by Adam Ross
“I need a favor,” Marnie said.
Applelow waited.
“Zach’s coming down from school tonight.” This was Marnie’s youngest son. “And I have to go to work.” A concierge at one of the luxury hotels near Times Square, she often worked nights. “Can you let him in?” She held up her key. “Just, please, be sure to take it back afterward.”
“Just open the door and let him in?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t trust him with the key?”
Marnie crossed her arms and looked down at the floor. “If he’s in, I want to know he’s in. If he’s going out, he has to let me know.”
If the fact that she didn’t trust her son was going to be an evening-long obligation, he wanted to know that. “Has it been that bad?” he said.
“No,” she answered, and looked up. “He’s getting it together, David.” She said this automatically, her tone aping conviction, and she must have noticed the doubt on his face. “I really mean it this time.”
“Terrific.”
“He’s joining the air force,” Marnie offered. “He’s doing basic training in California at the end of the semester. He says he wants to fly jets.”
Who doesn’t? Applelow thought. “You must be relieved.”
“Words,” she said, looking up, “do not describe.”
“So trust him,” he said, though he regretted it immediately. He had no plans tonight. Helping her out wouldn’t cost him a thing.
Marnie looked at her shoe for a moment, checking the heel, the leather’s shine. “I’ve left some dinner in the refrigerator for the both of you,” she said. “There’s even some cake.”
“Lovely.”
“I’ll put a note on the front door for him to buzz you. His bus gets in at seven.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed, and placed the key in his outstretched palm.
The truth was that Applelow had always been curious about Marnie’s second child, whom he’d never met. He had met the oldest son, Aaron. “My little genius,” she called him. He was both: little and a genius. Exactly like her husband, she’d explained, who was a diminutive Greek mathematics prodigy. Aaron had inherited his father’s gift for cogitation and was on a full scholarship in philosophy at a university upstate, “admitted to the doctoral program at the age of seventeen,” Marnie liked to brag. (The brilliant husband had deserted the family long ago.) Applelow had met the boy at Marnie’s door last year; he was oddly attracted to her, so he’d feigned interest in the introduction. The boy was the spitting image of his mother, though his head, which was enormous, only came up to her breasts. She turned Aaron toward him, resting her hands on his shoulders, and said, “Here he is!” After the three of them stood there uncomfortably for a moment, Applelow mentioned that he’d heard Aaron was quite the scholar. He was secretly hoping for a performance of some kind, for a monologue on systematic reasoning to come streaming from Aaron’s mouth—but the boy just frowned and mumbled hello. Deformed, Applelow thought, frozen boy-sized by so much mama-love.
But it was Zach who kept Marnie up at night. Though she slaved away keeping both boys in private schools, Zach had been kicked out of one for cheating, another for shoplifting, and was then shipped off to an out-of-state institution for troubled youths. He was almost expelled for marijuana possession but finally managed to graduate and got into one of the SUNY schools, where he was currently a sophomore on probation for poor grades and considering dropping out. All this had caused Marnie endless worry. “He’s going to waste everything,” she’d told Applelow during their wine-drinking session.
But all that was in the past, apparently. Zach was joining the air force, aiming high, getting it together. Not enough to be trusted with the key to his mother’s apartment, but there was no telling how far he might go.
At home, Applelow checked his messages—there were none—and put his cash in a book on one of his shelves. From his window he watched Marnie walk up the street and turn the corner, then went across the hall and let himself into her apartment. She’d made meatloaf and a salad, but his sweet tooth was acting up so he tore off a huge piece of coffee cake, eating it in front of the open refrigerator and drinking milk out of the carton, taking such enormous bites he had to inhale loudly through his nose. Full, he went back to his apartment and lay down in front of the television. On the news, images from Abu Ghraib: a naked Iraqi with his back to a cell, his genitals pinched between his legs and his hands cupped behind his neck while dogs strained toward him on their leashes. Another prisoner stood on a box, electrodes attached to his fingers and penis, looking like a sort of Ku Klux Klansman in his eyeless, pointy hood. A faceless orgy of captives with a female MP lying atop them like a sister on her brothers’ pileup, the blue-gloved guard behind them giving a thumbs-up with a look of sick glee.
Who makes such people? Applelow wondered.
He woke to the sound of the buzzer.
Zach was tall like his mother but better-proportioned, long and lean. He had dark cropped hair and thick black eyebrows. Handsome, Applelow thought. He wore a down jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and high-tops, and had a small bag thrown over his shoulder. He apologized for disturbing him, and when Applelow looked in the mirror above his coat rack he saw his throw-pillow’s weave imprinted on his cheek.
“No, no,” he told the boy. “I needed to wake up.” He looked on the counter for Marnie’s key, checked under his mail, and then found it in his pants pocket, holding it up as if it were solid gold. After they crossed the hall, Applelow unlocked the door and held it open. The boy waited.
“The key,” Zach finally said.
“I’m sorry?” Applelow asked, suddenly furious with Marnie for putting him in this position. She hadn’t told the boy that he was under house arrest.
