Woke Up Lonely A Novel

Bruce Bollinger: Whose features do not impress on their own but which, in the aggregate, give the impression of a man who’s verged on disillusion with everything that matters; he’s calling it quits any day. Henceforth: Verge Face.

DOB 9.4.62 SS# 202-64-1592

Bruce picked at a gristle of cheese welded to an oven mitt. He thought: Okay, Crystal, where are you? It’s Sunday, and I want to leave this house. I cannot babysit my wife. I love my wife, but today I can’t do it. How long before she starts crying? Has there ever been a wife who cries more than mine? If Crystal ever gets here, there will be no crying.

He put his ear to the bedroom door. Rita was crying. And calling his name. He tiptoed to the kitchen and crouched behind the fridge. She called again. In doing so, she dwelled on the ew of Bruce so that his name toured the house until it found him. During their early courtship, this had been hot, the melody of the call a G–E progression that generally meant Come here, lover boy. Now, the progression reversed, it meant simply Come here, shithead.

Why? Because she was pregnant and it was not going well. Her uterus was loose, the upshot being four months in bed. One hundred twenty days. She’d only just started, and it was torture. As much for him as her. Just now, she’d dropped the TV remote. What did bed rest mean, exactly? Would she actually lose the baby from picking the remote off the floor? The baby would fall out? Why was it okay to walk to the bathroom? Here was an idea: maybe she could grab the remote on her way.

“Bruce!”

He checked his watch. He’d never taken interest in Rita’s friends until now. Now they marched in one after the other, bearing casseroles and pie. He and Rita were putting on weight at the same pace. Only Rita was not experiencing the same gastrointestinal distress. He wondered at her resilience. A hormonal thing? To mention it seemed ill advised, but since Bruce frequently departed from his better sense, he let it be known he envied her. To which: You envy me? Get out. And close the door behind you.

He’d been sleeping on the couch. Pregnancy can strain a marriage. A bad pregnancy can test your vows. Crystal was the day’s rescue. She was half an hour late.

He turned on the video camera and stormed the bedroom.

“Turn that thing off,” Rita said. “You know I hate that thing. I look awful.”

“You’ll be glad for it later. Trust me.”

She pulled the covers over her head. He deposited the camera on the floor. He’d been filming her pregnancy in snatches—when she wasn’t looking, as she slept—because his son’s ratcheting to life was too precious to ignore. Also, the tedium and stress of her venture were moving. Humane. An easy pregnancy would have been great, preferable to be sure, but without emotional content. At least not the kind Bruce was always wanting to capture on film. Normal people drafting their lives, and getting it wrong each time. Reality TV moved him to tears.

He picked up the remote and got in bed. Hand on her belly, he imagined the life inside. A little boy, ready to stretch and grow and case the joint.

She blew at her bangs. He loved that she still wore bangs. Blond and wispy.

“Just look at my fingers,” she said, and she began to cry.

They were swollen. At this rate, her wedding ring would have to be cut off. No way was it sliding over her knuckle. Look at that knuckle!

“It’s okay, baby. You get skinny fingers from changing diapers. I read that somewhere.”

She thwumped him in the chest with a felt sack of herbs, because she had opinions about karma, chief among them that good karma could be bought for the price of a sack of herbs.

“That stuff reeks,” he said. “Junior’s probably getting high and loving it. No, no, wait, I was just kidding, don’t cry again. I was just kidding! I’m sure the herbs and candles and quilt and rock fountain are all doing their job. Come on, honey, let’s see what’s on TV.”

“I’m trying to read,” she said. “You took so long for the remote, I decided to read instead. It relaxes me.”

He laughed. In the last few months, his wife had taken an interest in political philosophy. She was, perhaps, having an identity crisis hastened by the onslaught of progeny who tend to ask questions like: Do I have a penis? Does God exist? What is a libertarian? Rita did not know her leanings because she did not know what any of the parties stood for.

Today’s text was Carl Oglesby and his speech at the March on Washington in ’65.

“This is relaxing?” Bruce said. He skimmed the flap copy to see who the hell Carl Oglesby was.

“It’s edifying,” she said. “I want to know things for when the baby comes.”

“I hardly think he’ll be asking you about Carl Oglesby. At least not before age two.”

She closed the book. He tried to free the remote from her hand, but she resisted. This was her kingdom, the bedroom TV; no way was she ceding control to him. She began with channel 2 and went from there.

“Seen it,” he said of the vampire drama in syndication on three channels.

“How do you know? It’s a commercial.”

“I’ve seen them all.”

“Where do you find the time?”

“Such is the burden of the unemployed. What do you think I did all day while you were at work?”

“I don’t know, look for a job?”

