Afraid things would fall apart, because they always do. Afraid it would all end badly, because it always does. And afraid, perhaps more than anything, that when all was said and done it would all turn out to have been my fault. Be-cause, somewhere down inside, somewhere deep in the blood and bone, I believe it always is.
I drank my milk and went home, and this time the doorman greeted me by name and gave me a big smile. (Remember Names and Faces! Let Your Smile Brighten the World!)
When I slipped into the bedroom Elaine stirred but did not awaken. I got into bed and lay alongside her in the darkness, feeling her warmth.
Sleep took me by surprise, and the next thing I knew I was dreaming that I was following a man and trying to catch a glimpse of his face. I tailed him over precarious catwalks and down endless staircases, and at last he turned, and he had a mirror for a face. When I sought a reflection in it, all that was shown to me was pure white light, blinding in its in-tensity. I wrenched myself awake, reached out to touch Elaine’s arm, and fell back asleep almost instantly.
When I awoke again it was nine o’clock and I was alone in the apartment. There was hot coffee in the kitchen. I had a cup, showered, dressed, and was pouring a second cup when she got back from the health club, announcing that it was a beautiful day outside. “Blue skies,” she said. “Canadian air. We give them acid rain, they give us fresh air and Leonard Cohen. What a deal.”
I called Lisa Holtzmann and hung up as usual when the machine answered. Elaine said, “Gimme. What’s her num-ber?” She dialed it and winced when Holtzmann’s message played. Then she said, “Lisa, this is Elaine Mardell, we had a class together last semester at Hunter. I should have called ages ago, and I’m terribly sorry for what you’ve had to go through. I’m sure you’re busy, but could you call me as soon as you get a chance? It’s sort of important, and—oh, hi, Lisa. Yes, well, I thought you might be monitoring the machine because Matt called you half a dozen times and got the ma-chine each time. He felt funny about leaving a message. Uh-huh. Sure.”
She asked some questions, said some traditionally sympa-thetic things. Then she said, “Well, why don’t I put Matt on? He’s right here. All right, and you and I’ll get together one of these days. Will you call me? Don’t forget. All right, hold on. Here’s Matt.”
I took the phone and said, “Matthew Scudder, Mrs. Holtz-mann. I’m very sorry to disturb you. If this is a bad time to talk—”
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “As a matter of fact—”
“Yes?”
“Actually, I was planning to call you, but I was putting it off. So I’m glad you called.”
“I wonder if I could see you.”
“When?”
“As soon as you’ve got the time available. Today, if that’s possible.”
“I have to meet someone for lunch,” she said. “And then I have appointments all afternoon.”
“How does tomorrow look?”
“I’m supposed to see someone from the insurance com-pany at two tomorrow afternoon, but I don’t know how long that will take. Uh, do you have any free time this evening? Or don’t you like to make appointments after business hours?”
“My work sets its own hours,” I said. “Tonight would be fine, if you’re sure it’s convenient for you.”
“It’s perfectly convenient. Nine o’clock? Or is that too late?”
“It’s fine. I’ll come to your place at nine, unless I hear otherwise. I’ll give you my number in case you have to can-cel.” I did, and added that she could call the hotel desk if she misplaced the number. “I’m at the Northwestern,” I said.
“Just down the street. Glenn told me a couple of times how he ran into you in the neighborhood. If you have to cancel, call and leave a message. I haven’t been picking up the phone until I know who it is. The kind of calls I’ve been getting—”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you? I couldn’t. Well. I’ll expect you at nine, Mr. Scudder. And thank you.”
I hung up and Elaine said, “I hope I wasn’t interfering. I just had this image of that poor girl sitting next to the phone, scared to pick it up because it might be another jerk calling from one of the supermarket tabloids. And I figured it wouldn’t be awkward for me to leave a message, and then when I spoke to her I could tell her to get in touch with you.”
“That was good thinking.”
“But maybe I should have asked you first.”
“You did fine. I’m going to be seeing her tonight.”
“Nine o’clock, you said.”
“Uh-huh. She said she’d been planning to call me.”
“She didn’t tell me that. What about, I wonder?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s one of the things I’ll have to find out.”
Chapter 12
I went back to my hotel and turned off Call Forwarding. There must be a way to do that from a distance, but I’ve never been able to manage it. I never would have had Call Forwarding in the first place, but it had been a gift from a couple of computer hackers who’d invaded the phone-company computer system on my behalf. While they were in there, they’d arranged for me to get Call Forwarding with-out having to pay the monthly service charge. They also gave me free long-distance service by routing my long-distance calls through Sprint without telling Sprint’s billing system about it. (When I raised ethical objections, they asked me if defrauding the phone company was really going to trouble my conscience. So far I’m forced to admit that it hasn’t.)
I caught a noon meeting at the Y on West Sixty-third. The speaker was celebrating his ninety days, which is the mini-mum amount of sober time you have to have before you can lead a meeting. He was pleased as unspiked punch to be sober, and his qualification was giddily buoyant. During the break the woman sitting beside me said, “I was like that. Then when I fell off my pink cloud it shook the earth.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m happy, joyous, and free,” she said. “What else?”
Afterward I bought coffee and a sandwich at a deli and picnicked on a bench in Central Park, breathing some of that Canadian air Elaine had spoken so highly of. I could think of things to do but they could wait, and probably ought to; most of them centered on Glenn Holtzmann, and it made sense to put them on Hold until I’d learned what his wife had to tell me.
I spent a couple of hours in the park. I walked up to the zoo and watched the bears. At the expanse called Strawberry Fields, I thought of John Lennon and figured out how old he would be, if a bullet hadn’t assured that he’d stay forty for-ever. If you could see the world from God’s perspective, I’d heard someone say once, you would realize that every life lasts precisely as long as it ought to, and that everything hap-pens as it should. But I can’t see the world, or anything else, from God’s perspective. When I try, all I get for my troubles is a stiff neck.