“Ohhhh,” Zach said, nodding. He tossed his bag on the floor. “Don’t sweat it.” He collapsed on the couch and folded his hands over his stomach. He grinned. “I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to lock me in from the outside.”
Applelow laughed. “I’m guessing she locked the liquor cabinet too.”
“Mom doesn’t have any booze. She’s a true Jew that way.” Cackling to himself, he seemed in good spirits. “I could go for a beer, though.”
“I’m out,” Applelow said, though he’d immediately warmed to the boy.
“I’ve got some cash.”
“No, I’ll pay,” he said, then went to his apartment and took the book down. When he turned around, Zach was standing in the doorway, looking at his far wall, which was covered with framed posters of productions The Peanut Gallery had done over the years.
“Cool place,” he said.
“Thank you.” Applelow looked at the posters. Better days. “Here.” He handed Zach a hundred-dollar bill. “Since I’m warden.”
“I’m not that thirsty.”
“Break it for me.”
“What do you like?”
“What do you drink?”
“Whatever.”
“Me too,” Applelow said.
A few minutes later, the kid came back with a six-pack of Budweiser and handed him the same crisp bill.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I said I had money.” Zach went back to the wall and read the posters. “Are you an actor?”
“No, I managed that theater company.”
“What do you do now?”
“Now,” Applelow said, “I look for work.” Zach turned to him. “We closed down.”
“Sorry.”
“It was a good run.”
Sipping seriously, Zach nodded. “I admire that.”
“What?”
“That attitude: Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I’d have preferred it lasted a little longer.”
“Yeah, well, it’s rare, though. That it lasts, I mean. And what you did.”
Applelow had never thought of anything he’d done as being particularly rare.
“I�
�m serious,” Zach said. “You’re the first manager of a theater company I’ve ever met. That’s unique. The job, I mean. I want to do unique things.”
Unique things, Applelow thought, had put him over a void. He could begin a long, cynical monologue now, but instead finished his beer. “Like what?” he said.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind joining Special Forces. I’m strong. I have a high pain threshold. I’m thinking everyone hates America so much now that I’ll always be busy blowing shit up. Plus I’d get to travel. Go to Europe or the Middle East or something. See some action.”
For a moment, Applelow considered his failure to ever leave the country. Possibly he never would. “Not a bad idea,” he said.
“I think, though,” Zach continued, “I might go work in a cannery in Alaska. Or fish there. This guy I know at school’s on a king-crab boat every winter break and makes, like, fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe that? Fifty-fucking-grand.”
“That must be dangerous work.”
“Extremely.”
“Plus Alaska’s cold,” Applelow pointed out.
“Not for long, with all this global-warming shit.”
“True enough.”
“ ’Cause nothing lasts,” Zach said.
“Also true.”
“Here’s to nothing lasting.”
They clinked cans.
“Damn,” Zach said, “you pounded.” He went to the refrigerator, opened another beer, and held it out.
“Your mother told me that you’re joining the air force,” Applelow said. “Is that not the plan?”
Zach was looking at the pictures of Applelow’s dead parents now. Of his sister, who’d asked him for financial help with their father’s assisted-living costs, who’d called him a failure when he’d confessed he couldn’t spare a dime. He hadn’t spoken to her in the three years since.
“No,” Zach said. “I mean, maybe. Between you and me,” he lowered his voice, “I haven’t actually joined yet. That’s just the party line right now. It calms Mom down if she thinks I’ve got a clear direction.”
“Gotcha.”
“That’s black hole, by the way.”
“Black hole?”
“It’s an expression my journalism teacher uses. It means ‘that disappears,’ i.e., Do not repeat that I haven’t joined the air force.”
“Understood,” Applelow said, raising the beer. “Black hole.”
“Plus not everyone’s born with a clear direction. Mom doesn’t get this, of course. Because of my brother.”
“The famous Aaron.”
“You’ve met little big bro?”
“He didn’t live up to the hype,” Applelow said.
This doubled Zach over. “That shit is cold,” he said. They clinked cans again. “Kid’s a freak.” Zach finished his beer and opened another. “He had this, like, inner compass pointing north from age two. Me taking the crooked path makes Mom feel like she’s fucked up somehow.” He ran his hand through his buzzed hair, feeling his scalp. “I suffer the comparison.”
The observation struck Applelow as dead-on. “Kid’s a freak,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Zach said, ruminating, “but a smart freak.” He chugged his beer and burped, tapping his fist to his chest with such effortless cool it was an utterly un-Kastopolis gesture. “Gotta bounce, man. I’m beat. I’m gonna crash. It was good rapping with you.” He held an open hand out wide, and when Applelow went to shake it, Zach pulled them together so their shoulders bumped, slapping his back bracingly and then releasing him from this hug. “Hey,” he said at the door. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah?”
“My mom’s all right, right?”
