Blame Lazar. And only then, in replay, did she realize what she had not recognized while talking to him. She sat bolt upright in bed. The empty echoey sound behind him on the phone had been an airport.
He was on his way.
She turned her lamp back on and checked her watch. Somehow two hours had passed. It was 1:30 in the morning. What could she do? The trip from New York probably wasn’t much over an hour if he got a direct flight. If he rented a car, he could be here any minute!
She jumped out of bed, but with no idea what to do. She could look up flight schedules on the computer-wait, no she couldn’t: no Internet connection. She combed her fingers through her hair and walked in circles, swearing bloody murder.
She flicked off the lamp and padded to the front window. Carefully, she pinched back the curtain. There had been a full moon on July 30, and half of it still shone in a clear sky. The world outside was bright with lively shadows. She would see anyone approaching from the snye. And she would hear a car arrive, wouldn’t she?
She watched for a full moment, shivering a little, turning the shadows into a stealthy crew of intruders. Her heart was beating out of control. This was ridiculous! She stamped her foot and swore at her father for his utter uselessness-no, it was worse than that, his betrayal! That’s what this was. He was not only the world’s worst father-he was a traitor! He was also potentially the accomplice to a murder.
She had the advantage over Lazar, she figured. She had never been so outraged in her life. Was this what they called a bloodlust? Because she wanted blood, a lot more blood than she’d seen trickling down the kitchen drain from the head of an old pervert. She wanted revenge. And she wanted it now. She checked her watch again. Almost 2:00. She followed the LED to her cell phone charging on the desk. She sat and dialed her father.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, sounding perfectly awake. “Mimi?”
“Yes. I thought I’d better phone and say my good-byes before the psycho arrives here to kill me.”
There was only the slightest of pauses before he chuckled. “Ah,” he said. “Mr. Cosic, I presume.”
“Yes, Mr. Cosic. So, it is true? You told him where I was?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he said.
“Father, do you know what you did? That man is mentally unstable. I am truly frightened.”
“Don’t be,” he said.
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re safe in your loft in the middle of safe old Manhattan. I’m in the middle of nowhere with a maniac on his way here because of you.”
“Right, the middle of nowhere. And you’ve met your half-brother, I hear.”
“Don’t even get me started on that.”
“You aren’t getting along?”
“Marc! I swear I am going to scream. Yes, I am getting along with Jackson. He’s wonderful. You should meet him sometime. But that is not what I’m talking about.” There was a pause at the other end. You should meet him sometime: that had been a low blow. Well, hell; it was as much as he deserved. “Dad,” she said, trying to rein herself in. “Lazar Cosic is the reason I’m here. How could you tell him where I was?”
“Mimi, do you want to hear the whole story?”
She was about to let loose a string of invective the likes of which this man had never heard from his worse critics. But something snagged her up. The whole story?
“What did you say?”
“I said that I think you should hear what happened. I think you might find it amusing. And by the way, hi, how are you?”
He was playing with her. Testing her. He had something up his sleeve. “Fine. Thanks for asking. Now talk.”
And so her father told her about Lazar phoning him. How he had told Marc that Mimi was up for a teaching assistanceship in the fall semester and the school needed to get a contract to her pronto.
“You know it’s all a big fat lie,” she said.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” said Marc. “I humored him. ‘Couldn’t they e-mail her the contract?’ I said. But he was ready for me-a smooth operator. ‘No. Not in the case of a contract. Had to be on letterhead. Had to be the real thing.’ He was good, Mimi.”
“And it’s all crap,” she said.
“I know. I remembered seeing him with you at Caprice.”
Mimi was taken aback. “Really?”
“Of course. And after you were gone, I looked for the gentleman’s name in the gallery guest book. It was right after yours. That’s how I knew who he was when he called.”
Mimi leaned into her desk, hugging the phone to her ear. He had noticed Lazar that day at the gallery. He had noticed her. But it wasn’t just that; she actually found something like comfort in her father’s casual manner, his seeming indifference, after the theatrics-and geriatrics-of the evening. She only hoped that he was not so detached as to have actually given Lazar what he wanted.
“So even though you knew he was lying-”
“Oh, surely it was just prevarication,” said her father. “Maybe they do want you to TA at NYU?”
“Knock it off. They don’t hire sophomores. And this is serious. Did you or didn’t you give him my address?”
“I did,” he said. And Mimi went cold all over. But before she could say anything, her father continued. “I told him about the old family cottage on the South Shore of Nova Scotia where you were holed up.”
“What?”
“You remember, don’t you? Oh, wait. You weren’t there. It was just your mother and me. Lovely place. About two hours out of Halifax. Down near Liverpool. Sandy beach, quiet bay, wonderful privacy. I gave him very precise directions.”
Something welled up in Mimi. Something horrified mixed with something warm. She wanted to scream and laugh-she could hardly hold it in.
“You didn’t,” she said.
“I did.”
“Oh, my God.”
