“You’re going to need new paperwork,” I said. “I’m doing an interview this season. At least one. It doesn’t have to be on a talk show or anything, we can even make it an episode so there’s some measure of control, but it’s got to be live.”
“You really think the government acronyms that are up our asses are going to approve that? Get real. And I’ve been more than happy keeping you out of interviews because you have the social skills of roadkill. Nothing you can say comes across as likable. It’s what you do that matters. What you say can only screw things up. The answer is no.”
She ordered a Chardonnay. I sensed Mack’s hand on her leg under the table. He winked at me.
“I’ll get Hayes to budge,” I said. “If he doesn’t, you can find another fully regenerating human to take my place. And maybe the next one will even have some social skills.”
“Fine,” she said. “You get Hayes to budge, I’ll sign off on it. One interview, our episode. I approve the questions in advance.”
I was fine with that.
She looked at Mack. “You tell him yet?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I told you I knew the answer. But fuck it, hear it from him. Sampsonite, what’s your stance on religious partnership? You care to sign up as, say, a walking messiah for your local Christian megachurch?”
“Pass,” I said.
“You should think about it,” Tracy said. “It’s not different than endorsing a brand of sneakers. You just show up for a few Sunday services, we put out a press release, nothing huge. It’d boost the show and you would get some positive publicity out of it.”
“If I could make water into wine, I’d get into the liquor business, not the religion business.”
“They’re willing to pay,” Tracy said. “More than your show salary. It would shut up the ethicists out there, the ones that think this whole show concept is immoral, that we’re taking fame in return for saving people. They don’t think it’s something Jesus would do, so you could use a little Jesus on your side.”
“You talk to Hayes about this little idea?” I said. “You ever think about the consequences if I legitimize a world religion? I don’t think that would do the scientific community any favors, but he’d be far more concerned about the consequences in the Middle East. They’re not exactly mild-mannered when it comes to shitting on their particular brand of theology. Besides, if I always vowed that, no matter what, I would never send Carlton Franks or anyone like him a dime. Not unless I was healed through the television, then maybe I’d consider. But endorsing them? That would be even worse. As for the ethics police, I can’t say I don’t agree.”
“Organ donations are up,” she said. “People are remembering to sign their driver’s licenses and become donors. Non-directed donations are at an all-time high. That’s our shield against any puritans out there saying you’re soiling the institution of donation. And how did you know it was Carlton Franks who contacted us?”
“Who else could it be?” I said, trying not to act surprised. “Anyway, I’m not finished. Demand number two: I want Allen Venhaus on my medical team, like fucking today, or there’s no season two. Period.”
Tracy stared at her Chardonnay. “Why can’t you be this decisive on television?”
“You got the check?” I said to Mack. He nodded once. “See you later,” I said, and got up to leave.
Of course I was assured my demands would be met. The only concession was “reunion” episodes during my downtime, my healing time. They needed more episodes for a season two order, and our taping schedule could only accommodate four to six surgeries when you factored in recovery times for me and the recipients. Getting a second season taped would take a while as they scooped me clean, my organs like crops to be rotated, only worth a hell of a lot more. An “update” on people I’ve helped through reunion episodes would be cheap programming that could draw viewers, an idea that Mack came up with, probably as he was concocting ways to keep me out of the operating room.
I went home and pretended the camera was rolling behind the bathroom mirror. I needed to practice—if I got my interview episode, where I could tell America anything I wanted. I drew a blank, stopping, starting, wondering. I had no plan. I just figured when the real camera was rolling, I’d find the right words and Rae would be watching.
TWENTY
Captain Hayes wanted to talk to me before greenlighting an interview episode. Tracy gave me a coffee-shop address and a time. I got there five minutes early, and Hayes was already seated in a booth, wearing civilian clothing, but his khakis had crisp pleats and his dress shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle. No pieces of stray lint clung to its surface, and the points of his collar looked sharp enough to draw blood.
“If you’re trying to look civilian, it’s not working,” I said, sitting down across from him. “Your posture is too good. Your clothes look like I can bounce a quarter off of them.”
“Since we’re being frank here, I think I should express that the initial novelty of your little healing tricks have worn off, your act is wearing thin, and I do not like what you have chosen to do here.”
“Good.”
He dismissed me with a careful sip of coffee. I could smell its blackness and strength from across the table.
“This won’t take long. We don’t have to give in to any of your demands. You walk away from this show, it doesn’t make a difference to us.”
“Compliance is the difference,” I said. “I want the interview. You want compliance.”
“You haven’t complied from the start,” he said. “Days of research on you take months with the breadcrumbs you’ve given us. You get the interview, you get approval on Venhaus, you get one more season. After that, we get six months, on campus, at the Triangle. You’ll be an honored resident. After that, we’ll see.”
“Sign off on the interview, sign off on Venhaus as a gesture of goodwill. Then we’ll see.”
“Listen here, you little shit, compliance can be forced. We can only smash a terrorist’s toes once, but yours we can put on an infinite loop.”
