The Stager: A Novel

by Susan Coll

  “You’re transparent, man. You’ve got so much transparency flowing, it’s like you’re permeable. I can see right through you. You’re just jealous of that guy. He can write, he can make things rhyme. Women like shit like that. But he’s kind of mean, or at least a little cutting. I once heard him comment on Bella’s weight.”

  “Bella? She’s perfect. I’m going to go beat him up … Okay, really, please don’t start choking again.”

  “I’d like to buy a ringside seat for that! I’m telling you, but you’re not listening, that if you had some tea you might actually have the power to do that. Anyway, this is no longer optional. I insist. It’s part of why I brought you out here to our control center. We’re doing some tests before we start selling it commercially. Whole Foods is interested in being an investor, which would be a huge coup. Also, the lady in that house over there, she’s a real sweetheart, she might be able to get them to sell some of her baked goods, which would be great. She’s a good person, just down on her luck.”

  “Okay, if you insist. I am thirsty, and maybe if we put some sugar in the tea, that will help with my hunger. I should probably try to sit up, but … well, it seems I can’t. What are you talking about, anyway? What lady? Did you say baked goods? Is that what I smell?”

  “Yes. Marta—she’s living in that model home right there. Her husband, he returned from Afghanistan last year and he’s wrecked even worse than you, man. I mean, you’re just wrecked in the head, and a little in the knees, but this guy lost a leg and he’s out of his mind. He thinks she was fooling around with his friend, and in fact he did beat him up. And he beat her up, too. She had to leave, and she took the kids. She’s been living here for about six months now. But don’t tell him.”

  “Seriously? Man, that’s bad stuff. Was she actually fooling around with his friend?”

  “Who cares? You humans, you get totally tripped up by the whole fidelity thing.”

  “Okay, well, look, I hear you. It shouldn’t be important. I keep telling myself that. But it’s hard to get over, especially when you mix in the DNA question.”

  “Yeah, but, really, is it so important? I mean, look at me: My mother had seven hundred and fifty-six related offspring in one mating season. It could have been seven hundred and fifty-five but we were never sure if my sister Lakshmi was part of the fifth litter or if she just got lost and wound up in our brood; we let her in anyway, and my mother raised her like one of her own, which is the way it should be. And we’re all close, or we were close until I was kidnapped by some hustler who sold me on Craigslist, but that’s another story. Do you think my mother cared that she never even knew the names of half the fathers? I mean, at the end of the day, we’re all rabbits, right? Two ears, cute little tails. We hop.”

  “Bravo for you. But we’re not rabbits. Maybe the fact that we care about these things is what makes us the higher beings.”

  “No, actually, I read somewhere that it has to do with sweat. Animals that sweat—like you—can outrun animals that pant, like me, so, in pure Darwinian terms, that makes you the boss. It’s all about sweat.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. Over distance and time you might outsprint me.”

  “That’s not entirely the point, Lars. Your higher beingness is certainly not about brains or good judgment, because frankly, in this day and age, do you really expect me to believe you don’t know who Elsa’s father is? That not a single one of you knows? If I had to bet, I’d put my money on Raymond rather than Guillermo. Or you. Raymond’s a shady character, a bit of a rapid breeder himself. This ain’t the first place he’s left his mark, if you know what I mean. Also, I mean, come on, Lars, let’s just face reality. Haven’t you noticed your daughter has his cleft chin?”

  “Maybe. But you know this gene stuff can be confusing. There’s, like, dominant traits and recessive traits. You just never know what’s going on. My grandfather might have had a cleft chin. Anyway, how do you know about Raymond and Guillermo?”

  “You keep asking me the same question over and over. How do you know what you know?”

  “I read some e-mails. Plus, someone sent me a messed-up Facebook message.”

