Robert Wright was fired and charged with five counts of unlawful sex with a minor, sex assault, and one misdemeanor count of acting in a manner injurious to a child. He served fifty days in prison and was released on five years’ probation. He was crafty about making most of the evidence somehow work in his favor. He might’ve gotten more time otherwise. I don’t understand. Something about IP addresses and burner phones. I don’t know. But the thing that he couldn’t explain away was our room service sundaes on his credit card bill. He could explain being there because he went there often with his wife or alone to work on his lame-ass short stories that he’ll never finish, but he couldn’t explain two jumbo hot-fudge sundaes with a wife and two sons dangerously allergic to chocolate.
That’s my sad story in a nutshell, Dr. Maalouf. It was my nightmare and now it’s over. I’m not sure what the moral of this exercise is. Perhaps it’s so I know that things can’t possibly get worse. But then again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
PART 3
THE WOLF
He runs and runs and runs, but she turns a corner, and before he can follow, a cop stops him.
“What’s the hurry?”
“Just, uh, my friend.” He’s out of breath. Can’t he just be trusted for once in his life?
The cop scowls and then barks at him to slow down.
So it’s illegal to run while being black. Got it. Thanks.
Dari sits on a park bench, looking around to assess where he is. Sheridan Square. He dials Lily and gets her voice mail.
“Lil? Can you call me, please? You didn’t see . . . what you think you saw. I’m sorry anyway.” He hangs up, wondering just how stupid he could possibly be.
* * *
Hours earlier, before the sun has set, Dariomauritius stands outside the apartment building finishing his cigarette and contemplating a sensible exit strategy. He’s made no earth-shattering discoveries when she joins him.
“Mind if I bum one?”
“Oh. Uh,” he stammers.
She rolls her eyes, “Dari, I’m not dumb. I know you smoke. May I have one, please?” Savannah asks evenly.
He slowly nods and gives her one.
“I’m trying to quit,” he confesses.
“I get it.” She sits down on the steps. Dari sits too, and offers her his lighter. She lights up, inhales deep, eyes closed, and she holds it for so long, Dari worries that she forgot the exhalation part. Just before he panics, she lets the smoke billow from her lips.
“I have not done that in about twelve years,” she shares.
“Why now?” he asks.
She inhales again and watches the traffic speed by.
“Trying to access that part of myself that isn’t so tired. I’m sure it won’t work, but it’s worth a try.
“My agent dropped me today. It was very considerate.” She immediately shakes her head. “No. No, it wasn’t. It was pitying. He feels sorry for me, but he had to let me go nonetheless.”
Dari nods, not knowing what to say.
“It’s hard to blame him. The publisher nixed the contract a few days ago. I feel sorry for me too.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting old. It’s a bad feeling to know that you’ve hit your peak and nothing you do will ever matter in the same way again. If it matters at all. Then there’s Lily. Great example I’ve been for her. I feel like I just keep striking out.”
She finishes her cigarette and heads inside. “I’m sorry, Dari. You shouldn’t be listening to all this,” she says as she opens the door.
“I don’t mind,” Dari says, hurrying after her.
“That’s because you’re sweet.” They wait for the elevator.
“Not really,” he argues. “I think it’s cool that you talk to us like we’re adults. My dad talks to me like I’m his subject.”
They get inside and the door closes.
“When’s the last time you talked to your dad?”
Dari shrugs.
“He’s called. I can’t deal with him anymore. Probably just go live with my sister.”
“I’m not trying to rush you out or anything,” she quickly says.
“I appreciate it, but I should make some kind of move soon.”
Once inside, Savannah starts a pot of coffee.
“Where’s Lily?”
“She went to the library to do some work,” she says.
Well, that sounds like a lie.
Savannah joins him at the table and they listen to the coffee percolate.
