But there were also signs now of the beginnings of the career that earned him this house, and the ex-wife’s house, and the ability to host a party like this one, and everything else. He wore a suit now. The first one looked cheap. The next one didn’t.
Then came his marriage to Valerie, the mother of Cooper. She appeared in exactly two photographs: their wedding portrait, and a second taken years later, after she had clearly put on weight. She held a baby, Cooper, in the second photo, and she looked deeply unhappy. A little ways off stood Swift, smoking a cigar, and clowning for the camera as usual.
The rest of the story unfolded as a person might expect. A succession of cars and postdivorce girlfriends (more photographs of those than of the ex-wife). Cooper growing taller. (As instructed, I’d Photoshopped his mother out of these pictures.) The lease on his first building in Redwood City. The announcement of his company, Theracor, going public. Then Ava.
There was a picture in the book of the two of them not long after they met—it had to be early, because she was not yet in the chair. As I’d guessed, she had been taller than Swift, with beautiful legs. Her body was a lot rounder and fuller, more voluptuous, than it was now. I had noted, after seeing this photograph and others from the first days of their relationship, how much the accident must have aged her. Him, not so much.
It had been Ava’s idea to alternate the pages featuring images from Swift’s life with my portraits of dogs from the shelters she and Swift supported around the Bay Area—the photographs I’d taken on all those happy road trips with Elliot. When Ava had initially presented the concept to me, of combining photographs of Swift with photographs of rescue dogs, it had seemed a little odd, but I’d tried to give some thematic structure to the presentation. Therefore, the dogs whose portraits I featured after the divorce seemed happier; the dogs in those earlier pages were lovable, but with a melancholy air. Opposite the page depicting Swift with his parents, I’d placed a basset hound and a one-eyed mutt. Next to the page in which Swift was shown dressed in a devil suit, announcing the sale of his company to Oracle, I featured a photograph of a dog we’d found at a shelter in Sonoma, who looked like a cross between a pit bull and a lion. No question this was an alpha dog, though of the two subjects facing each other on opposing pages, the one who was licking his lips was not the dog, but the man. Swift.
As I was turning the pages of the book, Ava came up behind me. I smelled her gardenia perfume first, felt a long, slim arm circle my neck, and the silver cuff against my skin. She stroked my hair, then maneuvered her chair up alongside mine.
“You did a wonderful job, honey,” she said. “You really captured the essence of Swift.”
“I just put the photographs together,” I told her. “They were all there already. It’s more about who he is than about anything I did.”
I looked over at her. I hardly ever saw Ava without her makeup on, but at the moment she was wearing none. I was startled by how old she looked. Her legs, which she normally kept covered, were exposed to just above her knees. I was shocked at how wasted they were, lacking all definition. Two sticks, set onto the footrest of her chair, decorated in useless though expensive shoes.
“I couldn’t manage without him, you know,” she said. Her voice sounded different. Softer and more vulnerable than I’d ever known Ava to be.
“You’re strong, too,” I said. She didn’t seem to hear me.
“It’s like the two of us make up one person now,” Ava said, and for a second I might almost have described her tone as bitter. “Like conjoined twins sharing a single heart. If one dies, so does the other.”
63.
It was midday and I was helping the caterers carry in the plates and silverware when the snow-making equipment arrived. The idea was to transform Folger Lane into a replica of their Lake Tahoe home in winter, down to a giant snowdrift in front of the house. As the machine spit out the snow, Ava explained to me that because we were doing this for Swift, it would not be enough simply to create a pretty scene of a winter wonderland. Once the snowdrift was complete, there would be a large and prominently positioned squirt of yellow food coloring, to give the appearance that a dog had recently peed there.
