“Would you do it again?”
He didn’t say anything. The silence was answer enough. He finished his tea and set the cup on the table. “I’ve thought about you over the years, Ellie.”
“I’m not that hard to find.”
“Actually, you are.”
“I’m sure you have resources. Not to mention, until a year ago, my mother lived a quarter mile from here.”
“What? I’m going to show up on your mother’s doorstep? I was hoping you’d come to me. I knew if I was the one to make the first move, you’d shoot me down. You made it clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Listen,” he said, “do you mind if I go change?”
“What?”
“I feel weird, sitting here and talking to you in my bathrobe. To be perfectly honest, it’s been a rough couple of days. I’ve got this new book I’m working on, and I’ve hardly left my desk. In fact, I was up in my office writing—or trying to—when the doorbell rang.”
He stood. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “Wander around. Who knows, you might find something interesting.”
“You mean that?”
He smiled. “Eat my food, drink my liquor, read my mail, rifle through my drawers. Just don’t leave.”
I knew that he meant it. There had, after all, been a reason we got along so well all those years ago. He was easy to talk to. He was generous with his time. He liked me. I never bothered with how I looked when I went to see him, never worried that I’d say the wrong thing. When we talked, I could always tell he was really listening. The camaraderie we shared, the genuine ease I felt in his presence, had made his betrayal all the more devastating.
WHEN I HEARD A DOOR CLOSE UPSTAIRS, I WENT into the kitchen to examine the collection of photographs on Thorpe’s fridge. There were snapshots of him with various local personalities—Barry Bonds, Bill Gates, Jim Mitchell, Armistead Maupin—as well as national media types like Barbara Walters, Ted Turner, and that narrow, white-haired guy from 60 Minutes. There was a calendar featuring The Simpsons, the page turned to the month of June, which had already come and gone. I flipped to July—almost every square was filled. There were radio shows, readings, book clubs, an elementary school fund-raising luncheon. I wondered what kind of grade school would enlist the services of a true crime author to raise money for crayons and monkey bars.
On the wall above the counter was a corkboard, on which was tacked a schizophrenic mishmash of ticket stubs from a couple dozen movies—The Lives of Others, Ocean’s Thirteen, The Squid and the Whale, Shrek—and music shows—Sugar dePalma at the Rockit Room, Walty at Hotel Utah, Steve Forbert at the Great American Music Hall, the Polyphonic Spree and Pilar Dana at Slims. There was also a two-day pass to the New Orleans Jazz Festival from 2003. I was impressed with his musical tastes, surprised to see that we still had so much in common on that front, until I saw the $115 stub for a Journey revival tour.
There was more: a year-old receipt for an $800 coat purchased from Neiman Marcus—maybe he’d planned to return it but never got around to it—and a postcard from Hawaii, postmarked five years ago in November, addressed to “Mr. & Mrs. Thorpe,” bearing the handwritten message: Memo to self: remember the honeymoon, and the signatures Jane & Andy. Apparently they hadn’t followed their own advice.
I took the stairs to the second floor. I passed a closed door, behind which I could hear him moving around. I liked the freedom of being able to wander around his house unimpeded. I had come prepared to ask Thorpe for answers, but a few minutes with him had led me to understand what I should have known all along—that it wouldn’t be as easy as asking a simple question and getting a direct and honest response. Socially, beneath the dishevelment and disorganization, Thorpe had always been a crafty, clever man.
I turned right and came to a square room equipped with a large metal desk, which was flanked by industrial filing cabinets. The desk was shoved against a large window. Books and papers were everywhere, and the chair was covered with file folders. On top of the desk, anchoring a stack of papers, was a pair of binoculars. The hardwood floor had ring-shaped stains where potted plants once stood. I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened.
Thorpe was walking around, opening and closing drawers. I heard him curse to himself. The fountain gurgled in the courtyard.
I was amazed by how quiet his house was. Having lived in apartments for years, I’d grown accustomed to the constant noise of neighbors—garage doors opening, toilets flushing, televisions blaring. It didn’t matter how nice an apartment building was, how exorbitant the rent, you could never escape the sounds of your neighbors. I imagined that if I were ever to move into a proper house, one without any shared walls, I would find the silence somewhat creepy. I liked the proximity of neighbors, even those I didn’t know. I figured, if need be, I could always call for help. I could never entirely banish from my mind the image of Lila, alone with her killer in the woods. If she called out, no one heard her. Urban places provided at least the illusion of safety. It was hard to believe that houses like this existed in the middle of San Francisco—solitary houses, where you could scream and no one would hear you. Of course, that was probably why Thorpe’s neighborhood was the last piece of land in the city to be developed. Despite its amazing views and central location, Diamond Heights had an eerie, windswept quality.
