The Mentor

by Sebastian Stuart

  Dan Leber leads Charles back toward the lounge.

  “By the way, after the memorial I started rereading Life and Liberty. Extraordinary,” the doctor says.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll do our best for the girl.”

  They round a corner and the lounge comes into view. Emma is gone.

  Emma is running down the street. She doesn’t know where to go. There is no safe place. The tall buildings are closing in on her, they might fall-don’t look up, don’t look up. She could run to the bus station and get on a bus. But to where, to where? The city is so big, and nobody cares about one crazy little girl all alone. California! She’ll go to California, she’ll find her father, she’ll find him, and everything will be all right. Her father loves her, he loves her. “Teach your children well… and know they love you.” But first she has to get Zack, she has to get her book, it’s her book, not his. It’s in a safe place. She’ll get her book and run away to California and find her father because he loves her and the everything will be all right. Good plan, good girl good girl. Now get your book, get your book and run. Running away, I’m running away.

  Emma sits up straight in the back of the cab, like a rich lady. She brushes the hair out of her face. She’s fine. Everything is working out. She has to move quickly, though, she can see that now. She can’t trust him. Only her father. She can trust her father. He probably lives in a little cottage in Santa Cruz. They have a boardwalk there, with a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel. When he sees her he’ll cry. He’ll make her corn bread like he used to when she was a little girl, before she was a dirty monkey. Dirty monkey, dirty monkey. Emma pinches the skin on her wrist as hard as she can, digs her nails in. It helps her to stay calm. When she stops there’s a half-moon of blood. Her blood.

  The doorman opens the taxi door. Emma smiles at him as she gets out. “I’m on an errand for Mr. Davis,” she says. Her voice sounds normal. Why shouldn’t it? She’s just coming to get her book; nothing crazy about that. She crosses the lobby with slow, measured steps and presses the button for the elevator. She can tell the doorman is watching her. That’s all right. She’s cool. She just looks straight ahead. At the wallpaper. It has little fleurs-de-lis on it. Or are those bugs?

  The elevator doors open and Emma runs down the corridor. It’s hard to get the key in the lock because her fingers are trembling. That’s strange; she isn’t nervous. But she has to hurry, her daddy is waiting and he has corn bread in the oven. She grabs her wrist with her other hand and steadies herself. She gets the key in. She steps into the foyer and stands perfectly still, listening. The apartment is so big and so empty and so quiet. She picks up a vase and throws it against the wall.

  She runs through the kitchen, down the long hallway and into Charles’s office. Running away, I’m running away like my daddy did, to California. She throws open the drawers of his desk and paws through the contents, throwing things all over the room. The last drawer is locked and none of the keys fit. She runs back to the kitchen and grabs a heavy knife from a wooden block. The knife feels good in her palm, it has real heft, she could kill someone with it. If he shows up, she’ll kill him. Like Zack killed his mother. Stab him again and again and again. She slides the knife into the top of the drawer and jabs again and again and again-the lock gives. There’s a neat stack of papers in the drawer. Her manuscript, her book. Except her name isn’t on it. His name is: The Sky Is Falling by Charles Davis.

  How stupid of him, to put his name on her book. Does he really think he can get away with it? Her daddy is going to be so mad at Charles because her daddy loves her. He might come all the way east and beat him up because he hurt Emma and Daddy doesn’t let anybody hurt Emma. Daddy, Mommy’s hurting me, Daddy. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s running away now, with her book. Running away, I’m running away. Emma lets the knife drop from her hand. She lifts the manuscript from the drawer and slides it into a soft canvas briefcase. She looks around the room. Such a pretty room. She spent so many hours here, with Charles. One afternoon they made love on that couch. It’s all messy now, with blankets. Maybe she should lie down, just for a minute. And Charles will come and lie beside her and hold her in his arms. No, that isn’t a good idea. Maybe if her daddy wasn’t waiting. He wants to take her on the Ferris wheel. From the tippy-top you can see all the way to China.

