by Ray Garton
As soon as Leo was gone, Adam called Alyssa again. He had tried from the car, but had gotten no answer. The Huffmans had an ancient answering machine, and Adam had been waiting for it to die. A few weeks ago, it had begun to drag the cassette tape, making voices sound like foghorns. Maybe that had been its dying gasp.
He took off his suit, tossed it onto the bed. Took a quick shower while Vince Guaraldi played “Mr. Lucky.” Afterward, he called Alyssa’s number again. Still no answer. He wondered if they were at the bookstore.
Sunny had hired a young woman named Liz to help out during the Christmas rush in December. It turned out Liz knew books better than Sunny and Mitch combined. She was so adept in the store, they decided to keep her on. At least for a while, to keep Alyssa freed up for the demands of the trial. They had wanted her to spend as much time as possible with Adam.
Maybe Liz was off for the day, or had gotten sick, and Alyssa and Sunny had gone to work at the store while Mitch did whatever it was that Mitch did. Adam decided to call the bookstore next. But later, in the car, once he was on his way.
He put on a pair of faded jeans, a black short-sleeve shirt, a sloppy old green-and-tan cotton camouflage jacket, a pair of old sneakers. A convincing ponytail that matched his hair color hung from the back of the black cap he put on, with The X-Files logo in front. At his dresser, he applied a few strokes of spirit gum just above his upper lip. Gently pressed on a stringy mustache, which also matched his hair color. Clamped a tiny ring onto the edge of one nostril to give the illusion that his nose was pierced. Grabbed the cordless phone and made a call as he pocketed his keys.
“Garage,” a voice said.
“Donald! You got my car?”
“It’s waiting for you.”
“I’ve got the rest of your money right here. In cash.”
“I trust you. It’s not like I don’t know you. Hell, everybody knows you.”
“Well, that’s what we don’t want, Donald.” Adam went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Grabbed a carton of orange juice off a shelf and took a few gulps, put it back. “That’s the most important thing, here. That’s why I tip so big, okay?”
“You got no problem there. Nobody’s getting anything outta me.”
“I’ll remember that in a big way come Christmas time, Donald.”
“I’m Jewish.”
“I’ll get you a Faberge dreidel. What kind of car is it?”
“A green ninety-two Toyota Corolla. Needs a tune-up, but it runs good.”
As long as it gets us to the airport, Adam thought. “I’m on my way down. Have it running and ready, okay?” He severed the connection. Punched in the doorman’s number.
Adam had thought ahead, but barely. Only three days ago, he had realized that if he were found not guilty, he would be able to do anything he wanted. After months of following Horowitz’s rules and doing nothing without her permission, it was difficult to conceive of such freedom. Being able to do anything he wanted meant being able to go anywhere he wanted. His only obstacle would be the reporters. But if he could get out before anyone could adjust to the fact that the trial was over, he might be able to avoid them. He had decided then to prepare for it, just in case. Now that he had been found not guilty, Adam had the nagging feeling he should get out of town before the jury changed its mind.
Donald, one of the building’s garage attendants, had a brother who owned a small used car lot in the Valley. During his last visit to his former Beverly Hills home with Lamont, Adam had emptied the contents of his dad’s office floor safe. He had no plans for the money at the time, but was glad he had taken it. Only three days ago, he had given Donald enough cash for a down payment and told him to bring back a car, any kind of car, as long as it ran well. He tipped well, hoping that would keep Donald quiet, if only for a while. Just a few days, maybe. Sooner or later, a tabloid reporter would come along with a far bigger tip, wanting to know what Adam was up to, and Donald very likely would take the offer. He was a blue-collar man surrounded by wealth and luxury that would always remain out of his reach—Adam thought he would be an idiot if he did not take it. Just as long as Adam had time to pick up Alyssa and get out of town first.
“May I help you?” a voice on the phone said.
“Hi, this is Adam Julian.”
“Hello, Mr. Julian. Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Charles. Could you do me a favor?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, Charles, I’ve decided to speak to the press.”
