Haskell’s speech had been inspiring—as those things went—and she told him so in preface to thanking him for his generous contribution to the city’s safety net, particularly the donations earmarked for Social Services. The author next to him smirked and made some sort of ironic comment, but Carrie ignored him and so did Haskell. In fact, her generic thank-you somehow turned into an honest-to-God conversation. The writer grew bored and drifted away, but Haskell spoke earnestly of transforming the way the poor were treated in America, and Carrie had to admit that she was impressed. Being in the trenches every day, she didn’t exactly have the luxury of considering grand overviews, but she was glad that someone did, and she was glad that it was someone with sensibilities that paralleled her own. It made her feel more hopeful about the future, more optimistic.
Other people arrived, more important people, and though she wasn’t exactly dismissed, Haskell’s attention was drawn away from her, and after a polite interval Carrie excused herself and got away. She grabbed a diet Sprite from the bar, was accidentally roped into a depressing conversation with a pair of community activists, then finally managed to sneak over to the elevators and escape.
Although most of the movers and shakers were still upstairs, a majority of the people who’d come to the benefit were already leaving, and getting out of the parking garage took just as long as she’d feared. Still, she wasn’t in the mood to go home yet—besides, tomorrow was Saturday, and she could sleep in—so she drove by the arts district to check out some of the galleries.
Check out some of the galleries?
Who was she kidding? She wasn’t a frequenter of art galleries. In fact, she hadn’t been anywhere near this section of the city since she and Matt had broken up. The truth was that the only reason she was here now was because she’d seen an article in an alternative newspaper that said Matt had an installation displayed in one of the newer, hipper spaces. Did she want to see the installation? No.
Did she want to see Matt again?
Maybe.
She really was pathetic.
If it hadn’t been for that stupid benefit, such an idea wouldn’t even have occurred to her. She would be safely at home, ensconced in her bed, watching TV or catching up on her reading. But she was out and about, and Matt’s presence was like a magnet. She was ashamed of herself, embarrassed, but powerless to resist. The ironic thing was, their relationship hadn’t even been that great. And it hadn’t lasted that long. But it had been her most recent relationship, and emotionally at least, that granted it an importance that perhaps it didn’t deserve.
She lucked out and turned the corner onto Geary just as a powder-blue Mercedes pulled out of a prime parkingspot in front of the Landau Gallery. Carrie shoved her Celica into the space before someone else could get it and, after shutting off the engine, dug through her purse, looking for quarters for the meter. She had a wad of one-dollar bills, three dimes, four pennies and a nickel—but no quarters. When had parking meters stopped taking other coins? Who was the moron who’d decided that the machines would accept only a single denomination?
She finally found a quarter under the mat on the floor of the passenger seat and got out, dropping it into the meter. It gave her only fifteen minutes, but that should be enough. After all, she wasn’t going to hang out. She was just going to take a quick peek and be on her way.
And she could always get change if need be.
The Lo Fi Gallery, where Matt’s installation was on display, was a block from the Landau, and Carrie walked down the crowded sidewalk, her stomach tightening as she approached. She knew she should turn around and go home, but she couldn’t. So instead, she slowed down, looking in the windows of each shop and gallery she passed, her steps getting smaller the closer she came to the end of the block.
She looked at a boutique filled with primitive arts and crafts from Central America. She pretended to examine a group of metal sculptures made from pieces of old cars.
And in one of the gallery windows she saw a wall-sized photograph of . . .
Juan.
No, Carrie realized instantly. It wasn’t really Juan. And it wasn’t the Rhino Boy either. But the child depicted in the photo suffered from the same sort of affliction that had disfigured both children—except that this boy’s face resembled a possum’s. The picture could have been doctored, she knew. One of the artists could have combined two images to make some statement about . . . something. But, no, that wasn’t the case. This was a photograph of a real child. The art was in the lighting and composition, not in any darkroom tricks.
She stared at the bristly face with its protuberant snout. Maybe there was an epidemic of birth defects out there, attributable to chemical exposure or some other environmental factor.
Stop it, she chided herself. She’d been searching for a rational, scientific explanation for all of this ever since the police had interviewed her at Holly’s apartment, even though she knew good and well that rationality had nothing to do with the horrors she had seen. There was something else at work here, something that defied logic. She felt like Bill Pullman in The Serpent and the Rainbow , who’d discovered that beneath the political mess in Haiti was an older evil filled with voodoo spirits and magic.
Evil?
That was slightly melodramatic, wasn’t it?
She thought of the Rhino Boy’s head atop the dresser in that dingy bedroom.
Maybe not.
