-They have a confession.
-Don’t tell me you believe that.
I hesitated. Sloan wouldn’t have told us that Bud Jack confessed unless he actually did, right? So that makes Bud Jack either a killer or a liar, and why lie about a murder you had nothing to do with? It didn’t look good—not for Bud Jack, and not for me. Marissa was pissed. She pushed her chair back from the table, took her phone from her purse, and started fiddling with it, checking her messages. I didn’t need a phone to check my message, it was staring me in the face: fifty dollars on raw fish, and I wouldn’t be getting even a warm kiss goodnight.
-No, I don’t believe it. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Her glare subsided into a skeptical frown. I kept going.
-I won’t believe it until they prove it, and so far they’ve only proven that a fireman thinks he saw Bud Jack.
She smiled. No stopping now.
-Thinks. And white people think blacks all look alike, so that’s pretty unreliable.
She set down her phone, reached across the table, and took my hands.
-So I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty.
-We should get the rest of this to go.
How does the poem go? The last temptation is the greatest treason, to do the right thing for the wrong reason. Well, whatever.
When I woke up the next morning, she was rattling cupboards in my kitchen, trying to find coffee.
-Fletcher, honey, I forgot to tell you, we’re going to the theater tonight.
Marissa liked to spring plans on me.
-We are?
Like planning something a week in advance might give me the wrong idea. That was my analysis anyway.
-It’ll be fun. Saturday night on the town.
-You mean theater like a play?
-Sigrid and her husband had two tickets they can’t use.
-Sigrid? When did you talk to her?
-She called yesterday. They wanted you and me to have the tickets.
-She said me specifically? What else did she say? I mean like anything funny, complain about the neighbors or anything?
-No. I have to go to work. The play’s at eight at South Coast Rep.
-Oh, God.
-What?
-Nothing.
I could hear Sharon’s ha!
-Should I ask somebody else?
-No. No!
Definitely do not ask somebody else, he might say yes, he will say yes, and later he will say he really enjoyed himself let’s do this again sometime. I mean if a guy paints Laguna seascapes, he’ll love South Coast Repertory. The first play I ever saw there, I forget the name, something Irish, nothing happened, just talking and a brief dance, and I assumed it was my fault I couldn’t stay awake, I just didn’t appreciate theater. Again, Sharon straightened me out. She took me back a few times, and we always left early with Sharon flailing her arms. Her rant after we gave up on Hamlet was particularly memorable.
-It boggles my mind, I don’t know how they do it, take a great script, talented actors, make it dead on arrival. They’re geniuses at it really, making Shakespeare bloodless, making Albee cute. Geniuses!
The last time was when a guy came on stage before the show and bragged that this was the most South Coast Rep had ever spent on a production and asked Mr. and Mrs. Somebody to stand, they made this possible, ladies and gentlemen, their extremely generous gift. A nice round of applause, the curtain opened, and twenty minutes later Sharon and I were in the parking lot making a pact.
-No more attending theater in south county, on pain of death, darling, did you see all the bluehairs, they fill the seats, they make donations, they get upset very easily, that’s the mission statement, don’t dare upset the bluehairs, it’s as bad as Laguna Playhouse, it’s skim milk, homogenized, pasteurized, and thin.
She chuckled to herself. I suggested the death penalty would be redundant punishment for sitting through their show, she agreed and amended it to full confession and fifty Hail Harry’s—for Pinter, darling—and we sealed it with a kiss.
Marissa was on her way out the door.
-I’ll be here at seven. You won’t change your mind, will you?
Why would I change my mind? When have I ever changed my mind?
-Fletch?
-You promise we won’t discuss the trial?
-Not a word.