“Your agent sounds like a moron,” Dari says. “Maybe you should go the indie route. Self-publish. Or go through a smaller publisher. If you need to publish at all. This might be a good thing, even though it doesn’t feel like it now.” Dari believes all of these things. He’s been working on how to put those beliefs into words since they were outside on the steps. But Savannah’s sad eyes and lack of a response make his words sound hollow. Almost rehearsed.
She attempts a smile and rises to get their coffee, but Dari stops her and pours each of them a cup. He knows how she likes it: almond milk and two spoons of agave. He sets her cup in front of her and sits. He drinks a lot of coffee. It may be his favorite thing not involving another person. Better than weed. He’s on his third steaming sip when he glances up and sees the first tear.
“Did I say the wrong thing?”
“Nope. Everything you’ve said is perfectly, perfectly right.” She wipes her eyes with her lavender-painted fingertips.
“I can’t write anymore, and I can’t write anymore because I no longer believe my own PR. I can’t find any meaning in my little aphorisms because there is none. I am a fraud.”
Dari takes a long gulp of his coffee. He can’t tell if she’s beyond consolation yet.
“Sometimes I want to burn every piece I’ve ever made in my life just before I make something brilliant,” he tells her.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You make art. I make a product.”
Jesus. Time to switch things up.
“Wanna do something stupid?” he asks.
She laughs. “Of all the things I expected you to say, that was not one of them.”
“Seriously, though. Do you?”
“What is it?”
Dari holds up a finger and runs to his room. He grabs a pad of cheap newsprint paper and brings it back to the kitchen.
“Ever play Exquisite Corpse?”
Savannah shakes her head. “Isn’t that a song from Hedwig and the Angry Inch?”
Dari frowns in confusion. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s fun and ridiculously easy. All you have to do is make some bad art.”
“I’m sure I can manage that.”
“Let’s agree to make the ugliest monster anybody’s ever seen.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because it’s fun and funny.”
Dari rips a sheet from the pad and draws something and then folds over what he’s done.
“Okay. Let’s say that I just drew some feet. Or something. Now you add to it.”
“But I can’t see what you did.”
“That’s the point. We’re drawing in the dark. Just try it.”
Savannah draws something then folds over her contribution and hands it back to Dari, who hesitates.
“You know? This is more fun with several people playing, so . . . I’m going to be a different person each time.”
“What?”
“I will draw as a different person each time it’s my turn. Now I’ll be Ms. Spangler, my art teacher.” He closes his eyes then makes a strange expression, wrinkling his nose as if cradling glasses. Savannah snickers. Dari draws while constantly crinkling his nose. When he’s done, he drops the face, folds the page, and passes it across the table.
“I’m just gonna be myself.”
“Of course. I just like a challenge,” he explains. Savannah draws something, folds, hands it back. Dari thinks. He smiles.
“Now I’m gonna be
Lily.” Again he closes his eyes and when he opens them, he sighs and looks up toward the ceiling sideways. Savannah busts out laughing as Dari draws with one hand while twirling a dreadlock around his pointer on the other.
“How was that?”
“That was my daughter. I think I’m afraid of you,” Savannah jokes.
This continues only a few more rounds and then Dari unfurls their monster. A creature that would easily scare Leatherface.
“Oh, this is dreadful,” Savannah howls.
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” Dari replies.
Dari explains the power of creating something repugnant: It’s just yours because no one else would want it. He can tell by the time he finishes his spiel that Savannah is thoroughly intrigued and no longer feeling so sorry for herself. Victory.
In her office, she shows him images that she’s been using to inspire her. Images like a 1955 photograph of the Taj Mahal, a drawing of the Buddha as a teenager, a painting of Mother Teresa, and a framed letter of goodwill addressed to her from the honorable Desmond Tutu. She explains that lately her objects of inspiration haven’t been helping her at all. Quite the opposite. As soon as she sits in her desk chair, she hears the doors of the Taj Mahal lock upon seeing her. Teen Buddha glares at her with disapproval. Mother Teresa detests her choice to live in comfort. And worst of all: Archbishop Tutu shakes his head in bitter disappointment, wishing he could tear that framed letter to bits. Dari tacks up their monster on the wall, next to Buddha. He suggests she use this as inspiration. No matter how bad her writing may be, it’s not as bad as this thing, and even it deserves love.
