“I’m not hiding it. It’s just a letter.”
“Who from? Is it something about my father?”
Kat realized that her son wasn’t going to let this go. Normally, Dashiell paid little attention to what was going on around him, but like all children, he had an almost infallible instinct for sniffing out parental secrets. “Actually,” she admitted, “it’s from my father.”
Dashiell looked puzzled. “Your father? But I thought he was dead.”
“Up till now, he’s been as out of touch as if he were dead, but suddenly he’s decided to contact me.”
Dashiell took the radical step of putting his Game Boy in its case. “So, what does he say? Is he coming to visit us?”
“I don’t know. He’s a spy, you see, and I think he’s written this in some kind of weird code.” She showed Dashiell the letter. “What do you think?”
Dash examined the sheet for a while without speaking. “It’s not a code,” he said at last.
“It’s not?”
Just then, the waiter appeared. Kat ordered a doner kebab for Dashiell, and salmon wrapped in grape leaves for herself. After this, she promised herself, no more breaking her budget with dinners out.
Once the waiter had left, Kat touched Dashiell’s shoulder. “So what is it? Are you sure it isn’t some kind of secret message?” It was sort of strange, deferring to her nine-year-old, but her son loved word puzzles and math games. As far as Kat knew, the only code her son hadn’t been able to break was the unwritten one of social interactions.
“Of course it’s a secret message,” said Dash, in a tone of voice that suggested she was a little slow on the uptake. “It’s just not a code.”
“Try to say it without sounding so condescending, Dash.”
“Sorry.” The waiter put some long, flat bread on the table, along with a bowl of yogurt cheese. Dashiell tore off a piece of the bread. “This is a cipher. A code replaces every word with another word or symbol or number. A cipher replaces every letter.”
“Can you decode—I mean, decipher it?”
“Of course. It’s totally easy. A baby could solve this.”
“But I can’t, so please just tell me.”
“This is a null cipher. Meaning you just take the first letter from each word, see? ‘Mundane excitement eventually triumphs,’ that just means ‘Meet.’ ‘Mediate eddies’ means ‘me,’ and so on.”
Kat took the letter back. “Meet me here at six p.m. tomorrow!” She half stood up and hugged her son across the table. “Dash, you’re a genius.”
“So did your dad send you any cool spy stuff? X-ray glasses or bugging devices or signal pens?”
“I’m afraid he seems to be a low-tech kind of guy. If I want to talk to him, I’m supposed to put some pink chewing gum on the left side of the phone booth out there.”
“You’re joking.”
“Afraid not.”
“But that’s so lame.”
Kat shrugged in silent apology, but her son had already turned to watch the waiter arriving with their food. Dashiell attacked his lamb and beef dish with messy enthusiasm, bolting down his bites and then pausing abruptly. “I’m full.” He started to reach for his Game Boy.
“Don’t start playing, Dash. Talk to me a moment. How did the rest of your field trip go?”
“It went great. Thank you for coming, Mommy.”
He hadn’t called her Mommy in a while. “I’m glad it helped, honey.” She concentrated on cutting a piece of her fish. “How do you feel about us having a boarder?”
“Okay, I guess. But, Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“When am I going to see Daddy again?”
Kat took a breath, taken completely off guard. “Well,” she said, “I don’t really know. I imagine he’ll come see you as soon as he gets a break from filming.” Was that the right thing to say? Should she be more honest and brace him for the reality that he might not see his father for a long time? But for once, Kat couldn’t bring herself to state the bald truth, that Logan was close by and didn’t seem particularly interested in seeing his son. May you rot in hell, you lousy bastard.
“Maybe we should call him. Or write.”
“Sure, we could do that.” Why couldn’t Logan just get hit by a truck and die? Death was such an easy thing to explain, and the perfect excuse for being out of contact. “Why don’t you let me email him for you?”
“Okay.”