“I think you’re familiar with the story of the golden goose? Putting your hands around my neck won’t make me shit the golden eggs any faster. You’re either with me, or you’re against me.”
“I want my hand on the Dump button,” Hayes said. “I won’t press it unless you talk about religion, or US government involvement. I’d advise you to be vague about the extent of your powers. Keep the focus on the show, or whatever girl it is you’re drooling for.”
“No,” I said. “You have my word I won’t mention you or the government, and I won’t be inflammatory when it comes to religion, but anything less than a live feed and you’ll have to kill me to research me, I promise you that.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t know you had this kind of grit in you, boy. On TV you come off as a pussy.”
“I think everyone’s a pussy to guys like you,” I said. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It’s close enough,” he said. “All right, then. Live feed and you can bring Venhaus in. I think it’s worth noting I’m going out on a limb for you here. I’m trusting you. Also, we haven’t been the hardasses we could have been. Your medical team is adequate at best because TV people picked them instead of us. They haven’t picked up on a little something that only you and I know.”
“My healing’s slowing down,” I said. “Running down, like a battery.” Mack had called it.
“One more season. If you hold up. If I have to put a stop to this whole carnival, I’ll do it, no matter what you think you can hold over us. Studying a dead body is better than studying the boy who got away.”
He got up. “I didn’t pay for that coffee. Put it on the show’s tab.” He grabbed his jacket and left.
* * *
A few days later, Tracy called me with news on Venhaus—he was in, but he wanted to talk to me, alone, before signing any releases.
I finally had some creative control, some clout. Nothing w
ould be said about Doc’s ancient error for the purposes of dramatic backstory. For the purposes of the second season, he would just be a concerned doctor, a great doctor, who decided to join the team. I would repair his image and that would be plenty of payback for the patience and advice he had given me.
He came to L.A. to see me in person. A year had passed since I last saw him. He looked haggard, older, the edges on his face and neck a bit harder, the creases and folds of his flesh solid as bent metal.
Tracy gave us her office, the new one. Glass and light, space and skyline. Comfortable chairs. Doc wore a suit that looked like he dug it out of a closet for just this occasion, one he hadn’t worn in years. It even had the leather patches on the elbows; all he was missing was a pipe and monocle. It took him a long time to look me in the eye. We shook hands.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Doc,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “But this, all this is wrong, Dale. Even you can’t save all the people on those lists by yourself.”
“Organ donations are up.”
“You’re whoring yourself. This is just as bad as selling organs on the black market.”
“But I’ve got some leverage with the feds now, if the allowances I’ve squeezed out of them are any indication. You’re here, aren’t you? We can make you right again. A famous doctor. You can get in on the ground floor with whatever it is I can do with my body.”
“Angie’s dead,” he said. He walked over to the window. “It’s my fault and nothing can change that. Nothing you can do makes that mistake go away.”
“We can fix it all up,” I said. “Show everyone you saved someone, anyone. I’ll just have them pluck someone off the list. Hell, you can pick if you want. By the time they’re done with you, they’ll want to give you a medal.”
“They?”
“They.”
“No way to slice me out of what I live in,” he said. “We’re made of cells and tissue, veins, bones, and blood, but reality doesn’t transplant. You can’t cut and paste a soul.”
“So why the hell did you come?”
“Not for what you think or expect. I just want to see for myself that they’re treating you right around here.”
“Well, you’re in,” I said, without hesitation. “Under one condition—you’re my guy. You don’t listen to surgeons or producers or Captain Hayes or anyone else, not even Mack.”
“Why do I get the feeling you have something planned that may not be in your best interest?”
“‘Best interest’? I’m the guy who lops off toes for fun.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “So do you still think things don’t happen for a reason?”
“You one of these nuts that thinks I need to choose a religion?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know, Doc. Maybe they happen for a reason. A bad one.”
He chuckled, then opened Tracy’s mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, looked at me, and smiled. “She won’t mind, right?”
“I’ll have one of my television slave drivers send you an agreement. But you may be docked for the water.”
* * *
When I heard a knock on the door, I thought it might be Hollie. Mack never knocked like that. He usually tried the doorknob first and if it was locked, he’d just let himself in—even though he’d moved out once the checks started rolling in, he kept a key.
Excuses to explain myself to Hollie started forming in my head, the most honest of which was, “I’m just not ready, I’ve lived my life scared and I’m still scared and I’m just not ready to let you know how much I care about you,” and then I opened the door and it was Raeanna.
Suddenly, I couldn’t say jack shit. I was used to the way L.A. people looked, especially the girls—perpetually tanned and teeth so impressively white you wanted to scream, all of them puking their way to rail-thin figures. To see Rae holding a cheap purse, wearing a JCPenney sweatshirt even though it was too warm for it, her hair tied in a simple ponytail, it was mostly a visual exhale for me.
She looked beautiful to me in a way that Hollie wasn’t, not that either of them was prettier than the other. Rae was shorter and she carried a little more weight on her cheekbones, giving her a full face highlighted by those sparkling eyes.
“You left him?” I said finally.