“So, I presume that that is where he is heading. He struck me as precipitous enough to fly off with nothing more to go on than that.”
Mimi couldn’t speak. What was it she heard in her father’s voice? Behind the affected world-weariness and the complete lack of proper fatherly disdain at the mess she had got herself into. “You are wicked,” she said. “Did you know that?”
“I am and I did.”
“You knew he was going to come after me.”
Her father sighed. “I gathered,” he said, and the humor in his voice slipped a notch. She heard a glass clink. Heard him take a sip of something. Wine, she assumed. Maybe Scotch at this late an hour. “I was also able to deduce that this Mr. Cosic-Professor Cosic?-”
“Associate professor.”
“-??Was, as you say, the reason you had bolted in the first place.”
“Yes,” she said timidly, for her father did sound like a father now, and she was unaccustomed to it.
He sipped from his drink again. “Are you all right up there?” he asked. “You and Jackson hitting it off?”
Was this his way of getting back at her for sniping at him? No. Her father just didn’t get such things. “We are,” she said. “He’s really nice. I like knowing him.” It was no use saying more. Not at this time of night.
“Well, good.”
This might have been the place that a real father would have chided her about not getting in contact, not even letting him know she had arrived safely. But Marc wouldn’t do that. She was a tiny bit glad; she didn’t need chiding right now, considering everything else that was going on.
“You still there, Mimi?”
“I was thinking,” she said. Could she tell him what was going on? No. She was too strung out, too tired. “I’m okay,” she said.
“When you didn’t call, I guessed you must be.”
She swallowed. She had been too angry with him to call-to even let him know she had arrived. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was here.”
“Lou called. I suppose she told you. And your mother had the courtesy to e-mail me with a
n update. I wasn’t worried.”
And she knew that much was true. Her father hadn’t developed the parental skill of worrying about his children. He’d missed all of that. Wasn’t it, strangely, part of her attraction to him? Or it had been when she first started to visit him. Now she wasn’t sure.
“So, it has been good for you?” he asked, to fill the silence of all that she was not saying.
“It’s been… educational,” she said. “And thanks for what you did.”
“Hmmm,” he said. As if thanks from an offspring was new to him and he was uncertain what to think of it. He drank something. She heard ice cubes, so it was Scotch. She imagined him in his studio. Alone? Yes, she suspected he was, somehow, or he wouldn’t have talked to her for so long. And she suddenly realized that Marc would probably end up alone, which was sad, even if it was as much as he deserved.
“I imagine we’ll both be hearing from the professor,” he said.
“What if this backfires? Aren’t you afraid he’ll kick your ass?”
Her father laughed. “If he’s smart, he’ll thank me. But I’m not holding out for it.”
Mimi yawned, tried to stifle it, but her father heard.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “Call me sometime.”
“I will,” she said. “Thank you, Daddy.”
There was a pause, a low chuckle, then he hung up. No “Love you, sweetie.” As if. But she was glad she had called him Daddy.
And Mimi walked back to her bed on the floor over the trapdoor and fell into something like sleep. Though at some point in the night she dreamed of earthquakes, a low rumbling coming from deep beneath the quiet, little moon-drenched house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday morning Mimi sat at her desk staring at the phone numbers of people her father had known before he was even her father. When he was Jay’s father. No, that wasn’t right, either. He had left before Jay was born. How many of these people laced together by elaborate doodles had known of Marc Soto’s departure? It was sudden, she guessed. Had he packed, left a note, sent flowers?
Through the window she watched Jay glide into view, the yellow of his kayak almost blinding in the green veil. She saw him lie back flat as he disappeared through the arch of the bridge and then reappear on her side. Peekaboo. She smiled. Seeing him was a tonic. And there was a lot to talk about, although she had already given him a blow-by-blow description of Wednesday Night Fever. He had phoned from Montreal, of all places. One thing had led to another, and he and Iris had ended up driving down to see a new band, the Bell Orchestre. A rock band with French horns. Fabulous. Brilliant. They had stayed over at a friend’s apartment.
“Everything okay where you are?” he had asked.
“Funny you should ask,” Mimi had said. He had been worried, but she assured him she was okay and not to hurry back on her account.
But he was here now, and she would have him all to herself for a bit. There was still this strange pleasure of a boy you got to have all to yourself sometimes without any fuss or muss. It was confusing, when your heart wasn’t quite sure where it wanted to be. Sometimes when she was alone with him, her heart was in her throat. She had the feeling he felt the same way about her. She was glad that Iris was in his life. And hers, too, for that matter.
And, as it turned out, it was Iris she was going to get to hang with that day, if only for an hour or so. It was clear pretty well from the moment Jay arrived that his mind was elsewhere. He was excited about writing something. And, reluctantly, she was glad. He had become so quiet lately, as if, apart from the guitars, the robber had taken his voice. But he was bubbling over today. He did ask whether Lazar had phoned back yet.
“No.”
