Things Hoped For Page 9

  A second of silence, then, “Did you say in the freezer? You sure about that?”

  “You can’t make a mistake about something like this, Daddy.”

  I hear the intercom buzzer at the front door.

  My dad says, “Well, I’m coming up there tonight if I can—tomorrow, for sure. Are you all right until then? Do you want me to call Uncle Hank for you?”

  “No, don’t do that, Daddy. I have a friend here who’s helping me. And I called Grampa’s lawyer, too. So I’m okay. I’ve got to go now, Daddy. The police are here. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Gwennie. And I’ll be there right away. And I’ll call. Here’s your mama again.”

  “Gwennie? Now don’t you be afraid. Everything’ll work out. You just tell everybody the truth, and then trust it all to God, you hear? You’re bein’ watched over, same as always.”

  “I know, Mama. Thank you. I have to go now. I’ll call back in a bit. I love you.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  I put the cell phone in my pocket, and the intercom buzzes again. And Robert and I walk out to open the door for the police.

  Except when I open the door, it’s not the police.

  chapter 13

  TOO MUCH

  Before I can react, Uncle Hank pushes past me into the front hall, brushes Robert aside and walks through the open parlor door.

  “Lawrence?”

  I’m inside now, and Uncle Hank’s in the study.

  “Robert! In here!” He follows me at a dead run into Grampa’s bedroom, and I slam the door and lock it.

  “Lawrence!” His big fist shakes the door in its frame. “Are you in there? Tell Gwennie to open the door. I need to talk to you, right now.”

  Robert and I have our shoulders against the door. And I can see Robert beginning to make his old man face, and he takes a breath: He’s about to start talking like Grampa again.

  So I poke him in the side, and I shout through the door. “Just go away. This isn’t a good time. So just leave.” Because in the back of my mind I guess I think I can keep Uncle Hank out of all this for another day or so. There’s already too much to deal with.

  Uncle Hank bangs the door again. “I want to see him. And who’s that kid in there with you? That your boyfriend or something? What’s going on around here, Gwennie? Open this door, or I’m going to give it a good kick and come in anyway.”

  “Hold it, mister! Police! Hands on the wall, and don’t turn around!”

  “What the—? Oh, great! Nice going, Gwennie. You had to go and be stupid and call the police.”

  I open the bedroom door, and there are two officers, both men, one with a hand on his pistol. The second officer has his left hand against Uncle Hank’s back, and he’s patting around with the other to check for weapons.

  It takes all my courage to speak. “I’m Gwendolyn Page. I’m the one who called 911.”

  The officer finishes with Uncle Hank and says, “What’s the yelling about?” And to me he says, “You know this man?”

  I nod. “He’s my uncle.”

  Still talking to me, he says, “And you live here?”

  I nod. “With my grampa. It’s his house.”

  Uncle Hank snarls, “And it’s my house too.”

  The second officer says to Hank, “Just keep it quiet unless someone asks you a question, okay?” Then to me he says, “And you’re the one reported the dead body, right? You want to show me now?”

  I nod at the officer, but I’m watching my uncle’s face. The anger drains away. Seconds later I’m looking at a different man, more like a boy. Somebody’s little brother. “Body?” he says. “What body?”

  Hank turns from the officer and locks eyes with me. “Gwennie? Is it . . . it’s Lawrence?”

  My eyes fill with tears, and I nod.

  The crumpled face, the pain in his eyes. And I cross Uncle Hank off the list of suspects. Because I believe his sadness and shock, believe it completely.

  The officer nods at Robert and asks me, “Who’s he?”

  “A friend of mine. He found it first . . . the body.”

  Uncle Hank moves to the couch and slumps into the cushions, face in his hands.

  “Okay, then,” the officer says. “Why don’t you two lead the way.”

  The next ninety minutes feel like a dream. After Robert and I show the policeman the freezer, he calls for an evidence team. Fingerprint dusting, dozens of photographs, a medical examiner from the coroner’s office, a body bag, an ambulance.

