by Blake Crouch
"Good. Let’s order."
Cynthia had ordered the braised lamb shank with red-pepper sauce, and as the waiter set her plate down, her glassy eyes lit up. Then I watched with pleasure as my main course — mostaccioli, sun-dried tomatoes, capers, and seared bay scallops — was placed before me. Beneath the bed of pasta shimmered a vodka pink sauce. Before leaving, our waiter uncorked a second bottle of Bordeaux and refilled our wineglasses.
The scallops had taken on the flavor of the sweet tomatoes, and as one melted across my tongue, a grain of sand crunched between my molars. I sipped the wine — glimmers of plum, meat, and tobacco. It went down like silk. Experiencing the perfect balance of hunger and its satisfaction, I wanted to linger there as long as possible.
As the night wore on, I became preoccupied with the city. Drinking exceptional wine in one of New York’s finer restaurants, and watching a multitude of lights shining from the skyscrapers and boroughs, is one hell of a way to spend an evening. In the center of the constant twinkling, I knew that millions of people surrounded me, and in this way, the city became inhospitable to the lonely fear that threatened me.
"Andrew?" Cynthia giggled with a feigned English accent. "Too much wine for you."
Turning slowly from the window to Cynthia, the restaurant swayed with my eyes. I was getting drunk. "That’s a beautiful city," I said warmly.
"You ought to get a place here."
"Hell no."
"Are you implying there’s a problem with my city?"
"I don’t have to imply. I’ll just tell you. You Yankees are in too much of a damn hurry."
"And that’s an inferior state of existence in comparison to the comatose South?"
"We southerners know the value of an easy day’s work. Don’t fault us for that. I think it’s just a little Yankee jealousy —"
"I find the word Yankee to be an offensive term."
"That’s ’cause you’ve got a muddled definition in your head."
"Clarify, please."
"All right. Yankee: a noun defining anyone who lives north of Virginia, especially rude, anal northerners who talk too damn fast, don’t understand the concept of sweet tea and barbecue, and move to Florida in their golden years." Cynthia laughed, her brown eyes glistening. I looked into them.
They hemorrhaged, and I turned toward the window, my heart throbbing beneath my oxford shirt and saffron tie.
"Andy?"
"I’m fine," I said, trying to catch my breath.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." Staring out the window into Queens, I grasped for composure, telling myself the lie again.
"You seem so different lately," she said, bringing the wineglass to her lips.
"How so?"
"I don’t know. Since this is the first time we’ve been together in almost a year, it may be an unfair assessment on my part."
"Please," I said, stabbing a scallop with my fork, "assess away."
"Since your vacation, I’ve noticed a change in you. Nothing drastic. But I think I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s wrong."
"What do you think is wrong, Cynthia?"
"Difficult to put into words," she said. "Just a gut feeling. When you called me after you returned this summer, something was different. I assumed you were just dreading the book tour. But I feel the same detached vibe coming from you even now." I finished another glass of wine. "Talk to me, Andy," she said. "You still burned-out?"
"No. I know that really worries you."
"If it’s a woman, tell me and I’ll drop it. I don’t want to pry into your personal —"
"It’s not a woman," I said. "Look, I’m fine. There’s nothing you can do."
She lifted her wineglass and looked out the window.
Our waiter came for our plates. He described a diabolical raspberry-chocolate soufflé, but it was late, and I had an 8:30 flight out of La Guardia in the morning. So Cynthia paid the bill, and we rode the elevator down to the street. Nearly midnight. I couldn’t imagine waking in the morning. I’d drunk far too much.
I hailed a cab for Cynthia and kissed her on the cheek before she climbed in. She told me to call her the following week, and I promised I would. As her cab drove away, she stared through the back window, her earnest eyes penetrating me, gnawing at the root of my restlessness.
You have no idea.
When her cab was gone, I started down the sidewalk, and for several blocks, I didn’t pass a soul. Though hidden now from view, the filthy East River flowed into the Atlantic. I could smell the stale, polluted water. Four ambulances rushed by, their sirens shrieking between the buildings. With my hotel only ten blocks north, I hoped a stroll in the cool September night would sober me up.
I dreaded going home. Since mid-June, I’d traveled the country, filling my days with appearances and readings that kept me grounded in the present. I never wanted a moment alone. My thoughts horrified me. Now, as I returned to North Carolina, to a slower way of life, I knew the torture would begin. I had no book to write. There was nothing for me to do but inhabit my lake house. To exist. And it was there, I feared, that the two weeks whose existence I’d denied all summer would come for me.
When my mind drifted back to the desert, I’d force-feed myself the jade green sea, ivory sand, sweaty sunlight. Distinctly, I could picture the stuccoed beach house and veranda where I’d watch bloody sunsets fall into the sea. I was aware of the self-deception, but man will do anything to live with himself.