This was not a pleasant topic. He was on thin ice. Before the Department of the Interior, he’d been unemployed for six months. The only career he wanted was one, if his track record was any kind of litmus, he had zero chance of getting. Errol Morris. Ken Burns. Michael Moore. They sucked. You know who didn’t suck? Or who might not suck if given the chance? Or who, if he sucked, would kill himself? Bruce. Bruce Bollinger, who sounded just imperious enough on the phone to get through to some producer who would shut him down immediately. Something like: Oh, Bruce Bollinger who wants production money, funding, yes, yes, a very important film, life changing, I see, sounds great. No.

Bruce kept a notebook in his bag at all times. In it were sayings of spiritual value. A documentarian walks among the living, though he himself is dead.

He used to refer to that one a lot; it helped with his day jobs. Working on set for TV shows imported from abroad and dubbed to fit. His last: chess-playing families who enacted their moves on a battlefield. His job? Cue the rooks!

After that, he seemed to catch sight, wherever he went, of a new television show on which contestants ate worms for money. Worms, millipedes, ants. In general, he tried to restrict his TV intake to offerings that did not question God’s wisdom in peopling the world with such as us, but sometimes stuff happens. The show had been on at the gym, on a screen right above the only elliptical trainer left. It was on at Best Buy, where he’d gone to peruse gadgets he could not afford. So there he was, eyeing the cameras, just him and the bug show that grossed millions. Where was the human side of this show? The intrigue? Every competition needed intrigue.

Thus: an idea. A show in which there were, okay, trials of fortitude, though these would hardly be the point. Say the show was called Trial by Liar. Say you had one person who knew what the trial was but could lie about it, and another person who had to guess. Lying or not? The show would be about people having to figure each other out. They might live together for a week to this end. It could be moving. It could be a documentary series in the guise of something just stupid enough to sell. The Helix was out there doing basically the same thing, so why not Bruce?

He spent three days drafting the proposal and first few episodes. Meetings were set. He flew to L.A. the next day. Chop, chop, Bruce. And when Rita said: What’s the rush? he went: Chop, chop, Rita. He had five minutes before the networks lost interest or stole the project.

She said, “But you’ve been down this road before. Fly out there like a slave, get feted for a day, and then six months later no one has gotten back to you, yea or nay.”

He was throwing socks in a duffel. “You need faith, Rita. This business is not for quitters.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but don’t cry on my shoulder when it falls to pieces.”

He stood with boxers in hand. Said, “And the Oscar for best supporting wife goes to . . .”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

He got to L.A., had his meetings, and it was exactly as Rita had said. Two months waiting by the phone and then an email from his agent: Sorry, but no.

A documentarian drinks to excess.

Bruce managed to keep the information to himself for two days before Rita broke him down. To her credit, she did not say I told you so, just held his hand and said there would be other opportunities.

A month later, watching a movie about boarding-school kids and their nasty parents, he heard tell of the carpe diem spirit, which he took to mean: for the sake of Trial by Liar, you should collateral your house and take out a loan. He’d already promised Rita that, no matter what, he would not gamble to finance his projects. She thought he had a gambling problem, which he didn’t, though if he did, she got the idea from that one time at Atlantic City. On their honeymoon. She’d gone from slot to slot, betting nickels and dimes. He had nibbled her ear. They had pulled the handles together. He had just started prep on a film about people who fake their own deaths to escape the law. She’d thought it was a great idea. He’d needed to raise about $30 K. He had 2. They’d talked and laughed and she’d leaned over his shoulder at blackjack and it was romantic and it was fun. Fun until it wasn’t. By night’s end, he was out nine thousand dollars, and she was online, ordering books that promised to attenuate addiction. It was impossible to pair these words—attenuate, addiction—but the books said otherwise. They said his problem, though he did not have a problem, was surmountable. But what did they know? His problem, if you could call it that, was that he just wasn’t very lucky. He never gambled without a project that needed funding in mind. That he always had a project was beside the point.

Was a loan gambling? Only if you weren’t 100 percent sure you’d pay it back on time. So, no: not gambling. Trial by Liar was going to make it. He went to the bank, and the rest was easy: a deal with a cable station that broadcast only to the East Coast but was seen in a million homes. As for Rita, she was on a need-to-know basis; that was what a good marriage was about. He’d make the money back and use the profits to buy her peridot earrings.

The show attracted notice. It was raw and depressing. Some of the people were crazy. Others were violent. There were fights and tears. And for Bruce: vindication. He was not making money, not yet, but he was pleased. There was room in the canon of documentary filmmaking for work such as this. Unhappy people engaged in the venture of character assessment, which is a venture of love.

