“Oh, Salem. The clothes that woman wore...” She was clearly in rapture. “And her hair. I don't have enough to pull off that hairstyle, but I've found a vintage clothing place in town, and I think I know where I can get a wig that would work.”
“Awesome,” I said. Good grief. The woman was around the bend. Up to this point, she had been a mild embarrassment to herself, but I'd let it go because where was the harm? But this... I mean, wigs? Period clothing? As her best friend, did I have an obligation to pull her back?
Viv was going on about how she should have put it together before. “Every guy in Britain had a crush on Emma Peel. The show would have been on during Nigel’s thirties and early forties, so he definitely would have been the age to watch her. And she was a spy! I mean, come on. What war hero isn't interested in spies?”
“Right. Listen, Viv...”
“So here's what's going down. I'm getting the costume, then you're going to come over and tell him we're rehearsing for a play.”
I breathed a silent prayer of gratitude. A play. So she didn't plan to put on this getup and expect everyone to accept this as her new look. “That's a fantastic idea!”
“I know! Tonight is poetry night, and you can hear him read. Oh, Salem. It's like...bathing in warm chocolate ganache.”
I pictured that and decided that it sounded gross. Do I want chocolate ganache in all my crevices? Do I want to eat ganache that has been in my crevices? No. No, I do not. Rather than say that out loud, I said, “Wow. Sounds great.”
“Once he sees me in the outfit, it will trigger every Emma Peel fantasy he ever had.”
“Do I get to be in this play, too?”
“And have you steal my thunder? No, you're going to be in set design.”
Thank you, God, I said silently. “Fair enough. Stump and I will be there in a little while.”
At Belle Court, I let Stump take care of her business in the dog walk area, cleaned up after her, and then dropped the bag in the metal box provided. I had just clanged the lid down and turned to go up to Viv's apartment when I almost bumped into Imogene Walker.
“Oh, jeez!” I said, jumping back.
She frowned at me. “What is wrong with you?”
I shook my head furiously. “Oh, nothing. Nothing. I was just...lost in thought, and you startled me.” I gave an awkward giggle.
She continued to frown.
“Remember how you wanted that word?” a mocking voice in my head asked.
Oh, come on, I thought. You cannot be serious. The clues to my identity and the fullness of my being do not lie on the other side of Imogene Friggin' Walker.
Just to be sure, though, I leaned a bit and looked past her.
She turned her head to see what I was looking at.
We both saw nothing but empty sidewalk.
“I'm just...going up to see Viv,” I said lamely. “She's been at play rehearsal.”
She blinked and nodded once. She could not have looked more bored. She shifted to move past me.
“Chicken,” the voice said.
I groaned. Then I moved to step into her way. “Actually, I jumped because I was just...thinking about you.” Jeez-O-Peet , that sounded weird. “I mean, the other day Viv and I were at the Metro Tower building and I saw your picture.”
Imogene's expression cleared. I mean, it wasn't as if she broke out in a welcoming smile or anything, but she looked markedly less annoyed. “Yes, my picture is there.”
“You were one of the architects who helped make sure the building was safe for use again.”
“I was. There was a whole team, of course. But I played a part.”
“That is fascinating to me,” I said. “Viv and I are looking into the thing with Peter Browning which has, you know, led to other things,” I stammered. “We've been watching all the stories he did, and, you know, you probably remember, well, I mean of course you remember, it just happened a few months ago, and I'm sure there's nothing wrong with your rememberer.” I laughed.
She went back to looking annoyed.
I cleared my throat and went on. “We've rewatched all the stories he did about Baucum Engineering and the earthquake and the school that collapsed and all that.”
Her frowned deepened, but I was fairly sure it was about Browning and all those stories.
I shook my head, not entirely sure of what I wanted to say. “I guess I just never thought about it that much. How it's more than just building something—building a building, I mean. If something goes wrong, people could die.”
“That's true.”
“I mean, a lot of people could die, in the case of the Metro Tower. That must be...scary.” Good grief, I was lame. “I mean, in my job, if I mess up, it'll probably just...grow back.”
“Yes, well.”
I racked my brain for something else to say. I wasn't seeing any fullness of being materializing in front of me, though. This was all just painfully awkward.
“Did you know him? David Baucum?”
“Of course. His mother lives—lived here. She and I were friends before she got sick.”
I hid my shock that anyone could be friends with this formidable woman. “I'm asking this because you were in a related field, and you have experience with...I guess...umm...buildings and natural disaster type things—”
“What, exactly, are you asking me?”
“Did you, ummm, think he got a fair shake, with all that business with NorthStar?”
“No. I do not. There were, tragically, many factors that went into that event that were far beyond David's control. But people need a scapegoat, and unfortunately for David, he appeared to become just that.”
At last, something we could agree on. “That's what's been bugging me. I can't understand why Browning focused on him so much. I mean, he brought every story back to Baucum, whether they were involved or not. My friend—who was his boss—said he just did that to keep it in perspective for the local viewers. Make it more personal, I think.”
“Well, it certainly made it more personal for David.”
“Do you think he meant to kill himself?” I said, reflexively lowering my voice to barely above a whisper.
