“His problem seems to run deeper than that.”
“Yeah. It does.”
“Nobody seemed surprised by what he said. Nobody seemed upset.”
“It happens all the time.”
“That’s awful.”
“You’re right. It is. We’re just used to it.”
Cook saw a tall, striking-looking man pull up in front of the house on a bicycle. Everything he wore was geared for cycling. He could have stepped out of a catalog.
“That’s Ron,” said Dan. “Mary’s husband. The bike nut.”
Cook nodded. He wished he could pick the guy up and plunk him down on an inner-city playground, just to see the kids hoot at him for the way he was dressed. He watched Beth’s parents take a few steps toward him. Beth’s father shook hands with him, evidently renewing an acquaintance.
“Look at that,” said Dan. “Money attracts money. Ron’s got it and Beth’s folks know it.” He sighed. “Look at Beth. Jesus, all she wants is a nice warm goodbye, and they’re sucking up to Ron.”
Cook looked at Dan. He was staring coldly at the scene on the street.
“It’s like when they came to see Robbie for the first time,” Dan said. “They were in Hawaii when he was born—he was two weeks early—so they didn’t see him in the hospital. I picked them up at the airport and brought them here before I took them home. When we got here, I expected Rose to leap out of the car and run to the front door. I thought she’d be dying to see her new grandson. What’s she do? She notices the new landscaping job across the street at Ron and Mary’s house, and she walks over there for a look-see, because she’s thinking of having hers done. I could have killed her.”
Ron was pulling off his bike gloves with a great flourish, like a court dandy. Beth stood alone, her arms folded across her chest.
Cook said, “Do you think Beth’s upset right now?”
“Yeah. They’re bastards. But Beth’s not so innocent herself. She’s got the money fever too.”
Cook was silent for a while. Then he said, “Bruce told me you’re quitting the business.”
“Fuck,” said Dan. He said it angrily, but in a resigned way, too, as if acknowledging that it had to come out sooner or later.
“Is it definite?”
“Fuck,” he said again.
“You plan to teach?”
“Don’t press me on this. I’m not ready to talk about it. Here comes Beth, anyway. Don’t say another word about it.”
Outside, Beth had more or less given up on her parents and offered them a final wave as she headed for the house. Dan and Cook moved away from the window. Beth came in and gave them a brief smile—a sad smile, it seemed to Cook—and went into the kitchen. She began to clean up. Dan went in there as well—to comfort her in her time of need, Cook assumed. But he heard the back door slam. Frowning, he went to the window at the rear of the dining room. Dan was in the backyard, hunched over one of the remaining postholes, measuring its depth with a tape measure.
Cook went into the kitchen. Beth was at the sink. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She turned around. “Not really. Oh, Robbie wants to see you. He asked me to send you up. What’d you think of everybody?”
“You’re not like any of them,” Cook said. He headed for the stairs and heard a faint laugh of surprise from Beth behind him.
He paused at the landing between the first and second floors and sat down on the little bench in the alcove. He took THE HORROR! from his pocket and unfolded it.
She’s a bitch.
He’s a prick.
Money.
He’s a failure.
She thinks he’s a failure.
He thinks she’s a bad mother.
The in-laws.
In the kitchen, Beth turned off the water. Cook heard something in its place: she was crying. He wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t. It would only make things worse, as if he knew what to do for her even if Dan didn’t. He waited for her crying to subside, and in time it did.
He focused on his list. He crossed out the last line. The in-laws were a horror all right, but the greater horror was Dan’s failure to help Beth deal with them—his failure to be with her when she needed him, his failure just to be with her. He wrote down the new entry:
Dan.
Then he went up to see Robbie.
The den door was slightly ajar, and it opened wider with his knock. Robbie looked up at him from the floor, scooted to the TV, and turned it off. “A liar must have a good memory,” he said. There was a challenge in his voice.
“What?” said Cook.
Robbie stood up and said, “Follow me.”