In the meantime, though, he was running out of capital. The major networks had not called. Pepsi had not called. The interest rate on his loan was awesome, and his wife wanted a baby.

Many nights over dinner he’d say the finances were prohibitive, to which she’d say: Oh come on, and woo him to bed. Which was, in the end, just fine. Those times together ranked as some of the best of their marriage, Rita being of the idea that the more explosive his orgasm, the smarter his sperm would be. She tried hard. She tried everything.

Bruce, for his part, enjoyed what he could and sabotaged the rest. He’d been working with a laptop poised hotly on his groin. He’d started wearing briefs a size too small. And with each passing month, he began to think his efforts were paying off. That, or there was something amiss on her end. Never mind. Their sex was great, she was not getting pregnant, he was safe.

But not for long, because Rita decided to do what most women her age do: make appointments, get tests.

The show got canceled. Bruce was paid to give a few talks about underground programming and used the fees to bankroll an online gambling bender that cost him one of two savings bonds, the other of which he used to shred his debt, which, it turned out, was impossible. There would be no money for a college fund or life insurance. There’d be no money for a crib. But still he said nothing. He spent his days in the park and came home to his wife stabbing herself in the gut with hormones. She braved the drugs and procedures and shots, and so there was just no telling her what he had done.

The day she got pregnant was etched in his mind as the most confusing of his life. The panic was incredible. The joy unbridled. The effort it took to hide the panic almost life threatening. The ease with which he took her in his arms and squeezed: wonderful. They were having a baby! He threw up in the bathroom. He had sworn never to tell her about the gambling and the loan, and then he told her everything. This meant the day she got pregnant became the most confusing of her life, too. Could she still trust her husband? Did she still love her husband? She was so angry, she threw up in the bathroom. He would have to get a job. Any job in any field. She’d take on extra work until maternity leave. They’d fire the cleaning lady and cut out the luxuries. It all seemed reasonable, and he swore to do exactly as told. But a job in any field? Was he supposed to janitor just because he was creative and creativity did not pay? Was he being punished for wanting more than the next guy? No, he was being punished for ruining their life. He promised to look for work the next day.

He cruised the job sites online. He uploaded his résumé and met the relevant parties and tried to be agreeable, though it never occurred to him actually to work in these places. A job in HR at a pharmaceutical company? A super for Curtis Building Management? Come on, he was a show runner! In most cases, he was not offered work, anyway, which was fine. He could say he tried and spend another day watching the vampire slayer on TV.

The weeks passed. Rita would spot blood and cramp and spot some more. Spotting, gushing. Something was wrong. On the day she went to the hospital for surgery and was prescribed bed rest, Bruce was offered a position with the phone company, customer service. Only such was his rush to refuse the job, he’d forgotten to wipe the answering machine before Rita got home. They spoke for a while on the couch. She wasn’t feeling well. And she was worried. They’d consolidated their debt and cut way back, but to minimal effect. They weren’t saving money. And the baby was due in less than five months. She’d had her head on his shoulder when she noticed the 1 on the answering machine and went for it. Bruce did nothing. It was like watching a bottle of wine roll off the table. Not enough wherewithal to stop it but full knowledge that here was a disaster.

They fought. She hemorrhaged. Two weeks later, the phone rang. “This is the Department of the Interior,” said some strange woman who seemed to know a lot about him, followed by a job offer and signing bonus. To do what, exactly? Footage consultant. Had he applied for a job there? He couldn’t remember. Never mind, there was no arguing at dinner, no discussion. Bruce simply accepted the job and started work.

“Can I have the remote now?” he said.

“No.”

They’d been watching Les Misérables on pay per view. She said, “You know, most of the radicals in this country are fixated on their commitment to revolution way more than on the revolution itself. They don’t want to succeed. Because if they did, they couldn’t be radicals anymore, and a radical is most interested in his sense of being a radical.”

He shifted to his side. “See, this is why you need to stop with all that reading. It’s making you sound like a crank. Where do you get these ideas?”

“Just look around.”

“I am. And what I see is a middle-class couple watching Les Mis on a Sleep Number bed.”

“Crystal could probably put what I said better, anyway.”

“Oh, so this is Crystal talking. I’d like to meet this fount of conservatism.”

“She’s not conservative. She’s Helix. A level-headed reformist.”

“Aha.”

“Get me that brush while you’re up?” she said.

It was on her nightstand. He tossed it her way. “Anything else?”

“It’s snowing out. I bet Crystal’s not going to make it.”

His heart sank. Crystal, do not do this to me! The doorbell rang. And rang again, because he was so busy lamenting the afternoon ahead, he didn’t hear it.

“Want to get that?” Rita said.

He made for the door. A young woman with a canvas bike bag and a box of chocolate peppermint bark. Eighteen years old. Twenty, tops. “Yes?” he said.