I slept three more hours, had cold cereal for lunch, and went to the beach. Ahh, the life of a teacher. Of course, while Marissa was rubbing naked flesh all day, I could only ogle it from a distance. It’s hard to concentrate on your reading, hard to keep your place on the page, when your eyes won’t stay put. Maybe that’s why Grishams are so popular—you can read them during jury selection in a crowded courtroom, you can read them seated by the front door of a busy takeout restaurant, you can read them on a boat, you can read them with a goat, and also on a sun-drenched beach, you can read them, can’t you, Teach? Near the lifeguard tower on a sun-drenched beach on a warm Saturday in July with half-naked girls lying on the sand, half-naked girls playing volleyball, half-naked girls wading in the surf, screaming and laughing when the cold water reaches their bare stomachs. Read a sentence, look up, read two more, look up, maybe skip a sentence, it doesn’t matter. At this rate, I won’t finish Grisham number four until September.
A few yards behind me, a woman with disproportionates set up camp—blanket, folding chair, supersize soft drink, cell phone—close to the busy boardwalk for best exposure. I stood, stretched my arms, pretended I was looking for someone, my blatant leer hidden behind dark sunglasses. It wasn’t Sigrid, thank goodness. I didn’t want to run into her again. I sat back down, opened my cell phone. It took at least six rings before he answered.
-Dude.
-Pete, how you feeling?
-Ambien, dude.
-Guess what I’m doing?
-Hanging at the Boom Boom.
-Funny. Anyhow, it closed.
The Boom Boom Room, Laguna’s gay clubhouse, went out of business as the town’s renowned homosexual population was getting old and real estate prices kept out the next generation.
-No more Boom Boom?
He sounded groggy.
-It’s a family restaurant now.
I could still hear Sharon’s lament: The hippies are long gone, darling, and the queers, bless their hearts, are next to go, will the last gay man in Laguna please switch off the lights.
-What time is it, anyhow?
How many sleeping pills had he taken?
-Pete, listen, the other night, was Sigrid by herself in the window?
-Dude, I’m kind of in a nap.
-Okay, but when you climbed the tree, when you said they were getting it on, you were just bullshitting me, right?
-No.
-No?
-I think I’m wasted.
-There was really a guy in the bedroom? Pete?
He was gone. I glanced over my shoulder at the woman by the boardwalk. What if I walked up to her and asked for her phone number, what would she do? Probably say no, probably in a give-me-a-break-I-am-so-sure tone of voice.
What if I asked Roya? Hi, my name is Fletcher, do you like the beach, I could maybe call you sometime, after the trial of course.
What if Sigrid was having an affair with Lawson? That would make sense of things. Sigrid knows all about Bud Jack not because of her in-television husband but because of her in-law boyfriend, and that’s why he was there late at night, not for a strategy meeting with Mr. Wilhite, who was probably still in LA. No, Lawson was there to see the lovely Mrs. Wilhite.
My phone beeped. A text from Marissa: You up yet? Don’t forget tonight. How could I? Sigrid gave us the tickets, mentioned me specifically, because she wants me on her side, wants me sympathetic to her cause. That much is obvious. That’s why she pressured Marissa about Bud Jack while I was in jury selection. She wants her pie-faced, limping lover to win the case. Still an astounding coincidence—Marissa’s client cheating
with the defense attorney from my jury assignment—but plausible. Lawson could live in Laguna. They could have met on the tennis courts or at one of her fundraisers. Maybe Lawson loves sea lions too. Still, that doesn’t explain why the Wilhites, if it’s true, are funding Bud Jack’s defense. So follow the money, look for the greed, like in a Grisham—wherever there’s a mystery someone is breaking laws, trying to get super rich. Sigrid and Lawson are extorting money from her husband, or Bud Jack has the dirt on Sigrid’s husband and is blackmailing him, or Sigrid’s husband hires a hotshot lawyer, gets Bud Jack acquitted, then they sue the Huntington Beach police department and the county for wrongful arrest, violation of Bud Jack’s civil rights, and win millions. That’s what Sigrid’s husband does, not television, he chases ambulances. Would that be legal? He finds poor victims, takes up their cause, speculates in litigation, pockets his cut, and gets rich doing it. Not a bad idea, actually. The last temptation is the greatest treason.