15
I filled the beginning of October with crisp, clear days on Lake Norman and unbearable nights in my bed. I fished off my pier for an hour each morning and evening. And in the early afternoons, I’d swim, diving beneath the murky blue water, now holding a cool bite with the approach of winter. Sometimes, I’d swim naked just for the freedom of it, like a child in a cold womb, unborn, unknowing. Nearing the surface after a deep dive, I’d pretend that hideous knowledge buried in the recesses of my mind would vanish when I broke into the golden air. It’s only real underwater, I’d think, rising from the lake bottom. The air will cleanse me.
Dawdling on the end of my pier late one afternoon, nursing a Jack and Sun-Drop, I watched a bobber swaying on the surface of the lake. Early Octobers in North Carolina are perfection, and the sky turned azure as the sun edged toward the horizon. I’d been holding a fishing rod, waiting for the red-and-white bobber to duck beneath the water, when I heard footsteps swishing through the grass.
Setting the rod down, I looked back toward the shore and saw Walter step onto the pier. He wore sunglasses and a wheat-colored suit, his jacket thrown over his left shoulder, tie loosened.
For two weeks, I’d been home. Though he called often, I’d spoken to Walter only twice, and the conversations had been vapid on my part. Each time I’d hung up as soon as possible, revealing nothing of my May disappearance and shying away from his questions. Solitude and self-oblivion had been my sole desire, and as I watched my best friend stroll down the pier, his face sullen, I knew I’d hurt him.
Several feet away, he stopped and tossed a manila envelope onto the sun-bleached wood. Walter looked down at me, and I could see myself in his sunglasses. He sat down beside me on the edge of the pier, and our legs dangled out over the water.
"Your novel’s selling well," he said. "I’m happy for you."
"It’s a relief."
As I fumbled with the envelope, Walter said, "I never opened it."
"You don’t have to tell me that."
"Something’s on your line." I grabbed my rod and yanked it back, but the bobber resurfaced without tension in the line. When I reeled it back in, the bobber didn’t move.
"Shit, he was big. That was a large-mouth." I tossed the rod onto the pier and picked up my drink. "Come on," I said, standing up. Though the air was mild, the long day of direct sunlight had turned the surface of the pier as hot as summer concrete. It toasted the soles of my feet. "Let’s go inside. I’ll get you a beer."
In swimming trunks, I ran up the pier t
oward the shore, leapt into the grass, and waited. Walter came along sluggishly, his usual pace. We walked together up through the yard, a narrow green slope rising from the shore to the house. I hadn’t mown the grass in two weeks, so it rose several inches above my ankles, a soft, dense carpet.
As we climbed the steps to the deck, I glanced into the woods on my right. I thought of the corpse buried out there, the one that had flung my life into this disarray. For a moment, I relived finding her — the smell, the fear, the rush of discovery.
Inside, I got Walter a bottle of beer out of the fridge and led him into the living room. Not quite as soused as I wanted to be, I mixed another Jack and Sun-Drop as he lay down on the sofa.
"I’m sorry I haven’t been over," I said from the wet bar.
"Book tour wore you out, huh?"
"Just wasn’t in the mood to be in front of people constantly. To be on all the time." After dropping several shards of ice into the glass and filling it half with citrus soda, half with bourbon, I stirred my drink, walked into the living room, and sat down in the tan leather chair across from Walter.
His eyes caught on Brown No. 2, looking down on us from above the fireplace in all its pretentious glory. He smirked, but the tension between us made him withhold comment.
"I know," I said, "A real piece of shit. Loman. I’d like to kick that fucker’s ass. Don’t know why I leave it up there. It’s not like it’s growing on me. Fact, I hate it more every day."
"Deep down, he must’ve known he was a hack. Had to. Should’ve listened to me, man."
"I know, I know." I yawned. I’d be passing out when Walter left. "How’s the fam?"
"Ah. The obligatory inquiry. They’re fine. I’ve been trying to spend more time with them lately. Less at the magazine. I’ve actually gotta be at a school play in two hours. Thirty six-year-olds on a stage. Can you imagine?"
"What are they doing?"
"Mamet." We laughed. We always laughed when we were together. "Poor thing — Jenna’s so nervous about it. She got into bed with Beth and me last night, crying. We fell asleep comforting her. Woke up in a puddle."
"Ooh," I shuddered. "The thrill of parenthood. I’d miss it for the world."
"You serious?" Walter asked, kicking off his wing tips and balancing the bottle on his chest.
"Hell yeah. Everybody feels sorry for me when I tell them I don’t wanna get married or have kids. But it’s not like pathetic resignation. I just happen to know for a fact that there isn’t a single person out there I’d wanna wake up beside day in and day out. Except you, of course. I’d marry you, Walter. Seriously."
He laughed kindly. "Karen did a number on you, but you won’t always feel bitter."
"How the hell do you know how I’m always gonna feel?"
" ’Cause it’s impossible for someone to go through life without repeatedly falling in love."
How sad. He really thinks I want his life. He thinks I’m Gatsby to his Daisy. Maybe I am.