“I’m here for Rita. You must be Bruce.”

She wore a hat with a yarn pom-pom dusted in snow. The cuffs of her jeans were soggy.

“You’re Crystal?”

“The very one.”

She took off her boots in the doorway. They were shag Inuit boots with tassels and incongruous rubber soles. She took off her gloves, coat, scarf, and sweater, and piled them on the radiator. She’d looked much bigger a second ago.

“My wife’s in the bedroom,” he said. “Follow me.”

“I know the way.”

She trotted down the hall: guess she’d been here before.

He decided to make nice. Brew some tea, make a tray of chocolate and whatever else was in the fridge.

Crystal had pulled up an armchair and rested her feet on the mattress. Awfully chummy, these two. Her socks were penguins on the beach. Rita had put on her glasses, which she never did in company. They were giant. Brown and plastic, and hitched to a chain around her neck. She was reading out loud. Bruce leaned against the door frame and waited.

Crystal put up her hand as if to say: Not in front of the husband.

But Rita shrugged it off. “He’s fine,” she said, and she kept going:

As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

Rita looked over her glasses at Crystal, who said, “So what do you think? We’re passing them out at the meeting today.”

“I think it’s good. It’s got moral authority.”

Bruce cleared his throat, wanting to jump in.

“You think?” Crystal said. “Because we haven’t gotten input from HQ. Not yet, anyway. Thurlow’s a busy man.”

Rita nodded. She’d read every speech Thurlow Dan had given, and none had actually mentioned interest in the travesty helming the government or that he thought the political strife of 2000 had turned into a bald divide no country could sustain, so revolt. But still, the message was there. Implicitly. Loud and implicit. Revolt!

“We were going for a certain tone,” Crystal said. “Like, you sort of want to call up the language of back then but not the substance.”

“Exactly,” Rita said. “Because if anything, the Confederates have all the power now. Total role reversal.”

Bruce cleared his throat again. And when they continued to ignore him, he said, “Uh, there are no Confederates anymore.”

Crystal returned her feet to the floor so she could one-eighty and regard the idiot by the door. Rita gazed at him from above the rim of her glasses. Their faces were the essence of pity.

“What?” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Crystal said, “Okay, but surely you’ve got a problem with what’s happening. Everyone with a brain has a problem with it. This government represents only half, half, of Americans. And the wrong half at that. You call that a union? It’s time we found each other. Started something new.”

As she spoke, her hair began to take on an unruly look. Static, perhaps. Or sympathetic arousal. Maybe her skin was on fire. She was so young.

“I thought the Helix was more of a therapy thing,” he said.

Crystal sighed as though to say: Who has time for this.

“Well,” he went on. “I’m apolitical, anyway. I choose not to get involved. Do I have opinions? Of course. Do they matter? No.”

“Gross,” Crystal said, and she looked at Rita, like, How was Rita married to this oaf?

“You have to know that pamphlet sounds like some ridiculous secession manifesto,” he said. “Are you in a club or something? High school play?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Rita. “Crystal is my new assistant. I told you.”

She told him? Really? “Oh, right,” he said. “When did you start?”

“Couple weeks. But I feel at home already. Lucky to have been assigned to Rita. We get along famously.”

She turned to Rita. “So, you ready? Meeting starts in about an hour. I got a car outside. And there’s plenty of couches, so you can lie down the whole time.”

“You bet,” said Rita. And, to Bruce, “Honey, get me my coat?”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “You can’t go out. What are you doing? You won’t even pick a sock off the floor, and you’re going to some silly model congress with lounge furniture?”

“Since Rita’s vouching for you, you’re welcome to come,” Crystal said. “The more the merrier. Strength in numbers.”

She bent over to pick up her bag, brimming with propaganda. On the small of her back was a tattoo. A blue double helix.

“Rita,” he said. “This really isn’t a good idea. You don’t even know these people.”

“Oh, come on. You heard Crystal: There’s couches. Now help me up. Slowly. God.”

He put on his coat. Grabbed his video camera. He was not going to let Crystal the levelheaded reformist take off with his wife of no sense.

They made it down the hall and into the mudroom, Rita availing herself of techniques used to prevent a pee, should one have to pee en route to a place where peeing is welcome. She was also cupping her vulva, but this was a different matter.

Outside, Crystal’s vehicle came to life. It was a Hummer, with side wheels mounted on the curb.

“Mind if I drive?” Bruce said.

“Normally, no. But it’s my godmom’s car. Don’t worry.”

It was a box. Pewter and black. Silliest vehicle ever. On the plus side, it had reclining seats and a DVD player, which meant Bruce could live in this Hummer without complaint.