I leaned over the desk and peered out the window. Whereas the living room windows faced north, the office had an eastern view. There was a steep, wooded hill beside the house. Beyond the hill the streets of Noe Valley glowed vaguely under the automatic lamps. I felt unnerved, but I couldn’t pinpoint the source of my discomfort—it was just a vague sensation of something not being quite right. I moved the file folders off the chair, sat down at the desk, and peered down the hill. Midway down, someone had set up a makeshift encampment. The end of a cigarette glowed. That was unremarkable, it was part of the accepted absurdity of San Francisco—homeless people living within yards of multimillion-dollar homes. At the bottom of the hill was a fence, and beyond the fence a small playground, and beyond that a narrow street lined with rows of Victorians. There were many such streets in Noe Valley, of course, but I realized with a shiver that this wasn’t just any street. From the house on the corner, I counted down the block until I came to the sixth house on the right. A light burned in an upstairs room. A person appeared in front of the window and stood there, still as a photograph. I lifted the binoculars to my eyes and experienced several seconds of confusion as the binoculars picked up the objects in front of me on the desk, absurdly magnified. I moved them back and forth, finally finding the house, the window. Affixed to the outside frame of the window was a wooden bird feeder, a Victorian house in miniature. I recognized the bird feeder immediately—the small scalloped roof, the little red door—I’d built it from a kit and painted it myself during my freshman year of college. There had been a hummingbird with an iridescent blue throat that came at ten every morning. It was Lila who cleaned the feeder and kept it supplied with nectar. After she died I forgot to fill it, and the hummingbird stopped coming.
I was looking at my old bedroom. Thorpe had a perfect view. The person standing before the window was a woman, not much older than I was, dressed in a pale green bathrobe, arms crossed. She shifted, lifted her arm in a wave. For a moment, I thought she was waving at me. Then I saw the person on the street below her window—a man, waving up at her. I couldn’t be sure, but he looked like an old neighbor of mine.
Twenty
I SENSED HIM BEFORE I HEARD HIM. SEVERAL seconds passed. I kept waiting for him to announce himself, but he didn’t. Finally I turned and saw Thorpe standing in the doorway, watching me. He was wearing a white cable-knit sweater, linen slacks, and leather sandals. His head had been shaved clean, and he smelled of aftershave—a combination of orange blossom, musk, and leather, with a hint of patchouli and tonka bean. The fragrance was familiar, but I couldn’t trace it to a par
ticular person or time.
I had witnessed the third transformation of Thorpe in as many days. He looked nothing like the man who had answered the door a half hour before. His demeanor had changed as well. He had a bit of swagger now. The total effect of the clothes, the aftershave, the smooth and gleaming head, was of a man who’d come to take me out to Sunday brunch in Marin.
He walked into the room and looked out the window, down the hill toward my house. For a moment we stood side by side in the darkness. His arm brushed mine, and I moved away from him.
“Bulb’s burnt,” he said. “Wait here.”
In a couple of minutes Thorpe returned. He stood on a chair to remove the light fixture, and handed me the old bulb. I shoved it into the overflowing wastepaper basket and wiped the greasy dust on my jeans.
“How many Marxists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” he asked, as the new bulb flickered to life.
“I give up.”
“None. The lightbulb already contains the seeds of its own revolution.”
“Not bad.”
He stood in front of me, hands on his hips, breathing a bit faster from the exertion.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Almost ten years.” He was standing so close I could smell his toothpaste. It smelled minty, organic—I recognized it as Tom’s of Maine, the old wintergreen flavor. “Turned out to be a great investment. I got it for $400,000. Last month the fixer-upper across the street sold for 1.7 million.”
“You could cash out, move to the tropics, and take up a life of leisure.” I thought of Peter McConnell in Nicaragua, living off the grid. I wondered what he was doing tonight, what he would make of my trek into Diamond Heights to confront the man who had ruined his life.
“Ah, yes,” Thorpe said, “but what about my fans?”
“You can write anywhere.”
“True, but then it’s not really just about the writing, is it? You can write the best book ever, but if you’re not around to do interviews, have your picture taken for magazines, show up at the book festivals, then your book is sunk, your readers evaporate, and you’re alone with the blank pages.”
“Is that why you do it—so you won’t be alone?”
“Isn’t that ultimately why anyone does anything?” He glanced out the window, then back at me. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No one in particular.”
I didn’t like where the conversation was headed, but I wasn’t sure how to get it moving in the right direction. I had come here to talk about Peter McConnell, and now I was distracted by the window. I imagined Thorpe sitting at his desk, watching the comings and goings of my childhood home. Until a year before, it would have been my mother he observed pulling out of the garage each weekday morning, my mother he saw traipsing down the street, yoga mat slung over her shoulder, on the way to her Saturday afternoon class.
And, of course, every Thursday night, he would have seen me, because every Thursday I came over for dinner. I would arrive at six, and my mother and I would have a glass of wine—either in the living room or on the back deck, depending on the weather. At six-thirty we would walk to Alice’s at Twenty-ninth and Sanchez, where we would order pot stickers, orange chicken, garlic prawns, and bok choy. Around seven-thirty, we would climb the steep hill to my mother’s house and stand on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes, saying our good-byes. This had been our routine ever since my father moved out after the divorce, and unless I was out of town or had something pressing to attend to, I honored the commitment. It was something we counted on, my mother and I. When she sold the house and moved to Santa Cruz, I had found myself on those Thursday nights feeling completely adrift. It had been such a regular part of my life for so long, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Eventually I began filling the newly freed time with classes—Bikram yoga, conversational Russian, Italian cooking, even hip-hop dance—but I always felt out of sync; the only place I wanted to be was in my old neighborhood, with my mother, talking casually about our week. During those Thursday-night dinners with her, I felt I could truly be myself, relaxed, with no need to put up my guard. Knowing that Thorpe had been there, probably watching us from above, cast the whole thing in a different light.