Applelow looked at the boy: his good looks, his odd confidence, his youth. Was I ever anything like him? he wondered. Was I ever as self-possessed? He imagined talking to Marnie later: he would tell her an abridged version of this conversation, black hole taken into account. He would paint a picture of her son that would reassure her.
“She’ll be fine,” he said.
Though he knew he was making a mistake, Applelow spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday by the phone, waiting for Ms. Samuel to call. But by Thursday afternoon, having heard nothing from her, he began to panic. He’d been wrong about the job. Taking stock of his situation, he pulled the book from its shelf and counted his money again, then gave himself a good dressing-down. After which his mood spiraled severely. He made a last-minute run to apply for work at some restaurants in the neighborhood, but almost all of them were getting ready for the dinner service; the managers told him to come back early the next day. He sat in his bedroom for the rest of the night in a fugue state, rocking on his bed in the pitch dark until he fell asleep.
It was brilliant outside when he woke up the next morning, amazed that he was still alive. Then he made coffee, cleaned up his apartment, and felt his spirits return. After a shower, he retrieved the Sunday classifieds from the trash and, committed to saving himself, began to read through them again, circling employment agencies and writing the numbers down. From here on out, he promised himself, he’d turn over every last stone and take whatever job he could find. There was no shame in surviving.
And then the phone rang. It was Madeline from Ms. Samuel’s office, calling to schedule his return interview. He was so overcome with excitement that he asked her to hold for a moment, covered the receiver with his palm, and let out a long, happy howl. He pretended he had a conflict with the time she suggested on Monday and asked if there was anything available today. In fact, Madeline told him, something had just opened up and Ms. Samuel would look forward to seeing him at 1:30.
Which Applelow took to be a confirmation of what he already knew: the interview had gone well. Elated, he went to his closet and peeled the plastic from his dry-cleaned suit carefully, as if he were helping a delicate creature into a dangerous world. He picked out a shirt and tie and shoes and laid them on his bed. From here on out, he promised himself, he would never doubt his instincts again …
“David Applelow,” Ms. Samuel said. “This is Dr. Pip Love-Wellman, our company’s founder.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” Applelow reached out to shake his hand, but the man steepled his fingers together and bowed slightly from the chest.
“Please, call me Love.”
“Thank you,” Applelow said, baffled, and took a seat.
“Or Pip, I don’t mind Pip!”
Applelow looked at Ms. Samuel for encouragement. She, unfortunately, was looking at Love. Or Pip.
“It’s short for Piper,” the doctor said, and left it at that.
Applelow nodded at Love slowly, and then at Ms. Samuel, who now smiled at him. She was wearing a white pants suit whose white canvas belt had a big gold belt buckle that matched the bangles on her wrists and the enormous gold ankh brooch on her chest. Love, meanwhile, had on a green, one-piece jumpsuit full of pockets like a jet fighter’s uniform, but with shoulder pads that gave the outfit an odd, futuristic look. His eyes were large, bugged-out, as if he were in a state of permanent amazement. He was bald except for gray shocks of hair above his ears, and like Ms. Samuel he wore a gold ankh pin on his lapel.
“Why don’t we get started?” Love said.
Ms. Samuel, still beaming, recounted Applelow’s professional history, highlighting different aspects of his résumé with perfect recall, stressing his strong track record of working with large groups.
“Wonderful,” Love said repeatedly while she spoke. “Outstanding.”
She ended by describing his six years with the theater company and how his abilities in diverse roles—as an “emotional multitasker” and “empathic alpha”—made him an ideal candidate for the position.
Love smiled at him warmly. “You were right, Ms. Samuel. I am impressed. David, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you believe in clairvoyance?”
Applelow was again taken aback. “How do you mean?”<
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“Strictly speaking,” Love said, “clairvoyance is the ability to perceive things beyond the five senses.” He looked at the ceiling and, with both his index fingers pointed up, made circles in the air.
“I see,” Applelow said.
“But in our case,” Love said, sitting forward and shaking his fist, “we’re talking about acute intuitive insight.”
Chin in hand, Applelow considered the doctor’s question seriously. “I’m open to it,” he said.
“Outstanding,” Love said. “Because at our company, we believe that everyone has a certain degree of untapped clairvoyant ability. An ability, that is, to read people’s auras. Do you follow what I’m saying?”
Applelow, now in some despair, did his best not to look hopeless. “I think so,” he said.
“Let me explain,” Love said. “Every person, you see, has an aura which may be perceived as a color. That color gives us very specific information about their state of mind—even their soul. Now, with instruction, this ability to read auras can be heightened and developed to a point where it becomes a sense as acute as smell, touch, or taste. Do you have any idea how valuable such a skill would be, David?”
Applelow again looked at Ms. Samuel, who was listening to Love with an expression that could only be described as reverent. “Very valuable, I imagine.”
“Try very very,” Love said. “Think, for instance, of the practical applications. Think about airport security guards reading the auras of passengers at checkpoints. Or detectives reading the auras of suspects. Think about schoolteachers reading the auras of students, or doctors the auras of patients! Do you know what kind of world that would be, David?”