by Walter Kirn
“You tell them the truth,” I said.
“It’s pretty obvious: they worship their own egos. They’re sick with selfishness. No higher power.”
“Like who, exactly?”
“Stop it. There but for the grace of God go you.”
That was as far as I got that day, but it was further than I’d gotten before. The trick, I’d found, was to play on Audrey’s pride. The excitement of rubbing elbows with celebrities, and maybe even believing that she was saving them, was bound to get the best of her eventually.
A few days later I renewed the pressure. It was Audrey’s night off and I found her on the sofa watching a late-night talk show with the sound turned low.
I sat in the recliner. “Can’t sleep,” I said. “How come you’re up still?”
“I’m staying on my schedule. The secret to working nights is turning nocturnal.”
Audrey sipped a mug of herbal tea as the talk show host welcomed a bald comedian with pink runny eyes that wobbled in their sockets as if they didn’t fit snugly in his skull. I saw her attention home in and grew suspicious. The comedian, whose name I’d missed, jogged out onto the stage and snatched the mike and cracked a series of jokes about Las Vegas. Audrey, who’d never been to Nevada so far as I knew, laughed like an insider.
“You know that guy?”
“Go back to bed,” she said.
I was onto something. When the comedian wound up his bit, he crossed the stage and flopped down beside the host, who congratulated him on his comeback.
“So what’s he like?” I said, adding up the clues. “Is he funny in person, too?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Who are you afraid I’m going to tell? Don’t you trust your own son? Come on, it’s me.”
Audrey wrapped her hands around her mug. “Why is this so important to you suddenly? You’re acting obsessed. Have you been skipping your pills?”
I watched the comedian pat his forehead with a damp white hanky. He looked unwell.
“What was he in for? Booze or drugs?” I said.
“Are you afraid I’ll fall in love with one? Is that it?” said Audrey.
I leveled a stare at her.
“They’re sick, sick people. They’re lost. They’re dead inside. I don’t care how many millions of dollars they make or how many Broadway shows they’ve starred in, they’re not my type. I don’t go in for junkies.”
I kept up my stare. Audrey fidgeted, looked down.
Her promises meant nothing, and she knew it.
The van was so new it had dealer plates and its windows hadn’t been blacked-out yet. I spotted it on Highway 9 while practicing for my driver’s license road test. My driver-ed instructor, Mr. Graf, whose favorite teaching aids were bloody film strips with titles such as Death Drives Ninety, had turned me into a timid, defensive driver—and yet when I saw the van I lost my caution and executed a U-turn so I could follow it.
Through the van’s rear window I could see a man sitting all alone in the backseat. His hairstyle was one I’d only seen in magazines: long in the back and spiky on the sides, but perfectly proportioned to his head. He flicked a cigarette butt out the window which bounced on the pavement and showered orange sparks.
I tailed the van for another mile or two, working up the courage to accelerate and drive alongside it for a better view. Up ahead was a diner with a gas pump. When the van turned into its driveway, I turned, too.
The driver, a woman in nurse’s shoes, opened the van’s sliding door. A man got out. He was so tall he had to duck his head and the driver reached out one hand to help him down. The man looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. His short-sleeved sport shirt showed muscular tanned arms; his face was lean and prematurely rugged, with scars on his nose and cheek that looked like beauty marks. Certain people led such charmed lives, apparently, that even their wounds worked out to their advantage.
While the driver filled the van with gas, the man took off his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes. I recognized him then. He looked thinner than on TV, but it was him: Matt Schramm, the private eye, a character in a show called Malibu Nights. A maverick who didn’t carry a gun because of his mastery of martial arts, Schramm solved his cases by “thinking with his gut,” and his trademark line—“I’m onto you like glue”—had caught on at school a couple of years ago. I’d used it a few times myself.
I put the car in reverse but didn’t back up. Schramm was leaning against the van, tilting his face to the sun, arms crossed. I found myself picturing Audrey drawing blood from him—rolling his sleeve up and sliding in a needle. I imagined her weighing him, writing down his height, quizzing him about his allergies.
