As Deirdre flipped to the last chapter to see how far Arthur gotten, Henry’s voice pulled her off the page. “All right. Uh-huh. Sure. Don’t worry, I won’t forget.” Clearly, he was winding up the call. Deirdre put the empty script cover back on the shelf and carried the folder with the manuscript pages to her bedroom, where she slipped it into the drawer in her bedside table.
When she returned, Henry had hung up the phone. Deirdre said, “Was that Sy?”
“Sí,” Henry said, deadpan.
“So?” Even if it was a wildly inappropriate time to be cracking jokes, Arthur would have appreciated the old comedy routine that he’d reprise himself whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was one of the perks, he used to say, of having a friend named Sy.
“He’s coming over tomorrow morning to talk about Dad’s will.”
“What won’t you forget?”
“Huh?”
“You told him you wouldn’t forget something.”
“When the police come back to search the house, there shouldn’t be anything here we don’t want them to find.” Henry went into the kitchen and came back out with a large black plastic garbage bag, into which he dumped the contents of the ashtray.
“That’s a big bag for a few ashes,” Deirdre said.
“There’s more. Things Dad would want me to get rid of.”
“What things?”
Henry’s answer was cut off by the phone ringing again. Both Deirdre and Henry froze, waiting for the answering machine to kick in. After the beep, this time they heard a woman’s voice: “Hey, Zelda? You there? It’s Thalia.”
Deirdre might not have recognized Joelen’s voice, but she definitely recognized those nicknames. Zelda, the smart but painfully plain and geeky character who lusted after television’s Dobie Gillis, was code for Deirdre; Thalia, the gorgeous, moneygrubbing blonde whom Dobie lusted after, was Joelen.
Deirdre reached for the phone but Henry stopped her as Joelen’s voice continued. “Sy called and told us what happened. Gosh, I don’t know where to begin. I just hate saying this to a machine.” A pause. “I’m so sorry. I really can’t believe it.” There was a longer pause, then: “Listen, I don’t know how long you’ll be in town, and I know it’s been ages since we were friends. But we were. Really good friends. If there’s anything I can do to help, all you have to do is name it. You know where I am. Same place. Call me.” Joelen recited the number. Deirdre still knew it by heart. “Mom sends condolences.”
Click.
“Joelen?” Henry said.
Deirdre nodded.
“Now what does she want?”
“I don’t think she wants anything. I told you, she rang the bell this morning right before the police. She’s a Realtor. She had a meeting with Dad.”
“So why is she calling now?”
“She’s being nice?” Deirdre yawned and stretched. The room had long ago stopped spinning and she felt drained and far too tired to try explaining to Henry the concept of nice. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. She hoped there were clean sheets.
“I’ve got to take these guys out. Then I’ll turn in, too.” Henry pulled his leather jacket off the back of a chair. The dogs perked up and started yipping and circling him.
“And you’ll take care of that?” Deirdre pointed to the deflated garbage bag that Henry had left on the floor. “And the things that Dad wanted you to throw away?”
“Oh yeah.” Henry crouched and snapped a leash to each dog’s collar. “Don’t worry, it will all be gone by morning.”
Chapter 8
The wind had died down and the house settled into an uneasy silence as Deirdre ferried beer bottles and leftovers to the kitchen. She carried her duffel bag into the room that was once her bedroom. The stuffy space had been taken over by Henry’s bench press, weights, and an exercise bicycle. Judging from the layer of dust on them, they didn’t see much use.
She opened the windows, but the air barely moved. On hot nights like this her father used to hose down the roof.
Her sliding closet door was sticky, but she managed to work it open. There, on the rack, hung some straight skirts and pleated skirts from high school, all of them much too long, with a few matching cardigan sweaters. A much shorter, swingy, navy blue tent dress that she’d worn in college hung there, too. She’d bought it because she thought it made her look like That Girl, Marlo Thomas. There was the cream-colored linen suit she’d worn to her college interviews, along with a brown trench coat that she used to wear with its broad collar turned up, its belt tied at the waist in the style of Catherine Deneuve.
Way on the end was the white two-piece dress she’d worn to her high school graduation and to the dance after. She fingered the silk brocade that had gone brittle with age. The shoes that were supposed to have been her first high heels were still in their box on the closet floor. When she’d bought them she’d been optimistic that she’d be able to take a few steps, maybe even dance. Just one more thing that was supposed to happen that never did.
Deirdre tossed her duffel bag on top of some cardboard boxes stacked in the closet. Her name was written in block letters on the sides—certainly her writing—though she had no memory of boxing anything up.
She turned. On the adjacent wall hung a large framed pencil sketch of a waif with enormous, honey-dripping eyes. The little girl held a gray kitten with its own wide teary eyes. Preadolescent Deirdre had selected this awesomely awful artist-signed (Keane) piece of ’60s kitsch herself. After the accident, she’d identified with that girl and begged her parents to get her a cat. She’d made up stories, none of them with happy endings, about how the pair came to find themselves in their pitiable state. Now she limped over, took the picture down from the wall, and stuck it in the closet facing the wall.
The mattress of her trundle bed was adrift in Henry’s magazines: Rolling Stone with U2 on the cover, something called Spin with a sultry Madonna, Cycle World. Deirdre pushed them aside, unearthing Ollie, her teddy bear. The felt that had covered his paws and nose had long ago been worn away. She pressed Ollie to her face and let his sweet, woolly smell take her back to a time well before this nightmare. Her mother would have been running her a hot bath and asking if she wanted hot cocoa to help her sleep. The bed would have been made up with freshly laundered sheets instead of two naked pillows and a stained mattress cover.
Well, there was certainly no hot cocoa now. Shrugging off her old memories, Deirdre tossed Ollie into the closet where he could have a pity party with the waif and her kitten. She took a quick shower, made the bed, and got into it. Exhausted but wired, she opened the drawer in her bedside table, pulled out Arthur’s manuscript, and started to read where she’d left off.
The second chapter, titled “The Bronx Is Up,” recounted his childhood. He’d grown up, the youngest son of Russian immigrants, with four brothers, none of whom Deirdre had met. She skimmed the pages, through a life story told in anecdotes, many of which she’d heard Arthur tell more than once. She paused at the sound of the front door opening and dog claws scrabbling on the floor. Henry was back.
In the next chapter, “Helluva Town,” Arthur flunked out of college and landed in Manhattan, found work as an assistant stage manager and a shabby room with a shared bath in Hell’s Kitchen. Late nights, he hung out in Greenwich Village. Mornings he’d get up early and write plays.
Deirdre heard the front door open and close again, then the rumble of Henry’s motorcycle catching, revving, and roaring off. She wondered when he was planning to take Sy’s advice and get rid of anything that they wouldn’t want the police to find.
Deirdre yawned. She tried to continue reading but the words swam on the page. She slid the manuscript back in the folder and tucked it into her bedside drawer. Then she plumped up the pillows and lay back. The house was silent with the occasional comforting sounds of dogs lumbering about. She stared up at the ceiling. There was a water stain in the corner. Would she and Henry have to fix the roof and get the rooms painted? Right now she was too tired to care.