As for the real dogs, Ava had sequestered them in her bedroom, with an assortment of dog treats, largely so Rocco—always the high-strung one—wouldn’t have to deal with all the people and the frenetic pace of party preparations. Huge faux icicles hung along the eaves of the house, and along the front walk, snow sculptures of penguins. (Not exactly native to the Lake Tahoe habitat, but Ava was taking more than a few liberties.) There were more lights in the trees, and an igloo, which would be lit from within in a way that gave the thing a wonderful and mysterious glow.
Ollie would love this. Ollie, who was probably at the aquarium right about now, checking out a barracuda or a manta ray. Tamer fare than Swift’s usual, but I knew that loving Ollie as he did, and knowing how much Ollie would enjoy it, Swift would get into the whole thing. I suddenly wished I could have been the one introducing Oliver to the aquarium. Or Elliot and me, together.
Elliot. No more of that.
“I can’t wait to see what the igloo looks like in the dark with the lights on,” Ava had said, when the men had finished building it out of pale blue ice bricks. “It reminds me of my little bone china tea light holder.”
Ava had commissioned ice sculptures of the three dogs to go in the living room: One depicted Sammy and Lillian, curled up together on their dog bed; the other was of Rocco on his own. Mouth open, as usual. Barking.
Out behind the house, by the rose arbor, two men wearing jumpsuits with MELTING MEMORIES printed on the back were setting up another ice sculpture, in which photographs of Cooper had been embedded—almost as if he were an avalanche victim, buried and frozen, grinning out at the world of the living from some frigid eternity. At the far end of the pool, a plasma screen was set up, with an all-Swift video loop: Swift performing qigong, Swift running, Swift swimming, Swift dancing. Swift in warrior pose, Swift tossing a Frisbee to the dogs, Swift reclining on a floating lounge chair, cigar and drink in hand. The largest of the ice statues had been placed at the center of the garden—the life-size naked ice sculpture of Swift, whose penis contained a tube that dispensed champagne. Another utterly Swift-like concept.
“Someone’s going to make the crack that the penis seems out of proportion to the rest of the sculpture,” Ava said. “And Swift will probably feel a need to prove them wrong.”
“Speak of the devil,” I said. “I was just thinking I should call those two. They should be heading home soon.” I was proud of myself for holding out this long before calling to check on Ollie.
No answer. “They probably lost track of time,” Ava said. “I figure they should be rolling in around seven thirty.”
I tried not to worry. Ava was right; the two of them were probably just having so much fun they’d lost track of time, but they’d show up by party time.
The work continued. It was amazing to see Swift and Ava’s yard transformed. Among the ice sculptures and lights, Ava had arranged, somewhat incongruously, to install a fire pit, where the fire dancer was set to perform. There would also be a pole dancer, for no reason besides the fact that Swift loved pole dancing. A dozen tables had been set up with the custom-made place mats featuring a grinning image of Swift, biting into an exceptionally long cigar. At every place, wrapped in silver paper and tied with an ice-blue bow, was a copy of the book, The Man Is a God, along with an envelope containing a form guests could fill out to accompany a donation check in the honor of the birthday boy and made out to BARK. Suggested contribution: $2,000.
At four o’clock, Ava called Swift, but got no answer. “Those two are probably having such a great time they want to spend every minute they can fooling around together,” she said. “I bet they stopped at this Mexican place Swift loves, for a giant burrito.”
“They’ve still got plenty of time to get back here by the time the guests arrive,” I said, though I
was aware, as I said this, of a small but insistent worry. I was wishing that whatever plan Ava had cooked up to get Swift out of town had not involved my son.
Cooper’s fiancée, Virginia, arrived—beautiful though oddly forgettable looking. Virginia had spent the weekend with her parents in Palo Alto, working on wedding plans. Cooper had stayed in New York, she told us, working on some big deal, but his flight to SFO was due to get in that afternoon. He’d rent a car at the airport and drive straight from there.
Virginia went off for a pedicure. Estella took the dogs for a walk. Ava emerged with one of her special collagen-activating masks on her face. “Swift’s still not answering his phone,” she said, looking vaguely worried. “Bad cell service, probably.”