  Emma smiles at the doorman. She feels better now. She even pats the briefcase. “I got what I came for,” she says. Now she can go to California before the corn bread gets cold. She walks out onto Central Park West. California I’m a-coming home.

  “Hello, Emma.”

  Charles is there. Where did he come from? She has to ignore him. She doesn’t want a scene. Not right here in front of his building. Plus it’s her book, and he doesn’t seem to understand that. She cradles the briefcase to her chest and crosses Central Park West. Charles follows, walking right beside her. Emma just keeps walking. She enters Central Park. Charles follows. A light rain begins to fall.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Emma?”

  “You want to steal it,” she says. There, that should shut him up. Show him she’s no fool. He’d better stop following her. She wishes she’d brought the knife with her. She could stick it into him and really shut him up.

  She keeps walking, quickly. In the playground, mothers are gathering up their children and heading home. There’s a little black girl sitting alone in a sandbox, crying. Where is her mommy? Run away, little girl, run away.

  Emma clutches the book, her book, tightly. She has to keep walking. She’ll be safe if she just keeps walking.

  “Emma, that’s the finest hospital in the city. They were going to help you.”

  Don’t look at him, don’t look don’t look.

  Emma crosses the park drive. The path splits in two. Which one should she take? She can’t stop, stopping would be the worst thing she could do. She bears left and quickens her pace. The path winds up a hill, grows narrower, and is crowded with trees. Suddenly there are no people around. It’s dark on the path and the rain is coming down harder. Emma walks faster.

  “You don’t belong in New York, Emma, you’re too fragile.”

  Don’t listen don’t listen don’t listen.

  “No one’s going to believe you wrote that book. A girl with your problems.”

  Emma feels the cold rain soaking through her clothes. It’s so dark on the path. Ahead of her it opens up, there’s light. She has to get there, she’ll be safe there, there will be people there. Her daddy will be there and he’ll save her from her mommy and Charles and all the people who want to hurt her.

  Emma runs and suddenly the path opens into wide steps and she runs up the steps and she’s high up, in a courtyard beside an old stone castle. It’s a beautiful place, up above the world. He brought her here once, a long long time ago. They leaned against the wall and looked all the way to Harlem. She looks around wildly. Where is her daddy? He isn’t here. Daddy, please come, Daddy, please come, Mommy’s hurting me.

  “Emma, you need help. You didn’t have to kill your mother. You could have gotten help. You could have run away, but you didn’t.”

  How can he say that to her, how can he? Doesn’t he understand? She didn’t want to kill her mother, she had to, she had to. She loved her mother, she loved her so much, she was her mommy. They made paintings together, with their fingers. Pretty painting, Mommy, pretty painting. Her mommy told her funny stories and they sang silly songs and painted with their fingers and then Daddy came home and made corn bread. I love you, Mommy, I love you. He shouldn’t say that to her, he shouldn’t. She’ll show him, she’ll show him what she knows. She reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the matchbook and throws it at him. There, Charles, what do you think of that? Then she starts to cry.

  “You never loved me… you only wanted my book. That’s all you ever wanted.”

  Charles looks down at the soggy matchbook and up at Emma. He sees her sobbing, shaking body, the ha
ir matted across her cheek, her hands held like claws. He’s never seen anyone so lost. So hopelessly lost. Like a small wounded animal abandoned by its mother, all alone in the woods with night falling. And the rain pelting down.

  But she’s wrong about one thing: he did love her.

  His face changes. She sees it. Something lifts in his eyes. His mouth softens.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I want to hold you.” Is he crying too, or is that the rain?

  He moves toward her, slowly, and then he has his arms out and is almost touching her. Mommy has her arms out and Daddy is making corn bread.

  She blinks through the rain and her tears and Charles is beside her.

  “I do love you, Emma.”

  He looks like a little boy who’s lost his mommy. Like I lost my mommy. Like I lose everything.