  Robert and Uncle Hank each spend about fifteen minutes in the study giving their statements to the man in charge, Detective Keenan. Jason the tenant shows up, and he gets questioned too. And a technician takes fingerprint samples from all of us, “for the process of suspect elimination,” he says.

  By the time it’s my turn to give a statement, Kenneth Grant arrives, and he comes into the study with me. I start with how I came home from my violin lesson on Thursday. I play Grampa’s message, and after it rewinds, the detective takes the whole answering machine and puts it into a plastic evidence bag. I tell the entire story, right up to calling Mr. Grant and the police and my parents, and then Uncle Hank pushing his way into the parlor.

  When I’m done, Mr. Grant says, “Detective Keenan, I’ve got some information that may or may not be important. Thursday was the last day my client was seen alive, and it was also the day he left a message on my office voice mail. He told me that an envelope was on its way to me, and he asked me not to open this envelope except in the event of his death. He also asked me to call on Friday and check to see if his granddaughter was all right, which I did.”

  “Where is it, this envelope?” It’s clear the detective doesn’t care much for lawyers.

  “In a safe at my office. I haven’t opened it. It’s registered mail.”

  “I’ll send an officer to get it.”

  The lawyer pauses. “Actually, since I am the addressee, the contents are privileged client information. And there’s nothing that automatically links this envelope to your case.” The detective stiffens, and Mr. Grant quickly adds, “But I want to cooperate in every way, so I’ll be happy to bring the envelope wherever you’d like me to, and I’ll open it in your presence. Then we can determine together if any of the contents are relevant.”

  The detective’s not completely happy, but he says, “Three P.M. tomorrow at the Twenty-fourth Precinct house—100th Street between Amsterdam and Columbus. We’ll have a probable cause of death by then.” Turning to me, the officer says, “I want you to be there, and your boyfriend too. And neither of you leaves the city until this is settled.”

  “Oh . . . he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Just tell him not to go anywhere, okay?”

  As quickly as the craziness began, it ends. The patrolmen, the technicians, the detective, Mr. Grant, Jason from the third floor—everyone just leaves. Uncle Hank too. He trudges away to find a cab, looking ten years older. In a matter of five minutes they’re gone, and it’s Robert and me sitting by ourselves in the parlor.

  It feels like a long time before either of us talks. Then Robert says, “I hate to mention it, but I’m still really hungry. You?”

  I nod. I hate to admit it too. It seems disrespectful to eat, to do something so normal right here in Grampa’s house, right where he’ll never be again.

  Then, for the first time, I understand why there’s always food after a funeral, at least in my family. Food and eating are all about life, about keeping up the strength to go on. And Grampa would want that. He truly would.

  I feel drained, but I get to my feet and move toward the kitchen. “How about a ham and cheddar omelette? Maybe with some mushrooms?”

  Robert smiles. “That’d be great.”

  I turn the corner and bend down to get the frying pan from the cabinet below the cooktop. And I hear, “If you don’t mind, I’d like an omelette as well. And some toast with jam. Sounds quite delicious.”

  It’s an almost perfect
British accent, and I know Robert means well, trying to lighten things up. But I’m not in the mood. So I say, “Please, no joking, not now.”

  “Awfully sorry—though I must say that merely requesting sustenance can hardly be construed as humour.”

  The idiot’s still being British, so I put my head around the corner. “I’m serious, Robert, not now.”

  Then I see his face. It’s chalky white, and Robert’s eyes are wide, locked, staring at the space in front of the fireplace. So I look there too.

  And there it is. Just like at the Nike store.

  It’s the shadow man.

  chapter 14

  UNINVITED

  Fear is an excellent cure for fatigue. It even dulls my grief. I’m instantly alert, looking at the vague, wavy shadow of an invisible person, a man, standing in the parlor.