“So where are we going?” he said.

“My godmother’s. She’s got a huge basement with a separate entrance. She thinks I have parties down there.”

“Is she sympathetic?” Rita said. “To the cause?”

Bruce, who was sitting in the back, popped his head between the front seats. “Let me get this straight: we have a cause?” He was clutching their headrests and pulling.

Crystal turned to Rita. “You sure he’s okay? I don’t mean for this to be rude—he’s your husband—but there’s a lot of us who can’t include our significant others. It’s not even about priorities, putting the Helix above your husband; it’s just about keeping everyone safe.”

Bruce said, “Just to play along here for a second, your saying all that in front of me sort of undoes the point of excluding me.”

But Crystal just looked at Rita, who said, “I promise he’s fine. I just haven’t had a chance to fill him in.”

“Because you’ve been so busy,” he said.

He sat back in his seat. The windows were tinted; the world was grim. Crystal caught his eye in the rearview, smiled, and seemed to say with her smile, We could f*ck but it wouldn’t be worth it.

They drove down to D.C. and through a residential neighborhood. Eventually, they turned off and down an inlet that meandered for several miles before pooling in a cul-de-sac. Crystal parked and said, “Voilà.” She jumped out of the truck—it was so high off the ground, you actually had to jump—and opened the rear door.

“Give me a hand, Bruce?”

He went around back. “I don’t even know where we are.”

The land was barren. Plaqued with ice. The only disturbance to the snow was a set of tracks that wandered off into a copse several hundred feet away. He thought he could make out a hedge, but it was too far to tell for sure.

“What’s this for?” he said, and he helped Crystal with a plastic sled. It was shaped like a bathtub, though it was half as deep.

“Rita, of course. How else we gonna get her there?”

He thought she was kidding and laughed.

“Clever,” said Rita, eyeing the sled. “You do think of everything.”

She lowered herself into the well. Crystal gave her a Burberry throw and said, “Okay, Bruce, we’re going to walk in single file. We’ll make like sled dogs—you’ve seen them on TV. Oh, and try to keep to the footprints that are already here.”

“Why?”

“It helps to make it look like there aren’t so many of us.”

He looked at the prints. “You’re saying more than one person has come through here?”

She squinted, did some math. “About fifty, I’m guessing. Let’s go.”

He took hold of one of the ropes and secured it over his shoulder. He looked back at Rita, who had pulled the blanket up to her chin. With her hat brought low, her bangs pressed into her forehead and eyes.

“Ready?” Crystal said.

“Hang on.” He ran back and tucked Rita’s hair behind each ear. She was adorable, his wife. All snug and pregnant in a sled.

They started off. It was slow going, having to stick to the prints. The steps were spaced so tight, he tangled in his own pants.

“Mush!” cried Rita. She untied her scarf and lashed his back. “Mush!” She was laughing. He fell down.

Crystal stopped. “Okay, guys, this is all very nice, love in the snow and all, but I’ve got a meeting to run. Can we pick up the pace a little?”

Bruce said, “Where the hell are we going? There’s nothing out here.”

“Course there is. Just up ahead.”

He realized they were making straight for the hedges, which were twenty feet tall, at least. You didn’t see hedges like these in D.C. These hedges were pledged in the defense of hearth and home. Like Beverly Hills or Bel Air.

Bruce whistled. “Holy cow, look at the size of this place.”

They had passed through a gap in the bushes and were on a path flanked by stone walls on which yew and juniper sat in pots three feet high. It was an arcade, almost. You couldn’t see the sky.

The lane egressed into a patio framed with garden chairs stacked by the dozen. The patio had just been shoveled and gave the impression that there were such festivities here as to accommodate hundreds without inconvenience. Beyond the patio was a porch in balustrade—all limestone, very old—and behind that a manor home the size of the Capitol. Twenty thousand square feet, at least.

Crystal said, “Wait here,” and she ran around the side of the house.

Bruce squatted. He took Rita’s two hands in his and blew.

“Crystal lives here?” he said.

“Her godmother.”

“Her godmother is God?”

“I guess so.”

“And Crystal’s working for you why, exactly? I bet whatever’s in there sells for more than we make a year. Combined.”

“You steal anything and we are through.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Crystal reappeared with six men in tow. Men in bomber jackets and bomber hats. Matching Timberlands. They looked like a boy-band militia.

Crystal motioned to Rita and the sled. “Now, be careful. Three of you on each side.”

They did as told and lifted. Like pallbearers. Rita went up five feet. “I don’t like this!” she said, and she covered her face.