I backed up slowly and started to turn the wheel. Schramm looked over at me and raised one arm.
“Hang on there,” he said.
He approached my car. I stopped. He leaned in my open window, held up a cigarette, and flicked an invisible lighter with his thumb.
“Can’t use the one in the van. I’ll blow it up,” he said. “Too many gas fumes.”
I pushed in my lighter and waited for it to pop. I could smell Schramm’s cologne in the car. The lighter ejected. I held it red end out and Schramm bent closer and cupped my hand and inhaled. His skin was icy.
“Gracias, kid.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You from this town?”
“Over the hill there.”
“Great area. So real. I’m a midwesterner, too, originally.”
“What part?” I said.
Schramm ignored me and moved off.
“Thanks for the light, kid. Take it sleazy,” he said.
As Schramm climbed back into the shuttle van, I noticed that a small crowd had gathered on the diner’s front step. He gave them a wave and they waved back at him, not stopping when he slammed the sliding door. Then a woman pushed forward, fluttering a napkin. “I love you!” she yelled. “I love you! I adore you!” The van pulled away from the pumps, the woman ran after it. She pounded on a window. I saw Schramm duck.
That night when Audrey went to work I said a prayer for her. For both of us.
I couldn’t help it: I became suspicious. When Audrey came home from work in the mornings, I scrutinized her face and posture, alert to any change in how she greeted me. I tracked the TV shows she watched. I rifled her purse. In the glove compartment of her car I found a roll of sugar-free breath mints that I checked on daily for a week. The roll decreased steadily, one thin mint per night, but I didn’t know how to interpret this evidence.
There was one clue I couldn’t ignore, though: the sudden change in Audrey’s beauty regimen. I’d never known her to suffer from dry skin, but suddenly she was moisturizing constantly. She dabbed cream on her elbows after her morning baths. She slicked on cocoa butter while watching TV. And she couldn’t seem to settle on just one product; she switched from bottle to bottle, jar to jar, as if she were searching for something. Perfection, it seemed. What’s more, she began spritzing perfume on her uniform and wearing earrings to work.
At dinner one night I brought up Malibu Nights. There were risks in being so direct, but I had to see how Audrey would react.
“I watched it last week,” I said, trying to sound casual. “It was part one of a special two-part episode about a mysterious string of call-girl murders.”
Audrey went on eating. Drinking, actually. Her schedule had thrown off her appetite, she said, and instead of having pot roast with the rest of us, she’d made herself a yogurt drink with brewer’s yeast. She said she preferred to eat dinner later at night, but I knew the truth: she was dieting. For him.
“Why don’t you watch it with me? Part one was great,” I said.
“Sure,” Audrey said. “Sounds dumb. I love dumb shows.”
At eight we sat on the sofa and turned the set on. Audrey squirted a wavy line of lotion onto one arm and rubbed it in in circles. I ate a handful of popcorn I’d just popped, and offered her the bowl.
“No thanks. Too much butter.”
She patted her stomach.
“You’re skinny.”
“I’m just not big on butter lately. Thanks.”
Matt Schramm was not at the center of that week’s episode, which made it hard to analyze Audrey’s responses. His partner, Ronald, dominated the plot. Hired by the wife of a movie producer to check out her husband’s connection with the dead women, Ronald went undercover as a rich John while Schramm, in a secondary assignment, interviewed men who’d used the call-girl service. According to the show’s familiar formula, this meant Schramm would find himself in danger sometime in the last part of the show and Ronald, this week’s star, would rescue him.
For the first half hour nothing happened. Audrey seemed bored during Schramm’s infrequent scenes and only once did I see her pay attention: when one of the call girls kissed him on the cheek and asked him if he was free that night. “For what?” he said. “For love,” the girl said. “I don’t need love,” Schramm said. “I need the truth.”
I went to the bathroom during a commercial and stood in front of the mirror, gripped with shame. I had my own bad habits and weaknesses; someday, like Schramm, I might need help with them.
