Dead Time

by Stephen White

Five seconds of silence. “I think she’s mentioned him. Why?”

  I didn’t want to betray Cara’s confidence. “Long story. I don’t know much.”

  “You don’t lie very well. I’ll ask Kanyn. She’ll know.”

  The trichotillomania roommate. “I will take the not-lying part as a compliment.”

  “How bad is traffic? Where are you?”

  “I just got back on the Hollywood Freeway. It’s like—” I had an image of the sludge that would be in my circulatory system if I ate an entire cheesecake. I kept the visual to myself. “People really do this every day?”

  “Every day. So was this trip to the Valley some Thomas Wolfe kind of quest?” she asked. “You have…going-home issues?”

  I had no plan to answer the question, but I liked that she’d asked it. “Will you call me after you talk to Kanyn? I’d like to know what you find out.”

  “Take me to dinner. I’ll tell you then.”

  Okay. “Fine,” I said.

  She said, “That was a lovely invitation,” she said. “How could a girl say no?”

  “Good,” I said.

  She laughed. “Where are you staying? What part of town? Or have you decided to commute from the Valley?”

  I appreciated her humor. But replying that I was staying at “the Holiday Inn Express on Santa Monica Boulevard” sounded particularly lame. I said, “I’m staying at a friend’s place—it’s off Beverly in West L.A.” That would be Merideth’s flat. “Can you recommend a place to eat that’s not, I don’t know…”

  “In the Valley?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect,” she said. I thought her reply sounded like a non sequitur, or maybe some SoCal synonym for the ubiquitous British “brilliant.” “Kanyn is the host at—”

  Amy completed her thought with the name of a restaurant. To my ear, the sounds—I thought I had counted three syllables—tumbled together in a melodic riff that ended up not seeming like any recognizable word or series of words. I thought the first sound was a vowel, but said quickly, as Amy had done, the name was so foreign that the combined syllables failed to register anywhere in my language cortex. I couldn’t have repeated the notes if someone had put a gun to my temple.

  She went on. “It’s not far from your friend’s place. It’s always impossible there, but Kanyn’ll get us in. We may have to sit at the bar. Meet you at eight o’clock?”

  “Great. Where is it? Cross streets?”

  “Melrose? Third? Sorry. I’m good with scripts, but not so much with streets. I’ll text you a map.”

  I hesitated a split second before I said, “Okay.”

  Amy tried to keep the condescension out of her voice. “Your phone can handle it?”

  “I have a brand-new phone. It’s working on an algorithm for world peace.” Even though the manual for the phone was in Boulder, I was sure I could figure out how to open a map. My phone and I were friends.

  Okay, we were casual acquaintances. I could make calls and check my voice mail. Jonas had demonstrated how to play short videos. If I could replicate that lesson, I could certainly coax it to show me a simple map. Right? The problem was in the replicating.

  “See you at eight,” she said.

  She killed the connection. I realized that I had just made plans to have dinner with a single woman. Some might call that a date.

  I had begun rationalizing alternative explanations for my plans before I closed my phone. The reflex would have been disturbing had I paid any attention to it.

  I desperately wanted a shower. I’d had the foresight to stash the number of the Holiday Inn Express on Santa Monica Boulevard into my phone memory before I left Boulder. I found the number, highlighted it, and hit Send.

  I was pretty impressed with myself.

  “Not tonight,” said the woman at the motel after I asked to make a reservation for “this evening.” English was not her native tongue. Someplace in Asia had been first. I guessed Korea, but I wouldn’t have bet anything of value on my guess.

  “You’re all booked?” I asked.

  “No vacant-cy. Sorry. Not tomorrow, too. No.”

  Although her English was light-years ahead of my Korean, continuing the conversation didn’t offer much promise. I thanked her, hung up.

  It was six o’clock. I was cresting the Hollywood Hills in the company of a huge posse of impatient, strangely somnolent strangers.

