Part 12 (1/2)

She hadn't brought anything to read, and there was too much cloud cover even for a look out the window. She supposed that this was a time when one might naturally think about the past. Up to now she'd been able to keep herself moving and thus hover above whatever it was that she should be feeling. But going over her father's failings, their little moments of disconnected joy-this seemed too much like eulogizing him, hurrying him into the grave, and she resisted it. Instead she found herself wondering what was the last really great advance, in terms of speed, in human transportation. The jet engine? What was that, a hundred years ago? Why did it take just as long to get from New York to Florida now as it had before she was born? What kind of sense did that make? But if she was thinking of it now, chances were excellent others had already been thinking about it for a while: work was being done somewhere, somebody needed an angel.

Dawn had found her a decent hotel in Fort Myers, and Cynthia went there first to drop her bags and take a quick shower. She tried not to hurry, because hurrying seemed like bad luck somehow, or an absence of faith; her cell sat on the dresser as she changed, and she avoided staring at it just as she might have if someone were watching her. She called the concierge up to her room to tell him that she would need a car and driver on call at all times during her stay, which would be indefinite; but it turned out Dawn had called ahead and arranged for all that too. Cynthia's driver was a man as old as her father, a Cuban named Herman with a crewcut and a neck whose folds were unevenly browned. Herman was unfailingly polite but he had a real meanness in his eye. She thought he was probably ex-military. He never spoke first. He wore a suit jacket over a short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, and she imagined that when he got home after work every day, the first thing he did was throw that jacket on the floor, and his wife would pick it up and hang it for him.

Florida. It really was a blight. Maybe that's why old people a.s.sembled here-having to leave it behind wouldn't seem like such a bad deal. She stared out the back of the limo at the six-lane roads and the shopping plazas, the endless construction, the high walls and dimly visible golf courses, as if life on a golf course were so desirable that too direct a look at it would sear your eyes somehow. They were still in the middle of the whole car-infested h.e.l.lscape-somehow she'd imagined they wouldn't be-when she felt Herman slow down, and they turned left past a gas station with a Krispy Kreme inside it, and another two hundred yards past that was the Silverberg Hospice of South Florida.

She'd never had any reason to see the inside of a hospice before and had only a dim idea what went on in there. Partly in fear, partly out of a superst.i.tion that it was important to continue acting as if she had all the time in the world, she walked in a sort of dream languor down the long corridor to the nurses' desk, her heart banging, and from what she could observe it was basically a hospital that didn't smell like a hospital. Also it was quiet, and less crowded, and only one story high. Also it was staffed by people who were clearly angels of some sort, drably luminous avatars of selflessness. She was ambivalent about this. She could not be expected to integrate with these people. She was hoping that at least one of them would feel as scared and selfish and inadequate as she did, that maybe there was someone who was only working here as a condition of his community-service sentence and would form a bond with her and maybe give her a slug from the bottle he kept in his locker just to get through the day without freaking out completely. But no. Some stout woman in a nurse's outfit that could almost have been worn as a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt actually came out from behind the desk to greet her before she'd even reached the end of the hallway. Somehow the woman's very informality was scary too, as if civility were one of the pretentious earthly comforts Cynthia was apparently supposed to have checked at the door.

”You're Charlie's daughter,” she said. ”I could see it a mile away. I'm Marilyn.”

”h.e.l.lo,” Cynthia said. She wanted to turn and run back up the hallway to Herman, to jump in the back seat of his car and see, in the rearview mirror, his disappointed frown.

”Your dad's sleeping at the moment,” Marilyn said, ”but I'll take you in to see him. He is a charmer, that one.”