Later, back in the apartment, with Dashiell asleep, Kat sat down at her computer. She was a little afraid to check her email, in case she discovered that Logan hadn’t even bothered to respond to her message. That worry turned out to be unjustified; he had sent a reply, all right.
GreatDain64: I have shared your email threats with my lawyer, who advises me to avoid all personal contact until the details of our settlement have been worked out. If you really are concerned about Dashiell, I should think the last thing you would want to do is air all our dirty laundry in the tabloid press.
Kat nearly threw the computer against the wall. That asshole! She tried to reconcile this conscienceless, disembodied voice with the Logan who used to stroke her pregnant belly. Don’t get dragged down with that, now. Concentrate. Aware that Logan was showing everything to his lawyer, it took her an hour of revising to come up with something she could actually send, which was:
Kminer: It doesn’t take a law degree to figure out that IT IS NOT RIGHT for a father earning in the high six figures to take all the money out of his wife’s bank account when she and your son HAVE NO MONEY TO LIVE ON. If you don’t like how that sounds in print, then I suggest you make some reasonable arrangement with me.
P.S.: Dashiell wants to know when he will see his daddy again.
When she had finished sending her message, Kat poured herself a glass of wine and longed for a cigarette. Why had no one ever invented a cigarette delivery service for mothers who used to smoke and longed to go back to the habit but couldn’t leave the house to buy a pack? Pulling her hair back into a high ponytail, Kat took a sip of pinot grigio and checked her answering machine.
The first message was from her agent. “As we suspected, the soap decided to go with another actress. Presumably they want to keep their options open with Logan, and they’re worried about how you two would work together now. I want you to know that I was really frank and told them that I thought there were a lot of fans who were going to be extremely disappointed. But you know what? We’ve got feelers out to the other soaps, and in the meantime, you’ve had an offer from an infomercial for a new line of skin-care products. Now, I do remember what you used to say to me about paid endorsements, but frankly so many actresses are doing them these days that I don’t agree with you that it’s the kiss of death to your career.”
Translation: You can’t kill something that’s already dead.
“Now, I’ve heard that this particular line is actually very good, it’s an American repackaging of a French program. And you know, it’s quite a compliment to be asked—clearly, they think you’re looking good, and that your face will motivate viewers to buy their product. Call me and let me know what you think.”
Well, Kat thought, maybe I should consider it. God knows it would be a welcome infusion of cash, and even if it was a bit whorish to get paid to compliment something for an hour, she would hardly be the first to fall from grace. The Saturday-morning cable stations were full of former sex symbols peddling cutting-edge hair gizmos, specialized martial arts sit-up machines, depilatory miracles, and makeup that could conceal the effects of age, sun damage, and the wounds inflicted by an ax-wielding maniac.
She’d be the signature face of something, like Victoria Principal and Cindy Crawford. Not the fate she’d hoped for herself, but at least it would save her apartment from the dangers of divorce court.
Suddenly Kat noticed that there was another message. She pressed play. “Hi, Kat, it’s Daphne again. Just got some more details about the infomercial. A number of really good actresses are i
nvolved—the star of that BBC police show that came over here a few years back, one of the Sex and the City women, Sela Ward—whoops, no, sorry, Sela got an eye infection, so she had to bow out. Well, call me Monday if you’re interested, you’re supposed to pick up a few jars and use the products for a couple of days before they shoot the video.”
Oh, Christ, Kat thought. It’s come to this—I’m second choice to Sela Ward to help peddle moisturizer.
Actually, when she thought about it for a moment, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world to be. It wasn’t exactly “We saw your performance in that Chekhov play and we had to have you,” but it was hardly the most disappointing event of recent days.
Now, Kat thought, this was actually a seldom remarked upon advantage to depression. When you were really feeling down in the dumps, every lousy thing began to carry the exact same weight, whether it was losing a pregnant gerbil somewhere in the walls of your apartment or learning just how limited your job options really were.
