“Was it?” says Danny.
This might not be the most opportune moment to discuss the power balance between herself and Meyer. In the past, she’s lectured the kids, perhaps unwisely, on the life of Meyer Maslow, on what a hero he is, and how lucky she is to be working for him. Meanwhile she knows that they think she’s a spineless wimp who would jump off the Tappan Zee if Meyer told her to. Well, they’re wrong. She stands her ground when it matters. Her first week at the foundation, Meyer asked if she would mind picking up his dry cleaning on her way back from lunch. It took all her courage to tell him that it wasn’t her job. That same afternoon, she returned from lunch to find that he’d sent her flowers.
So it’s not only Meyer teaching her things. It’s a two-way street. Anyway, it’s not about Meyer. How often do you get a chance to test yourself, to open your heart, to really put yourself out, by rescuing someone who needs your help?
Bonnie says, “It was also my idea. Sweetheart, the poor guy’s homeless.”
“That’s what I said,” Max pipes up.
“Fucking kiss-up!” Danny spits at his brother, making obscene kissing motions as he grabs his backpack and heads for the door.
“Bye. Love you,” says Bonnie, forlornly.
Max watches his brother go, then says, “You know, Mom, there’s lots of other homeless people we could take in. It doesn’t have to be this guy…”
“Honey,” says Bonnie. “You don’t get to choose. It’s not like adopting a puppy from the pound.”
“I figured that, too.” How could Max be four years younger and forty years more mature than his brother? Or his father, for that matter? Bonnie feels disloyal for comparing her kids. So what if one tries to make her life simple and the other one lives to make her suffer? Bonnie loves them both. It’s just that Max is easy. Danny’s more of a challenge, because he’s so much more like her and consequently hates her for the qualities they share.
Max shrugs and squeezes Bonnie’s shoulder. He’s already running after his brother, thinking of some smart remark (doubtless at Bonnie’s expense) that will make them friends again before Danny’s bus comes, closely followed by Max’s bus to the middle school that’s only a two-minute walk from Danny’s high school.
Vincent comes downstairs a few minutes after the boys leave. Was he awake and listening?
“Coffee?” says Bonnie. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” Vincent says. The shy half smile, the slow appreciative way he sips his coffee, the friendly silence into which he lapses reassure Bonnie that this is not the homicidal maniac she pictured at five A.M. At the same time, she has the feeling that all his expressions and gestures are calculated to reassure her.
“I slept like a baby,” Vincent says. “I woke up screaming every two hours.”
The minute Bonnie relaxes, Vincent reminds her not to.
“Joke,” Vincent says. “That’s supposed to be funny. I slept great. I feel terrific.”
“So I guess we should get ready to go.”
“Say the word,” says Vincent.
Outside, the street has been newly washed, and so, it appears, has the bright spring morning. Vincent and Bonnie get into the van.
“The dashboard light’s still blinking,” says Bonnie.
“Jap corporate greed,” Vincent says. “They have it all worked out. It’s their way of making sure you get it serviced more than you need to, and then they skim some cash off the top from the chain garages.”
“Are American cars different?” Bonnie wishes he hadn’t said Jap. “Different from Japanese?”
“Don’t kid yourself,” says Vincent. “It’s all Jap-owned.”
Bonnie pulls out on the highway. Vaguely companionable and sleepy, like the rest of the zoned-out carpoolers around them, they ride in silence until the traffic slows and they pull up alongside a vintage Saab station wagon with Vermont plates and three rugrats swarming all over their parents.
“Child neglect,” says Bonnie. “How could they not make their kids wear seat belts?”
Vincent says, “I’ve seen statistics proving that seat belts double your chance of dying in a wreck.”
“Fasten yours, please,” Bonnie says.
“I already did,” says Vincent. “So did your kids get off to school okay?”
How nice of him to ask. “I guess so,” Bonnie says. “After the daily psychodrama.”
“Your kids think you’re great,” says Vincent.
