I walked past her and out to the car. I opened the door and got in. Before starting it, I looked back at the house. She was standing in the doorway, hands clasped tightly against her sides. I could tell by her expression she was crying. She looked so alone and helpless, but she had gone way over the line this time. Way over. But what her boyfriend had discovered made me feel even more uneasy about my appointment with Veronica.
It is common practice for authors to create characters and then fall in love with them. It makes sense though, because we live so intimately and so long together that it's difficult to keep them at arm's length. Part of the joy of being a writer is creating people and situations we long for but know will probably never happen to us.
When we were on the book tour, Veronica asked which characters were my favorites and why. Georgia Brandt. Only dear Georgia. I fell in love with her about five pages into her existence and it got worse as time went on. I created her when I was still young enough to have the hope someone like her existed in the world and one day we would meet.
What is important to know now is what she looked like. Tall and thin, she had very short black hair that she washed every morning in the sink and then never thought about again. Her skin was preternaturally white, eyes large and green. People mistook her for Irish. Her mouth was long and thin, set in a kind of perpetually bemused smile. If she had used makeup she would have been stunning. But her skin was allergic to it – an important part of the story – and that didn't bother her a bit.
When I walked into Hawthorne's that day, Georgia Brandt was sitting at the bar. I thought I'd died and gone to literature. I honestly thought, Mother of God, there she is, she really does exist. Even wearing one of the same outfits I'd described in the story: a dark blue sleeveless linen dress and white tennis sneakers. What's more, on the table in front of her was the book Georgia was always carrying around: Russian Verbs of Motion for Intermediate Students. A black-haired wonder in a linen dress, reading that nutty book – how could a man not love her?
But what do you do when someone you have created on paper is sitting ten feet away? You swallow the toaster that is suddenly in your throat, go over and say, "I think I know you."
Veronica/Georgia patted the seat next to her. "Is that so? Why don't you sit down?"
"Is this your new fall look?"
"Veronica couldn't come, so she sent me instead. I'm her union negotiator."
"This is beyond strange." I asked the bartender for a whiskey.
She turned in her seat so she faced me square on. "Not at all. You're having a drink with your favorite woman. You said so yourself. Tell her what's bothering you. She loves you too, so you can say anything."
"Good. All right. Okay, I've been going out with someone for the last few months. Until recently it's been great. I thought I was beginning to know her, but I discovered things about her that make me really uneasy. I don't know what to think anymore. Veronica, were you really in the Malda Vale?"
She nodded casually. "For two years. How did you know?"
"My daughter. She looked you up on the Internet."
She sighed, then gave a very slow shrug. "I knew she didn't like me after we met. It's my fault. I was so upset that day. That's why she wanted to know more. It's sweet, Sam. She was worried for you." She smiled.
"There, see! I suddenly discover this great woman was a bisexual, acted in porno films, and was in the Malda Vale, the most famous suicidal religious cult of our age!"
Her voice was calm and reasonable. "But is she good to you? Have you been happy together? What else matters?"
"Come on, it's not that simple. You were in the Malda Vale! That group was right up there with the Branch Davidians and Jim Jones! Add it to the other things: What kind of person does these things?"
She reached up and pulled off the black wig. Her blond hair was tightly pinned to her head and it was a while before she had it undone. "What kind of person? After Donald threw me out, I was suicidal. That's when I met Zane and we were together. I wasn't with Zane – I just needed to be around someone. She was there, turned out to be a terrible person and life got even worse. That's when I met some people from the Malda Vale. The truth of the matter is, they saved me. I'll always be grateful to them for that. I was in the group for two years. That's why I made the film about them afterward – I wanted people to see they weren't all just a bunch of crazies. I left when things became frightening and dangerous. None of them tried to stop me. They wished me well. That's the whole story.
"I need to believe in things, Sam. Whether it's a person or a group, that's the way I function. I never dreamed that you and I would get this close. I hoped you might be nice and let me make a film about you, but then all this happened. It's unbelievable and I'm devoted to you. But I'm not promiscuous about that devotion. You're the first person I've slept with in three years."
"Three years?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why did you dress up like Georgia?"
"Because besides your daughter, she's your number one. I know a lot of artists. The greatest loves of all their lives are their creations. Unfortunately most of us don't have that kind of talent, so we have to make do with falling in love with real people."
At Veronica's place later while we were still thrashing things out, her phone rang. She ignored it and the answering machine came on. "My name is Francis McCabe and I'm looking for Sam Bayer. He gave me this number. If you know where he is, please tell him to call me because it's urgent."
I picked up the phone. "Hi, Frannie."
"Bingo! I've been calling all over for you. Johnny Petangles's mother died and we had to go into his house to get her. Guess what I found there? Pauline's notebooks from school."
Veronica asked if she could come with me and I was glad for the company. We got to Crane's View in an hour and drove straight to the police station. There was no time for the Bayer guided tour, but I pointed out some things along the way.
At the station there was only one cop on duty. With a tired wave he directed us to Frannie's office. That big empty room was even gloomier at night with only two lights battling the shadows.
The chief of police was sitting with his feet up on his desk. Club Soda Johnny was facing him and the two of them were laughing. On the bare desk were two white notebooks with SWARTHMORE COLLEGE printed on the covers.
Frannie got up and straightened his tie as soon as he saw Veronica. After I introduced them, he went to get more chairs.
"Hi, Johnny."
"Hello. I don't know you."
"Well, I used to know you. This is my friend Veronica."
"Hello, Veronica. You have hair like the woman in the Clairol ad."
She smiled and moved to shake his hand. His first reaction was to pull back. Then, like a frightened but interested animal, he slowly put his big one out and they shook.
She spoke to him in a gentle voice. "Sam told me you know all the commercials."
Frannie came back in with two chairs. "Johnny's the King of Commercial. That's what we wete doing when you came in – he was doing the old 'Call for Phillllip Mor-ris!' ad. So sit down, join the festivities."
"My mother died. Frannie came to my house."
We nodded and waited for him to go on. "He was nice, but he went into my room and took my books. They're my books, Frannie. They're not yours."
"Take it easy, big guy. I got a friend of mine to come over and talk to Johnny. He's a clinical psychologist over at the state hospital." Frannie sat back in his chair, put his arms over his head and stretched. "Tried every trick he knew, but Johnny isn't so good at remembering. Says Pauline gave him the books."