Kat was just thinking she might be tired enough for bed when the doorbell rang.
Kat opened the door to her mother, who was wearing her dark purple caftan and an overbearing expression of cheerfulness. “So? Which one did you choose? The Icelander?”
Kat realized that, in living this close to her mother, she had turned her life into a sitcom. All she needed now was the soundtrack and the neat, thirty-minute resolution to all her problems. “Want some wine, Mom?” Kat poured her mother a glass and handed it to her. “I did decide on Magnus, but…”
“Ha! I knew it! You always liked the tall ones.”
Kat sighed. “First of all, Mom, I’m not getting involved with a student. Second of all, I’m definitely not getting involved with a paying boarder.”
Lia sipped her wine. “Sometimes it’s enough to feel an attraction. And you are attracted to him, don’t bother trying to deny it.”
“All right, I’m attracted.”
“So why not just enjoy yourself? It’s not like he’s twelve and you’re his sixth-grade teacher. And it’s not as if he’s going to be living with you forever.”
“I thought you were concerned about Dash’s reaction. Besides, aren’t mothers supposed to advise their daughters against casual sex?”
“Dash is going through a hard time, but so are you, and you’re my baby. I want you to have something good in your life. The way I see it, by the time you hit sixty, sex starts avoiding you, so you might as well take advantage of having that man in your house while you can.”
Kat checked in her kitchen cabinet and offered her mother a box of thin wheat crackers. “Okay, Mom, here’s the truth. Maybe I would consider doing something, but he says he’s celibate.”
Lia nibbled on a cracker. “Okay, this is not a good sign. When women swear off sex for a while, it’s usually because they need a little time to deal with their emotions from a previous relationship. When men do it, there’s usually some deep-seated psychological problem.” Closing the box of crackers, Lia stood up. “Is it too late to change your mind and choose the other one?”
“Mom, I’m not shopping for a lover.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you were. After a certain age, the opportunities don’t just happen all by themselves like they used to.”
After her mother left, Kat double locked her door and changed into her nightgown. When was the last time she’d had sex, anyway? September? October? And that hardly counted, as it had been quick and unsatisfactory, and followed by the revelation that her husband no longer found her attractive. No, correction, it hadn’t been a revelation, not really, it had been more of a confirmation that Logan had lost all desire for her, and that it wasn’t conflicting schedules or tiredness or any of the other myriad of marital excuses for not having sex that was to blame.
And the sad truth was, she hadn’t even missed the sex. She had missed wanting sex, and even more, had missed being wanted. She had missed walking around feeling that delicious sense of possibility that she used to get from attractive men. She missed feeling that her body was a gateway to pleasure.
Still, it was nice to think that today she had experienced a frisson of erotic contact with a man. Even if it had only been for two seconds.
Kat climbed into bed and was about to turn off the light when she realized there was no way she could meet her father and ask the questions she wanted to ask with Dashiell in tow. Kat picked up the phone and pressed the memory one button. “Mom, I’m not waking you up, am I?”
“No, I was just reading in bed.”
“I never told you why I had to go to the restaurant tonight.”
“It has to do with your father, doesn’t it?”
Kat laughed, shaking her head in amazement. “You are just plain scary, Mom. Or psychic.”
“Not really. Look, Kat, first you won’t tell me anything about the letter your father sent, and then, all of a sudden, you absolutely have to eat Turkish, but you can’t explain why. So, did you see him? How does he look?”
Kat rubbed the backs of her hands, which were rough and dry. “Actually, he left a note for me to pick up. I’m supposed to meet him there tomorrow evening.”
“God, the complete narcissism of the man. Why is he using Fez as a dead drop? Don’t tell me he’s that frightened of me.”
Kat smoothed some lotion into her knuckles, not wanting to admit that she wasn’t sure what a dead drop was. “Why would he be scared of you, Mom?”
“Because when he got in touch with me last month, I told him how much he owed me in back child support, that’s why.”