“Yes, I see. Well, they certainly are eager to hear from you.”
“Could you tell them I’m going to take some questions in the lobby in five minutes?”
“Here in the lobby?”
“Would that be okay?”
“I don’t see any problem with that. You want me to tell them now?”
“Right now, please.”
“No problem, Mr. Julian. See you in a few minutes.”
Adam put the cordless back on its base, grabbed his cellphone and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Took the Guaraldi CD from the player and slipped it into his jacket pocket. In his bedroom, he went to the closet and removed the oldest, most unattractive piece of luggage he owned—an old, badly wounded medium-sized Louis Vuitton suitcase, already packed. Snatched a pair of large black sunglasses from his dresser and put them on. Looked into the mirror and examined his appearance. Not bad. He even had captured a touch of Tom Cruise in Born on the Fourth of July. He hunkered down and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. Removed a folded-over manila envelope that was thick in the bottom half. Tucked it under his arm and closed the drawer with his foot as he stood. Adam left his apartment for the last time and hurried to the elevator, which he took down to the garage.
Donald, a smiling, bullet-shaped fellow in his forties, waited for him, a ring of three keys dangling from his pudgy, oil-stained thumb and forefinger. A pinging green Toyota idled just a few steps beyond him, driver’s door open.
“Good luck,” Donald said.
Adam smiled as he handed over the envelope, snatched up the keys. “Thanks a lot, Donald, I appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he lied. He tossed the suitcase into the backseat, slid behind the wheel. Gave Donald a final smile before pulling the door closed.
The spirit gum held up beautifully. A little itchy, but it was sticking. Adam followed the painted arrows out of the garage, the Toyota a pinball winding its way around the obstacles of its machine.
He turned on the windshield wipers as he drove out the main exit and up into the gray, rainy daylight. Past the clot of reporters piling into the front entrance of his building as if the sidewalk were on fire.
Adam knew that distraction would not last long. The reporters would stand around gossiping and fighting and flirting with each other indefinitely. They were accustomed to waiting. But Charles the Anal-Retentive Doorman would not tolerate a long wait. He would call up to Adam’s apartment. When he got the machine and no one picked up, he might assume Adam had lost track of time and was in the shower, and under the circumstances—he’d been acquitted of murder only an hour ago, after all—Charles might give him a few more minutes. Then he would call Adam’s apartment again, and when no one picked up the second time, he would send someone up. Then it would be minutes before the reporters discovered they had been tricked.
“You can fool the press only once,” Horowitz had said early in their relationship. “It infuriates them, and they hold grudges. Once they figure out that you successfully pulled the wool over their eyes, they get embarrassed and go to great pains to see that it never happens again. They will turn on you for a while, make your life miserable. But they come back around once they think you have learned your lesson and know better than to poke the eye of the world with a stick. That is what happens if they get embarrassed. If they get humiliated, you might as well go live in a cave, because they will never forget it. They will dine on your carcass until the last drop of marrow has been sucked from your smallest
bone. Rather than fooling them, I have found it much more productive to simply provide them with what they need. That keeps them happy.”
Adam was pretty sure this would be considered no more than a little embarrassment. They might even get a charge out of it. America’s favorite Internet couple, Nick and Nora, eloping and then disappearing for a while to honeymoon away from the cameras. It was an ending right out of an American Movie Classics late show and could provide them with some lucrative headlines. Maybe they would let him get away with it this one time.
Adam had not told Alyssa, or anyone else, about his plans. Donald had helped him sneak out of the building, but had no idea where he was going and thought he would return by tomorrow. Otherwise, no one knew anything. Not even Horowitz, who would have advised against it for fear of alienating the press.