The men walked in step. Bruce felt in his pocket for his video camera. He wished he had brought a second battery. The crappy battery life on this camera was reprisal for his having read six reviews of the product in which crappy battery life was the main complaint, only Bruce had wanted the camera, this camera, because it was password protected. It was the only camera he knew of that could safeguard his work from the nosing of a certain wife, who had every right, at this point, to nose through whatever she liked.

The men whisked Rita through the side door, followed by Crystal, who stopped to say something to a security guard, himself secure behind a receiving desk in a booth. Bruce lingered by the entrance, marveling at the grounds. Twenty acres? Sixty? By the time he went inside, Crystal was gone. Rita too.

He asked the guard for directions.

“Driver’s license, please. Arms out, please.”

Bruce was getting frisked. “This is totally over the top, don’t you think?” The frisking continued. And a search through his bag. “What the hell?” Bruce said. “You better have the president in there for me to be going through all this. Hey, if you all are so by the book, why wasn’t my wife patted down? You think a pregnant woman in a sled can’t blow up a house? Maybe she’s got a bomb under the blanket—ever think of that?”

“She has security clearance.”

“Security clearance,” Bruce said. And thought: So maybe Crystal’s godmom really is God.

The guard was unpacking his bag. Bruce always traveled with this bag, so it was complete with items unsuited to today’s excursion but handy in a pinch. Tums. A hank of rope. Pajamas.

The guard said, “I might as well confiscate the whole thing until you leave. Unless you want to walk around with an empty bag.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. He’d had the foresight, or luck, to have put his video camera in the inside pocket of his jacket—a great big poofy jacket—which had somehow escaped the security guard. He was going to count his blessings and move on. “But, just out of curiosity, what’s the danger in pajamas?”

“Your receipt,” said the guard. “And here is one for the camera. Electronics are logged separately.”

Bruce dove into his pocket, but the camera was gone.

He stared into the booth. At the monitors along the wall. Each was split into quadrants and each quad appeared to broadcast from a different room. Five monitors, twenty rooms and scenes, among them an overhead view of an auditorium jammed with people, at least two hundred, and, in a clearing by the wall, his wife on a cerise banquette, sipping juice.

“Meeting’s that way, sir,” said the guard.

Bruce walked down the hall. It was paneled in wood, and underfoot were carpet runners in royal blue with sangria trim. He kept walking but found no meeting, just doors that were locked, except for one, which was ajar. He peered inside and listened. Listened hard, heard nothing. How could this building assimilate the noise of two hundred? It was all limestone and brick. In places like this, men were eviscerated on the rack, and their screams were heard for miles.

“Hello?” he said. And then louder, because in this parlor was a cup of tea, steaming; a half-eaten red velvet cupcake; and a cigarette butt smoldering in an ashtray. “Anyone here?”

He stepped inside and nearly upset a cart of desserts. Éclairs, profiteroles, soufflés. Poppy-seed cake and tiramisu. He eyed the spread and felt it narrated something of his future, like he’d snatch a dessert and indenture himself to the fabled witch of the house. He stepped away from the cart. Gingerly. Touch nothing. The cigarette smoke nested in his eyes. He put out the butt and spun around.

“Jesus,” he said, and he brought his hand to his chest. “You scared me to death.”

“My apologies, sir.”

It was not the guard but a man in a tailcoat—a butler, it seemed—whose sir was of a different caliber altogether.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. I’m probably not supposed to be here anyway.”

“Mrs. Anderson will be in shortly. She asks that you make yourself at home and enjoy a pastry.”

“That’s very nice, but I’m just here for—”

He paused, recalling what Crystal had said about her godmother. How much she knew. Whatever they were doing, however ridiculous, he didn’t want to blow it. Rita would get in trouble; Crystal would be mad; they’d all look at him funny in homeroom. He threw up his hands.

“For the party?” the butler said.

“Yes.”

“Very well. I will tell Mrs. Anderson that you do not wish to see her.”

“Wait, don’t do that. I mean, who? Never mind. I’ll just have this custard thing here. And a brandy, if you got any. I can wait for a bit.”

He sat down in a chair that was probably a hundred years old. Victorian, maybe. Blue velveteen, cream frame, crimped seat and back. He bit into the pie. It was an individual serving, the size of his palm. He’d wanted to shove the thing in his mouth whole, but that was always when the lady of the house walked in. Wow, this custard was good. Smooth and light. He decided to sample the strawberry cheesecake puff. And a few truffles, because they were exotic; it said so on the labels, scrawled in cursive. Like someone in the kitchen had taken the time to write in this elaborate hand the names of each truffle. Mint julep. Pepper vodka. Ceylon.

The butler returned with a brandy snifter and bottle. He was everything a butler should be. He was even bent at the waist. Ten years from now, he’d be an L.

“Care to join me?” Bruce said. “There’s clearly enough for two.”