“Weird.”
She agreed. “Maybe he threw himself in the ocean. No, he’d never do anything that convenient.”
She expected-wanted-Jay’s righteous indignation to flare up again and make her feel less guilty about Lazar’s fateful journey to the east coast. But he was itching to get to work, to start something new-a new composition.
“That is so good.”
He nodded, a little nervously. “The Bell Orchestre really inspired me,” he said.
“But?”
“What do you mean, ‘but’?”
“Well, you look as if you’ve got a big but just waiting to pop out of you.”
He smiled. “I’m nervous,” he said. “I’m always like this when I start something. Like I won’t remember how.”
“Oh, that kind of nervous,” she said.
“The first thing I’m going to do is erase Simple. ”
“Really? Isn’t that a bit excessive?”
He shook his head vehemently. His jaw was clenched. “Got to. Got to move on.”
And he wanted the place to himself. Apparently, Iris was free for lunch, at twelve, if she was interested. The invitation was pretty transparent. But Mimi wasn’t put out. He had been so glum lately; it was good to see him excited again.
She showered and put on a flippy skirt and a loose cotton lavender-colored top and headed into town. She was supposed to meet Iris at a place called the Hungry Planet and went looking for it early, figuring she’d check her e-mail at the coffee shop first. But as she approached the place, a figure appeared before her, stepping out of a grotty-looking Ford and gathering some things from the backseat before slamming the door.
“Hey there, stranger,” she said.
Cramer turned to see her and got this flustered look on his face. “Hi,” he said, recovering somewhat. He wiped his head as if to push the hair out of his eyes had there been any hair. His other arm was full of electronic doodads, which he cradled against his chest.
“Heading to work?”
He nodded. “Any trouble with the computer?” he asked, bobbing his head at the case swinging from her shoulder.
“Have you ever heard of this theater game where you can only talk in questions?”
“Pardon?”
She laughed. “Forget it. Hey, do you have time for a coffee?” It was clearly the right thing to say. Mimi experienced the rare delight of watching his whole face seem to open up before her very eyes.
“I would really like that,” he said.
“Cool.”
“I’ll just put this stuff back in the car?”
“Or you can bring it along,” she said. She tugged at a cable hanging from one of the doodads. “You know, in case we can’t think of anything to talk about.”
He grinned. “We’d have to be pretty bored,” he said. And she laughed, which made his smile widen even more. His teeth weren’t great, but you can’t have everything.
As he put the electronic stuff in the car, she chatted away at him, and the next thing she knew, he wasn’t smiling anymore. “If you’re like meeting someone for lunch, I don’t want to horn in, eh?”
“Oh, boo,” she said. “You’re breaking my heart.”
He looked down, scuffed his shoe on the pavement. She had mentioned Iris’s name. Was that what had spooked him? “Do you know Iris?” she asked.
“It’s not that,” he said. “I guess I was just, you know…”
She did know. He has been hoping that it would be just the two of them. So she was right; he did like her. She checked the time on her cell phone. “Hey,” she said. “We’ve got twenty minutes all to ourselves.”
He gazed at her. “Maybe we could just walk?” he said. He nodded toward the end of the block. “Down to the park?”
“Sure.”
So they set off down the street, crossed the road into McGinty Park, and made their way to the river.
“You play hockey?” she asked.
He looked surprised. “Not much anymore. Why?”
“You look like a hockey player. All those muscles. Not that I know any hockey players.”
Cramer pointed at a little scar above his ear. “I got that playing hockey,” he said. “And that ain’t the only one, either.”
“Rough game,” said Mimi.
And Mimi laughed.
They sat on a bench right beside a wide pond. The water was high, well up over the bank. There were toddlers on the other side toddling under the watchful gaze of a small clutch of mothers, most of whom looked to be no older than Mimi.
“This is nice,” said Cramer.
She looked at him. “Oh, yeah? So why are you frowning?”
He looked surprised. “Was I?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry.” He shrugged, looked out at the pond.
She poked him in the arm. “Come on, tell me. Wazzup?”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He looked down, saw a stone, and picked it up. Chucked into the pond. One of the toddlers on the other side was drawn to the ripples and started walking toward the water only to be corralled by its mother and given a good hugging.
Mimi laughed. “That was close,” she said. But from the look on Cramer’s face, he hadn’t noticed the little drama.
“Hey,” said Mimi. “Talk to me, former hockey-player person. What’s eating you?”
He looked at her, and she looked back into his crazy blue eyes, knowing, somehow, he was getting up the courage to say something important, maybe even something intimate. Then he looked away, seemed to change gears.
“It’s my mother,” he said.
“Is she sick or something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m beginning to wonder. But it’s not sick sick, like,” he said. And he tapped his head. “She’s an artist. A painter.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“So she’s not ‘ sick sick’ just arty?”
He rolled his eyes. “Some days,” he said. “Some days, it’s…” He paused. “She has good days and bad days.”
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