Malibu Nights had resumed when I returned, but something had changed, on the show and in my mother. Schramm had been kidnapped, just as I’d expected—locked naked in a sauna by the murderer. Jets of steam were boiling him alive and Audrey seemed spellbound, rubbing yet more lotion into a hand shed already moisturized. Her feet were jiggling, though she seemed unaware of it. When Schramm passed out while pounding on the door, the jiggling stopped for a moment, then sped up.
Something in me came loose. I lost control.
“Admit it,” I said.
“Admit what? Stop acting crazy.”
“He’s there. He’s your patient.”
Audrey shook her head. “Someday you’re going to realize. You’re going to have to.”
“What?”
“I’m a mine, not a yours. I have an inside. And that inside has boundaries. You can’t just barge right in.”
These were all lines from One Year in Recovery and I was too worked up to figure them out. I left the sofa, charged through the back door, and locked myself in the garage in Audrey’s car. I turned on the radio and squeezed the steering wheel. I stabbed the button on the glove compartment, causing it to fall open. I looked inside. Audrey’s roll of breath mints, new that week, was already down to two.
And I found something else, something worse: a rolled up photograph. I spread it flat on the seat and turned the dome light on. The photo showed Schramm bare-chested on a beach, and there was writing on it: “Audrey Cobb, I’m onto you like glue. Hugs, David Baird.”
My eyes stung. I went rigid. She not only knew him, the bastard had a name.
“I’m calling for a patient there,” I said.
“It’s one in the morning. Our patients are asleep.”
“This one’s awake.” I gave the woman Baird’s name.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s our policy not to disclose the identities of residents.”
I hung up the phone and sat in the dark kitchen. They were there together, this minute. I was sure of it.
I asked for the nurses’ station when I called back.
“Did you just phone here?” the operator said.
“This is a family emergency. Put me through.”
The phone at Audrey’s station rang and rang. Each ring seemed longer than the ring before and struck my ear with the empty, hollow tone that means there is no one on the other end—or else that they’ve consciously chosen to ignore you.
Either way, it was time to act. I got Mike’s car keys.
A red-striped gate blocked the driveway to the clinic. I drove a quarter mile past it, turned off on a side road, pulled over on the shoulder, cut my lights, and started through the woods, my hands in front of my face to push the branches back. Though I’d never been to Maple Glen before and didn’t know the layout of the grounds, I knew I was headed in the right direction because my anger grew with every step.
Several cars were parked around the entrance, including Audrey’s. I didn’t see any people. I crossed the lawn, then dropped into a crouch and followed a flower bed along a wall, peeking in every window that had lights on. In one of the rooms I saw a naked fat man lying facedown on a mattress with its sheets torn off, his back tattooed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade with a coiled snake. In the next room a woman sat yoga style on the floor, watching TV with her nose right up to the screen. Neither of the two patients looked rich or famous, which didn’t mean they weren’t. After all, Truman Capote had walked right past me.
The last of the windows was larger and better lit. I peered in sideways, my back against the wall, and saw a horseshoe-shaped desk and filing cabinets. Audrey’s coat was hanging over a chair, and on the desk, held open by a stapler, was her copy of One Year in Recovery. Over the desk was a poster of a chimp perched on a toilet eating a banana. The caption read “Thank God for Simple Pleasures.”
As I waited for Audrey to come back, I found myself hoping she wouldn’t be alone. Only solid, final proof of her betrayal could harden my fears into facts that I could act on. Indeed, I’d already sketched out my plan of action. Blackmailing Audrey with what I’d seen, I’d demand to be sent away to school, preferably to an eastern prep school with a good debate team. I’d never come home or send a single letter. I’d go on to college, graduate with honors, then move to New York and become a TV journalist. I’d drink away the nights. I’d snort cocaine. I’d blow my paychecks betting at the track. Finally, after a major nervous breakdown, I’d fly back home and check in to Maple Glen. Audrey and I would lock eyes. She’d weep. Embrace me. “What did you expect?” I’d ask her. “What did you expect?”
I was still lost in this fantasy when a man in a hospital smock and jeans stepped out of the shadows and sidled up to me. He didn’t seem to recognize my face but I knew his. I couldn’t get away from it.