Cook stepped aside to let him pass through the door. Robbie climbed the stairs to the third floor. Cook followed—up to his room and to his desk, where Robbie opened a drawer without apology. He took out The Pillow Manual and slammed it on the desk. His hands were shaking—with so many feelings, Cook guessed, that they were beyond counting. For all his confidence, Robbie was not a boy who regularly challenged adults like this. He was angry, but he was also afraid.
“Yes,” Cook said. “I’m here to help your parents—to help their marriage.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“You all lied.”
“Your parents thought it would worry you if you knew.”
“Good thinking! Good thinking!”
Cook didn’t know what this meant, exactly. “Look. We were probably wrong to keep it a secret, because it makes things look worse than they are.”
Robbie stared at him.
“Just because I’m here doesn’t mean your parents are going to get a divorce. They’re trying not to get a divorce. They’re trying to stay married.”
“How come they need you?”
“Sometimes people need help. Look. You ever been in the hospital?”
“Nope.”
“You ever know anyone who had to go to the hospital?”
“Jason. He had something wrong with his stomach.”
“Who’s Jason?”
“The prick that stomped on my Ping-Pong ball.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, when he went to the hospital, did everyone think he was going to die?”
“He should have. I wish he did.”
“Okay. Okay. But nobody thought he was going to die just because he went there.”
“I wish he did.”
“Okay. Okay. The point is I’m like the hospital. Your parents brought their marriage to me so it would get better.”
“My grandma died in a hospital. In California.”
Cook pressed his lips together. “Yes. Sometimes people do die in hospitals. And sometimes marriages die. But when people work on it, like your mom and dad are doing, there’s less chance of that.”
Robbie stared at the floor. Cook looked at him and felt an ache. “When you said a liar must have a good memory—”
“Dad’s from San Francisco,” Robbie said, looking up. “You told me you were interviewing people who were born in St. Louis. So how come you interviewed Dad? You forgot that, didn’t you?” He looked hard at Cook. “Are Mom and Dad really going to Italy?”
Cook frowned. “Sure. What did you think?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. What did you think?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on.”
Robbie made an odd face. “I thought they were gonna go somewhere and get a divorce.”
“Geez, Robbie. Don’t you think they would talk to you about it first? You think they would sneak off and do that?”
“They sneaked you in here.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“It just is.”
To Cook’s surprise, Robbie seemed satisfied with this juvenile insistence. “How come this is called The Pillow Manual?” he asked.
“Because the place I work for is called the Pillow Agency.”
Robbie laughed. “That’s dumb.”
“Yeah.
Listen, do you want to talk to your mom and dad about this now?”
“No.”
“I think you should. It would make you feel better.”
“No. Don’t tell them I know.”
“What? I have to.”
“No you don’t. I don’t want them to know I know.”
Cook frowned. “Why?”
Robbie shrugged.
“Do you want revenge because they kept it a secret from you? Do you want them to think they’ve still got you fooled?”
A huge grin broke out on Robbie’s face. “That’s a great idea.”
“Geez, I didn’t mean to suggest it. I just—”
“It’s great. It’s perfect.”
“But I think you need to talk about it with them.”
“Nah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. How many times do I—”
“Okay okay. But don’t get any crazy theories.”
“Okay.”
“And stay out of my desk.”
“Okay.” Robbie’s eyes fell on The Pillow Manual. “Actually, I was just looking for Hershey Kisses. I’ve gotta go pack now.” He headed for the door but stopped and turned around. “Are you gonna be here when I get back from camp?”
“I don’t know. I’ll come visit if I’m not, though.”
“Okay.”
Cook watched him leave. He went to the window and stared out into the park. Life at the Wilsons’ was getting more complicated by the minute. A sad woman crying at the kitchen sink, an unhappy man with his head in a posthole, and a worried boy searching through Cook’s desk for clues about his family’s future. What next?
He went to his desk and opened The Pillow Manual to the next pink seal:
DAY FIVE
Roy Pillow, Jr.