But there was nothing wrong with her hearer, either. “I have no way of knowing, but I certainly wouldn't be surprised. He was quite devastated when the firm closed and all those people lost their jobs. He knew he wouldn't be able to afford his mother's care here anymore. I know that weighed heavily on him.”
“You said his mother died. Was it after—”
“I did no such thing.”
“Oh.” I flinched like she'd hit me. “I'm sorry, I thought you said—”
“I said his mother lived here, and she did. She is being moved to another facility.” She frowned and looked at her watch. “Now if you'll excuse me, I am due at the library desk.”
My phone dinged. “Come on up,” Viv's text read. “I need help.”
I lugged Stump inside Belle Court and up to Viv's apartment. I was kind of excited to see her costume, to be honest.
I tapped on the door and let myself in. “We're here,” I called.
“Just in time to zip me up,” she sang as she waltzed in from the bedroom.
She wore a one-piece fuschia body suit, with one black stripe down the outside of each leg and the length of each long sleeve, and a black patent leather belt low across the hips, fastened with a round silver ring low on her belly. Black heeled go-go boots completed the look.
She turned around, exposing her knobby spine to me. I tugged the zipper up past her black bra and patted her shoulder. “You're all set. Let's see.”
She spun around, arms akimbo. The neckline of the outfit was a kind of mock turtleneck.
“Groovy,” I said. Who cared if she had chicken legs, rounded shoulders, and a little pot belly? She was working what she did have for all it was worth.
“Wait until you see the wig,” she said.
She moved to the side table, where a styrofoam head sat holding the wig in ques
tion. It was a nice shade of brown, and the style you think of when you think of sixties hair—all one length, brushed back at the top, bowing away from the cheeks and then curling up at the bottom in a big fat loop of hair.
With the fuschia outfit, it should have been perfect. Viv plopped it on her head and tucked stray white strands of her own hair under it, tugging here and adjusting there.
When she was satisfied, she whirled around again, her hands on her hips, a jaunty tilt to her chin.
She looked like an old man in drag.
“Wow, that wig...” I said.
“I know! It really ties the whole look together.” She faced her reflection again and gave her curls a little bounce. She lowered her chin and gave herself a come hither look.
“Yeah, baby,” I said, a la Austin Powers.
“That's right,” Viv said. “Okay, let's do this.”
Viv strode through the halls of Belle Court with even more vigor than usual, so I was forced to practically trot to keep up. Whereas, say, a normal person might feel somewhat abashed at drawing every available eye with three-inch heeled patent leather boots, fuschia from head to toe, and a bouncy wig, Viv met each gaze as if to say, “I know, right?! How freaking fabulous am I?”
When we got to the library, though, the little sitting area was empty.
Imogene was at the volunteer desk, sorting through books.
“What's going on with poetry night?” Viv asked. “I rushed here from dress rehearsal for a play we're doing, and now no one is here.”
Imogene eyed Viv over her glasses. She took in the getup, starting at the boots and working her way up to the wig without a word.
“Well?” Viv
“Canceled,” was all Imogene said.
“Canceled?!” Viv looked around, as if expecting someone to contradict this obvious impossibility. No one else was in the room, unfortunately. “But...I rushed back from dress rehearsal.”
“You said that already. However, your rushing has no bearing on anything related to poetry night.”
Viv frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Does this happen often with this—this poetry night thing? You get people all excited to hear—hear poems and then cancel it?”
Imogene went back to sorting her books silently. After a few seconds, she said, “Only when the founder is unexpectedly moved to the sixth floor.”
Her voice was so low that it took a few moments for the meaning of those words to register.
Sixth floor. The Alzheimer's unit.
I looked at Viv. She was catching on at the same time I was.
Anne had Alzheimer's.
Viv and I walked slowly back toward her room. She looked like I felt—dazed. Anne? Sweet Apple Annie?
We had almost reached Viv's apartment when Viv spun on her booted heel. “I don't believe it.”
“I know,” I said. “It's heartbreaking.”
“No, I mean, I really don't believe it.”
I thought of Anne's difficulties in following her notes at the Veterans Day ceremony and the blank smiles she'd given Viv at the Memorial Circle when Viv talked about recent events. JoAnn Pepper from years ago, she remembered well. What was going on that week, she seemed very vague on.
I did believe it, I was afraid.
“I'm going to go up and check. I'm sure Imogene Walker is just mixed up.”
I followed Viv back to the elevator and we rode silently to the sixth floor.
Inside the Alzheimer's unit, the woman at the desk raised an eyebrow at Viv and her getup, but didn't say anything.
“Anne Meyers,” Viv said briskly. “She's not here, is she?”
“She is here. She just moved in today, in fact.” She nodded toward the other end of the hallway. “I came from there a few minutes ago, though, and she seemed in good spirits if you want to go down and say hello.” She nodded toward me. “You can't take the dog in there, though. Pets have to stay outside those doors.”
“You can take her back to my apartment,” Viv offered.
I imagined the screaming fit Stump would pitch if I left her alone for one second in Viv's apartment. Stump suffers from extreme separation anxiety. The whole of Belle Court would be thrown into Code Red status before I made it down the hallway.