“Where did you come from?” she asks him.
Dari swallows, taken aback. “I was born in Brooklyn.”
“No. I mean . . . I don’t know what I mean,” Savannah says softly.
There is an extended moment that in literal time could not have been more than three or four seconds, but in life time it feels like hours. An extended moment that neither Dariomauritius nor Savannah fills with words or movements. An extended moment where maybe they each tap into something they can’t explain, can’t understand, and certainly can’t express.
“My real name is Michelle Rothstein,” Savannah says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t relate to my family, so I changed it, but you can’t ever change who you are.”
Unconsciously, Dari moves slightly closer to Savannah. She stands.
“Well? Should we order dinner? Do leftovers?” she asks.
Dari doesn’t answer, but he, too, stands. He leaves the office, goes back into the guest room, and retrieves the sketch pad he carries with him everywhere. He flips through it quickly. Dari finds the page he wants and returns to the office. Quietly, he hands her the sketch pad. She sits back down on the love seat, overwhelmed by what she sees. It is the drawing. The one Lily saw the night of “yes” and Bevvy Botswana and fire escape kisses. The drawing that Lily couldn’t believe was her, it was so beautiful. The drawing that wasn’t yet complete. Now it is complete. And it isn’t Lily. Not exactly. It once was, but it evolved.
Time stops again. She still hasn’t said a word, but her eyes say everything. She gives him a fast peck on the cheek.
“Thank you, Dari. You’ve made my day,” she says. Dari stares back at her, not smiling. And quick, quick as a kitty on a mouse, she leans back into him and their lips touch. It’s subtle, but it happens.
Dari pulls back. Savannah gasps. Both these things happen simultaneously.
Dari’s heart pounds. What’s he doing? What’s she doing? How did he get so mixed up so easily? Dari sinks farther down in the love seat. Should he run away? Should he speak? Should he do anything?
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This cannot happen,” she whispers while quivering, though she hasn’t moved. Dari nods, still unsure of what to do. Has he lost all sense of what it means to be drawn to a maternal figure? Is that what’s wrong with me?
“You’re a beautiful boy.” Savannah says it so low that he isn’t positive that those are her words, but he can’t think of what else they could be.
“I’ll leave tonight,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
Then, out of nowhere, she cracks up laughing. “I feel like we’ve invited you into our home and you’ve seen us both at our worst. I swear to you, I’m usually not this much of a basket case,” she says. He laughs too and lightly taps her lavender fingers.
“I am,” he says. They both giggle for a second and then they stop. Though they silently contemplate each other, though their close proximity has yet to change, a shared smile indicates that the tension has safely left the room, never to return. All wrongs have been righted. Until the door opens. Until Lily comes home.
* * *
He’s stopped leaving messages. He knows she isn’t going to call him back. So he searches. He goes to the Staten Island Ferry station, but she isn’t there. He retraces their steps on the night of Yes. Coffee shop. No. Karaoke. No. Diner. No. Bevvy Botswana basement. No. Quite by accident, he finds himself standing in front of a garish neon sign. PSYCHIC READINGS BY AMELIA.
“I need an emergency reading.” He comes in and sits down without waiting for Amelia to react.
“You again.”
“I have money. Not much, but I can give you what I have.” He digs a few crumpled-up bills from his pocket and tosses them onto the small table.
“What do you need?” she asks.
“She ran off and I can’t find her and she hates me now and . . . I just want to know if she’s safe.”
Amelia nods. “Want a soda? I have some fancy root beer.”
“What? No, I don’t want any fancy root beer! Can you help me or not?”