  And then I remember what Robert said about being out in public: No clothes. There’s a naked man standing twenty feet away from me. A shiver grabes my spine and shoots all the way to my toes. I know I have legs and arms, but I can’t seem to move them. I’m paralyzed.

  Robert’s not much better. At least he can talk. And he can think too, because he begins looking wildly around the room, and he says, “What’s going on? Who’s that talking?” He’s pretending he doesn’t know what’s happening. And I don’t really understand why.

  The man chuckles. “Nice try, my good fellow. But you see, I heard you talking to the young lady on the subway this afternoon. It’s Gwen, and I assume that’s short for Gwendolyn, right? You were telling Gwendolyn about your experiences two years ago. So please, don’t pretend to be confused.”

  Robert adjusts instantly. His face is still pale, but in a conversational tone, he says, “How come you followed us?”

  “Curiosity, at first. I could tell you saw me. Which is nothing new. A person in my condition becomes sensitized to being noticed. This is at best a limited form of invisibility, and people are always catching glimpses of me.”

  “And how about dogs?” says Robert, and I can tell he’s pulled that question from his own experience, his own time in the same condition. And it strikes me that my two guests, one invited and the other not, have a link, a strange bond that I can only imagine. But I’m learning fast.

  The man laughs, and even his laughter has a British tone to it. “I have had to nearly throw myself in front of speeding taxicabs in order to avoid the teeth and claws of the city’s canine residents. I have never seen so many ill-mannered four-footed creatures in my life. And, frankly, the two-footed New Yorkers are not much better.

  “But getting back to your question, Robert: I followed you because you not only saw something—me—but you reacted in a way no one ever has before. You seemed to know what you were seeing. And when you began to practically run away, I knew I’d best investigate. I managed to catch up just as you got to Columbus Circle. I didn’t get to hear everything you said to Gwendolyn on the train—too many people about, and I had to keep retreating so as not to be trampled. But I heard enough to know that you and I should talk.

  “So why don’t we all sit at the table together? I often cook for myself, and I often nibble at some of the finest restaurants and delicatessens in the world. But a simple meal, cooked to order, is a luxury I’ve been craving for almost three years. Gwendolyn, are you planning to step over here and knock me senseless with that skillet, or may I prevail upon you to continue with your previously announced dinner preparations?”

  The direct address wakes me up. I look down, and I’m still holding the frying pan.

  “No, I’ll cook. Omelettes. I’m ready.”

  “Excellent.”

  And as I dig around for ingredients in the refrigerator, the man says, “So tell me about your experience, Robert. And please, leave nothing out. I’m certain I shall know if you try to hold anything back.”

  It’s the tone of his voice. Something unpleasant, almost threatening. I’m cracking eggs into a bowl, and from my position at the stovetop, I can see Robert on the couch, facing the fireplace. He gets this wonderfully simple look on his face and says, “Why would I hold anything back? Besides, there’s not that much to tell. I woke up one morning at my house in Chicago and I was invisible. And I was that way for almost a month. I stayed at home with my parents, and we kept it a secret. And then one morning I woke up, and I was back. I had some fun, and I missed a lot of school. And I learned more about what I want in life. Because that time changed the way I look at myself. And other people. But that’s about it.”

  So Robert’s holding back, telling as little as possible. I don’t blame him.

  The man makes a clucking sound, and I can imagine him shaking his head. “No, no, no—that’s far too simplified. I want details, young man, all the details. After a month in the shadow world, you went to bed invisible one night, and then you woke up normal again? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Robert nods his head. “That’s what happened. Was it different for you? I mean, like, at the start? And, who are you?”