“They do?” says Bonnie. So this is what Bonnie’s come to. She’s overjoyed because some Nazi burnout tells her that her kids like her. Of course they like her. They love her. But she can’t help wanting to know how it looks from the outside. That’s one of the many drawbacks of being a single parent. There’s no one to consult. Not that she could have asked Joel, who always found a way to point out what a fabulous parent he was and how miserably Bonnie was failing. She let the kids walk all over her. She was not allowing them to turn into men.
“They admire you,” Vincent says.
“Really?”
“Trust me on this.” Could Vincent be conning her? Pushing her buttons? It takes a certain sensitivity to know where someone’s buttons are.
“Where did you grow up?” Bonnie asks.
“The Catskills. Liberty, Swan Lake, around there.”
“The Borscht Belt?” says Bonnie.
“The Bean Sprout Belt,” Vincent says. “My mom was a sort of New Ager.”
Bonnie hadn’t expected that, but fine, she can factor it in.
“What did your father do?”
“Died,” says Vincent.
“What?” says Bonnie.
“He was an electrician. And then he died.”
“And your mom?”
“After he passed, she cooked for all these weird hippie religious joints, ashrams and temples and shit, in return for free board and meditation lessons.”
“That’s a lot of cooking,” says Bonnie.
“Brown rice and stir-fry.” Vincent shrugs. “Not as much as you’d think. I never went for the spiritual jive. I walked in the woods. I read comics.”
“Your mom was ahead of her time.”
“Actually, she was a couple of decades behind it. I guess you could say I was sort of preprogrammed to join ARM. I mean, I got used to hanging around with nut jobs.”
“You were born to work for Brotherhood Watch.” Bonnie laughs, too loudly. She doesn’t think the foundation is full of nut jobs, though she can see how someone might.
Vincent smiles. “I guess you could say that, too.”
Vincent’s relaxed—for Vincent—as long as they’re on the thruway, but as soon as they turn off the West Side Highway, Bonnie can feel the tension growing until, by the time they’re walking from the parking lot to the office, his shoulders are raised like a prizefighter’s, ready to fend off whoever comes out swinging.
“Don’t be nervous,” says Bonnie. “No one at the foundation bites.”
“Life bites,” Vincent says.
At reception, Anita Shu’s good morning could hardly be frostier.
“Have we found Vincent office space?” Bonnie says.
“One-sixteen-B,” says Anita.
Bonnie ushers Vincent to the cheerless empty workstation they keep for temps and volunteers. The gunmetal desk is bare except for a crumpled candy bar wrapper that adds to the desolation the way a tangle of tumbleweed makes the desert seem more desolate.
“Lovely.” Bonnie grabs the candy wrapper.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Vincent.
“Will you be okay here?” The guy spent years in a hate group, and Bonnie’s asking if he can survive half an hour at an empty desk? But when Vincent throws himself into the chair with a little boy’s stagy bravado and grins and says, “Sure,” she knows why she asked. She feels like she’s dropping him off at day care. She should have told him to bring a book.
“Look, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you wait in my office?” An invitation she r
egrets at once. There’s nothing for him to do there, either, except look out the window—or go through her desk and files. Why does she keep suspecting him of wanting to rifle through her stuff?
So far everything—well, most things—indicate that Vincent Nolan is what he appears to be, that he means what he says. And yet she’s chilled by the prospect of leaving him alone with the financial records of Brotherhood Watch. Suppose he’s looking for evidence to bring his Nazi pals to prove that Jews are richer than the most delusional skinhead’s dreams. Or at least that’s how it might look on paper, to outsiders unaware of the foundation’s staggering expenses, of how hard it has become to raise the capital, and of how much depends on the benefit dinner.
“Don’t touch anything,” Bonnie can’t help saying. It’s what she would tell her kids, and Vincent’s grin conveys the fact that he knows that.
Leaving her door open, she heads for Meyer’s office, where, just as she feared, Meyer and Roberta Dwyer have begun without her.
It shames Bonnie that her happiness depends on the speed with which Meyer detaches from Roberta and how glad he looks to see her. She’s seen him look glad to see thousands of people he wasn’t glad to see. She’s proud that she is one of the few who evoke a genuine smile.