Now I got scared. I was trying not to, wanting to give my son the gift of a day with his idol. Why hadn’t I bought Ollie one of those cheap disposable cell phones he was always begging for, to stay in touch?
The guests began arriving at seven. Ava was obviously distracted now by her inability to reach Swift, as I was, knowing Ollie was with him.
Virginia had gotten back from the manicurist’s long ago with her mother—the two of them now floating around the garden in blue and silver gowns, showing off their matching silver nail polish. But Cooper had yet to arrive.
“You know Cooper,” Ava said. “He’s always late.”
Swift’s friend Bobby was one of the first guests to show up, with his latest age-inappropriate girlfriend, this one named Cascade. Ernesto arrived early, too, along with the woman who had worked as Swift’s personal assistant at his last start-up, Geraldine. I said hello to Ling and Ping, Swift’s herbalist and her husband, and a bunch of others I didn’t recognize—old business associates, probably. Renata came, without Carol, who had evidently left her recently for another woman. Ava’s new protégée, Felicity, came dressed as a snow bunny. Evelyn Couture wore a vintage gown that looked like something Nancy Reagan might have owned during her White House years.
The mariachi band—also a little incongruous, given the winter setting (but Swift loved mariachi music) had started playing “La Bamba.” The pole dancer had set up her apparatus over by the pool, having been instructed to begin her act the minute Swift came through the door. The caterers, assisted by Estella, were circulating the first of the appetizers: raw salmon on thinly sliced rye bread with crème fraîche and caviar. Lillian and Sammy were wearing special birthday collars for the event. Because Rocco was upset by crowds, Ava had him contained upstairs in the master bedroom, with a very large bone to occupy him. “He can’t handle the stress of all these people around,” Ava explained. “But he needs to know I’m nearby.”
No sighting of Cooper yet.
“This is so like Cooper,” Ava said, checking her watch. “He wants to make sure everyone’s already there when he arrives, so he can make the most dramatic entrance.” But I knew the person whose absence really concerned her now was Swift. For me, of course, it was Ollie.
At half past eight, Ava made her way over to the statue of the naked Swift and held her glass under the champagne-dispensing penis fountain, then tapped it—the glass, not the penis—with a spoon.
“As everyone knows,” she said—the light catching her silver beaded full-length gown—“we’re here to celebrate the birth of my amazing husband. This is supposed to be a surprise, though seeing your cars will probably give him a clue when he pulls up, as I know he will any minute now. Until he gets here, I just want to encourage you to take a look at the book our amazing friend Helen and I have put together for you all, commemorating all of Swift’s great work on behalf of rescue animals throughout the Bay Area and, soon, all over our nation. Welcome to our home.”
I scanned the grounds. The guests appeared enraptured. All our weeks of planning had paid off, from the look of things.
“So many of you have asked what you could possibly give to a man who has so much,” Ava continued. “The answer is: You can give your support to our foundation, BARK, whose website we’re launching tonight. With your help, dogs all over California and across the nation will be able to receive free spay and neuter services.”
“And hump each other to their hearts’ content, with no consequences!” Swift’s friend Bobby called out. “That’s a cause dear to my buddy Swift’s heart.”
“So thank you for joining us. And drink up.” Ava raised her glass in the general direction of the ice-sculpture penis. I reached for my mineral water.
The mariachis resumed playing. People had mostly gathered near the pool now to admire the talents of the pole dancer, to whom Ava had given the instructions that she might as well start. Cooper’s fiancée Virginia was checking her phone.
Estella emerged from the kitchen, but not with a tray this time. She was holding Ava’s cell phone, wearing an expression I had never seen before. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
I knew the moment Ava took the phone that it must be about Swift, and that meant it was about Ollie, too. I ran over to her.
She was still holding the phone. Just listening, but shaking her head. The mariachi music was so loud, it was hard to hear anything. I was screaming now.