“I guess I’ve found the smokers’ lounge,” Baird said, holding out a pack of cigarettes.
I took one. Baird clicked his lighter. A flame leaped up.
“A guy can only kick one thing at a time. You in the juvenile wing?” he said.
I nodded.
“What’s your poison?”
My mind raced. “Dope.”
“What flavor?”
“I don’t know. Everything, I guess.”
“Join the fucking club,” Baird said. “Never met a drug I didn’t like. Except maybe acid. Too profound for me. I guess if I have a favorite, though, it’s tranquilizers.”
Baird smoked no-handed, exhaling through his nose, and hugged his chest for warmth. He took a deep, rasping drag, then tipped his head back and blew a forked gray plume across the moon.
“How old are you anyway? Sixteen?” Baird said. “Me, I was still a choirboy at your age. Didn’t even take aspirin. A Christian Scientist. Then I broke my leg. A compound fracture. My mom and dad prayed for me. No pills, just prayers. But then I met a guy who had some morphine tablets. Believe me, they helped. I saw visions. Jesus Lord. A grizzly bear ate my entire head one night and shit out a Barbie doll. Mention that in group!”
I smoked and said nothing. I was in over my head. The best thing to do was to listen, to be still.
“Move over,” Baird said. “She’ll see us.”
I turned and looked. Audrey was back at her station, in her chair, eating dinner off a plastic tray. Judging by the heap of mashed potatoes and the slice of chocolate cake, she wasn’t on a diet, after all.
“You know that nurse?” Baird said. “She saved my neck.”
“Her?” I said.
“She’s a tough one, but she’s good. In fact, I consider her my guardian angel. I wouldn’t be sober without her.”
“You’re friends?” I said.
“It’s deeper than that. You want the whole sad story? That’s what this place is all about: confession.”
“I have to get back. They
’ll start searching.”
“I’ll condense it for you.” Baird bent his neck to one side until it cracked, pushed back his hair, and cleared his throat. An actor. “Three weeks ago I fly here from Los Angeles. I work in TV. My studio commits me. Maybe you’ve seen my show.”
I shook my head. Baird didn’t hide his look of disappointment.
“Well, anyway, I get sent here. Against my will. So naturally I smuggle in a stash. Tucked up my rear; some pills in a balloon. And the first thing I do after check-in, I hit the boys’ room, but son of a bitch, the stash is too high up. I try to extract it in bed that night. No dice. Now I’m panicking. Thing could break and kill me. I ask Dr. Frost for an Ex-Lax, but he refuses. No drugs, he says, and laxatives are drugs. Next day I eat raisin bran breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but still no action. That Valium is up there.”
I looked over Baird’s shoulder at the window. Audrey had fallen asleep in her chair. Her plate was clean, not a crumb of cake remained, and on her desk I spotted a framed certificate: my award from the last state speech tournament.
I’d wronged her.
“So anyhow, it’s night three by now,” Baird said, “and I’ll try anything. I’m still backed up. I steal a dessert spoon at dinner—I’ll scoop it out. But something goes wrong and I cut myself internally. I’m bleeding like crazy on the bathroom floor. I know I need help right away or I’m a goner, but who do I call? It’s the middle of the night. Plus, if the studio hears what’s happened, I’m toast. No more Ferrari. Good-bye Sunset Strip.”
Baird paused, lit two more cigarettes, and passed me one. I sucked the filter, hard. I needed a lift.
“So I realize it’s life or death now,” he continued. “My fate is in my hands. I crawl to the phone and dial the nurses’ station. My legs are soaked in blood. I’m losing consciousness. Nurse Cobb picks up and says she’ll be right down, so I climb up onto the bed somehow and wait. She gets there, she sees the blood. I’m swimming in it. She asks me what happened. As usual, I lie: I was wiping my ass and I nicked it with my fingernail. Luckily, she sees right through my bullshit. She turns me onto my stomach, kneels behind me, and in goes her hand, her bare hand, no rubber glove. And no Vaseline to grease it; just my blood. And that’s when I woke up, kid. Then. That moment. That’s when I finally got real about myself.”