"Cut it out," I said. "You know what you're doing? You're blaming the victim. You didn't do anything wrong. Some unprincipled son of a bitch"-Bernie by name, I thought-"stole something from you, and you think it's your fault. It's not. It's his."
"If the money hadn't been there-"
"But it was, and it had every right to be, and he had no right to take it. If you'd left it in plain sight on the kitchen table you could blame yourself, maybe, but you didn't. You put it in the freezer where he had no business looking, and he poked around and found it and took it. Barbara, it's really not your fault, and it certainly doesn't mean you're losing your grip on reality."
"I know," she said, and swallowed. "There's more."
"Oh?"
"When I got home this afternoon," she said, "I opened the freezer. Don't ask me why."
"Okay."
"No, I know why. I had the harebrained thought that maybe it would be there this time. So I opened the freezer."
"And?"
"And there it was."
Right where I'd left it the previous afternoon, while she was out on Long Island. "You're kidding," I said. "So it had been there all along, huh?"
"Bernie, I swear I took everything out of the freezer. Everything."
"Even the mastodon meat."
"Everything. I stood there looking into this completely empty compartment, and it even crossed my mind that it would be a good time to defrost it, but instead I put everything back. That money wasn't there, Bernie."
"Okay."
"Do you believe me?"
"Sure."
"And it's there now. Do you want to see it?"
"No, why would I want to see it?"
"So you'll know I'm not crazy. Except you'll know the opposite, that Iam crazy. Here, I want to show you. See? Do you want to count it?"
I put a hand on her arm to steady her. "Put it away," I urged.
"It comes to exactly twelve hundred and forty dollars. Are you sure you don't want to count it?"
"I'm positive."
"It must have been there all along. It couldn't go away and come back. But how could I have missed it?"
There were, I told her, any number of logical explanations. She challenged me to name one.
"The money could have dematerialized," I said. "Then it reappeared."
"Something like that could happen?"
"Who's to say it couldn't? Look at it this way, Barbara. If you hadn't checked yesterday, it could have dematerialized and reappeared without your knowing anything had happened."
"But things don't dematerialize. Nothing ever dematerialized before."
"I had a pint of Häagen-Dazs do just that once. It was gone, and I swear I didn't touch it."
"I'm serious."
"Well, don't be," I said. "I'll tell you what most likely happened. You were preoccupied and panicky when you looked for the money yesterday. It was there, and you took it out of the freezer along with the rest of the food, and it just didn't register that that's what it was. And when you put everything back, it was still just another Stouffer's TV dinner for all the notice you gave it. It was right in front of your eyes, but you didn't see it, and that happens all the time."
"And it's not a sign of Alzheimer's? Or a brain tumor?"
"Afraid not."
"I know you're right," she said. "That must be what happened. Although I sort of like your first theory, about dematerialization and all. Poof! It's gone. Poof! Poof! It's back."
"Ricky Jay does stuff like that all the time. It's just magic."
"Well, that explains it. You know what? I feel better now. Where should we eat?"
We ate at a French place, where she put away a big dish of cassoulet while I had the steak frites. We each had a dry Rob Roy first-I ordered one, and she thought it sounded like a good idea. We decided our dishes called for a robust red, and agreed on a Nuits St.-Georges that turned out to be a splendid choice. It may not have been the meal I'd envisioned in the imaginary weekend in Paris I'd suggested to Carolyn, but there was nothing wrong with it.
I grabbed the check, but she insisted we split it, and sounded as though she really meant it. She got out a credit card. I had plenty of cash, so I let her charge the whole thing and gave her my half in green.
She brandished the bills before putting them away. "I'm a little nervous," she said. "Are you sure they're not going to dematerialize on me?"
"Always a risk."
Back on 36th Street, she led the way up the two flights of stairs and had a little trouble getting the key into the uppermost lock.Let me, I might have said, and taken the keys from her, and unlocked the locks for her. But of course I didn't do that, and the key slipped in and the lock turned.
And she had no trouble at all getting the second key into the bottom lock. It went right in as if drawn by a magnet, or an irresistible impulse. But then it wouldn't turn.
"Damn," she said, and forced it, and of course it snapped in the lock.
"Oh, hell," she said. "Look what I did? Shit piss fuck. Pardon my Latvian, but what a stupid thing to do." She looked at the lock, looked at what was left of the key. "I don't believe this. We'll have to call a fucking locksmith. God fucking dammit."
A curious calm settled over me, though I'll be damned if I know why. I took hold of her shoulders, said "Easy, easy" with the certitude of a horse whisperer, and moved her gently to one side. I drew my tools from my pocket, selected a small pair of needlenose pliers of the finest German steel, and extracted the broken-off bit of key from where it was lodged. I presented it for inspection like a dentist with a drawn molar, dropped it into my outside breast pocket, and bent to the all too familiar task of opening her lock.
It didn't take long. When the door was open I straightened up and motioned her inside, but she stayed where she was, wide-eyed and openmouthed. "Come inside and sit down," I said. "There's something I have to tell you."
Thirty
A burglar," she said. "I never met a burglar before. But how can I say for certain? I wouldn't have known you were one if you hadn't told me."
"You must have had your suspicions when I opened your lock."
"I don't know what I thought. That this wasn't happening, that I really had lost my mind and I'd never be able to find it. Or that maybe you were just this incredible storybook hero, a man for all seasons able to cope with anything."
"What kind of hero hides under the bed?"
"A smart one. Is there really room under there? I've heard of women who always check the bed to see if there's a man under it. I thought it was a joke, but now just watch, I'll be doing it myself. What's the name of the drug he gave me?"
"Rohypnol. Roofies for short."
"The date-rape drug. What a bastard he must be. Pardon my Latvian, but what a motherfucking cocksucking shiteating cuntrag asswipe." She took a breath. "Whew! I got carried away there. Pardon my Latvian, or did I say that already?"
"You can say it all you want."
"I brought one stranger home with me, and there was another one already here. Suppose I'd come home alone. What would you have done?"
"Pretty much the same thing, when I missed my chance to get out the window. Incidentally, you're taking a big chance keeping it nailed shut like that. Suppose there's a fire?"
"There are two windows side by side."
"Right, and they're nailed shut."
"I bet I can tell you which one you tried."
"Only one's nailed shut? I'll be a ringtailed son of a bitch."
"It's a good thing you picked the one on the right, or you'd have gone out the window with all my good jewelry. How come you put it back, anyway?"
"Because I felt sorry for you. Because by the time he left and I got out from under the bed I felt as though I knew you, and I don't take things from people I know."
"You kept the money."
"Well, I didn't know you that well. And it was only money, it wasn't something personal like jewelry."
"My dad gave me the charm bracelet. He was a coin collector, and he'd add a coin for birthdays and other occasions, or just because he'd picked up something at a show. I never wear it because it looks dorky, but I'd hate to part with it. I probably ought to keep it in a safe-deposit box. It must be worth a few dollars."