  “Ah, well, that’s a little more pedestrian. Me, I just … know. And once you get this tea flowing, you’ll know, too. A little advice, my friend, is that shining some light on this might help. You’ve got, what, four highly educated people involved here—although I take that back, who knows if the baseball player can even spell his own name—but you’re all pretending you don’t know who the father is? All you have to do is take a piece of Elsa’s hair down to Walgreens.”

  “I think that’s oversimplifying how it works, but I get your drift. Still, at the end of the day, what’s the point? It’s not like I’m going to walk away if I find out she’s not my kid. I mean, maybe I would have left if I’d found out at the start, but to learn this now? What do you even do with that information?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, man. You have to transcend this stuff. Plus, there are some problems you can’t solve on the ground. You’ve just got to take some of this stuff to another level. That’s what the philosophy shit is all about.”

  “Oh, you’re not just a talking stoner rabbit, now you’re a philosopher rabbit?”

  “Tea. Tea. Tea.”

  “It’s still too hot. I think it’s better to just live in denial. You know, to hold on to the possibility that she is mine.”

  “Oh, like you’re doing so well with that decision.”

  “Well, you say that like you’d know what to do.”

  “Hop away while you still can.”

  “It’s complicated. I love Bella and she loves me. I forgive her.”

  “Maybe you forgive too much. If she loved you, would she continue to cheat on you? Maybe she just loves herself. Maybe she loves you because you’re an adjunct to her own self.”

  “How would you know anything about this? You’re a nasty rabbit who doesn’t seem to have any love in him. You don’t understand what you’re talking about. Bella feels terrible about what happened, and I know she loves me, and that’s why she takes such good care of me. But it’s true, I can’t deny it, the whole thing is wrecking me. Sometimes I feel like I’m bleeding to death. You can keep telling yourself the whole thing shouldn’t matter—you have a beautiful family and a nice life—and yet it’s a hard thing to live with. Sometimes I feel like I’ve really fallen down the rabbit hole.”

  “Watch it, okay? I get really tired of all of the innuendo. You guys are so sensitive to anything that appears to be racist or sexist or ethnically offensive, and then look at all the speciesist rabbit slurs.”

  “Why, what did I say? I open up my heart to you, and then you attack!”

  “Oh, don’t get me started. You even insult the way we live. Like a rabbit hole is some dark place.”

  “I’m not familiar with the deeper meaning of that expression. You forget I grew up in Sweden.”

  “And let’s not get started on the whole fertility thing, Playboy bunnies—so offensive! It’s true, yes, we are rapid breeders, like your Raymond friend, and just how rapid is a little embarrassing, and not something I particularly want to discuss, given that I haven’t had much activity myself for three years. Also, now that I’ve broken out, I just learned that twenty-seven of my siblings were eaten by badgers.”

  “Oh, Dominique, that’s bad. My condolences.”

  “Duly noted. Thanks.”

  “And the other thing I want to say—and I don’t expect you to understand—but I’m staying for Elsa’s sake. She’s a fragile kid, and these things can really…”

  “Oh, please, Lars. Elsa is the strongest point in your tepee. She’s about ten times more together than you or your wife. I think you’ll see this if you just step back. And one thing that is going to help you with the clarity is the tea. I’m only going to say this one more time, Lars. Drink your tea.”

  “It’s still too hot.”

  “Blow on it.”

  �
��I’m blowing. Do you have some ice?”

  “Does it look like I’ve got a freezer out here, man? Do you have a screw loose? Here, I’m going to pour some down your gut. Open up. Let’s just raise your head a bit. Okay … isn’t that good?”

  “It’s not bad. A little more … You’re spilling it on my shirt.”

  “Not to worry. It evaporated already. Listen, since we’re friends, and I’m feeling so mellow, and, really, Lars, I’m just so fond of you—I mean, we’ve been together a long time, you and me—can I talk to you frankly?”

  “I think we’ve been pretty frank already, don’t you?”

  “Let me just say this: there’s such a thing as being a little too patient. As my grandfather used to say…”

  “I don’t think your grandfather thought of that himself.”