Although the clear view of my house was the most obvious topic, Thorpe simply passed over it as if it did not exist. It was his way, again, of controlling the conversation, so that any dialogue advanced according to his own terms.
“There was a woman I was seeing for a while, a long time ago, before I met my ex-wife, Jane,” Thorpe said. He was sitting on the edge of the desk now, legs crossed at the knees, hands resting at his sides, in a posture I remembered from class. I sat down in the desk chair. “Her name was Florence, I called her Flo. We’d been together for a couple of months when I took her to a dinner party at the home of one of my former colleagues, Pio Schunker. Do you remember him?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, he was the good-looking fellow with the unidentifiable accent and a taste for action movies. I had him for twentieth-century British lit. Whatever happened to him?”
“He ended up abandoning academia and becoming a major advertising executive, but that’s beside the point. So we went to his house, and after dinner we were sitting in the living room having coffee when he said to Flo, ‘Funny, the moment you walked in I thought you looked very familiar, and all night I’ve been trying to figure it out, and it just hit me.’ At that point he turned to me and asked if I knew who he was talking about.
“Of course I knew,” Thorpe continued, “but I’d never mentioned it to Flo, so I pretended to have no idea. ‘You remind me of a student Andy and I used to have,’ Pio said, ‘Ellie Enderlin.’”
All this time, I’d been looking out the window. The light went off in the upstairs room of my childhood home. Thorpe stood and began pacing. Because the room was so small and overcrowded with furniture, he could only go three or four steps before turning around and pacing in the opposite direction. “What I’m trying to say is that I needed you.”
The intimacy was too much, too fast. I felt myself instinctively leaning away from him, scooting the wheeled chair back a couple of inches.
He moved closer. “No, not in that way,” he said, as if he were reading my mind. “Not that I would’ve objected—the night we spent together was terrific, I still think about it.”
I backed away again. Again, he stepped closer. My chair was pressed against the bookshelves and I was looking up at him, his face tired and pale in the unflattering light of the new bulb.
“You were amazing, so open to me.”
I remembered that night at his Dolores Park apartment differently. I remembered the bad lasagna he made, the strawberry cheesecake he served before it had completely thawed. I remembered sitting on the couch with him, well into our second bottle of wine, wondering how to extricate myself from the evening.
“But I’d have been fine with never touching you again if I could have had you in my life,” Thorpe said. “Not as a romantic partner, as something more than that—a friend, an inspiration. Because I couldn’t have you, I found someone who looked like you.” He stopped pacing. “Funny, huh? Kind of pathetic. In fact, I have pictures. Come with me.”
He was out of the room before I could protest. I followed him down the hall into a bedroom, and was surprised to see that the room was clean. The bed had recently been slept in, but only one side of the covers was turned down; the other half was in order, the pillows stacked neatly. The bedside table was clear except for a tidy stack of books, and the marks on the rug showed that it had been recently vacuumed. In the corner by the window stood a black leather Aeron chair, with a wool blanket folded over the back. The room was softly lit by a tall, modern lamp. This, too, was in keeping with the man I had known so many years before. Just when I thought I was beginning to understand him, I would be confronted with some aspect of his character that made me reevaluate.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “I am at least cap
able of keeping one room of the house clean. I sleep better when I have no distractions.”
He took a leather box off the chest of drawers, placed it on the bed, and removed the lid. The box was full of photographs. He began to go through them one by one. “I’m certain I have one in here,” he said. “The two of you could be sisters.”
As he searched, I caught glimpses of him as a young boy and as a teenager, mostly with his family—vacation snapshots from Disney World and Six Flags, Christmas morning pictures taken in front of a tree, a Polaroid of him and a young woman in a cap and gown at what appeared to be a high school graduation. He went too fast for me to get a good look at any of them, the effect being that I felt as though I was seeing a fast-forwarded version of his personal life. During all those hours I had spent spilling my heart to him, telling him the most intimate details of my life, he had revealed almost nothing about his own. There was a series of photographs of him in a gondola, and in each one—there must have been twenty or more—he was with a different girl.
“Where’s this?” I said, taking one from his hand. The girl in this photograph was blonde, plump, and pretty, wearing a red gingham jumper and white Keds. She looked like the punch line to a farmer’s daughter joke.
“Oh, the gondola ride in the harbor at Marina del Rey,” he said. “For a couple of years during grad school at UCLA it was where I took girls on first dates. The girls seemed to like it, and I enjoyed the consistency. I figured if I put all of them on a level playing field—same date, down to the restaurant and the gondola ride—I’d have a better basis for comparison.”
“Did it work?”
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