"I was in love with Karen," I said, and a lump swelled in my throat, but I stifled it. "Where did that get me? So I loved her and thought I wanted to spend my life with her. For two years, I felt this way, and suddenly, she didn’t, and wanted nothing to do with me. Not even friendship. Said I was a phase. A fucking phase. That’s two years of my life wasted. I think about what I could’ve written during that time — fucking irks me." I shook my head and sipped the soured citrus soda. "I’ll tell you — it’ll be a genuine miracle if I ever do get married, ’cause I’m not looking for it. I just don’t think it’ll happen, and after two years of Karen — hell, I’m fine with that. I make a great mate."
"You bit into a bad apple, and now you think all apples taste that way, but they don’t," he said with the swagger of someone who knows they’re right.
"Maybe some people just like the taste of rotten apples." His face dropped. "I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being an asshole. I’m just a little shit-faced right now."
"Hey, people go through phases. Be glad you aren’t a full-time asshole like Bill York."
"That prick’s still your copyeditor?"
"Yep. He’s such a dick. He was giving me shit today for leaving early."
"You run the magazine. Fire him."
"If he wasn’t such a good editor, I’d have canned his ass a long time ago. But I don’t pay him to be a decent human being. Long as he keeps the text grammatically perfect, he can be the Prince of Darkness."
"God, I admire your principle." We laughed again. There was a brief period of silence, but because it followed laughter, it elapsed unstrained. Walter looked up at me from his beer.
"Andy," he said, "wanna tell me what’s going on?"
I looked into Walter’s eyes, and I wanted to spill everything. The urge to tell another human being where I’d been and what I’d done was overwhelming.
"I just don’t know."
"It has to do with that trip you took last May?"
I held my breath, thinking. "I guess you could say that."
"Is it taxes?" he asked. "You in trouble with the IRS? That’s no shit."
"Of course not." I laughed.
"What can’t you trust me with?" His eyes narrowed, and I shrugged. "So talk to me."
"You willing to chance prison, or your personal safety, to know what happened to me?"
He sat up and set his half-empty bottle on the floor. "I know you’d do it for me."
My stomach contracted at the thought of the desert. I finished my drink and looked into his hazel eyes. His gray hair had grown out considerably since May. "You know I have a twin?"
"You’ve mentioned it. He disappeared, right?"
"We were twenty. Just walked out of our dorm room one night. Said, ‘You won’t see me for a while.’ "
"Bet that was hard."
"Yeah, it was hard. He contacted me last May. Walter, you can’t tell anyone. Not Beth, not —"
"Who am I going to tell?"
"You remember that black teacher who went missing last spring?"
"Rita Jones?"
I swallowed. You say it now, he’s involved. Think about it. You’re too hammered to make this decision.
"She’s buried in my woods." Walter’s face blanched. "My brother, Orson, put her there. He blackmailed me. Told me my blood was all over her and that the knife he killed her with was hidden in my house. Swore he’d call the police if I didn’t come see him. Threatened my mother."
"You’re drunk."
"Wanna see the body?"
Walter stared at me, eyes laced with doubt. "He killed her?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He’s a psychopath," I said, steadying my hands.
"What’d he want with you?" Tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn’t stop them. They spilled down my cheeks, and as I wiped them away and looked up at Walter, my eyes filled again.
"Horrible," I said, my lips quivering as tears ran over them and down my chin.
"Where’d you go?"
"The Wyoming desert."
"Why?" I didn’t answer him, and Walter allowed me a moment to regain my composure. He didn’t ask why again. "Where is he now?"
"I don’t know. Could be anywhere in the country."
"You never went to the police?"
"He threatened my mother!" My voice rose into the second floor. "Besides, what would I say? ‘My twin brother killed Rita Jones and buried her in my backyard. Oh, by the way, my blood’s all over her, she was murdered with my paring knife, and my brother’s disappeared, but I swear I didn’t do it!’ "
"What other choice do you have?" he asked. I shrugged. "Well, if what you’re saying is true, people will continue to die until he’s caught. It could be Beth or John David next. That doesn’t concern you?"
"What concerns me," I said, "is that even if I could find Orson, haul him into a precinct, and tell the detectives what he’d done, Orson would walk out the free man. I have no proof, Walter. It means shit in a court of law that I know Orson is a psychopath,
that I’ve seen him torture and murder. What matters is that Rita Jones is covered in my blood."
"You’ve seen him murder?" Walter asked. "Actually watched him kill?" Tears came to my eyes again. "Who did he —"
"I don’t wanna talk about it anymore."
"But you’re telling me you —"
"I won’t talk about it!" Leaving the chair, I walked to the window, which looked across the lawn and, farther down, the lake. On the forest’s edge, yellow poplars had begun to turn gold, and scarlet oaks and red maples would soon set the woods ablaze with their dying leaves. My forehead against the window, my tears streaked down the glass, leaving blurry trails in their wake.