Along with the mustache, Adam had a goatee for himself, and eyebrows for Alyssa in the suitcase. He had made them with supplies from his Halloween box in the closet. If they worked at all, he had Carter to thank, because whatever Adam knew about making facial hair he had learned from him. And maybe a little from Lamont. Although the eyebrows and mustaches provided enough of an alteration to change the whole face, the real trick would be to keep people from looking that closely. That he had learned from Diz, whose own disguise fooled at first glance. No one had any reason to look closely at Diz, because that first glance told them everything they cared to know about him. Then they went about ignoring him.
Adam had decided the clothes of the masses and a relaxed attitude were the best disguise. Without microphones, designer suits, and a car and driver waiting, he would no longer be the Adam Julian the media and public had come to know. As long as he did not present the image everyone knew, he probably would be able to avoid attention for a while.
Sunny and Mitch would approve, of course, because they wanted Alyssa to do her own thing, whatever her thing might be. Adam had decided to tell Alyssa where they were going once they were on the road. They had no time to spend on talk at her place. He assumed it would take her no more than five minutes to get an overnight bag together. Her parents would agree, he was sure, to tell the press, “Alyssa is in seclusion with relatives, and she is not with Adam.”
Adam opened his cellphone and called the bookstore. Liz answered.
She squealed, “Oh, congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”
“Thanks, Liz. Is she there?”
“No, they all stayed home today to watch you on television.”
“They’re not home now,” Adam said. “At least, they weren’t a few minutes ago.”
“Well, I know they were having problems with their answering machine.”
“Yeah, I think the crank finally broke off. I’ll try again, maybe they just didn’t answer.”
“I can’t imagine them not answering the phone today, of all days,” Liz said.
For the first time, it occurred to Adam that something could be wrong at Alyssa’s house. “Thanks, Liz,” he said before cutting her off.
He told himself not to worry. The Huffmans had their own way of doing things, and sometimes not doing things. But he was concerned. He called again, still got no answer. Let it ring until he turned down Alyssa’s street, then turned it off, popped it closed and dropped it into his pocket.
It was a relief to see there were no reporters waiting outside Alyssa’s house. Or, for that matter, no police cars or ambulances. The reporters would show up soon, though. The second they realized they had been tricked, they probably would call in some backup and start searching for him. And the first place they would look would be Alyssa’s house.
Mitch’s car was parked in the driveway, Sunny’s was probably in the garage. Adam parked at the curb, got out of the car. Crossed the lawn and went up the steps, let himself in.
A suitcase stood in the foyer with something—it looked like barbecue sauce—spilled on the handle. Adam stared at the suitcase for a few seconds, confused.
How could she know? he wondered. Surely Alyssa had not packed to leave with him, because there was no way she could know he planned to take her anywhere. Had someone died? Had they gotten one of those phone calls that meant everyone had to pack some black clothes for an unexpected trip?
He kept walking. The television played in the living room, but no one was there. He was about to call out her name when he heard her. At first, he thought Alyssa was stifling laughter. It came from the kitchen.
Oh, God, Adam thought, not a surprise party, please.
He stepped into the kitchen and Alyssa jumped with a shriek. All the lights were off except for the fluorescent over the sink. Hot water was running and steam sworled up from the basin, where Alyssa had been washing her hands and arms. She wore a red T-shirt and jeans. She took her hands from the steaming sink and held her forearms up like a surgeon scrubbing down for an operation. Soap bubbles sparkled on them. Her face was wet, too, but with tears. She stood facing him, hunched slightly. Her body shook with silent machine-gun sobs as she recovered from the shock of Adam walking in on her. She seemed to collapse in the middle and the top half of her body fell forward, as if in pain. She leaned an elbow on the lip of the sink to keep from falling, then slowly stood again, until she was almost standing straight. Crying so hard.
For a moment, Adam could not move. A million horrible things flew through his mind, but none of them lit.
“Please don’t be mad at me Adam please don’t be mad,” she said, pressing her wet, trembling hands together between her breasts. Her nose was running, eyelashes clumped by tears.
Hot water continued to hiss from the faucet. Steam billowed furiously into the air.