He stared at the page for several minutes, collecting himself. Then he went to the landing for the phone and brought it back to his desk and dialed Pillow’s number.
“Pillow,” barked Pillow.
“Roy,” said Cook. “‘Roy Pillow, Jr.’ What the hell?”
Pillow mmmed. “Has Missy Pillow been satisfied?”
“She’s very happy. Trust me. Now ‘Roy Pillow, Jr.’ What the hell?”
Pillow chuckled fiendishly. “Roy Pillow, Jr., is my son, Jeremy. By my second wife. He was a little dickens as a boy. Just full of mischief. He loved to put snakes and spiders in the darnedest places—in my shoes, under my pillow, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds great, Roy.”
“Oh, we had some lively times, let me tell you. That was before his mother packed him up and moved out of my life.”
“I’m sorry, Roy.”
“No need to be,” Pillow said brightly. He seemed upbeat. “I want you to do what Roy Pillow, Jr., did. I want you to track down some snakes and spiders, and I want you to find a good place to plant them to surprise your couple. One snake or spider for each.”
“What—”
“I’m speaking figuratively, of course.”
Cook relaxed slightly. “Of course.”
“A ‘snake’ or ‘spider’ in this context is any piece of information that packs a surprise. You’ve been nosing around awhile, so you must have found a few snakes and spiders. Find some good places to hide them. Sneak them into a conversation in unexpected places, like in a subordinate clause, or—my favorite—a nominative absolute. What you want is any little slimy or crawly thing that’ll shock them, Jeremy, shock them right out of their pants until they’re standing naked before you—if you’ll allow me another metaphor.”
“Agh!” bellowed Cook, jerking the phone away from his face. Pillow’s words had awakened a lively memory.
“Jeremy? What is it?”
Cook held the receiver gingerly, with two fingers, and spoke into it from a distance. “Roy, I’m talking to you from a phone that was all but up the asshole of our client.”
Pillow took some time to absorb this. “The Pillow Manual is silent on that subject, Jeremy. Now, if I might move on to something more pleasant, we need to set up your next date. You won’t have any grounds for complaint this time. No matter what happens, you can’t come crying to me.”
“Don’t be too sure, Roy. Who’s the babe?”
Pillow fell silent. Then he chuckled. “Jeremy, across the river in Illinois there are lots of nice apple farms.”
“You want me to date an apple farmer?”
“No, no. Just listen. In the fall, St. Louisans like to drive out there and pick apples.”
“I’ll remember that, Roy. A hot tip—I appreciate it.”
“One of the farms is called U-Pick.”
“Cute.”
“U-Pick, Jeremy. U-Pick.”
“I heard you, Roy.”
“I’m saying it to you now. U-Pick.”
“Are you telling me I get to pick my own date?”
“Exactly.”
Cook laughed. “I’ve had that freedom all along, Roy. I haven’t exactly exercised it lately, but—”
“Of course you’ve had that freedom. I’m offering you more than freedom. I’m telling you that you may date anyone in the world of your choice. The Pillow Agency is at your disposal.”
“Anyone?”
“Anyone. I shall make the overtures, provide whatever incentives are necessary, and furnish transportation to St. Louis and lodging for one night. Think about women you’ve been adoring from afar—women way out of your class, light-years beyond your reach. I’m interested in seeing what happens when your fantasies come true. Take your time with this. Think about movie stars, ballerinas, musicians—one of our staff was nuts for a flautist in the Boston Pops Orchestra—newscasters, wispy poetesses, stockbrokers—one of our boys fell for an investment banker he’d seen on Wall Street Week. I’m afraid she pretty much chewed him up and spit him out—you never know how these things will turn out. But the sky’s the limit, Jeremy. I’m offering you anybody you want. Take your time, and—”
“You know, Roy, I’ve been thinking about Elizabeth Taylor a lot.”