It took Kat a moment to process that. “You never told me he contacted you.”
Lia’s voice sharpened. “I just don’t see why that man deserves to have anything to do with you now when he didn’t help us at all back when we needed him.”
Lying in what had once been her mother’s bedroom, Kat felt a momentary sense of disorientation, as if thirty years had telescoped together and she were ten again. “What if I’m curious about him, Mom? And isn’t all that kind of ancient history at this point?”
“Not to me, it’s not.”
“Well, I want to meet him. I was going to ask you to watch Dash, but if you don’t want to…”
“When do I ever refuse you anything? I’m just worried that he’s going to wind up disappointing you. You know you can’t expect anything from him, don’t you?”
“Believe me,” Kat said, “I’m not expecting anything.”
chapter seventeen
k at was disappointed. She’d been sitting in the restaurant for the past forty minutes, waiting for her father to arrive. In that time, she had worked her way through an appetizer of vine leaves, a shepherd’s salad, and a glass of wine. Kat made a mental calculation and realized she’d just consumed about $20 worth of vegetables, and she hadn’t even been that hungry. Which was strange, really, since she hadn’t eaten much all day, but the prospect of meeting a parent she hadn’t seen since fifth grade was a real appetite suppressant. Trying to distract herself, Kat opened her fake Kate Spade bag and took out the three containers of Rejuvenatrix she’d picked up from her agent in preparation for the infomercial.
There was a bottle of cleanser made from sea kelp, which was green and smelled like a seashell that still had something living inside of it; a jar of moisturizer, which was blue and smelled a bit like a seventies aftershave; and a small test tube of something called Intensive Care, which was a disconcerting shade of red. It smelled like a doctor’s office.
Maybe the infomercial would be a greater test of her acting abilities than she’d realized, Kat thought. Even Katharine Hepburn in her prime would have had trouble selling this stuff.
The young waiter in the fez and vest appeared. “Will there be anything else, madame?”
Kat looked around the dimly lit restaurant, hoping for a glimpse of a man she only vaguely remembered. In the last pictures she had of him, her father had sported a thick, dark blond mustache clearly influenced by Robert Redford’s Sun-dan
ce Kid. Now that she thought about it, he must have been her age at the time of that photograph.
“I don’t think so,” she told the waiter, still not completely resigned to the fact that her father was not going to show. “Just the check, please.” Could Dash have mistranslated the cipher? No, probably just another example of the complete and utter fecklessness of Ken Miner.
“You were here last night,” said the waiter.
Curious, Kat looked up. “That’s right.”
“With your son, yes? The little boy.”
Could this have something to do with her father? “Yes, that was my son. I’m Katherine Miner,” Kat added for good measure, in case the waiter needed confirmation of her identity before he gave her his message.
“I am Malik.” The waiter looked at her with his big, dark eyes. “Do you have a husband?”
Oh, no, thought Kat, I know where this is headed. “Sorry, Malik, but I’m not in the market for a one-night stand, I’m legally married, so I can’t offer you any help getting a green card.”
Malik shrugged. “I just thought you looked lonely,” he said, walking away.
Perfect. Kat dialed Marcy on her cell phone. “Hey, I don’t suppose you want to come down to Fez and meet me for dinner?” Kat knew she should just cut her losses and leave, but she felt reluctant to head home to her mother’s inevitable “I told you so.”
“I would love to see you, but I’ve already cooked lasagna. Steve was supposed to be home an hour ago.”
“We’re a pair, then. I’ve just been stood up by my father.”
“I thought your father was dead.”
“No such luck.” Kat looked out at the tables around her. To her left, a scholarly looking young man was kissing the side of his date’s neck. “What’s up with Steve?”
“He had rehearsal with his jazz band, and I guess he and the guys went out for a drink.” Marcy sounded tired rather than irritated, and Kat found herself wishing her friend would grow a little backbone.
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