She took Cynthia's hand and led her down the hallway; and Cynthia, a grown woman, a woman who ran a major philanthropic foundation, with a staff for both business and household, a woman who had dedicated her life to good causes all over the world, actually caught herself pulling backward slightly, like a child, on that hand as they walked through her father's door. It was like a fantasy hospital room, like the secret room deep within a normal hospital that only the man who'd endowed it would ever be allowed to use. It was huge and well furnished, with a high, gabled ceiling where a large fan turned slowly and noiselessly. The lights were off, and the blinds were about three-quarters shut; the walls had a bluish tinge but it was too dark for her to tell whether they were actually painted blue or not. There was a dresser along one wall, on top of which was a portable stereo and a stack of CDs. At the room's far end, in the soothing gloom that was like the gloom not deep underwater but just a foot or two below the surface, there were some monitors on either side of the bed. All of them were turned off. The bed itself seemed gigantic, proportioned like a regular-size bed would be to a child. After a minute she could make out his head lying on the pillow. There were railings on either side, and a mountainous comforter that certainly didn't look like hospital-issue. It might have been something he'd brought from home. She wouldn't know. It was so quiet that suddenly it struck her, as in a dream, that everyone else was just waiting for her to realize what they knew, that her father had already died. She turned around but Marilyn had left the room.

In the darkness she would have to get quite close to his face to really see it and she wasn't prepared to do that yet. Through the blinds to the left of the bed she could just make out a small lake: plainly man-made and perfunctory-seeming, a kind of trope of serenity, in spite of which a few ducks had come to paddle in its shallows, and on a rock on its far bank a cormorant held its wings spread to dry them. The lake's symmetry was unlovely and it seemed squeezed into a s.p.a.ce too small for it, like the fruit of some design compromise or maybe the sentimental whim of whoever endowed this place, which the contractors had no choice but to shrug their shoulders and carry out. Marilyn came back into the room behind her carrying a jar of moisturizer and a Snapple iced tea with a straw in it.

”So that's the last thing a lot of people see,” Cynthia whispered to her, still looking out the window.

”Who knows what they see,” she said kindly. ”Anyway, your father's friend spends a lot of time looking at it.”

And only then did Cynthia notice that to the left of the dresser there was a door-oversize, so that through it could pa.s.s a wheelchair or maybe even the great bed itself-that led to an enclosed veranda, where it would be possible, at least, to feel the breeze and the sun, and to hear something, even if it was very likely just the sound of traffic and construction. Sitting in one of the two chairs out there, smoking a cigarette, was Irene Ball. Cynthia couldn't see much more than the back of her head, which was coiffed and blond almost to the point of whiteness. Her legs were crossed, and a huarache hung as still as an icicle from her toes.

Beyond the lake was a strip of trees probably meant to hint at forestlike depths, even though the highway was just on the other side of it. Or maybe a golf course. She thought it was the highway, though. She'd lost her bearings a little bit when they turned into the driveway.

As quietly as possible-not wanting to wake him, she told herself-Cynthia sat down in one of the chairs that had been pulled up near the head of the huge bed. It was probably there because that's where Irene liked to sit. Her father's mouth hung open, and when she tilted her head forward a bit she could hear the arrhythmic catch of his breath. She started to cry when she saw how he looked: starving, thin-haired, his skin spotted. But she also felt she would be happy to stay like this for a while, if not indefinitely. She wasn't ready to let him go, but she didn't exactly want him to wake up either, because anyone as weak as this was very likely to need something, and how would she know what he needed? How would she know how to give it to him? She'd come all the way down here and all she was really good for was to ask for help from someone else. She wished the bed, or the room, or the place itself, was unsatisfactory in some way she could see, so that she could inquire nicely or pitch a fit or even just donate some money and cause it to be improved. But everything here seemed perfectly suited to its purpose. His old head was like some vandalized monument and she resisted the urge to reach out and stroke it. I'm here, she said silently to him. I made it in time. Outside, the smoke from Irene's cigarette rose and rose until it blunted itself on the roof of the veranda. She hadn't lifted it to her mouth in a while.