  “I didn’t even say what it is yet, man. Look at us, we’re totally mind-melding! I was going to tell you it’s a losers’ game. We’re all playing a losers’ game. You’re just losing more than most.”

  “This tea is a little … weird.”

  “Weird is good. Yes? So you see, Lars? Are you getting ready to do something? Are you ready to change your life?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am, Mr. Rabbit. What’s in this tea?”

  “Remember back when you were a kid and you smoked some hash that your cousin Pieter got from his Pakistani friend and you could totally understand each other without even using words?”

  “Exactly. How did you know that?”

  “For God’s sake, Lars.”

  “Oh yeah, the transparency Vulcan mind-meld stuff.”

  “Interestingly, I never watched Star Trek, but I know the reference.”

  “It’s getting so advanced that it’s like we’ve reached another level. It’s like … we’re beyond mind-meld. I think we’re actually one.”

  “We are, man. We are. Listen, Lars, I think you should try a little harder to sit up.”

  “I’m trying. I’m really trying, but I can’t seem to move anything but my hands.”

  “Here, let me give you a little help. Whoa! I see the problem, man. You’re bleeding. Didn’t you just say you were bleeding to death? And you are! Put your hand here to stanch the wound. What’s this wet, squishy thing? Is it a kidney or a liver or an intestine of some sort? I don’t really know the human anatomy very well.”

  “Good God! You’re right. I think it’s my spleen. It seems to have fallen out!”

  “Your spleen? I’ve never heard of a spleen. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry too much: you look like you have a lot of blood to spare, so a little letting is probably good. Just think of it as lightening your load.”

  ELSA

  The Stager is back in our house very early Saturday morning, even though she’s a thief. Don’t ask me how she pulled it off, but she talked her way out of it, made up a story about the pig having been in her bag only because it had been a convenient place to stick it when she had her hands full and needed to move it to the table on the third-floor landing.

  “Why in the world would I steal this silly little pig? With all of the beautiful objects in this house, would this be the thing I’d risk my job to take?” That’s what the Stager asked, and Nabila thought she had a good point, so don’t ask me how this is possible, but I wind up being the one who gets in trouble. Nabila warns me to be careful next time; she says that, where she comes from, accusing someone of being a thief might result in chopping off her arm.

  When I come downstairs, the door, which is open, is still streaky white with the black seeping through, and my dad’s keys are dangling from the lock. The small silver tennis ball that hangs from the key chain that we bought him for his last birthday makes a clanking sound as it bounces against the brass part of the knob. I call my dad’s name, but he doesn’t answer. I worry that something bad might have happened. His phone is on the bottom step, and his suitcase is belly-down on the walkway below. It looks like a bug that got stuck upside down and couldn’t flip itself back over. The two new flowerpots the Stager brought yesterday are tipped over, and there’s dirt and flowers all over the pavement. The flowers are red. New red flowers to match the soon-to-be new red door.

  I call Nabila, and she comes upstairs from her half-room in the basement with a basket of clean laundry. I point to the door. We both look at the keys and the suitcase and the flowers, and then at each other.

  “What do you think this means?” Nabila asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I guess it means my dad is back from London?”

  “Yeah, but where is he? Is he in the house, do you think?” She sets the basket down and begins calling his name. “Mr. Jorgenson?” she yells up the stairs.

  “You can call him Lars. He won’t mind.”

  “Mr. Jorgenson?” she yells again, moving up the staircase.

  I follow her all the way to the top floor, but there’s no one in my parents’ bedroom, and it looks exactly like it did the day before. Nabila pulls her phone from her pocket and pauses to read a message. “Stupid tea guy,” she says. “I already told him I don’t want any more.”

  “Who is the stupid tea guy?”

  “The guy who sold me that tea from Unfurlings.”

  “The marijuana?”

  “Stop saying that, Elsa. You are going to get me deported, like you did that cleaning lady.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. I’m not sure what “deported” means, but I can guess, and I definitely don’t want that to happen. I’m completely terrified about the things that go on in the place where Nabila comes from, wherever that is.