Tell me. Tell me.
There had been an accident. Not in Monterey, but at Lake Tahoe. That’s where my son and Swift had gone, evidently.
Someone was saying something about a boat.
64.
The drive from Portola Valley to Lake Tahoe takes four hours and twenty minutes. Three and a half hours, if Swift were driving. We made it in Bobby’s car in three and a quarter.
The first details the police had given Ava over the phone had been confusing. Sometime that afternoon, Swift’s boat had collided with a Jet Ski out on the lake. All together, four individuals had been involved in the crash—two males, one young woman, and a child. Someone had sustained a life-threatening injury, but the officer who’d spoken to Ava had been unclear about the identity of that person.
“Your husband’s at the hospital,” he told Ava. “We suggest that you get here as soon as possible.”
“Ollie!” I said to her. Screamed, more like it. “What about Ollie?”
She didn’t seem to hear me. “We need to go now,” she said—not to me or to anyone. She had already begun to wheel her chair toward the door, like a person in a dream. A bad one.
Then Ernesto was lifting her into the front passenger seat of Bobby’s car—for once, Ava showed no sign of objection to the help; she just wanted to get going. I dove into the back; Ernesto stowed Ava’s chair in the trunk. Some of the guests were asking what had happened, but Ava seemed not to hear, or if she did, had no breath to respond. In the brief moment before the car door closed, Estella had put her arms around me.
“I pray for your boy,” she told me. There was more, but in Spanish.
“Just drive,” Ava told Bobby. He tore out of the driveway so fast the tires screamed. Behind us, the white lights glittered over the fake snow, but we weren’t looking back.
What I remember of those three hours and fifteen minutes: Ava dialing her cell phone, not making any sense. Me reaching for mine—only who was I going to call? Not Swift. I dialed the police station in Truckee, California, but when I got a live person, I realized I couldn’t hear over the sound of Ava’s weeping.
“I’m looking for news about a boy,” I said. “Eight years old. He may have been involved in an accident.”
“Are you the mother?” A woman’s voice on the other end of the phone, barely audible over Ava’s moaning. “They have him at the hospital. It would be best if you get here as soon as possible.” More calls then. No clear word. Bobby was going ninety, but it still didn’t feel fast enough.
We did not speak on the drive up. Bobby, at the wheel, had at first tried to offer a few words, but Ava told him to be quiet, and after that nobody said anything. I was aware, as we sat in the darkness, tearing up the highway, that in a terrible and unavoidable way, each of us must be praying it was the beloved person of the other who had been in
jured. Not the one belonging to us.
65.
Bobby had driven up to the emergency entrance. I jumped out of the car before it came to a full stop. I didn’t consider this at the time—didn’t consider anything but whether my son was all right—but afterward it occurred to me that this must have been one of the moments in Ava’s life when her inability to use her legs revealed itself most brutally. I could run into the hospital to talk with someone, finally. She had to wait for Bobby to get her chair out of the trunk and unfold it, then lift her onto the seat. Though I think if he’d taken another five seconds she would simply have flung herself on the ground and dragged herself up that ramp through the double doors.
No child by the name of Oliver McCabe had been admitted to the hospital. There was no Swift Havilland, either.
“The accident?” I said. “The boat crash?”
“You’ll have to speak to someone else about that,” the woman told me. “I don’t know anything about a boat crash. I just came on duty.”
Someone told me to go to the third floor. That’s when I found them finally: my son and Swift, sitting with a police officer. Also—here came a shock—Cooper.
Swift and Cooper sat side by side at a table, the officer to one side taking notes. Swift had one Band-Aid on his forehead, nothing more. Cooper’s right arm was in a sling.
I ran to Ollie, of course—slumped alone on a couch on the other side of the room. He had no visible injuries, though one look told me that something had happened to him that had left him deeply shaken. He was staring straight ahead. He was wrapped in a blanket, but even so his whole body was trembling.
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