  I didn’t have a clue how long it would take for traffic to resume flowing normally or for me to get to the part of L.A. where I was going from whatever part of Hollywood I was currently quasi-parked in. I switched from one technological marvel at which I wasn’t adept—my phone—and moved on to another. I took advantage of a long phase of traffic-stalsis to ask my trusty GPS device to guide me to Merideth’s pied-à-terre.

  I was telling myself that I would have told Merideth what I learned from Cara about the Grand Canyon thing anyway.

  The professional-sounding woman who was the voice of the device—I had anthropomorphized her by then—had the answer for me in seconds, as though she had been sitting, somewhere, waiting for me to pose my dilemma. “Turn right in…”

  Amy was, I thought, a couple of years older than Mel. They were both considerably younger than me. Other than an occasional therapy patient, it was a generation with which I had little contact. I wanted to hear what Amy thought about Lisa’s recent choices. Surrogacy, disappearing.

  As a rationalization for us having dinner with her, I thought it was elegant.

  I got to Merideth’s building at 7:10.

  The doorman was a burly Hispanic man named Hector Herrera. A discreet ON DUTY sign propped on the marble counter provided his name. He didn’t hover near the door like Haji, eager to open doors for pedestrians or hail cabs—instead he was comfortably seated on a stool, reading a copy of Wired. Hector had thick black hair and wore a charcoal pin-striped suit that fit his square body as though he had a bespoke tailor on retainer. I introduced myself and explained that Merideth was letting me use her place. He stole a quick glance over my shoulder out the front door. He didn’t say anything, but my impression was that he wasn’t awed by the Camry that I’d left in the building’s drive.

  I thought about telling him it was a hybrid. Didn’t.

  Hector was efficient. He disappeared with my license into an office for about thirty seconds before he returned with a key and an electronic fob for the building’s security system. “Twelve-oh-six,” he said. His voice was a lovely tenor that carried a shallow, south-of-the-border accent as an afterthought, almost a spice. “Ms. Gregory says hello, and reminds you that you know the alarm code.”

  I made the mistake of saying, “I do?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hector’s eyes locked on mine and restrained me like a pair of handcuffs. “You do.”

  “Good, then,” I said.

  Hector didn’t smile, but I thought he was at least mildly amused by my reaction to his tough-guy act. The clock behind the counter told me it was nearly 7:20.

  “Hector,” I asked, after I’d taken a couple of steps toward the elevator, “how long will it take me to get to a restaurant on Melrose, or maybe Third?”

  “They run parallel, sir. But not long.”

  “Ten minutes enough?”

  “In West L.A.? Yes, sir. Plenty.”

  “Any freeways involved?”

  That question earned me a grin. “Not unless you get lost.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem, Dr. Gregory.”

  Dr. Gregory. Merideth had told Hector I was a doctor. He probably thought I was a vascular surgeon or something, which was why he couldn’t figure out why I was driving a Camry. Merideth wouldn’t reveal that I was a mere PhD until after she was confident that my reflection had stopped shining on her.

  THIRTY-TWO

  When Merideth and I were married, we didn’t have an alarm in our Spanish Hills home in Boulder. If we’d had one, I would have tried that code first.

  What were
my other code-guess options? When she and I had traveled together as a couple, we used our birthday months in combination on hotel-room-safe keypads. That was a possible solution, I supposed.

  Merideth, damn it, I said to myself. She’d roped me into a juvenile guessing game. I speed-dialed her mobile from the elevator lobby on the twelfth floor.

  It was late in New York. She answered after two rings. “Hi,” she said.

  “What’s the code, Meri? I’m in a hurry.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  She was cooing. As evenly as I could, I said, “I don’t have time for a game right now. I need to get a shower so I can get to a meeting.”

  “It’s a great shower.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “A dinner meeting?”

  Still cooing. “Merideth, the code? Please. This may end up being helpful. Do you want me to try to be helpful or not?”

  “Eight oh three oh.”

  8030.

  Oh. All of Boulder’s zip codes—when I’d moved to town there were only three—started with 8030. Merideth and I had never used those four digits as a code. Ever. For anything. I was sure about that.

