“He still had the hiccups?”
She offered him a sad smile. “See, that right there is what we need to work on. No, the hiccups were gone. Turns out, jumping off the Golden Gate’s a hundred percent effective as a cure for hiccups.”
Feeling a smile on his own face, Raymer allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to spend the rest of his life with this woman, having conversations like this all the time. Now that he thought about it, every single conversation they’d ever had, even the ones that were exercises in pure exasperation, always left him feeling less alone. What would happen, he wondered, if he came out from behind the desk? “What we need to work on?” he said. “We? As in—”
“Us.”
“There’s an us?”
“If you want.”
“I do,” Raymer said, at once aware and not really caring very much that these same words had, when last uttered, caused him no end of grief.
“A couple things we’d have to agree on first,” she told him.
“Like?”
“Like you’d have to figure out how to forgive Jerome. He’s my brother.”
“I think I can do that.” In fact, he was pretty sure he already had.
“I’d ask you to forgive me, too, if I’d done anything wrong, but I didn’t — unless you’d say keeping Jerome’s secret was wrong. Is that something you’d count?”
“Not if you don’t.”
“And you’d have to let me out from behind my desk. Allow me to do the job I was trained for.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that,” he said. And when she again narrowed her eyes dangerously, he added, “You forget. I’m not your boss anymore. I resigned.”
From her hip pocket she took what was left of the resignation letter he’d given to Gus yesterday afternoon, now torn in quarters, and tossed the scraps on his blotter.
“Okay, then,” he said.
“And speaking of coming out from behind desks…”
She met him halfway, with only the wastebasket between them now. She leaned toward him and he toward her. Suddenly, just as their lips were about to touch, an arc of static electricity leaped from Raymer’s lips to Charice’s, causing both to take a step away. “Whoa!” they said in unison, vigorously rubbing their lips with the backs of their hands. For a moment they just looked at each other, amazed. The office was carpeted, but still. “What the hell was that?” she said.
Dougie, Raymer thought, saying goodbye, leaving as he’d arrived on an electrical current. A fairly insane thought, sure, though just maybe…
Their second attempt was more successful. “Whoa,” each said again, this time for a different reason.
“Actually,” he said, “I’ve got one stipulation myself.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to come with me to the middle school tomorrow morning.” Because if he was staying — and he most definitely was — in a matter of hours he’d be standing on the stage of his old middle-school auditorium talking to a couple hundred people about his eighth-grade English teacher. While still a scary idea, for some reason it inspired somewhat less than the usual full-blown terror. After all, within the last twenty-four hours he’d been struck by lightning and handled a deadly coral snake, events that cast public speaking in a whole new light. He wouldn’t be brilliant, he knew, but he’d be no worse than Reverend Tunic, and at least he would be wearing pants. And, unlike Tunic, he’d stick to the truth. He’d tell folks about all the books Miss Beryl had given him as a boy. How he’d hidden them in his closet so his mother wouldn’t think he’d stolen the damn things. He’d tell his audience that Miss Beryl had held a far-better opinion of him than he had of himself, and how as a boy that good opinion had frightened him, because he could see no rational basis for it. Further, he’d explain how the old woman had kept scribbling Who is this Douglas Raymer? in the margins of his essays. And how she’d remained in his margins down through the years, like a good teacher will. He would tell them these things because he’d meant for years to thank this dear woman and never gotten around to it.
—
THEY AGREED he shouldn’t check in to a hotel for just a couple hours, as he’d planned to do, because that was silly. On the other hand, Charice informed him, accompanying him to the Moribund Arms was absolutely out of the question. It was her firm intention never to set foot in that place except to arrest somebody. No, they’d go to her place and take her car, which was parked out front. Next week Raymer would trade in his piece-of-shit Jetta for a vehicle more befitting a chief of police. Just not a Mustang.
Outside, the rain had stopped. When they got to her vehicle, Charice remembered something. “Wait here,” she said, and as Raymer did so, it occurred to him that waiting for a woman who’d forgotten something was one of life’s underrated pleasures. How many times had he and Becka been about to go somewhere when she had to go back for something she’d left on the kitchen table? An annoying habit, yes, yet how wonderful it was when she reappeared, how sweet the knowledge that she wasn’t gone for good. Until the day she really was gone. And now it was every bit as wonderful when Charice reappeared, even though what she had in her hand was the ceramic cobra.
“What are you doing with that?” he said.
“Taking it back home, of course.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Back home?”
“I bought it for Jerome, thinking it’d make him less scared of real snakes, but all it did was freak him out. Why? Does it scare you, too?”
“No, but you do.”
Not really, of course. She might be full of surprises, but he’d basically been right to trust her, he reflected, tossing his gym bag into the back and sliding into the passenger seat. In truth, Raymer had always been attracted to women who were a step or two ahead of him, though naturally that was most of them. The snake, now lying stiffly on top of his bag, did make him curious, though, as to what else she might’ve lied about. Whether, for instance, she even had a butterfly tattoo.
Play your cards right for once, Dougie advised, and you can find out.
“What?” Charice said. “Did you say something?”
“I started to say that I think maybe I’m in love with you,” he told her, which was, like the world itself, both a lie and the truth.
“That’s the other thing we gotta work on,” she told him. “That maybe.”
Acknowledgments
When a writer gets to be my age, the list of people he’s indebted to is almost as long as the book itself. Many thanks to the usual suspects, acknowledged in all or most of my previous books. Barbara, Emily and Kate continue to make all things possible. Nat, Judith, Adia and Joel (my agents) could not have been more steadfast in their faith over the long decades. Gary, Sonny, Gabby? Along with everybody else at Knopf and Vintage, you continue to make me look better, smarter and more talented than I am, and I know you’d make me younger, taller and better-looking if you could.
As to this particular book, the following helped plug some of the more obvious holes in my knowledge: Judy Andersen, Tim Hall, Peter Tranchell, Bob Wilkins, Greg Gottung, Jim Gottung, Bill Lundgren and Carol Wolff.
An Alfred A. Knopf Reading Group Guide Everybody’s Fool by Richard Russo
The introduction, author biography, discussion questions, and suggested reading that follow are designed to enhance your group’s discussion of Everybody’s Fool, the long-awaited sequel to Richard Russo’s hit novel Nobody’s Fool.