The woman behind me was now in front of me, walking toward the water. If I hurried, I could catch a wave, bodysurf her way, accidentally get tumbled into her. Sorry about that my name is Fletcher what’s yours oh that’s a beautiful name I teach math Jessica economics actually at the university what about you oh you’re in real estate that’s fantastic I’m actually looking for a new place in Laguna something bigger oh I see no that’s cool I bet you’re a terrific office manager how about dinner sometime? Ha! She was standing at the water’s edge, still talking on the phone. I could bodysurf into her and knowing me, let’s be honest, it would be uh sorry excuse me wrong address.
Why was she standing there alone—Sigrid—the other night, all by herself, as I closed her gate? She had heard a noise, the patio lights came on. If Lawson was there on a tryst, wouldn’t he have chivalrously volunteered to check for intruders? A jaded husband was more likely to let her go it alone, so maybe…no, Lawson was there, he wanted to go, but she said stay inside, don’t let the neighbors see you. But his car was there, anyone could see that. The car! Whoever it was—Mr. Lawson or Mr. Wilhite—he drove a new Lexus.
We were driving my old Honda. We parked at South Coast Plaza, a nearby shopping mall, because mall parking is free. The walk to the theater took ten minutes. We held hands. My face was still flush from the sun, my shoulders a little red, and Marissa seemed happy—it was going to be a pleasant evening after a pleasant afternoon on the sand—if the show was bearable.
-The play is about Bach.
So much for that.
-The composer?
-That’s what Sigrid said.
-You talked to her again?
-She called to make sure we were going tonight.
Of course she did. Got to help out her favorite lawyer. Got to keep his favorite juror in her debt.
-Are her and her husband having any, you know, trouble?
-I don’t think so. Why?
-I don’t know. I just thought maybe—I don’t know.
-Why don’t you ask her yourself? We’ll be sitting next to them.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Nice to meet you, Sigrid, sorry about the other night wasn’t that crazy we were looking for this guy’s pool party a backyard barbecue but we were confused it wasn’t Hummingbird Lane it was Herringbone Lane or Honeybee I forget my friend got it wrong it was his fault I hope we didn’t startle you.
The tickets were waiting for us at the box office. I headed for the restroom, told Marissa I would meet her at our seats.
-I can wait for you.
-No, go ahead.
-Are you okay? Fletcher?
-Yeah, my stomach is just a little off.
I waited until the show began, until the theater was dark. An usher with a tiny flashlight guided me to my seat. Marissa patted my hand, asked again if I was alright. The two seats on her other side were empty. No Wilhites? No such luck. They arrived five minutes later, apologizing politely as they stepped past us. While Marissa whispered hellos, I pretended to be deep in the performance, as if cartoonish church intrigue in eighteenth-century Germany really spoke to me. The organmaster had died, the organists-in-waiting were positioning themselves in hope of claiming the prestigious post, they wore enormous wigs, they spouted puns.
-What brings you here?
-Stagecoach, primarily. And, for this last portion, my feet.
I guess it was supposed to be witty, but Hail Harry full of grace, it was torture.
-A crazed bandit tried to steal my luggage.
-It must have been dreadful.
-No, it was very attractive, which is no doubt why he tried to steal it.
It wore me down—the dialogue, the movements of the actors, all painfully stilted. I tried taking comfort in the knowledge that so long as act one dragged on and on, I was safe, Sigrid couldn’t see my face. I tried laughing at my bad luck. But a man can only stand so much.
-He has seen you stealing into the choir balcony.
-I go there when I wish to feel closer to God.
-With a young lady.
-She wished to feel closer to God as well.
-I am sure. But which one?
-Which God?
-No, which lady?
Okay, I finally cried, the torment unbearable, I’ll talk, I’ll tell you everything, I was in the backyard, I was peeping in the window, I’ll sign a confession, I’ll rat out my accomplice, just please make them stop.
Intermission. House lights up. I whispered urgently to Marissa.
-I need to go. My stomach.
She ignored me.
-Sigrid, this is Fletcher.
-Nice to meet you, Fletcher.
Big smile. Big everything. I avoided eye contact, hoping she wouldn’t recognize me. She extended her hand. I grabbed my stomach.
-I’m sorry, forgive me, I have to—
-His tummy is upset.
