“Hi.”
“Hi, babe. Feeling better?”
“Feeling great.”
“Not so achy?”
“Just my head now. I seem to be getting better as the day goes on. I’ve stopped yawning.”
“Yawning?”
“Nevermind.”
“What did you do with that cat?” she asked.
“I put it in a bag and put the bag in the trash.”
“So it’s just laying there in our trash can?”
“Yes.”
“Gross. Well, at least trash day’s tomorrow. So what are you up to?” she said. “Are you working?”
“You mean writing?”
“Yeah.”
I looked out the window.
“No, I thought I’d take the day off. No writing, no paint scraping.”
“Are you in a car?”
“A car?”
“You sound like you’re in a car.”
“No, it’s the TV.”
“We don’t have a TV.”
“We don’t have a TV? I thought everyone has a TV. Wait. Am I still in America?”
“You’re in quite a jokey mood today, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m in a jokey mood today. And yes, I am in a car. Well, a bus.”
“What are you doing on a bus? Where are you going?”
“I just thought I’d get on a bus and ride around. See Spokane.”
“Babe, are you feeling OK? Should I come and get you?”
“No, it’s just I wanted to get out of the house. I’m fine. I think I’ll just wander a bit today.”
“Well, OK. But everything is all right, isn’t it?”
“What wouldn’t be?” I asked.
“What wouldn’t be all right?”
“Yes. If something wasn’t all right, what would it be?”
She paused. “Well, I don’t know. Everything’s always all right.”
It was quiet for a while after I hung up and then Candice said,
“That was Eva?”
“Yes.” Ah-ha, I thought. So she knew Eva. “You know something, I can’t remember how it was we all met.”
“You’re acting weird.”
I considered using the trick I’d used with Gladys—telling her I was doing an exercise in which I pretended I had lost my memory—but I didn’t think that would work. It is a rule of thumb that what works on eighty-year-olds rarely works on eighteen-year-olds and vice versa. Luckily, she helped me out by saying, “My mom and Eva are friends. I mean, they’ve worked together for, like, I don’t even know how many years.”
“Right,” I said with a big sigh of relief. This girl’s mother and my wife were colleagues and friends. Eva and I probably went over to their house for barbecues or something. Thank God. Finally I had placed a big piece of the puzzle. And just in time. The mood had been getting a little strange. “Your dad like to barbecue, does he?” I said.
She just snorted and rolled her eyes again.
We arrived at our destination. A midsized farmhouse about a quarter mile off the road, in the middle of the fields, skinny trees grown tall to completely hide it from the highway. Once it would have been called charming, but now it was barely a step above dilapidated. Peeling paint, roof covered with moss and old dry leaves; a few broken windows, a few boarded up. A faded, weathered flag hanging from the eaves. It seemed an odd place for a young Christian girl to be visiting, but I assumed she was there to see an elderly or enfeebled person from her church—some old farmer or farmer’s widow who could no longer make the journey into town each Sunday, so Candice came to minister to him/her, and possibly deliver some item.
“I need to see somebody,” she said. “You can stay in the car or come in, whatever you want.” She looked at me for a second, as if expecting me to say something, and when I didn’t she shook her head and got out.
I got out too and followed her up the rickety front steps. The truth is I would have liked to have had a pair of dark sunglasses, for I would have enjoyed watching her rear end in her tight shorts as she walked up those steps. But I kept my eyes off of her in case anyone was at the window watching. I looked around at the fenced-off area of dirt that had once more than likely been a front lawn.
The screen door had been kicked in at the bottom. Candice rung the doorbell, and called down the hall, “Hello?”
When an occupant finally emerged it wasn’t an old man or an old woman—and it wasn’t someone needing—or at least expecting—the Good News. It was a shirtless, bearded twentysomething hippie layabout carrying a golf club like a walking stick and a drink in a tall plastic cup.
“Candy!” He met her halfway down the hall and gave her a long, lingering hug, the hand that wasn’t carrying a drink running up and down her eighteen-year-old back. He did this while sizing me up. I sized him up back. “Who’s this?” he said.
“He’s the writer.”
I smiled.
“Oh,” the guy said, in a not-too-friendly manner. “Well, come on back. We’re hitting golf balls.”
Whether it had been the medallion hanging from the mirror, the cross around the neck, the Modern Student’s Bible on the seat, the fish on the bumper of the little Korean car, or all of these things put together—it seemed that I had pegged young Candy all wrong. She was not the innocent Christian schoolgirl I had thought she was. And as she went from lowlife to lowlife, hugging each one and kissing a few, and accepting a tall drink of her own from a heavily pierced—and heavily heavy—woman with the word MOM tattooed in Gothic letters across her neck—MOM took Candy by the hand and spun her around like the girl was her dance partner—I wondered to myself not only what was I doing here, but how had I gotten here? Wasn’t it only a couple hours ago that I was enjoying a peaceful smoke session with Charles, the drain snaker, in the comfort of my own home—or the comfort of the home that I was supposed to think was my own?
