“Sure. That would be great. I’m so sorry to intrude. And I really hope I didn’t wake you . . .”
I’m not sure if he hears me. He’s moving deeper into the house, and he turns on a lamp as he goes. It’s ornate, stained glass but doesn’t offer much light. It sits on a table that’s behind a couch. The couch is part of an arrangement of furniture forming a living room heavy with shelves and bric-a-brac. Figurines. Dozens of them. Easing a little closer, I can make them out — all manner of pigs.
Bleeker has disappeared down a hallway. Another light comes on, presumably in the bathroom. Stairs go up to a second floor. Directly to my left is a dining room, an elegant table with high-backed chairs. More shelves of knick-knacks (more pigs) surround it, but there’s also a double window overlooking the ocean. It must be cracked open, since the curtains are blowing.
The smell of sea air rides the intermittent breeze coming in, but it’s not enough to cut through the mildew. The place is gloomy. I imagine Tom Bishop coming here after his father’s death and his mother’s imprisonment. One day, he’s a happy boy in a normal life. The next he’s a witness to mariticide and shortly thereafter starts a new life with virtual strangers. At least, that’s the information I’ve been working with.
Bleeker comes shuffling back. Once again, he strikes me as frail. Unwell. He’s got a towel in his grip, and he’s staring at it like he’s perplexed. “I’m not sure what condition this is in,” he says, then hands it to me.
I hesitate. Condition?
Smiling sheepishly, he explains, “I didn’t want to give you one of the ones hanging in there. But Candace does the laundry. That one’s clean; it just might be a little mildewed. Tough here to keep things dry, living so close to the water.”
I wonder who Candace is — housekeeper? Daughter? — as I blot my face with the towel. It does smell a little musty, but there’s a fresh detergent scent beneath. I dry my hair, dab along my arms and bare legs. “Thank you so much.”
“I didn’t hear you,” he said. “I was in the back. I like to listen to music. We don’t . . . Alice took care of all of that. How to use these listening gadgets. We sold the old component system. I still have the record player, but no speakers for it, no amp. She got into playing music on the internet. Had some kind of hook up, and Candace has tried to show me. But I just use my phone.” He pulls it out of his pocket, ear buds still attached.
He looks at me with his dark, shining eyes. “Alice died. Two years ago.”
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Did you know her?”
“I . . . Can we sit down?”
“Of course, here, this way.”
He leads me to the living room, where I sit on the edge of the coffee table to keep the furniture dry. He takes the chair between two couches. There are pigs embroidered on the throw pillows. I give myself a little shake and focus on him.
“Mr. Bleeker, I was your nephew’s therapist once — very briefly.”
Bleeker’s mouth opens a little. A soft breath escapes him. For a moment, he just stares, unresponsive. “Oh . . . Dr. Lindman, you said?”
I nod. I’m fairly certain we never spoke before this, but he surely must’ve learned my name back then.
His brow creases with concern. “What brings you all the way here? Is Thomas all right?”
I place the towel in my lap. “Have you heard from him recently?”
“No. Not for a long time.”
“He just . . . left?”
“Well, you could say that. Thomas and Alice — my wife — they had a hard time getting along. He sort of . . . He left just after he turned eighteen.”
“I’m sorry to hear there was trouble. And then — did you correspond with him at all?”
Bleeker looks down at his enfolded hands. “No. Which was very hard. I wanted to reach out to him, but Alice got sick. We thought it was early onset dementia, but it was Alzheimer’s. It devastated us. Even her sister — Laura. They were very close. Both of them liked to collect things.” He studies the pigs a moment, finally concluding, “It was a terrible time, but at least it went quickly at the end.”
I tell Bleeker again how sorry I am. The gloom in this house is starting to feel like a living thing. I have the need to hurry along; I’m poking around where I don’t belong. I want to ask about Laura — I want to ask a lot of things, but I settle on what seems most prescient. “You call him Thomas,” I say. “Did you ever hear that he changed his name?”
“Changed his name?”
“Yes. First and last.”
“We changed his name. I adopted him and he was Thomas Bleeker . . .” Arnold Bleeker gets a worried look, a suspicion in his squint. “What’s this? Has something happened? I’ve tried for a couple of years to find him, but Laura didn’t know, and the Thomas Bleekers I can locate on the computer always turn out to be someone else.”
I raise my hands in peace. “I’m sorry, the last thing I want to do is alarm you. I have no reason to believe anything bad happened to your nephew. I’m here because a young man recently showed up in my life and he reminds me of him. Very much. But he said he was someone else. Michael Rand.”
That’s it. That’s what I rehearsed for an hour. Best, I decided, to stay simple. And as close to the truth as possible.
Bleeker’s scowl deepens. “He said he was who?”
“He called himself Michael Rand.” My next move is quick. “Mr. Bleeker, do you have any photo albums I could look through? Anything recent — before Tom left?”
But Bleeker makes no reply. Instead he just stares at me, one of his eyes twitchy. “What are you doing here?”
The question throws me for a moment. “I’m trying to confirm if the man I know as Michael Rand is your adopted son, Thomas, or if this is all just a big coincidence. If I’m staking way too much on the way I remember someone looking. I know it’s inappropriate, and I’m sorry. This situation just arose this morning and I’m . . . I’m just trying to sort things out so I can move on.” I smile, hoping for empathy.
Bleeker stays eye-locked on me. His Adam’s apple bobs with a dry swallow. Then he points. “You’re the one.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I told you that I’m . . .”
Bleeker stands, still pointing a crooked finger at me. His whole demeanor has changed; he’s now rigid and hostile. “You need to go.”
I stand too, slowly, cautiously, so as not to alarm him further. “Mr. Bleeker, I’m very sorry if I’ve upset you . . . As I told you, I was the psychologist who worked with Tom after his father’s death. Is that what you mean? I’m ‘the one?’”
Bleeker’s mouth quivers with emotion. He can barely get out the words. “It took me a minute, but I recognize you. And I remember what happened.” Bleeker suddenly straightens his spine and puffs his bony chest. “You need to get out right now. What is the reason for this? You want to check on me, see what I might remember? Just get out.”
“Sir — I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you. I don’t know what I’ve said or done that . . . If I could just leave my card, it has my number on it . . .”