  “You never liked Boulder. How would I have guessed that code?”

  “That’s the thing with codes and passwords. You pick things that people would never guess, right?”

  “So why did you tell Hector that—”

  “I wanted you to call. Is that so awful?”

  “Hector could have told you I was there.”

  “He did, Alan. Twice.”

  The cooing had ended. Maybe she actually had a reason to talk with me. “Is something new, Meri? Did you find Lisa?”

  Her voice softened. “No, nothing.”

  “Sam learn anything?”

  “He doesn’t answer his phone and he’s not conscientious about returning calls.”

  “True on both counts. Sorry. I tried to warn you.”

  “You didn’t try very hard.”

  “You wouldn’t have listened. I tried to convince you not to hire him. He’ll get where he’s going, but he’ll frustrate you along the way.”

  “I thought you were being difficult when you said that. So where are you eating in West Hollywood? Mozza?”

  I didn’t reply. I still didn’t know the name of the restaurant where I was meeting Amy, but I was reluctant to admit that to Merideth. It could have been Matzoh—Amy might have chosen a Jewish restaurant. But I had convinced myself she had picked a place with three unidentified syllables. Matzoh was one syllable short. I hadn’t received the promised map on my phone, or if I had received it, I didn’t know how to know I’d received it.

  “Really?” Merideth said, assuming she had guessed correctly. “You can do the whole Batali thing in Manhattan when you come back for Jonas. Try someplace else. I’ll make a call for you. You want to go to izakaya, or maybe A.O.C.? It’s casual, but I like A.O.C.” She paused. “Let me call for you. Please?”

  “Thank you for the code, Meri, and thank you for letting me stay at your place. I’ll let you know what I learn. I promise.”

  “You’re not going to Mozza, are you? Where are you eating tonight? Tell me.”

  My brain pecked at the scattered clues. She’d said Batali. That meant the restaurant in her question was likely Mozza, and Italian, not Matzoh, and Jewish. “Olive Garden,” I said. “I’m going to the Olive Garden.”

  “On Melrose?”

  “Bye, Meri.”

  I heard her say, “Wait,” just as I was closing my phone.

  The 8030 code worked like a charm on the keypad. The first thing I noticed inside? Our old marital Tabriz anchored her modern furniture to the glossy walnut floor of her living room.

  I loved the view that emerged when I finally located the button on the wall that elevated the huge panels of solar shades that covered the tall windows of her flat.

  I loved the gazillion heads that massaged me in her gargantuan shower.

  I found myself disconcerted by the smells in her home. All the subtle scents were of her. And, in an odd reflection of memory, of us.

  I hadn’t quite regained my balance by the time I was back in the Camry on the way to the restaurant at 7:45.

  After giving it some thought during my shower, I decided A.O.C. might be the place where I was meeting Amy for dinner. Hector provided directions on my way out the door. No one had to know that I wasn’t able to get my phone to regurgitate the map Amy had sent while I was in the shower.

  With the help of the GPS lady—we were getting tight; I’d named her Chloe—I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before our scheduled rendezvous. I read the menu to kill some time. It looked fine. Small plates. Wine. After a few weeks of travel I was no longer fazed that chicken cost twice as much on the coasts as it did in between.

  I ambled around the block. I had no trouble keeping pace with a couple of lowriders crawling along in the right lane on Fairfax. They made me smile.

  To my utter surprise I was discovering that I liked L.A. Despite the miscommunications and the traffic and the foul air I liked how I was feeling since I’d arrived in Southern California. I’d expected L.A. to drain everything dynamic from me that NYC had invigorated. It wasn’t happening.

  I finished circling back to the restaurant, waiting for Amy with my back against the wall. I spotted her half a block away. She was pausing at the curb for the light to change so that she could cross West Third. I still thought she was cute.

