Charlotte,” Irene said, and then sighed. ”I'm used to writing things for some purpose. This really doesn't have one.”

”It has a purpose,” I a.s.sured her. ”Its purpose is to make us rich.”

”That's not enough,” she said ruefully.

”But wait a minute. Remember those things you talked about before, when you tried to interview me? About ident.i.ty and ... and ident.i.ty? Things like that?” I concluded feebly. ”You seemed very interested.”

”I am interested in ident.i.ty,” Irene said. ”But a.s.sembling your life story for some Orwellian on-line service that'll probably never see the light of day is not a viable way of exploring that interest.”

And now I saw the problem. The missing fact. With breathtaking clarity, I gleaned it: Irene didn't like me.

”It doesn't have to be my life, exactly,” I hedged, determined to sustain my breezy tone despite the wounded sensation I felt. ”We wouldn't have to see each other much. I'd give you the raw material and the rest would be up to you; you could tell it any way you want, you could make it up. In fact I'd rather you did make it up....” My breezy tone was intact, but I'd leapt to my feet and was standing on tiptoe. Irene began to laugh.

”Come on, Charlotte,” she said, burying her face in her hands. ”Why me?”

”I don't know.”

Rubbing her eyes had smudged Irene's mascara, and she looked perplexed. But despite these outward signals of noncapitulation, I felt an irrational quiver of hope (or was it the Riesling slipping into my bloodstream?). Irene was here, in my apartment, arguing with me. She could have been at home with her husband, or working at the Post Post, or a hundred miles away, but she was here, on my couch. I had learned enough about seductions over the years to know this: real desire, the kind that gnaws and lasts, was nearly always mutual. It seemed conceivable that whatever was compelling me to talk to Irene would also make her want to listen.

”Frankly, Charlotte, even if you get someone to do this thing for you,” she said, ”and for the money you probably will-I can't see you going through with it. You won't answer questions-you think interviews are a sham. You gave me a lecture about it!”

”I'm going to change,” I said stiffly. ”I'm in the process of changing.” After a moment I said, ”I've changed.”

She eyed me skeptically.

I excused myself and went to the kitchen to refill my gla.s.s. I poured a gla.s.s of wine for Irene, too, just in case. Then I stood at the sink and strategized. Either I would make some headway in the next few minutes, or it was over. It was over, and I was alone in my apartment with a face full of t.i.tanium.

Back in the living room, I handed Irene the wine, which she took. Good sign, I thought. ”Irene, ask me anything,” I told her very seriously. ”And I promise I'll answer truthfully.”

It was a show of good faith, a free trial of my services. I sat on the couch and waited in dread for her to speak. There was a long silence, and then she sipped the wine. Good sign, I thought.

”Okay,” she said, with disheartening indifference. ”How did you get in your accident?”

I nodded, indicating readiness. Then I fought the urge to lie down, as I'd done when she interviewed me before. No, this time I would sit. I would look at her. At least a minute pa.s.sed while I tried to organize my thoughts. Where were the facts? My memory, the pig, just smirked at me.

”You can't,” Irene said. She was smiling now. ”Look at you. You actually can't.”

”I can.” My body was grinding with the effort. Answer the question. I had a frightened sensation I remembered from certain tests, foreign language tests in which the questions were spoken aloud, vanis.h.i.+ng even as I clutched at them with my mind.

”You can't! You can't do it,” she said, and laughed. Her light, laughing shadow self-there it was. I felt her relief, her eagerness to return, unenc.u.mbered, to the husband she loved.

I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to retreat to my bedroom and shut the door. You brought her here, I reminded myself; she'll be more than happy to go. ”Okay,” I said weakly, and decided I would make something up. Except that sheer avoidance was my game. Feinting and darting, that was my game. Finally I shut my eyes, which helped. ”I met a man,” I began, my voice emerging like a bark, or a yelp, ”called Z.”

Breathless, I cracked an eye to look at Irene and found that her laughter and even her smile had disappeared. She was listening.

”Z,” I said, and with the repet.i.tion of his name I felt myself collapse against the inside of a door-I'd taken that bit of ground. ”At first, I hardly noticed him,” I advanced, with great effort. ”But at some point I realized he was watching me. I could feel it. Sometimes I felt it even when I couldn't see him.”

I opened my eyes. She had slipped off her shoes. Good sign, I thought. They were worn and scuffed, the scarred leather inked in with a black Magic Marker.

”One night,” I went on, squeezing the words from my solar plexus, ”I saw a shape inside his s.h.i.+rt, like a shadow. It was a wire. You know, like a microphone. He'd been taping me. Taping everyone I knew, for months. I didn't know why.”

I swallowed dryly. I'd heard people describe withdrawal symptoms, the dreadful convulsing of it. But what was I withdrawing from?

”I wasn't angry,” I said. ”Or scared. The opposite, almost.”

I stopped, exhausted. After a moment Irene turned to me, her cheeks flushed. ”So, what happened?” she asked, and I felt the warm reach of her curiosity.

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