  “I’ve done terrible things, Emma. Please don’t hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  Thunder rolls across the sky and she lets the book slip from her grasp; she doesn’t care about it anymore, it doesn’t matter-it has only brought her this.

  She runs her trembling hand down Charles’s cheek. She wants to comfort him, say something gentle and tender- little lost boy, poor Zack-but there’s no time. Running away, I’m running away, Daddy’s waiting, I can’t be late. California I’m a-coming home. Still, she wants her last words before she leaves to be words of kindness.

  “I love you,” she says. And then she turns, pulls herself up to the top of the wall, and jumps.

  46

  Mark and Judy Nealy of Medford, Massachusetts, checked into the Stanhope Hotel at 10:45 last night, which happened to be their wedding night. Their fourteenth-floor suite has a view of Central Park, just as they requested. Except for a cursory hour spent, at Judy’s insistence, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, they’ve stayed in bed the entire day. They’re looking forward to seeing Ragtime tonight.

  It’s just past four o’clock in the afternoon when Mark Nealy, a software engineer, gets up from the bed, puts on the thick terry-cloth robe that the hotel provides, and goes to the window. He’s sure about the time because Judy has just turned on The Oprah Winfrey Show. Harrison Ford is the scheduled guest, and Judy jokes that she married Mark only because of his resemblance to her favorite movie star.

  It’s hard to see much through the driving rain, but the gray turret of Belvedere Castle is clearly visible. The castle sits on a rock ledge above a small lake and the Delacorte Theatre, an outdoor stage where Shakespeare plays are performed during the summer. Then Mark makes out two people, a man and a woman, in the courtyard beside the castle. How strange to be out in this weather, he thinks-but hey, this is New York.

  He watches as the woman reaches up and touches the man’s face. Then she turns and climbs up on the wall that encloses the courtyard and throws herself off. The man reaches out to save her, but it’s too late. Her body lands beside the lake, on a flat slab of rock.

  47

  It’s a summer night, a night filled with perfume and hope and youth. New York is a twenty-first-century dream, all light and movement racing fearlessly toward the future.

  The party, at the River Cafe, is the hottest ticket in town. As well it might be. The Sky Is Falling has been the beneficiary of a carefully orchestrated publicity campaign. The world loves a comeback and Charles Davis is making one of the biggest. The book is being hailed as brilliant, revelatory. Critics are calling it original, wrenching, with the grim inevitability of tragedy-and then the startling ending, hope snatched from the jaws of horror. The final image is of Zack and his aunt, watching the sunset from her front porch. He’s safe and loved. Saved.

  Charles’s triumph is tempered only by the fact that Portia and Emma aren’t alive to share it with him. Emma was so important to the book; her story inspired it. If only her ending could have been as serene as Zack’s. The publicity surrounding his gallant attempt to save her was the beginning of his career resurrection. Even the whispers of an affair only add to his reputation. How bitterly ironic it all is. The only solace Charles can take is in the book’s dedication: “In memory of a lovely lost child.” He thinks of it as Emma’s book as much as his own.

  Charles, after a long run, is getting dressed for the party. Anne must be down in Eliza’s nursery, the former guest bedroom. So much about the apartment has changed in the last couple of months. As part of a clean break with the past, Charles has moved his office to a studio on Riverside Drive. Anne is knocking down the walls between the two rooms of his old workspace, creating a bright and sunny bedroom for their daughter. Things have been going so well between them; their lives are back on track, running smoothly. He’s so lucky to have her, taking care of things, turning chaos into order. Those months with Emma were frightening-Charles feels as if he came to the very edge of madness, peered into the abyss. But now he’s back, safe and sound, nurtured by Anne.

  She’s in an incredibly up mood; he hasn’t seen her this happy in months, maybe years. It’s the baby, of course, but also his triumph. She’s been so supportive during the whole ordeal. He’s going to be a wonderful husband-and father-from now on. It’s time to buy a country place, maybe up on the Hudson.