A documentarian needs people.

The butler demurred.

“Some other time, then,” Bruce said.

He crossed his legs. His fingers were sticky. He had slept but three hours the night before—the couch was a muddle of lump and trough—and the sugar was romping about his blood like it owned the place. He went: Okay, Bruce, let’s think this out. Mrs. Anderson, lady of the house and Crystal’s godmother, was partaking of afternoon tea and dessert when she heard you in the hall. She is a pale, recondite woman who consorts only with her godchild, the butler, and, perhaps, the executor of her estate. Most of all, she does not appreciate a certain genre of man, call him stranger, a stranger documentarian who needs people.

The butler came in. Bruce asked for another brandy.

“Shall I just leave you the bottle?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Mrs. Anderson,” the butler announced.

Bruce stood. Crumbs tumbled down his thighs. She put out her hand. She was what—four foot nine? He tried not to stoop, but it was impossible.

“Sit,” she said. “Please.”

“Mrs. Anderson, it’s an honor. You have a magnificent home.”

“Call me Lynne. And thank you.”

She settled under a lamp whose glow helped define the cut of her face. Very narrow. Unnaturally so. A face between cymbals after the clap.

“I see you’ve sampled some of our pastries. The head chef is a specialist.”

“They were great, yeah. Look, I’m sorry if I chased you out before. I didn’t mean to intrude. I think I got lost!”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Bollinger. More brandy?”

She was so small, the rest of the room began to stand up in contrast. Walls were cream, moldings were buff. No windows, much art. Giant amphora depicting the plight of Agamemnon.

“I’d love some, yes.” He was drinking heavily now, except for the face-saving caveat that, unless you were Samuel Johnson, brandy was not drink. Brandy, Armagnac really, was just fancy after-dinner wine.

She poured with grace. Three-quarter sniff for him, half a smidge for her. She wore a red turtleneck and brown flats. The effect was to condense her frame in obvious defiance of what God had given her to work with. Think I’m small now? Think my calves are compressed and bloated in a way that’s hardly possible in nature? Well, I can do worse. And frankly, what did she care. She lived in a mansion. She had minions. And if her goddaughter’s appearance was any kind of bellwether, she had very attractive friends.

He held up his snifter and regarded the liquid inside. Such an odd vessel for drink.

She fussed with the string around her neck that attached to a stainless steel dog whistle. “Look over there,” she said. As he did, a wall packed with framed impasto art broke in half like a curtain at show-time. The reveal was a console of monitors similar to that in the security guard’s booth. Here, though, no expense had been spared for the quality of the picture. It was closed-circuit viewing in HD.

“Surprised?” she said.

He was not.

“Good. It gets lonely out here sometimes. Crystal has so many friends; I like to participate in some measure.”

The whistle was in fact a laser pointer, which she trained on the first monitor: a man in a button-down with chest hair sprouting from the collar, sitting next to Rita on what had become for Bruce, in the past minute, a symbol of all things coveted but unattainable—the cerise banquette with claw-feet. Monitor two, of considerably less cause for distress: Crystal and the militia kids distributing literature. Three: a king-sized bed with canopy, rippled valance, and stuffed green platypus atop the duvet.

“Looks like a nice party,” Bruce said, and he drained the last of his brandy. “I should probably get a move on. A move seems like a good idea.”

His tongue felt swollen. Unwieldy too. Enunciation would fail him in about three minutes.

“I get sound, too,” she said. “Want to hear?”

Bruce thinking: This Howard Hughes thing is weird, and I want to find Rita. Bruce saying: “Okay, and just another pinch before I go.”

He returned his glass to a side table.

“Volume two,” she said in a voice reserved for the commanding of equipment. “Volume two,” she said in a voice reserved for when your equipment does not work. “Martin!” she yelled.

The butler appeared with tray in hand. It occurred to Bruce that he had never seen a butler in person. “Fix the sound, would you?”

He nodded. Disappeared behind the console. Smacked the thing, which released Crystal’s voice in stereo. Crystal haranguing a woman with a gold bone through her nose and spikes implanted in her skull. A metal headband.

Crystal was saying, “The helix goes on the small of your back, not your hip. The sacrum is a place of power. Whatever you put there is a guiding principle. If you tattoo it on your hip, it just means you want to get laid. Makes us look frivolous.”

“Mute two,” Lynne said, and the TV went quiet.

Bruce stood. “Mrs. Anderson, I really should be joining my wife. Thank you for your hospitality. If you’ll just show me the way.” He was listing, one arm braced on a chair back.

Lynne said, “She doesn’t look too concerned,” and she gestured at monitor one, in which Rita and her new Cro-Magnon hero were sharing a laugh. “Please, stay a bit longer. Some pastry, perhaps?”