There were about twelve or fifteen people there—miscreants all—all but a few appeared to be in their twenties or thirties—some were older, none but Candice younger—all in a combination state of drunken highness—dirty, sweaty, hairy, red from the sun. There was a man at a grill cooking up meat; classic rock playing from a boom box; some were dancing, some were sitting, some were leaning, some were tipping, some were hitting golf balls into the fields which rolled in like golden waves from the horizon and terminated with a slight hiccup at the back patio, a large cement slab with grass growing out of a giant web of cracks. There was a hot tub and an aboveground pool, and a few sets of very bourgeois (translated: stolen) patio furniture. To the side by some old overgrown apple trees is where the motorcycles were parked.
I stood by the corner of the house, watching Candice as she went around the party, joking with everyone and laughing and accepting what looked like good-natured ribbing about her approaching college trip. She seemed very much in her element, and when she accepted a joint and a piggyback ride from a dwarfish-looking man with a pierced penis, I knew that whatever happened from here on out it would probably be best not to mention any of this to my wife—or to the woman pretending to be my wife, whatever the truth actually was.
I picked up from bits of conversation that they were all staying at the house together and that they’d been drinking, barbecuing, and hitting golf balls for most of the week.
“So you’re the writer.”
MOM had snuck up on me. She was somewhere in her late thirties, her reddish-brown hair streaked with gray, tiny wrinkles under her eyes, her chubby yet pretty face pink and wet from the heat. She wore more clothes than anyone—a baggy tank top with an ankle-length skirt, purple, pleated.
“We’ve heard a lot about you,” she said.
I asked her to tell me what she’d heard.
“We’ve heard that you live in tow
n, that you have a drop-dead gorgeous wife who works with Candy’s mom. That you wrote a book about a decade ago that was praised but quickly forgotten. That you don’t talk to your agent or publisher or anyone who ever knew you, and that you dropped out of society and ran off to the boonies to write mankind’s next immortal masterpiece. The next Divine Comedy or Aeneid or Moby-Dick or Thousand and One Nights. Don’t let appearances fool you…” She tilted her drink back and took a big swig, then said with a mouth full of ice cubes: “I’ve got an English degree.”
“Candice told you all that about me?”
“I hope she didn’t blow your cover.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
MOM squinted into the sun, sizing me up. “She said that you came to talk to her class about your book.”
Candy was being lifted into the air by a scary-looking fellow the size of a grizzly. He had a bushy beard, huge barrel chest, hairy shoulders, hard round head—the kind of head you look at and think the skull must be at least twice as thick as your own. Like a wrench would probably bounce right off.
“Seems odd that I would agree to go talk to her class if I’m the kind of person who keeps to himself.”
“She said her mom asked you to do it. She needed the extra credit to keep her 4.0.”
“That was nice of me.”
The grizzly put her down and another grizzly picked her up. They appeared to be twins. Candice let out a happy scream. MOM watched as they passed her back and forth.
“We all just love Candy,” she said. “We think she’s gonna go places.”
“Candice can do whatever she puts her mind to,” I said. At one of the tables a girl in a bikini and a man in a towel were snorting up lines of cocaine. “As long as she keeps her nose clean.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” said MOM.
“How did you meet?” I said.
“Through Pop.”
“Through Pop. And which one is Pop?”
“Pop’s not here. Pop’s out.”
“Pop’s out,” I said. “And what’s Pop’s story?”
“She didn’t tell you about Pop?”
“She might have. I’ve got a bad memory.”
“Pop’s mysterious. He’d make a good character in a story.”
“Is this his house?”
“No. This house is abandoned. We’re just staying here until we’re asked to leave.”
“What’s so mysterious about Pop?”
The question was not answered because Candice had left her friends and come over to whisper something in MOM’s ear. MOM looked at me and smiled and planted a big kiss right on Candice’s cheek. Who then asked me if I could help her with something.
I followed her back through the house and out to the front.
“Interesting group,” I said.
“You think?”
She opened the trunk of her car. There was an old red suitcase inside, locked with three separate padlocks.
“What’s this?” I said.
“It’s heavy. Can you carry it in for me?”
“Can I carry a padlocked suitcase from your car into an abandoned farmhouse full of obvious criminals?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ever come across a term in school called being an accessory?” I said.
She just stared at me with her arms crossed. I noticed she didn’t wear earrings or any jewelry except for the cross which now gleamed brightly in the sun.