She hugged me for a long time. When it was over, she shook her head without looking me in the eyes. “Technically, I’m tagging along with my best friend to New York,” she said. She was too clothed to check her properly for signs of abuse, but her face looked perfect for once. “Harold expects me back on Monday evening.”
She had two days in L.A. I wondered what she meant to accomplish, but didn’t ask.
“You know, this is a pretty crap place for a TV star,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m saving for retirement,” I said. “And crap apartments here buy you mansions where we live.” Lived, I meant to say. Past tense. I wasn’t in Illinois anymore and I wasn’t going back.
“I guess. I stopped for a coffee on the way here, and even in a convenience store, it cost more per ounce than my perfume, I think.”
She was here. Finally here, and I found myself thinking of what Hollie was doing, where she was working, what she might have thought of me after so many months.
“I thought about you a lot, even before you were on TV,” she said. “It’s dumb. We’re completely toxic for each other at this point. I can’t be sure if I thought of you because you’re you, or because you’re not Harold.”
Another curse, this one shared by everyone drawing a breath: we know what we feel, but never why. We get the raindrops but never peek inside the clouds.
“I just want you safe,” I said. “All of this, the show, L.A., all of this sprang out of seeing you in that Wal-Mart checkout line.”
“It looks hard to be superhuman in real life,” she said.
“I wish I had the scars to show it, but I remember them. I look at a spot, like here,” I said, pointing to my rib cage, “and I remember the incision and how much it hurt for days afterward.”
“If you were to feel like you saved me, would you stop?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think so. It started out feeling that way, like you’d see me on TV all the time, wonder about me. About us. Maybe one day leave him and let yourself pursue something better. But even if that notion was crazy, even if I didn’t meet you in the checkout line that day, I had to run, and the public eye was the only safe place. I didn’t want to be here, and I don’t want to be here forever.”
“It’s a nice notion,” she said. “But when were you planning on letting yourself pursue something better? What if I didn’t show up?”
“I got approval to do an interview episode. I hadn’t heard from you; I was going to use it to tell you I still cared and that I wanted you to leave him.”
“In front of millions of people, you’d embarrass me like that?”
“I never thought of it that way,” I said.
“That is just so … Dale,” she said, smiling. “If you promised me that you’d stop the show, I’d feel better about asking you what I came to ask you. Even though I’m not sure I can ask you.”
“I promise I’ll stop,” I said, blurting it out without thinking.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t want to talk about it right now. I don’t want to ask you. I can’t. Not yet.”
“Sure,” I said. “You hungry? Thirsty?”
She nodded. I didn’t have much in the kitchen, but wanted to impress her by actually cooking something. I made pancakes and bacon, the perfectly incorrect meal for three p.m. She ate an entire short stack, using so much syrup I thought she’d get diabetes before the meal was over. I knew what stress eating felt like anyway.
When she was finished, she asked to lie down. I darkened my bedroom and tucked her in. She touched my face and smiled. “I feel like I haven’t rested in weeks,” she said. “I’
m just going to sleep, if you don’t mind. I may sleep right through the night. Would I be putting you out or something, if I stayed?” I shook my head.
I sat on the couch and turned on the television. Raeanna was here, sleeping in my bedroom. I didn’t feel any kind of victorious rush. I thought of Hollie. As usual, I couldn’t let myself have a perfect, happy moment. There was no silver lining I couldn’t strip away to find the darkness within. I couldn’t let that happen. Not this time. I had only one chance. Only then did I have the strength to break my inertia and dial Hollie’s number. It didn’t go to voice mail—I heard the distinct sound of someone picking up, then hanging up.
I found a Cheers rerun, one of my favorites, the one where Sam and Henri have a contest to get phone numbers. I think Mack would have beaten them both, but maybe I was biased. When Sam walked out at the end, triumphant not in phone-number volume, but in having three lovely ladies on his arm, I dialed Hollie again and got the same result.
I looked in on Rae, who was slightly snoring. Her shoulders were naked and I knew she had taken her shirt off, probably even her bra, the quilt lying just over the top of her breasts, which were no doubt pooled underneath in that sexy way I’d only seen on Cinemax movies.
I watched more television and fell asleep. I woke up after midnight, and Rae was snoring louder now, lying on her side.
I went outside and it was like someone turned on the lights and volume of my existence. No city ever truly sleeps. This one never even got drowsy. I hailed a cab and had it drop me off at Hollie’s house.
Bugs harassed the naked, yellow bulb on her porch, looking like electrons, flying in smooth, practiced circles. All the lights were out. She and Melissa would be asleep, but I was here and just needed to ask her a question to see the answer in her face.
I knocked. I heard the rumble of footsteps in this simple house, the air bursting with the smell of night and dew, the sound of wind strumming trees.
Lights turned on, emitting a soft glow behind the drawn curtains. A man cracked the door, keeping the chain latched—a fit, good-looking man, with no shirt on, with abs, with stubble. His eyes were kinked up with sleep, and he rubbed at them, muttering, “Who the fuck are you? You know what time it is?” through a sticky mouth of not-quite-morning breath.
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