As always, it seems to take Roberta a moment to remember who Bonnie is, though they work together constantly and depend on one another. Bonnie needs Roberta to get publicity for the foundation, and though Roberta would rather have her expensively manicured fingernails pulled out, one by one, than admit it, without Bonnie there would be no money to pay the maintenance on her West Village co-op.
“Hi there,” says Roberta.
“Oh, hi, Roberta!” The fear of sounding sullen makes Bonnie trill like Minnie Mouse.
“This recovering skinhead thing could be dynamite.” Roberta turns thumbs up at Bonnie. It’s not Roberta’s fault that she’s the older version of the high-school successes whose mission was to keep Bonnie off the cheerleading squad. But one of the perks of being so long past high school is the maturity that turns girls who despised one another into women who can cooperate and see one another’s good points. Bonnie likes it that Roberta’s bitchy, passive-aggressive pep-squad energy is deployed in the service of Brotherhood Watch. And no doubt Roberta thinks that Bonnie’s nerdy sincerity is persuasive and reassuring to potential big-ticket donors.
“How did last night work out?” asks Meyer. “With our friend Mr. Nolan.”
Does Roberta know that Bonnie was chosen to take Vincent home? Vincent moving into her West Ninth Street doorman building is not an honor she wants.
“We survived,” Bonnie replies. “He was perfectly well behaved.”
“I meant to call you,” Meyer says. “And I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”
Meyer thought about calling her, with all he has on his mind! Of course, he should have called. Look whom he sent to stay at her house.
“And your sons?” says Meyer. “Danny and Max? How did they react?” So Meyer really is thoughtful. Bonnie wants to believe he cares. It impresses her that, with a major foundation to oversee, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he takes time to worry about her boys. A lesser man in Meyer’s place wouldn’t remember their names.
“It wasn’t exactly love at first sight. But they understood.”
“Bonnie, if this is too much…,” says Meyer. “Irene couldn’t believe it when I told her you’d offered to take Vincent home. She couldn’t believe I let you do it. I thought she’d never forgive me—”
“We’ll be fine.” Bonnie knocks on Meyer’s desk. “It will probably turn out to be a learning experience.” Bonnie hates the phrase learning experience. So why is she using it now? Because she’s lying, and she isn’t. She wishes she could go back to her regular, more or less peaceful existence with her kids. But there’s something interesting about life with the bizarro houseguest. Anyway, this is not the moment to express her doubts. It’s time to give Meyer the breezy reassurance he wants.
“They’re good boys,” pronounces Meyer. Bonnie beams, though she’s aware that Meyer hardly knows them. They are good boys. And Meyer knows that, just as he knew that Vincent wouldn’t murder them in their beds. What was it that Vincent said? Danny and Max admire her.
“I’m sure they’re great kids,” says Roberta, dutifully. “Of course they get it. An idiot child can see how we can make this skinhead thing work.”
“Vincent Nolan,” says Bonnie. “The skinhead’s name is Vincent Nolan.”
“Got that. Vin-cent No-lan.” Roberta draws out the syllables for as long as it takes to jot down his name in her Daily Reminder. “Beautiful. The first thing we need is a press release. We can take it from there.”
“How soon can you get the release out?” Meyer asks.
“As soon as I get some information.” Why is Roberta looking at Bonnie? Roberta is the experienced publicist who came to them via a circuitous route that snaked from the music business through the World Wildlife Fund. Bonnie and Roberta started working at the foundation around the same time. Early on, they’d gone out for lunch, an awkward occasion during which Roberta told Bonnie about her marriage to an Egyptian graduate student who disappeared after six months and divorced her two years later. Was it some kind of green-card scam? Roberta never said. Was she waiting for Bonnie to ask? They never had lunch together again, except on official occasions.
“What do you need?” says Bonnie. “Former ARM member comes to work with Brotherhood Watch.”
“That’s the headline,” says Roberta. “Now give me some text. What turned this guy’s head around? What made him come to us?”