  “Call me William, please. I was employed as a rather undistinguished assistant professor of English literature at a university some distance north of here. Three winters ago I awoke at four in the morning needing a drink of water, and I went to the kitchen in my flat and reached for a glass, and—no hand. No hand, no arm, nothing visible beneath my pyjamas. I had been divorced for two years, living on my own, writing literary criticism when not teaching. So, unlike you, I faced my predicament alone. And that night my former life came to an abrupt end. I simply disappeared, which I must say I found quite invigorating. Rather like being reborn. No debts, no more whining from my ex-wife, no more alimony or child-support payments—quite delightful.” He chuckles and then adds, “I even got to settle a few old scores at the university before I left.”

  Warning bells go off in my head, because I’ve never liked the kind of person who holds a grudge. And again, I feel a dark undercurrent—something almost cruel. Something dangerous.

  Robert has to be feeling the way I do, but he’s nodding, playing along. He says, “But now you want to get back to normal again.”

  The man pauses, considering Robert’s statement. “I would at least like the option. I’d like to know how this happened. Which is why you, young man, are of such intense interest to me. You see, being in this state has enabled me to develop a way to make quite a lot of money. However, at some point it would be good to become my former self so I can spend that money in more conventional ways than I’m currently able to. It does one little good to be stinking rich if one cannot purchase a villa in a sunny climate and then live at that villa without alarming the local population. A person who looks like me cannot speed about in an expensive motorcar without being covered with clothes from head to toe, and of course, that takes all the fun out of owning a convertible. So I’m keenly interested in how you returned to ordinary life.” He pauses, then adds, “And I think you are not telling me all you know about it.”

  With a look of confused innocence, Robert says, “There’s nothing more to tell. It’s not like I planned for it to happen, and I didn’t plan for it to stop, either. It happened, and then it stopped.”

  Robert may be the best actor I know. And now I understand exactly why he’s holding back like this. The goal is to say good-bye to this man as soon as possible. But what if he decides he wants to stick around? What happens then?

  I’ve got the first omelette almost ready, so I put two pieces of bread in the toaster. “William, do you want some orange juice with your omelette? Or milk? Or coffee? And what do you want on the toast? There’s orange marmalade, strawberry preserves, and grape jelly.” It’s strange to be talking to someone I can’t see, because the man isn’t in front of the mantel anymore, and it’s exactly like Robert told me: If you’re in that state, no one can see you unless you’re right up against another background.

  And when the man answers, I jump, because William’s just opposite me, right on the other side of the island where I’
m cooking. Close enough to reach across the stovetop and touch me. Another shiver.

  “Orange juice will be perfect, and strawberry preserves. No coffee, thanks. And you do not have to shout in my direction, Gwendolyn. I am presently invisible, but my hearing is unimpaired.”

  And the smile in the man’s voice tells me that he enjoyed seeing me jump.

  By the time the toaster pops, I’ve got three places set at the table, and then I serve the first meal. “All ready.”

  I’ve moved my daffodils, and I place William’s food on the table so he’s facing me as I cook the second omelette. I don’t want to miss anything. Robert can be matter-of-fact about this, but it’s all new to me, and I want to see—or not see—the whole magic act. And then I want this man to leave.

  I have to admit that mealtime is quite a show. The knife floats, slices off a tab of butter, and then spreads it onto the toast. The salt and pepper rise into the air and take turns shaking above the omelette. The juice glass goes up, tips, and the liquid seems to spill into midair and disappear. The fork is in almost constant motion, cutting, spearing, ferrying back and forth between plate and mouth.

  And I’m overcooking the second omelette.

  Robert’s at the table now, and between mouthfuls the man keeps talking. I wish he’d talk with his mouth open so I could see the food floating there before he swallows. But he has proper English table manners.

  “As I followed you here, I was hoping to walk indoors behind you so we’d have a quiet moment to begin our conversation. And then I saw that large man, Henry Carlton Page, as I recall the name, who began pounding on the door. You two made such a dash that I couldn’t slip into the house with you, and I had to stay outside for most of the afternoon. I didn’t think it wise to ring the bell.”

  Robert says, “Weren’t you freezing?”