Holding the grease-spotted bags and balancing a stiff cardboard drink holder with several types of soda in it, Jonas rang the bell at 236 with his elbow, then rang it again, but no one came to the door and he couldn't hear anyone moving around inside. The street behind him was narrowed by two lines of parked cars but nothing anywhere seemed to be moving. When he walked around to the side of the house to see if there was a window he might discreetly look through, he noticed a flight of exterior stairs that led to an entrance on the second floor. That had to be it, he thought; he climbed the stairs and, rather than knock with his foot, called through the door that he had brought the Arby's. A second later the door opened inward and Jonas stepped inside.

No one was there in front of him, but he was aware of being peeked at through the wedge of s.p.a.ce between the open door and its hinges. He took another step or two forward. Though he could see opposite him a tiny hallway that must have led to a bedroom and a bathroom, Novak's home was mostly one square living room, which would have been dark, since it faced alleys on two sides, were it not for the fact that there were at least twice as many lamps as were necessary for a room that size. All of them were turned on. The effect was compounded by the fact that the walls were freshly painted in a kind of skull-frying white. Pieces of paper were taped over the windows. The odor inside the room was such that Jonas had to make an effort not to flinch.

Novak closed the door behind him and grabbed the food out of his hands. There was a small, grimy-looking kitchenette off to their right and Novak emptied out the bag on the counter in there, unwrapping each item and checking carefully, in the case of the sandwiches, underneath the bun. He lifted the cover off each soda, stuck his finger in it, and then poured it down the sink. Jonas cleared his throat.

”Joseph?” he said. ”I'm Jonas.”

”That's going to be confusing,” Novak said, and started eating a roast beef sandwich with some kind of cheese on it. Jonas felt his own surprise reflected in Novak's stare and realized that each was taken aback to see how young the other one was. Novak, though he was well on his way to baldness, still looked no older than about twenty-five.

”Why did you bring all this food?” Novak said. ”This is way too much. n.o.body else is coming, right?”

”Just me. I just wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a sampling.”

”A what?” Novak said. He scowled. ”You're here to steal from me.”

”No. Absolutely not. Like I said on the phone, I'm kind of a fan of yours. I went to a fair in Chicago and some of your drawings were hanging on the wall there. I thought they were really beautiful. Did you know that people as far away as Chicago think you're a great artist?” He could hear himself talking as if Novak were a child, but how else was he supposed to handle it? How did you know what aspect of him you were speaking to?

”You don't know what you're talking about,” Novak said.

”I will pay you a lot of money for your art, if you're willing to sell it. But I'm not going to steal anything from you. I promise. Why, do you think other people have been stealing from you?”

”Do you think other people have been stealing from you?” Novak repeated, licking his fingers.

”Like your brother, maybe?”

”Like your brother, maybe?”

He said these things that seemed sarcastic or childish or angry but the tone of his voice didn't really change significantly, nor did the look on his face. The sandwich got the lion's share of his attention. He wore gla.s.ses with clear plastic frames, and what hair he had was so fair as to be almost invisible, like a baby's hair; his pale skin was still touched by acne. Most remarkably, though Jonas was uncomfortable even noticing it, was that these features sat on a head that was so small he thought he could have palmed it like a cantaloupe. Novak put a handful of french fries in his mouth and then went over to the door and locked it.

”I don't like other people seeing my drawings,” he said.

That's what makes them so worth seeing, Jonas thought, but instead he said, ”I can understand that. It's private. What do you usually do with a drawing after you finish it?”

”I don't know.”

”How often does your brother come to visit?”

”I don't know.”

Jonas stopped trying to make eye contact with him; he felt the need to make his own presence less provocative somehow. As his eyes grew used to the overpowering lighting, he thought he picked something up from the walls themselves, something other than just the shocking white. He took a few steps forward and saw, or thought he saw, the ghost of a face.

”Do you draw on the walls sometimes?” he asked. Novak reacted as if he'd been poked, jumping up and walking toward the papered-over window, lacing his fingers on top of his head. ”Only sometimes,” he said. ”Not that much. She just painted again. She was really mad. I only do it if I'm out of paper and can't go out, when I'm not feeling good.”