-Oh. I’m sorry.
I hurried to the restroom, took refuge in a stall. Now what? I couldn’t go back in. Ten more minutes with the conniving, mugging organists would finish me off, and when they dragged out my battered, harrowed corpse, Sigrid would get a good long look and gasp, that’s him, that’s the man who violated my privacy, Marissa, your sort of boyfriend is a total pervert.
In my pocket, my phone buzzed. Are you okay? I waited a little before texting back. No. Bad sushi.
Her next text—the one that offered to drive me straight home forget the play I’ll apologize to Sigrid later—never came. Intermission was over, and Marissa wasn’t coming out. Nothing to do but sit here on the toilet, play with my phone, maybe write on the door. Fletcher + Roya. She would have come out, taken me home, Roya was like that, I could tell. I called Pete, no answer, probably still stoned. Who else could I call?
-Darling, what a splendid surprise, how are you, how’s life behind the Orange Curtain, same as ever if you’re calling me on a Saturday night, shouldn’t you be out with what’s her name, your little masseuse?
-Marissa. She’s…she’s at South Coast Rep.
-Poor dear. Couldn’t you stop her? Let me guess, one of those dreadful Greenberg plays.
-Worse. Something called Bach at Leipzig.
-Oh, I read about that. Supposed to be like a fugue, keeps repeating itself. Clever, I’m sure, and pointless. Well, at least you stayed home. Good for you.
-Yeah.
-They’re Philistines, that theater. What was our word for it?
-Socorepery.
-Yes. I mean, a serious playwright doesn’t need formalized gimmickry. Give us human drama. Give us the messiness of life.
Might as well let her ramble. Cell phone calls are free on weekends and I’ve got time to kill.
-Look at Wallace Shawn’s Designated Mourner. Look at Pinter’s Caretaker. That’s how you use repetition.
Wait till Pete hears about this. Dude, you were in the shitter for the entire second act? It could have been worse, man, I could have been in the theater.
-That place is a morgue, darling. Theater for zombies.
Socorepery—from the Latin for sock—was that my idea or yours?
-Sharon, I want to ask you something.
-Yes?
-If you have a crush on someone—
-A crush? How marvelous.
-Someone you don’t even know, does that mean you’re unhappy in your current relationship?
-It could mean anything, maybe you’re just horny, but, darling, you’ve been unhappy with her since the beginning and don’t tell me otherwise. You’ve been heroic, putting up with her, above and beyond, and—
-She’s—
-I know, I know, she’s a good person, she’s been through a lot.
-She has.
-We all have. Maybe it’s time you look after yourself. What’s her name—the crush?
-Roya.
-Oh, she’s Persian. Let me guess, dark eyes and pale skin. But listen, I have to go.
-I thought roya was Spanish for queen.
-No, that’s reyna, darling. Roya is Persian. Lots of Persians in southern Cal. I’ll call you next week sometime, okay?
Persian?
The US government can’t function without a foreign enemy or two, even a high school math teacher can figure that out, and Iran is a perennial favorite. I remember, back in elementary school, pissing with pride on little rubber images of the Ayatollah Khomeini that probably the school janitor had placed in the urinals. Now with the Soviet Union long gone and Iraq in pieces, it’s Iran that’s once again out to get us, Iran who someday might have a nuclear bomb, Iran the evil in the world that makes military spending and gated communities necessary. At least that’s what the experts say on the evening news. The experts and Pete’s ex-wife. I tried to reason with her, back before the divorce.
-Think about it, Iran has no nuclear weapons and they’re going to attack a country that has ten thousand? That’s crazy.
-They are crazy. They’re radicals.
-Just think about it logically. It’s a big country, like seventy million people. Are they all crazy? I mean, if they try something, we’ll blow them off the map.
-Fletcher, you can’t use logic with those people, that’s their culture, ask anyone.
By anyone, I think she meant anyone in her neighborhood, her church, anyone as afraid of the world as she was. Which is why Iranians in south Orange County can be a bit touchy. Like a student named Ramtin, who angrily corrected me.
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