“Not until I get some answers from you.”
“Wanna hit me? Maybe I’ll talk faster.”
“No chance of that.”
“What do you think, Chuck? That I wanted to seduce you? That I had it all planned ahead of time? Where to find you? What your number is? Where to find your house so I can bring flowers and a card?”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I just did.”
She looked down again, bit her lip. Frye watched a tear roll down her face. She wiped it away with the sheet. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“For this.” She looked at him, then out the window. She swallowed hard. “Well, that’s it. You can go now.”
“I’m listening.”
“What do you want? A confession?”
“Sure.”
“You’re an arrogant bastard, aren’t you?”
“I never looked at it that way. I just want to know what’s going on. And what about that Saigon Plaza number?”
“Okay, you deserve that much. I... I did plan it. I wanted it. I’ve had that picture for months. I got your number and kept it in my book for a long time. I made it a point to be at Rockpile that morning. It wasn’t the first time I was there.” She wiped her face again. “I’d seen you there a hundred times. I watched you from my window first, then I got a pair of binoculars. You were a man, but you were far away and I could see you when I wanted. I could control you. You couldn’t get too close. And believe me, that’s a nice option after being... put upon. I could see you and have the distance, too.” Cristobel sighed and looked at him. He couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “Look in the closet, Chuck.”
Frye slid open the door. A brand new MegaBoard rested inside, never used. The price tag was still on it. “I was hoping you’d be there when I went in. I did see you there a few times. Guess you didn’t notice. Those rolled-up things down by my shoes — they’re posters of you. And that Saigon Plaza number, that’s the fabric store where I buy my silk.”
“Oh.” Frye felt as stupid now as he’d ever felt in his life.
“I actually couldn’t wait for some excuse to come over to your house. I had it pictured as being sinful and full of... I don’t know. I heard it was a cave. When I moved to this place after the... after what happened, I started hearing about you. I saw you in a contest down at Brooks. I knew you were married so I didn’t do anything. I cut out the picture of you because — it was a picture of you.” She sobbed, looking away. “I thought I’d taken everything down. I forgot that Mystery Maid thing. I’m just a stupid fucking little girl. You can go now, Chuck. I just wanted you, and now I guess I’ve had you. Once isn’t quite enough, but it was still pretty sweet, wasn’t it?”
Frye sat on the bed. Then he rolled over and took her in his arms. She was crying now, and he could feel the warm tears running down his neck. “I’m awful sorry.”
“Go, please.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“So am I, Chuck. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Can we forget about this?”
“I’ll try, if you will.”
“Jesus. You saved my life. What I’d really like is to make love to you now.”
She moved closer to him and touched his face with her hands. “Yes, please.”
Chapter 21
Two federal marshals were standing outside Tuy Nha’s hospital room as Frye walked up. One checked his name off a list while the other studied his driver’s license as if it were a rare manuscript. They rummaged through the gifts he’d brought.
Frye found Nha staring out a window, past a cart piled with flowers and cards. The room was small and white, and the smell of carnations floated on a clinical underlayer of hospital air. A television was suspended on the wall across from her bed. The picture on the screen was a soap opera; the sound was off.
She lay, propped with pillows, a blank notepad on her lap, a pen in her hand. She turned a face so pale and drained of life to Frye he wondered if she were dying. “Chuck,” she said in a whisper.
He kissed her cheek, sat, and took her weightless hand in his. “Nha.”
“It was very strange, Chuck. My thoughts came through my fingers, and I wrote your name. Then, your name came into my mouth and I spoke again. It hurt.”
“I’m honored you asked for me.”
A smile suggested itself, mostly in her eyes. “When I look out at night and see the stars, I think of him. Did you ever think how far away they are, the stars?”
“We’re all in the same sky, Nha.”
“So far to get there.”
“There’s no hurry. Here.” Frye gave her the package he’d hastily wrapped in the cave-house.
Nha’s fingers picked at the thing, failed. Frye opened it for her, placing the box beside her. She pulled out a silver wave necklace, taking the pendant in her palm and letting the chain dangle through her frail fingers. “It has magical powers,” he said.
“Really?”
“No. I just thought you’d like it. I designed it. They were popular a few years back, when I was. The first one I ever made I sent to my brother when he was in Vietnam. It was supposed to protect him and remind him of home.”
“Did it?”
“He gave it away, to tell the truth.”
She smiled. He helped her put it on. She fiddled with it, smoothing her hospital smock to give it a good place to lie. “Do you think it’s possible to do a brain transplant, Chuck? I’m sure it is dangerous but I would volunteer. Think, Chuck. Not a single memory. I would choose the brain of... let’s see... a cow. Dull and warm and concerned with grass and calves.”
“I’d like you better if you stayed a woman.”
“But think, to be empty. Where your past is only an hour long, and your future is a concept you are ignorant of. Will you ask Dr. Levin if he’ll make me a cow?”
Frye smiled at her, inwardly shocked at the deadness in her eyes, the way she moved so slowly, the way her body seemed to withdraw from its spirit as he watched. “No, Nha. He’s going to leave you a person. If you were a cow, the necklace wouldn’t fit.”
“I can always rely on you for logic, Chuck.”
“Here, I brought you these, too.” He set a folder of some of his articles on her bed. Attached to each were his notes on the subject, interview stuff, notes to himself before writing. “I thought while you had some time you could read the preliminaries, then see the way they went into the articles. Maybe give you some idea of how you get a bunch of information on something, then whack it down to a size you can work with. For your writing, you know. The articles aren’t especially good — in fact I got fired for one of them — but you can see the process.”
She actually smiled this time, white teeth and pink lips. “You’re putting me to work already, Chuck.”
“I don’t want you getting into trouble here. Idle hands, and all that.”
“Well, I haven’t been a complete vegetable. Here is for you.” She gave him a folded sheet of yellow paper. He could see the imprint of her writing on it, the long delicate script. “You can read it now if you like to.”
“It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.”
“My poetry professor would say it reeks of sentiment.”