He retook his seat. Accepted another brandy. He was drunk and glad for it. Now he could say what he wanted, which was this: “You know, Lynne, I figure since I had to leave my driver’s license with security, that’s how you know my name. But how do you know who my wife is? And what’s with all the cameras? I’m a filmmaker myself, so I get wanting to look at people and their lives. But in this case, in this place, I don’t approve of it so much. Not at all. Forgive me if this seems rude, but are you looking to take a lover? Is this Sunset Boulevard?”

Lynne laughed with her whole body, pitching back and forth and finally just forth, doubled at the waist, trying to breathe. When she regained herself, her eyes were bright and cold and the tears seemed to freeze on her cheeks.

“My, my,” she said. “Aren’t you to the point. But really now, what do you mean? Your wife is Crystal’s employer. She told me.”

He frowned. Waved his hand, waving it off, and said, “Right, of course. I am, you know, a jackass.”

“What’s more,” Lynne said, “I know you like film because of Crystal, too. That’s why I thought you’d like my setup here.”

“A jackass! That’s me. Bruce J. Bollinger. Lynne, you are a fascinating creature. You are the stuff of documentaries. You’ve seen a thing or two, literally and otherwise, so how is it you think they’re having a party down there? No, I don’t buy it. I got your number, Mrs. A. I do.”

“Well,” she said, and she smoothed down her skirt. “It’s not my place to think too rigorously about what I hear. Now, tell me about yourself. Are you enjoying your new job?”

“No.”

“No? That’s too bad.”

He pushed at the floor with his feet. His feet lost purchase—this rug was no place for purchase—so he nudged them under the crust and pushed again. Backing away from Lynne had become supremely important. He was not feeling well. The pastries and sissy drink had found kin in the malfunctioning of his intestines and were colluding to make him sick. He thought Agamemnon was dancing on the vase for the way he and the other figures moved about. He considered a lamp on the desk and decided four lightbulbs for one socket was a bit much. He thought, also, that Lynne’s face was coming loose.

She moved her chair forward to reestablish proximity. “Maybe you just need to nurture your creative side.”

He looked at her and smiled. So her face was melting before his eyes—so what? It was a spiritual condition. She was lonely. He was lost. Maybe they could help each other. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “that’s my whole problem right there. I don’t even know what my job at the Department is, but I’m terrified it marks the end of a period in my life when I tried to do something that mattered. I don’t know who I am anymore. I am estranged from myself. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

She poured him more brandy. He’d gone through half the bottle and wanted something else. She offered him some Scotch. “Martin!” And then, to the console: “Volume one.”

RITA: Oh, that’s hilarious. The saddest part of any day is when you hear the vice president is still alive.

CRO-MAGNON: Want to take a tour of the house? It’s pretty amazing, as you can see.

RITA: I’m sort of couchbound. And I’m waiting for my husband.

CM: Where is he?

RITA: Beats me. Probably trying to bleed money from the walls.

BRUCE: Oh no. No no nooooo, you did not just say that.

RITA: He makes (miming quote marks with fingers delicate and lovely) documentaries.

CM: An arty type, right. Those types are always looking for money. He’s come to the right place. I hear Mrs. Anderson is a patron of the arts.

BRUCE (swiveling in his chair to gawk at Mrs. Anderson, to gawk and leer): Well!

RITA (puffing up, happy): No, we’re done with all that. Bruce works for the Department of the Interior now.

BRUCE: I work for the Department of the Interior, and my wife is proud of me. How pathetic. You know, Lynne, this is some very nice Scotch you have here, but I am drunk. And no one is fun when they’re drunk. My son is due in four months, and I work for the Department of the Interior. I am a man he will come to admire, not for what I did, but for what I wanted to do. I have to use the john.

LYNNE (standing): There’s one down the hall.

BRUCE (sniveling): A documentarian cries. Okay? He cries. This is me crying.

“Mute one.” And the room was silent but for the snuffles of the documentarian, who rallied and said, “How did you get so rich? How does it happen? Did you inherit? What do you do? What does your husband do? Is there something for me to learn here?”

She appeared to depress a button under the coffee table. The parted wall reunited. Not one of the paintings was askew for it.

She called for Martin and said, “Make Mr. Bollinger some tea and bring it to the green room, where he will be resting.”

“I don’t want to rest.”

“Don’t worry. And don’t despair. Life sometimes offers up solutions when you least expect them.”

Bruce could not control the slack of his lips, but some part of him smiled, and later, ensconced in a guest room that was all green, he crawled into a bed, thinking: A grant! This incredibly odd, rich woman is going to give me a grant. The hours passed; he slept through them all.