Adam said urgently, “I’m not mad! Why would I be mad?” He moved toward her slowly, arms outstretched. His hands trembled, too, from fear. The hair on the back of his neck was rigid. Gooseflesh sprang up all over his body. Something was wrong with the kitchen. It looked, even felt, darker than the rest of the house. As if even the waning, steel-colored day outside would look darker than it was through that room’s windows. “What’s wrong, Alyssa?”
“I know we were gonna do it together but I just got fed up and couldn’t take it I couldn’t take it Adam I couldn’t take it and I snapped.” She stopped only because she ran out of breath. A couple more sobs, a deep breath, and then: “I’m so sorry Adam I wanted it to be perfect and wonderful but I spoiled it and I’m so sorry I’m—”
“Stop,” he said, “stop it, you’re gonna rupture something.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Reached down and turned off the faucet. He had hoped for a smirk, maybe a snort of laughter. But her body was stiff and quaking, as if she were feverish. Her shirt was wet, clung to her skin. Adam panicked and put an arm around her. Held her tight as he tried to lead her out of the kitchen, saying, “God, Alyssa, you’re soaked, come lie down, we’ve gotta call an ambulance, you’ve got a bad fever, where are your parents?”
She resisted, rolled away from him, out of his grasp. Adam glimpsed his right hand. Did a double take. Held up his left hand. Both were splotched and smeared with what could be only one thing. He smelted its sticky old-penny odor, forever connected in his mind to the bicycle spills and skateboard crashes of his childhood. He looked at her shirt again, closely this time, and recognized it as her white Bugs Bunny T-shirt. The wascally wabbit gazed blearily at Adam through all the blood, between the tiny red peaks of Alyssa’s erect nipples.
“I wanted it to be just the way we said it would be,” she said with such deep and painful disappointment. “But I snapped and I’m sorry and I don’t know what else to say except that we should probably go right away, y’know? We should get out of here right now.” Brightening a little, she added, “I packed a bag!”
Adam saw it everywhere then. Spattered and streaked on the watercolor-yellow and -blue tiles. Dripping slowly from the brass handles of cupboards. He moved toward her again, slower this time. “Alyss-lyssa, a-are you bleeding?” His voice took a low dip, then shot upward a couple times a
s he spoke.
She shook her head erratically. “No, I’m fine, I’m not hurt, really.” Looked down at herself, shook her head angrily. “I’ve got clothes in the suitcase.” She peeled the bloody shirt over her head. Wadded it up and tossed it into the sink. “I’ll put something else on, but I think we should go now, Adam, if...if you’ll just tell me you aren’t mad that I snapped. I’m so sorry.” Alyssa was calming down, pulling herself together. “But I’ll have to make it up to you later because I think we should...don’t you think we should go?”
He stared at her breasts, lightly smeared with blood. Even there in the dark, bloody kitchen with something very, very wrong, Adam was gripped by the urge to touch them. Squeeze them in his hands. Brush his lips over her hardened nipples. “Go...where?” he asked.
Her eyes widened slightly and she rubbed a wet, soapy hand over her face nervously. A lump of bubbles clung to the tip of her nose.
“C’mon, Adam, I...I mean, I thought we decided to go north. Up the coast. Together.”
Adam could not speak for several seconds. Her words sounded as familiar as they did insane. “Alyssa, you...are you talking about that...you can’t be serious, Alyssa, you can’t—”
“What do you mean, I can’t be serious?” She screamed, “It was your fucking idea, Adam, don’t you fucking do this to me, you were the one—”
“—tell me you took any of that seriously!” Adam shouted. “That was fantasy, that was bullshit, you knew that, Alyssa, Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean any of that and neither did you! I came to pick you up so we could get married, and you’re telling me you thought we were going to—we were just bullshitting, we were fantasizing, what’ve you, what’ve you done, what’ve you—”
“—who wanted to go to around killing parents, Goddamnit, that was your idea, don’t tell me it was fantasy, don’t you fucking do this to me, Adam, you told me—”