  “All I said was that the cleaning lady broke Molly’s horse’s stirrup! What does the tea guy want?”

  “No idea. He keeps calling and texting.”

  “Maybe he likes you, Nabila.”

  She makes a face. “Enough of that. Let’s pretend we’re detectives. Let’s try to figure out what might have happened here. Obviously, your dad came home—he probably took a taxi from the airport, right? Then he put his key in the door, and … did you hear anything strange last night?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Weird,” says Nabila. “And creepy. I’m going to call your mom.”

  We stand there while Nabila calls my mom. For some reason, Nabila doesn’t have her on speed-dial, and she screws up the number. The first time, she reaches a Chinese restaurant and gets a message asking her to press “1” if she wants to make a reservation and “2” if she wants to order food for delivery. She hangs up and tries again, and when she finally connects, my mom doesn’t answer.

  “Maybe we should call the police,” Nabila says.

  “I don’t know; my mom likes to keep stuff private,” I explain. “He’s probably fine. Maybe he went to Starbucks. That’s where he usually is when we can’t find him.”

  “Yeah, but something isn’t right. Like, how would that have worked? He puts his key in the door, his suitcase falls down, he decides instead of picking it up he’ll go … to Starbucks? Besides, his keys are here, and, look, his car is still in the driveway. And what happened to the planters? None of this makes sense. Do you think your dad was mugged?”

  “Probably not,” I say, “because, remember, his phone was lying on the ground? Plus, I’ll bet his laptop is still in his suitcase.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  We walk down the stairs and back outside. I see a van pull up and park across the street. It says “HGTV” on the side.

  “I thought my mom said they weren’t supposed to film anymore.”

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “Well, why are they here again?”

  “They’re not actually here, are they? I mean, who knows why their van is there. I can’t really say anything if they’re just sitting in their truck, right? Do you think? I mean, I could walk over, I suppose.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe you should ask Amanda.”

  “Good thought.”

  I flip the suitcase over, which isn’t easy, because it’s r
idiculously heavy, and unzip the front pouch. Dirty laundry spills out, and underneath the dirty socks and T-shirts is his computer.

  “See? I told you! It’s still here!”

  “Well, you may have a point,” Nabila says. “But, on the other hand, who would bother to steal any of that? The computer is, like, a hundred years old, and that phone is pretty pathetic, too. I think they stopped making those about five years ago. Still, if he was robbed, they would have come inside the house, right? I mean, the door is open and the keys are right there!”

  “Is that blood?” I shriek.

  Nabila and I squat on the ground beside the suitcase.

  “I don’t know. It could be,” says Nabila.

  “Or maybe he was drinking something red?” I say. “Cranberry juice? Or he also likes that Tazo passion-fruit tea at Starbucks.”

  “Good God. Let me try your mom again. I’ll call her office directly. At least I can talk to her assistant.”

  “My mom will be in a meeting, and anyway, she’ll tell you not to panic.”

  Of course I’m right. My mom is in a meeting, but when we say my dad is missing, and then mention the word “blood,” her assistant says she’ll interrupt her and give her the message. Then she calls back a few minutes later and says my mom said to tell Nabila to wait about an hour, and if he doesn’t turn up, to call back.

  * * *

  THE UPSIDE OF my dad going missing is that Nabila seems to have forgotten to take me to field-hockey practice, which is good because the coach had told me to be prepared to run two extra laps today to make up for the ones I’ve skipped out on all week. He says I’m lucky it’s only two extra laps, given that I’ve used the “just going to get my inhaler” trick three times. He insists that I bring my inhaler from now on; he wants to see it before practice begins. I tell him this might be illegal. Or harassment. Or something. And that my parents are paying a lot of money for me to go to this school—the annual tuition is more than the chair my dad once bought on eBay that had belonged to some famous dead tennis player. I heard my mom say this once when they were having a fight.

  He looks unimpressed.