“You go ahead and go visit her,” I told Viv. “Stump and I will wait by the elevator.”
We stepped outside the swinging door and I sat, cross-legged, on the floor beside a rolling cart.
The atmosphere was hushed. I fought the urge to run away. For a horrible, terrifying moment I thought about visiting Viv up here. It was easy to pretend that Viv was my age, because she acted like it. Her room at Belle Court was more like a high-end apartment than an assisted living place. But on this floor were real hospital beds. People walking around with trays of medicine and machines on poles.
I leaned against the wall, Stump curled in my lap, and looked at the cart. It held several closed boxes, with a couple on top that were too full to close. One was filled with framed pictures, the other with what looked to be knickknacks. A porcelain bust of a woman with a broad-brimmed hat, kind of like the one G-Ma had in her bedroom. What looked to be three or four folded scarves. A set of candlesticks.
Were these Anne's things, waiting to be moved into her room? Before thinking it through, I slid the box of pictures closer to me and flipped through them.
Anne wasn't in any of them, though. There were a few of what looked like old school pictures and some family photos—a blond boy holding a fish on a line, grinning proudly, a beautiful girl in a black graduation cap and gown, her family around her, an extended family gathered around a fireplace at Christmastime. The white-haired parents, the old man's arm around his wife's shoulder, and a grown man stood on the other side of her, his hands on her shoulders, leaning in and laughing. Someone had just said something funny, or the person taking the picture had done something funny, because his expression was more exuberant than just smiling for a family photo. A few more grown children and three or four grandchildren all smiling for the camera. In moments like that, no one thinks that one of those people will be dead soon. That the woman with the bright blue eyes and generous smile will no longer recognize them. I didn't see Annie in any of these pictures, though.
I realized with horror that this could be stuff gathered up from someone who had recently died, and it was waiting to be picked up by their family. I slid the box back onto the cart and scooted away from it.
Viv came out just a few seconds later.
“That didn't take long,” I said as I rose, dusting myself off. “How is she?”
Viv shook her head. “I didn't see her after all. They had taken her for some tests. I waited a few minutes, but...”
She trailed off and turned to push the elevator button. She stared at the closed silver doors, waiting, looking lost in thought and forlorn. Without saying a word, she reached up and tugged the wig from her head. Her hair underneath was completely mussed, but she didn't even try to straighten it.
The elevator dinged softly and the doors slid open. Viv stepped in, almost colliding with a guy getting out. She didn't notice the irritated look he gave her. I put my arm out and gently steered her to the side.
I went back to Viv's apartment for a while, but neither of us had much to say.
“You ought to go talk to your husband,” Viv said.
The thought of seeing Tony terrified me. At the same time, I felt an overwhelming need to do just that. Life seemed suddenly very tenuous, and I felt a need to hunker down on home base.
I stood and picked up Stump, who groaned when I did, then yawned and settled.
“Call me if you want to talk,” I said. “We'll regroup tomorrow on this Browning thing.”
I drove back toward Trailertopia, thinking that I might just text Tony from there. That would be the least intrusive way to contact him. See if he was ready to talk.
Then I thought, You know what? You faced a conversation with Imogene Walker. You can face Tony.
So I drove to his house. My heart pounded as I walked up the sidewalk, thinking about our last conversation.
I didn't realize what I was getting into.
I'd never failed before.
I do love you, but...
I rang the doorbell with my stomach clenched.
Tony opened the door and stood back to let me in.
I couldn't bring myself to step across the threshold, though. I hung back on the porch, unsure what to do or say.
“You don't want to come in?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I just...” I trailed off as Stump walked past us both and went to find her bed.
Tony smiled at her. “Stump came in. You should come in.”
I followed him into the living room and we sat side by side on the sofa.
“I'm sorry I didn't wait for you to call first,” I said.
“Are you? I'm not.” He slid his hand up to cup the back of my neck, rubbing his thumb along my jaw line and under my ear.
This, as one might imagine, made me feel a bit more confident. But I didn't come here to ignore the elephant in the room.
I needed to ask him some hard questions. I reminded myself of Serena's advice—our greatest rewards lie on the other side of our deepest fears.
“I have to just—” I started. My throat closed, and I could only whisper. “The other day on the phone, you said you'd never failed at anything before. I just need to know...”
He leaned forward, his forehead touching mine. “What, Salem?” he whispered.
I had to know, but at the last second, I chickened out. I made a joke. “You should have asked me for advice,” I whispered. “I've failed at pretty much everything at one time or another. It's not that hard once you get the hang of it.”
He laughed, and the next thing I knew his arms were around me, he was pulling me into his lap, holding me so tight, kissing my hair, my face, my lips.
He took my face in his hands. Tears stood in the corners his eyes. “God, Salem. I do love you so much. I don't know how you do that.”
“Do what?” I was crying, too, but hopeful, now. Surely we could be okay if he loved me so much, and I loved him so much.
“Make everything feel...okay. Like huge unsolvable problems are suddenly smoothed into...” He shrugged. “Not into nothing, of course, but into something manageable. Something we can handle together.”
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