“Maybe you should talk to him.” Bonnie wishes she hadn’t said that. What if Vincent prefers Roberta to Bonnie? What an inappropriate thought. Vincent’s a hard-luck case trying to change—not a potential boyfriend. The fact that it took Bonnie so long to catch on about Joel and Lorraine has made her afraid that’s she’s missing all sorts of important clues to the most deceptively simple male-female exchanges. Once, during the months of couples counseling that Joel insisted they go through, Bonnie brought up how betrayed she felt by Joel’s insistence that nothing was going on with Lorraine, that it was all in Bonnie’s mind. At which point the therapist, Dr. Steinweiss, reminded her that they weren’t there to deal with the past, but only with the future. This is about the boys, Joel said. And Dr. Steinweiss agreed.
Bonnie could tell Roberta what Vincent said yesterday in Meyer’s office, about his experience at the rave. Roberta, being Roberta, will quickly figure out that Vincent’s tale about his rock-concert revelation may not be the ideal anecdote for their demographic.
“Bonnie could work with him,” Meyer says. “Find out what his story really is, and then put it in a form that the public will want to hear—”
“I’m having a thought,” says Roberta. “Call me crazy, but…wouldn’t it be amazing if Vincent could talk at the benefit dinner? And we could get some coverage, get mailings out while it’s still possible to buy tickets. That could change the whole picture.”
No one’s going to correct her. It might not change the whole picture, but it’s worth a try. And Roberta’s not saying anything they haven’t already thought.
Outside Meyer’s window, the shadow of an airplane flickers over the buildings, a visual echo of the pall that’s fallen over the room. That word, tickets, has transformed them into three girls without dates for the prom. Joel used to blame Bonnie when they had nowhere to go, no invitations for Labor Day or, God forbid, New Year’s Eve. Bonnie weighs her reluctance to feel this way against her anxieties about what Vincent might do at such a dinner. Neither Meyer nor Roberta know that he says Jap and Rican. But for now, it’s impossible to weigh the possible harm against the possible good. Anyhow, it’s not Bonnie’s decision. Meyer will decide.
“Bonnie, talk to our friend again,” Meyer says. “You and Vincent work together. Get something down on paper for Roberta so she can send out a release.”
&nb
sp; “Sure, I can do that.” And it’s true. Bonnie loves taking on a challenge. Besides, she’s the right person. She already knows more about Vincent than anyone at the office. Plus she knows what will interest the sort of partygoers who can buy tables and invite their twelve best friends to dinner. Maybe Vincent can give a speech without using Jew as a verb. Did he talk that way with his cousin? Bonnie would rather not know.
“It’s not just about a dinner,” Meyer says. “It’s about the future. This is someone we can work with, a man whose cooperation may inspire us to devise new outreach programs. For now, we need to stay open to his potential. And to all the reasons why God has sent him to us.”
Put that way, the job facing Bonnie sounds a lot more attractive than interrogating Vincent until he comes up with a more acceptable story than the one about the Ecstasy-addled rave.
“The sooner the better,” Roberta says.
“Pronto,” says Bonnie. “I promise.”
Whatever Bonnie expects to see when she gets back to her office—Vincent going through her files—is not what she finds. He’s standing at the window, staring out so fixedly that he doesn’t move until Bonnie says, “Hello-o?”
“You know what’s weird?” Vincent says. “No one down there knows me. Each one of those windows represents—what?—ten people, and each building has thousands and thousands of people inside, and thousands more on the streets, millions of people out there, and none of them, not one of them, knows that I exist.”
Bonnie comes up behind him and gazes down at the city—the place that doesn’t know Vincent. What a narcissist this guy is! And yet Bonnie’s moved. His loneliness is so intense that it’s all she can do not to cry out, “No one knows me, either!” But that wouldn’t be true. Somewhere out there are friends, acquaintances, former colleagues, neighbors, landlords, doctors, dentists, the guys in the bodega where she buys coffee.
“I have a feeling. Just a bleep on the radar.” Bonnie knows she sounds like Meyer. “But I have a feeling that soon lots of people will know who you are.”
“You think so?” says Vincent.
“Trust me on this,” says Bonnie.
A Changed Man Page 10