  A crush of people engulfed us inside the door of the restaurant. Amy slithered through the crowd. I followed, tethered to her by our fingertips. At the front desk, she reached across me and touched the hostess on the arm. I guessed that was her other roommate. Kanyn was tall and blond with the brand of blatant beauty that I find incongruously off-putting. Her perfect eyebrows framed green eyes that seemed lit from within. Amy took my hand in hers and we followed Kanyn toward the dining room.

  I couldn’t help myself—as we walked, I checked the back of the hostess’s scalp for bald patches that would be telltale signs of trichotillomania, or for an odd hairstyle intended to disguise the presence of decultivated terrain. I didn’t see either.

  Amy introduced me to Kanyn as we sat down. “Hi,” Kanyn said. “It’s crazy. It’s always cra-azy,” Kanyn said. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.” She smiled at me. She had a huge, inviting mouth and exposed all her teeth when she smiled. “Nice to meet you, Aaron,” she said.

  During our brief encounter Kanyn was animated and energetic. Clinically, that she didn’t seem depressed told me nothing.

  “I used to live near here,” Amy said after we settled at our cramped deuce near the bar. Our neighboring diners were eating in such close proximity that I could’ve stolen the olives and salumi from their plates without fully extending my arms. I was hungry enough that I was tempted. “That was…two sets of roommates ago.”

  “‘Near’ seems to be a relative term in L.A.,” I said. “Seems to mean fewer than three freeways.”

  “Only a dozen blocks or so,” she said.

  “How long have you lived with Cara and—Sorry, with Mel and Kanyn?”

  “Let’s see…five months. Mel and Kanyn are old friends from college. I’m the…interloper. I met Mel on a set last winter. They had just moved into the duplex and were looking for another roommate. My previous roommate was getting married, so…”

  A waitress came by. Amy ordered a glass of wine I’d never heard of. When the waitress turned to me, I said I’d have the same.

  “Do you know what you just ordered?” Amy asked.

  “No.”

  “What’s that about?” she wondered, sitting back against the black chair. She was wearing a silky top in a shade of red that popped against the seat. She was continuing with the modest/not-at-all-modest fashion theme of the afternoon.

  “New things. Restaurants with initials. New people.”

  “Moi?”

  “I’m hoping you might have some insight
for me.”

  “That’s why you’re taking me to dinner? Because you want my…insight about something?”

  Her eyes weren’t on mine when she asked the last question. I thought she had developed an interest in my left hand. Specifically, the fourth finger. My wedding ring.

  “Not completely,” I said.

  She looked back up. “I thought insight was…your province. You’re the psychologist.”

  “Turns out that sometimes ignorance is my province. This might be one of those.”

  The wine arrived. It was a white, slightly sweet. Fine. “You were going to tell me about Jack?” I said. “Carmel told me on the phone that she was in the Valley because Jack hadn’t showed up when she expected him to. He is apparently an old friend”—I raised my eyebrows to express my lack of assurance about what I was telling her—“of hers. Mel was upset about it, wanted to be with her boyfriend.”

  “Jack is probably Kanyn’s friend too. They know a lot of the same people. I only saw Kanyn for a minute before she had to come here. She seemed upset about something, but that’s not unusual for Kanyn. Maybe it was the thing with Jack.”

  I decided to try to connect some dots. “Do you know anything about the Grand Canyon? Some trip Mel took…a few years ago? When she was in college. A girl disappeared?”

  Amy’s face told me she didn’t know—her “No” was redundant. “I can ask Kanyn when she comes over. If it was a big thing, she’ll know about it.”

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I did the time-zone arithmetic between California and Holland and decided that it was unlikely that the call was from Lauren. It was more likely that it was from Merideth, determined to discover where I was having dinner. I ignored the call.

  Amy went on. “Is that what…this is all about? Mel’s dad’s concern? You coming to L.A.? Some old camping trip?”

  “I wish I knew. Can I tell you what I know? See if you have some thoughts?”

  “Sure. But why me? I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Why not you? You’re a contemporary of Mel’s. Maybe you’ll have some insight—”

  “There’s that word again.”

  “Wisdom, then—is that better?—into how she might look at things.”