She takes Dari’s hand and inspects it. Then drops it.
“Why are you chasing her?”
“Excuse me?”
“No, I will not excuse you. Why are you chasing her? Worrying about her in this way?”
Dari is at a loss for words. Isn’t it obvious?
“She is not your responsibility.”
“Of course she is.”
“Wrong. She needs to take care of herself and you need to take care of yourself. You two are like . . . you’re like an iPod, let’s say.”
“Oh my God—”
“Just listen for a minute. You are like an iPod. To her. A fun toy with many capabilities and many secrets. To you, she is like a magnet. What happens when you stick a magnet on an iPod?”
She waits for an answer. Dari shrugs. “I don’t know. It scratches it.”
“It erases all its memory in an instant. It takes everything away and leaves nothing behind. To you? This girl is a parasite. She doesn’t know how to give back what she’s taken.”
Dari thinks about what she’s saying for a moment. He straightens out his crumpled bills with trembling hands.
“But I’m the jerk. I’m the one who screwed up,” he explains.
“Yes. I know what you’ve been up to. You’re like a wolf in a trap that chews his own foot off in order to escape. Stupid, but you’re a kid. At the moment, anyway. What do you know?”
“Do you know where she is or not?
The woman sniffs then straightens out a crease on the tapestry covering her small table. She looks up at Dari and stares at him for several interminable moments.
“No,” she says at last.
Dari leans back in his seat, assessing this Amelia person.
“You do. Don’t you?”
“No, I do not.” Amelia pops open a root beer and takes a long pull. “I’m tired. I’m not getting a read on you now.”
“You’re not gonna tell me anything I can use?”
“Stop looking for her. I can tell you that.”
“This hasn’t been helpful at all,” Dari announces and tries to slam the door on his way out, but there’s some device in the door frame that prevents this from happening. Amelia’s prepared for an angry clientele. He’s feeling far worse than he did before going in, and now he’s out twenty bucks. Why d
id he give her so much? Racket!
It’s getting late and he’s getting hungry, but he doesn’t feel like eating.
Any word? he texts Savannah.
Seconds later, she calls.
“Hi,” he says gently.
“Dari, just come back. You need to eat and get some sleep.” Her voice is so hoarse, it sounds like she’s been crying for days.
“I have to find her.”
“How? She could be anywhere.”
Dari says nothing. He has no idea how he can possibly find her at random in this city of eight million people, but that doesn’t make him any less determined.
“She’s done this before. When she’s been really upset. She wants to punish me. She’ll come back. I know she will. And if I need to call the police, I will tomorrow. I know they’re just gonna tell me she’s a runaway, but what else can I do?” She laughs a little, or cries. Maybe she’s doing both at the same time. Dari hears her swallow something. Probably wine. Or something stronger.
“Sometimes I wish I were twenty-one years old again and living in Rome,” she says.
Twenty-one and living in Rome. These words are familiar. So familiar. And then Dari remembers he has heard this exact wish once before.
“Savannah, I have to go. I’ll call you back,” he tells her, and he runs to grab a crosstown bus heading west.
When he’s close, he hops off and checks his watch. 9:47. Still time. If he’s right . . .
Please be here.
He rushes up the steps, trying not to fall on his face. Because of the cold wind, no one is here. It’s a wasteland tonight, reminiscent of what the High Line once was, minus the litter and crack whores.
And there is the glass wall overlooking Tenth Avenue, and there’s Lily, leaning into it. Making another wish?
Her back is to him, but he knows it’s her. No one else has hair like hers. He’s dead still for a moment, afraid if he calls her name, she’ll bolt. Afraid if he comes up behind her, she’ll be terrified. No option is a good option, so he delicately walks closer toward her, and when he decides he’s left a safe distance between them, he stops.
Still afraid to speak, he takes out a cigarette and lights it. Lily turns to him.
“I wish you would’ve talked to me,” Dari begins.
The Truth of Right Now Page 23