Carrie walked into the gallery to see if there were other photos of other children, hoping the artist was there so she could talk to him or her about the picture in the window. But of course no one was in the gallery save a smug and snotty young clerk. There were other photos, though, and Carrie walked slowly through the room, examining them all. Most were of the boy, showing him holding a lunchbox, playing on a swing set, riding a bike—heartbreaking juxtapositions of his grotesque physical appearance with the everyday realities of an ordinary childhood. The most disturbing shot was of the child with his mother, a young attractive Asian woman with all the accoutrements of the young and hip— two-toned hair, pierced lip and nose, multiple tattoos— and a look of sad resignation on her features that made her seem far, far older than she was.
Although the clerk arrogantly refused to answer any of the questions she put to him, the gallery’s front table contained photocopies of a review of the show from one of the local alterna-papers, as well as a bio of the photographer—John Mees. Carrie took one of each, intending to read them at home, and if possible, get in touch with the man and see if she could find out more about the boy in the photos. She left the gallery, unaware of how nervous and on edge she’d been until she was once again out in the cool evening air. The sidewalk was crowded with people, but still it felt more free and open than the empty gallery.
She’d lost the desire to see either Matt or his work, and instead of continuing on down the block, she turned around and went back to her car, where she found that the meter had already expired. Had she been gone that long? It sure didn’t feel like it. Luckily, there was no ticket on her windshield, and she quickly got in, started the engine and pulled out into traffic. Someone honked at her from behind, but she ignored the jerk and made a series of turns that allowed her to circle back the way she had come.
On the way home, her anxiousness faded somewhat, and she wished she had stopped by Matt’s gallery. She felt lonely and could have used a little companionship tonight. He wouldn’t have come through for her, though. He didn’t want her back; he’d moved on. And, knowing him, he would have been rude and spiteful. He knew exactly which buttons to push in order to hurt her, and he would have pushed them with glee. Things had worked out much better this way, now that she thought about it, and she was glad that the two of them hadn’t reconnected.
Besides, she wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on him or his art or anything. Not with those images from the gallery swirling through her mind.
And the images of Juan.
And the Rhino Boy.
Rhino
Boy. She wished she knew that child’s real name. It pained her to refer to him by his tabloid moniker, and she felt awful even thinking the phrase to herself.
It had been a long day, and once home, Carrie tiredly dumped her purse on the coffee table in the living room, got herself a drink of water from the kitchen, then trudged into the bathroom, where she changed out of her uncomfortable dress and scrubbed the makeup off her face before climbing into bed. She masturbated quickly and quietly, thinking of Matt, then pulled up her pajama bottoms, rolled onto her side and promptly fell asleep.
Ten
After the benefit, Haskell had his driver take him home. He glanced out the window as the limo purred through the city and across the bridge, smoked glass filtering out everything save the lights of the buildings. There’d been four or five women at the after party who would have gladly come with him—and Lord knows Suzonne wouldn’t have given a shit if they had—but he felt tired this evening, and his body needed sleep more than sex.
Home when he was in California was a spectacular steel-and-glass structure in Marin, overlooking the bay. It was his newest house and also his favorite. His friend Frank Gehry had designed it, drawing the initial rough sketch on the back of an envelope—an envelope he now had framed and hanging in his office—and it had been featured in a host of architectural magazines as well as in a PBS special.
He was proud of the house, as he was proud of all of his houses, but he also genuinely liked it. He felt comfortable here. And it was perfectly suited to the special needs of his family.
Although upkeep was a bitch.
The limo pulled to a stop at the head of the circular driveway, and he let himself out, telling the driver to be in exactly the same spot at six in the morning; tomorrow was going to be a busy day. He watched the car cruise down the sloping drive to the garage, then turned to face the house and the bay beyond. Across the water, the lights of San Francisco twinkled in the fog, subdued and softened into something almost painterly.
Although it was not visible from here, the next estate over was empty and dark. He could tell because the glow he used to see over the stand of trees to the west had disappeared over two weeks ago. Word was that the estate was for sale, that the actor who’d bought it couldn’t meet the mortgage payments and was trying to get out from under it before news of his financial situation spread.
Fame was so ephemeral. He remembered talking with his young secretary several years ago after hearing on the radio that the magician Doug Henning had died. He mentioned that he’d seen Henning perform in the late 1970s.
‘‘Who is he?’’ she’d asked. ‘‘I’ve never heard of him.’’
He was shocked, and after that, he’d developed a small obsession, running by his secretary the names of minor celebrities from previous decades whenever they died or he came across them in print, checking to see if she recognized any of them. Louis Nye? No. Anthony Newly? No. Steve Allen? No. Godfrey Cambridge? No. Larry Hovis? No. Slappy White, Nipsey Russell, William Conrad, Charles Nelson Riley? No, no, no and no.
He realized that most of the people he’d grown up watching on TV had completely faded from the cultural landscape. It was a depressing discovery, although it taught him a lesson. In the celebrity-obsessed society of California, it was easy to ascribe a greater importance to fame than it actually deserved.
But fame was fleeting.
Money lasted.
Money and monuments.
Like this house.