“Now Candice,” I said. “You know me. I’ll do anything I can to help you—I always have and I always will—and you know it’s true because I came to speak to your English class even though I’m practically a shut-in and to be perfectly honest there’s nothing I can imagine liking to do less than talking to a room full of teenagers. But your mother came to me and said, Candice really needs that 4.0, and I said, Sure, whatever I can do I’ll do. But in our current situation I just think it would be setting a really bad example if I were to help you accomplish whatever strange endeavor it is you’ve got going on. I don’t know who these people are, or how a nice girl like you has come to be associated with them—I don’t like them, to tell you the truth—I’ve been around longer than you and I can tell you that these people are up to no good. Sitting around drinking and doing drugs and hitting golf balls might sound like paradise to an eighteen-year-old like you, but these people are a lot older than you—certainly too old to be carrying on the way they’re carrying on. Now, I don’t have a very good feeling about this MOM character—something about her doesn’t sit well with me—it’s not her piercings or her tattoos, or anything like that, it’s just I don’t think she’s a good role model. And this Pop, whoever he is, I’ve got an even worse feeling about him. And I don’t know how much advice I’ve given you over the years—maybe I’ve tutored you in English, or helped you with your writing—but as an adult figure, and as someone who knows your parents, I think it is my responsibility to tell you that you really shouldn’t be hanging out with lowlifes like these. I know at your age they probably seem exciting and authentic—and you’ve spent your life going to church camps and always being told a girl has to stay pure and do the right thing and all that—and you’ve probably seen a lot of hypocrisy in your home life—maybe your parents talk the talk but don’t walk the walk—that’s pretty common—and these people probably appeal to you because you look at them and you think what you see is what you get. And maybe you get a sense of belonging and camaraderie from them that you haven’t found before—maybe you haven’t had an easy time making friends in school—perhaps because the other girls are jealous of your looks and good grades—and maybe the fact that you brought a real live writer to school just made it worse for you because they only got more jealous, I don’t know—but I have to tell you that—and I know they may seem harmless—but my personal opinion is that there is something very dangerous about this group. And I’m not just talking about tattoos—every frat boy and youth pastor and teenybop crooner is covered in them today—it has nothing to do with tattoos, believe me. And it doesn’t have to do with motorcycles or beards or even penis piercings. It doesn’t even have to do with the drugs or alcohol—lots of people do drugs and alcohol. But I just fear that you’re young and impressionable and if you hang around with people like this you’re going to end up getting into trouble you can’t foresee and the fact of the matter is the choices we make today affect the future tomorrow and, well, I just worry you’re going to become involved in something you’ll wish you could take back later, that you’re going to do something you’ll one day come to regret.”
While saying all of this I had lifted the suitcase out of the car, carried it across the dirt patch, back up the porch and inside the house, then up a dusty staircase and down a hallway, to a small bedroom at the top of the house that Candice led the way to. And I had barely set the suitcase on the bed saying “something you’ll one day come to regret” when I heard the door close behind me, and I turned around.
Candice had taken off her tank top, and was stepping to me in her bra.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ weird today,” she said, kissing me all over my mouth.
12 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
21 JUL 1996
Two kids posing on Albion Rd., smiling.
Superlonghair flipping off camera.
"""""
"""""
"""""
"""""
""""" (Thank you Superlonghair)
Guy on bike.
Ange getting onto bus.
Ange going up sta
irs.
Matt on back seat.
Indian guy in doorway.
Girl in green dress approaching.
Indian and girl talking.
Ange & Matt on Oxford St. / HMV
ANGE WALKING INTO MCD TO TAKE A PEE.
She just disappeared around the corner.
Guy in white hat giving thumbs up in McD.
And then she came back with her arms above her head.
Matt writing #19.
Street sweeper won’t smile but has to; dirty face.
Matt & Ange & guy with red tie, middle eastern who walked by
Matt & Ange in front of OLIVER: THE MUSICAL (photo credits by red tie man)
The Original Superlonghair in Hawaiin shirt with girlfriend (from behind them)
ANGE WALKING ACROSS CROSSING OUT THE FRONT OF LIBERTY’S OPENING A BEER TAKEN BY MATT
PUB ON CARNABY ST WHERE MATT GOT A JOB BUT DIDN’T TURN UP TAKEN BY MATT (SHAKESPEARES HEAD)
OLD PARATROOPER COLLECTING MONEY OFF PEOPLE OUTSIDE A PUB ON CARNABY ST BY MATT
PHOTO TAKEN BY GUY IN PINK SHIRT WITH BORING GIRLFRIEND OF MATT & ANGE IN FRONT OF SIGN SAYING WELCOME TO CARNABY ST.
JAPANESE COUPLE STEALING/REPAIRING MOPED ON BROADWICK ST SHE WORE RED PANTS AND HIS FACE WAS SERIOUS TAKEN BY MATT
PHOTO OF PAVEMENT BY MATT (OOOPPPSSS)
OPEN WINDOWS WITH POLE (LOOKING UP AT BUILDING FACE) BY MATT
SOHO CD STORE ABOVE WINDOW JUST SLIGHTLY OPEN BLACK & WHITE CAT WITH BLINDS (FROM WINDOW) PUSHING CAT’S EARS DOWN. CAT LOOKING STRAIGHT AT US BY ANGE
Man in deppressing and pale Hawaiin shirt peering through the doorway of porno shop wondering if this is the right place for tonight’s big score.
Bouncer leaning up against LATEST POLE DANCING FROM THE US LIVE SHOW FULL NUDITY sign (But no one will go in because it costs 12.50)
PHOTO OF MATT OUTSIDE PORN STORE RED SIGN ABOVE SAYS “DREAMY LIPS” BY ANGE
7 JAPANESE & ONE WHITE GUY CAME OUT OF A WALKERS PORN SHOP TAKEN BY MATT FROM HIS HIP BECAUSE OF “RECPECT”
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