”When you're not not feeling good?” Jonas said. No reply. ”Does drawing make you feel better?” No reply. He felt like he was burying himself deeper but he had to keep going until he hit on the right question to ask. ”What makes you feel like doing it?” he said. feeling good?” Jonas said. No reply. ”Does drawing make you feel better?” No reply. He felt like he was burying himself deeper but he had to keep going until he hit on the right question to ask. ”What makes you feel like doing it?” he said.

”I don't know,” Novak said, pacing now.

The wall drawings were an interesting idea but Jonas's first thought was that of course there would be no way to get them out of the apartment itself. Unless he came back with a camera. But right now it was hard to imagine Novak ever letting him back in here again. ”Joseph,” he said, ”you know, if you like, I would be happy to give you some more paper so you don't run out. I could buy a lot of it for you. Is that something you'd like?”

”I don't know,” Novak said.

”You don't know? But then you could draw all you wanted, and you wouldn't have to worry about her”-he didn't know who he was referring to: Novak's landlord, he a.s.sumed, unless it was his mother-”getting mad about the walls.”

”She said she'd throw me out,” Novak said.

”Right, so this way you could keep drawing and not have to worry about that. What do you like to draw with most?”

”Sharpies,” Novak said miserably. He stopped pacing in front of the papered-over window, with his back to Jonas.

”Sharpies cost money too, right? I could get you all of those you wanted. You could draw whenever you felt like it without getting into trouble. Wouldn't you like that?”

”I don't know,” he said.

It could have been the ”I don't know” of a three-year-old, just a conversation stopper; anyway, Jonas chose not to hear it. ”Really?” he said. ”Then why do you do it?”

”I don't know,” Novak said, and turned around, and started walking forward; and Jonas, when he saw the expression on his face, took a step back toward where he thought the door was. ”I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know.” Their eyes met, and for one incredible moment he knew they were wis.h.i.+ng the exact same thing at the same time, which was that Jonas had never come here; and then Jonas started a little too casually toward Novak's front door, but before he could figure which of the two locks to unlock, something hard, harder than a fist anyway, connected with the back of his head. He had never really been hit before, not ever, his whole life long. Everything went white, as if his eyes had rolled all the way around, and it couldn't have been more than a few seconds later that he opened his eyes and was looking up at Novak sitting on a stool in the kitchenette, eating another one of the cold Arby's sandwiches, and looking very worried.

Time, of course, would not stand still in the way Cynthia wished it to, and so eventually the door to the veranda opened and Irene came back squinting into the darkened room. The change in light was such that Irene didn't seem to see her right away. Cynthia didn't say anything for fear of waking her father, though she was unsure why, when she had rushed down here precisely because his death was imminent, she should now be placing such value on his sleep. Then Irene began gesturing with her thumb, like a hitchhiker, and Cynthia understood that she was suggesting the two of them go out into the hallway.

They shook hands. Cynthia put her age at about sixty; she appeared younger than that, but she had the look of a woman who was older than she looked. She smelled like cigarettes. Her hair had that sculpted s.e.xagenarian appearance Cynthia had become familiar with through her time on the charity circuit. She was almost a head shorter too. Her skin was amazingly fair; how could you live in Florida, Cynthia wondered, and have skin that looked like that? Did she never go outside?

”Oh, I'm so excited to finally meet you,” Irene said. ”Charlie talks about you all the time. He's so proud of you and your husband, and all the success you've had.” Cynthia, with no similar civility to offer in return because she had had no notion of this person's existence until a few days ago, smiled weakly. She could see already that Irene was the sort of woman who wore every emotion, no matter how fleeting, on her face, and so it became clear that she had been antic.i.p.ating a more expansive Cynthia, as if there were already a bond there, as if this were a long-awaited reunion rather than a meeting of total strangers. ”Anyway,” she said, ”part of the reason I wanted to talk to you out of the room is that there are some things you may want to be prepared for before Charlie wakes up.”