  Anne is leaning over the crib, tickling Eliza’s perfect tiny tummy, and her daughter is laughing, looking up at her mother, her eyes filled with recognition and love. Anne strokes her silky red hair-so much for beach vacations. She’s enthralled by her baby-by her fingers and toes, by the way she feels and smells and moves, by the noises she makes and the grave intelligence in her eyes. Anne takes her to the office every day, can hardly bear to be away from her.

  Her phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, darling.”

  “Hi, Mother.”

  “I’m so excited about this party. Wait until you see what I’m wearing.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “DKNY jumpsuit. All black. Am I hip or what?”

  “You’re hip.”

  “You sound terrific, Anne.”

  “I’m in love,” Anne says, looking down at Eliza.

  “John Farnsworth tells me your profits have zoomed.”

  “They’ve zoomed so much that I won’t be needing him much longer. It’s a pity he and Marnie couldn’t make it down for the party.”

  “They’re keeping a very low profile.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Anne murmurs.

  “The dedication ceremony at the Museum of Fine Arts was agony for them. The story of John forcing himself on that business-woman was splashed all over the front page of the Boston Herald that very day. They both kept up appearances, but the occasion was ruined.”

  Kayla’s friend, professional that she is, has sent Anne a copy of the Herald. She was tempted to frame it. Revenge cost her twenty thousand dollars, but would have been a bargain at twice the price.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there to support them,” Anne says.

  “The woman wanted him to finance her company and he insisted on sex. Right there in her suite at the Four Seasons! She apparently tape-records all her business meetings. Smart girl. John’s language on the transcript was terribly crude. Did he think she was some kind of glorified prostitute or something?”

  “You’d think John of all people would know that business is business.”

  “Exactly. It’s going to be a while before he can show his face in public. Poor Marnie.”

  “Poor Marnie,” Anne agrees.

  “I better go hurry Dwight along. See you soon, darling.”

  “Good-bye, Mother.”

  Anne reaches down into the crib and Eliza grabs her forefinger.

  “You’ve got a strong grip there, young lady.”

  Eliza giggles with delight.

  Charles puts on his jacket and smiles into the mirror. Yesterday, Norman fucking Mailer called to tell him how fine the book is. He’s going to get a good run out of this one. A good run.

  The in-house phone rings.

  “Yes?” />
  “Your limousine is here, Mr. Davis.”

  “Thank you.”

  Where is Anne? It’s virtually impossible to pry her away from that child. She’s even been sleeping in the nursery. New mothers.

  “Anne, the car is downstairs,” Charles calls from the doorway.

  Anne walks out of the nursery-wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  “You’re not dressed,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” Anne says calmly. “Eliza and I were deep in conversation.”

  “How is it you two find so much to talk about?”

  “We have a lot in common.”

  There’s an edge in her voice. That’s all right, he has to expect these little waves of resentment to wash in every once in a while. Anne’s done a remarkably good job of forgiving, but he knows it’s going to take a while for her to forget. He follows her as she walks into the bedroom.

  “The car is downstairs, Anne. We’re running late. You’re going to have to do a quick change.”

  She smiles at him humorlessly and says, “I’m not planning to change.”

  “Oh? Well, at least no one will accuse you of being overdressed.”

  Again, that icy smile of hers. She goes to her bedside table and takes a folder out of the drawer. “The point is, Charles, I’m not going.”

  “Anne, I know how hard-”

  “I have something here that might interest you,” she says.

  What the hell is all this about?

  “When I was supervising the packing up of your office, I found these pages in Emma’s bottom desk drawer. They were tucked away under some old magazines. It was almost as if she had hidden them there.”

  Anne crosses to Charles and opens the folder in front of him. She begins to leaf through manuscript pages of The Sky Is Falling. The margins are heavily scribbled with notes to Emma in Charles’s handwriting.