“Oh? She is nice. A tad older than you, but she’s every bit as lovely as she once was, now that she’s lost all that weight.”
“No, no. I’ve been thinking about her and Richard Burton. She married him twice.”
“Yes, but they’re divorced, aren’t they? In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I do believe he’s dead, Jeremy. He should be no obstacle.”
“No, Roy. You don’t understand. I’ve just been thinking about people who marry someone twice—people who go back and try again.”
“Yes? And?”
“I want to try that.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I want you to find Paula.”
“Who?”
“Paula Annette Nouvelles. That’s her full name.”
“Ah. And a lovely name it is, too. Is she French? One of our staff fell for an Italian actress, and we incurred considerable expense getting her, but, as I promised you—”
“No, Roy. She’s not French. She’s a Hoosier.”
“Come again?”
“She’s an old girlfriend of mine from Indiana. I don’t know where she is now. You’ll have to track her down.”
Pillow paused for so long that Cook actually forgot he was on the phone. He sat there with the receiver pressed against his ear, thinking about Paula and wondering how Pillow would find her.
“Don’t you like me, Jeremy?” said Pillow, back in his ear. “You thwart me at every turn. You came crying to me about the two previous arrangements I made for you. Here I am offering you anyone you want—anyone!—and you make a mockery of the offer by going back to the dirty-clothes hamper for yesterday’s laundry. No one in the history of the Pillow Agency has ever picked an old girlfriend for this assignment.”
“It’s what I want, Roy. You promised. Now, you got a pen? Listen carefully. I’ll tell you everything I know about her. I’ve got a postcard here. Let me grab it and give you the postmark. You can start there.”
&nb
sp; When Cook came downstairs, it didn’t take him long to realize that Roy Pillow, Jr.—that little bugger—would have to wait for a day, until Robbie was gone. Dan and Beth were focusing their energy on him. Dan had asked Robbie to help him pour the concrete for the remaining postholes, and Cook stayed out of the way so that father and son could work together. Later, Beth helped Robbie pack, using the dining room table as the final staging area. Cook hung around in case anything developed, but nothing did. By dinnertime Robbie was ready to go. This freed up the evening for the family, and Beth and Dan asked Robbie what he wanted to do. Dan said he could have three wishes—three reasonable wishes. Robbie grinned, made a few ridiculous suggestions, and finally said, “I want to order a pizza, play a duet with Jeremy, and play Trivial Pursuit with everybody.”
The pizza part of the evening was fine. Cook was a little nervous about the duet. He asked Robbie to wait until Dan and Beth were out of the room. When they went upstairs to do some packing of their own, Robbie seized the moment. He suggested “Country Gardens,” and Cook agreed—at least he knew the tune. Cook sat down on the bench, cracked his knuckles as a joke, and found himself looking at a bass part with notes as unfamiliar as Kickapoo adverbs. He told Robbie that he used to be a trumpet player and suggested they switch, so that he could play the treble clef. They did, but Robbie took off at an impossibly brisk tempo. Cook tried to keep up, paying a price of at least one error per measure. Robbie encouraged him with shouts of “Good!” and “Hey!” but Cook had to slow it down. Robbie let him do this by stages until the tempo crawled to a complete stop.
They tried it again. Cook hit upon a new strategy that allowed him to keep up: omitting notes. This might have met with more success if he hadn’t been responsible for the melody. Robbie allowed this to go on for a while, but then he came to a stop and looked down at the keyboard, shaking his head as if to say there was no hope.
“I’ve got it,” Robbie suddenly said. Then he left. Cook sat alone on the bench, wondering if “it” consisted of abandoning the incompetent at the piano. He stood up as Robbie returned with a tape recorder. Robbie set it on the bench, turned it on, and sat down and raced through the bass part. Then he rewound the tape, pressed “Play,” and played the melody over the bass accompaniment, throwing sidelong grins at Cook like a whorehouse ragtimer. Evidently there was no insult intended here, so Cook tried not to feel any.
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