He looked admiringly at the structure. It was a strange confluence of events that had created this wonderful building. If he had not wanted a house in the Bay Area, if he hadn’t known Frank Gehry, hell, if they’d discussed the house on a different day, this edifice might not exist. At least not in the form it did now.
His gaze moved on to the surrounding grounds. The damn place was overgrown with vegetation. This was the fourth landscaping service he’d hired just this year, and it looked like he’d have to find yet another one. He’d explained to Gary Martinez, the owner of the business, how he wanted the property maintained, and the man had seemed to understand, but either he hadn’t properly communicated with his employees or the landscapers who worked for him were incompetent. Whatever the reason, the area around the house looked like hell, and Haskell decided that tomorrow he would call Martinez on the carpet and tell him to shape up or ship out.
Or maybe he’d just fire his ass.
It depended on how he felt in the morning.
Haskell walked slowly across the cobblestone driveway and up the burnished marble steps to the front door. He considered ringing the bell and announcing his presence, but it was late.
He punched in the security code and opened the door.
As always, his mail was stacked neatly on a steel table designed to flow with the curved wall. An assistant had printed out a list of phone messages that had arrived for him during the day and had placed this sheet next to the pile of mail, weighing it down with a geometric hunk of translucent plastic. He picked up the sheet the same way he did each evening, scanning the phone numbers, struck by the realization that he had more daily contact with strangers than he did his own family.
The entry hall seemed empty and cold, the recessed lights sterile rather than homey, and Haskell thought that maybe he should have brought someone back with him for the night. None of the Gucci-clad do-gooders who’d thrown themselves at him held any appeal, but he remembered a young San Francisco social worker from early in the evening who’d thanked him for his donation to the cause and who’d struck him as someone he wouldn’t mind giving the high hard one. He didn’t remember her name, but it would be easy enough to find out if he wanted.
Which he probably wouldn’t by morning.
Still, the night was long and the thought of spending it alone left him feeling dispirited.
Of course, there was always Suzonne . . .
The smile on his face was not quite bitter, not quite amused, but some unclassifiable combination of the two.
He was too tired to even stop by his office to drop off the mail, so he left everything on the table and walked through the entry hall, past the unused guest wing, into the main corridor, loosening his tux as he proceeded through the house.
The building was not quiet. Howls were coming from the Quiet Room, and although they were faint, they could still be heard even through the soundproofing. The acoustics in this place really were amazing. He hummed to himself, trying not to hear the sounds, but the cries grew louder and wilder as he approached, and with the absence of any competing noise, they became impossible to ignore.
He strode up to the white door of the Quiet Room and flung open the viewing window.
‘‘Shut up!’’ he yelled.
His . . . son—if that’s what the creature leaping about the empty room could be called—stared at him with dull fury. As usual, he had ripped off his clothes. His grotesque member had been rubbed raw or shoved against something abrasive and was red and bleeding, but it was still erect, and Haskell was disgusted by the sight. Around him, the room was a mess, broken furniture thrown together in a pile at the center of the floor, primitive drawings scrawled on the walls with blood and excrement. Haskell thought of the one time, long ago, when his son had been allowed to play with another boy, the child of a housekeeper. There’d been a lot more blood then, and it had taken money and pull with friends of friends in the INS to keep that incident quiet.
The . . . thing in the room shrieked at him, leaping at the viewing window.
‘‘Shut up!’’ Haskell screamed again, and slammed the window covering, locking it tight.
He stood there for a moment, unmoving, staring at the white door. Part of him almost understood the boy’s behavior—and, in some way, envied it. It was a disconcerting realization, but many was the time he’d felt constricted by traditional modes of conduct, by the mores of society. Sometimes he longed to let loose, to give free rein to his wilder emotions, consequences be damned.
But of
course he could not.
He moved down the corridor where the door to Suzonne’s room was not only closed but locked. He knocked on the pale wood, politely at first then with more vigor, but she refused to respond. He kicked at the door, called her name but was met only with silence.
He should have brought someone home.
‘‘You’ll take it up the ass tomorrow!’’ he cried. ‘‘And you’ll like it!’’
He stormed over to his own room, slamming the door and yanking off his clothes before getting into bed naked. He lay there, staring upward into the darkness, feeling angry, wondering how it was that some people had the nerve to act on their impulses and others didn’t, wondering what it would feel like to kill his wife and put his son out of his misery.
Thinking to himself that it would probably feel pretty good.
Eleven
1845
The wagon train split up near the Great Salt Lake. None too soon, as far as Marshall was concerned. They’d been through a lot on this trip, seen a lot, and for a fair portion of the journey, the travelers had been split into two camps: those who feared the land and saw biblical import in every minor bump in the road, and those like himself who understood that large portions of the West were undiscovered country and contained things that neither they nor, perhaps, any man had seen before. He imagined that it was similar to the first Englishmen to visit Africa and see lions, giraffes, elephants and those other great primitive beasts.
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