Gerry Senior had to want something. But what?
Not an autobiographical book. He didn’t even have the decency to buy a copy. But he lingered as Gerry signed books for the hearteningly long line of customers. Gerry’s media escort, a busty divorcée who had been dropping hints about sleeping with him—lots of jokes throughout the long day about how hilarious it is that she’s called an escort, etc., etc.—pegged his father, lingering at the back of the room, as trouble. He could sense it in her body language, how she made sure to stand in what would be Senior’s direct path, should he try to approach. But his father remained where he was, his back against the science fiction section. Did anyone see the resemblance? It killed Gerry how much he looked like his father. The Andersen genes were strong—in the rare photos that show him with his father’s family, you could always pick out who married into that tribe of blue-eyed blonds. His mother appeared outlandishly petite and dark in the family holiday photo taken when Gerry was not quite two. Legend had it that Grandmother Andersen had leaned over and hissed to her son: “Is she a Jewess?”
Books signed, stock signed, chairs folded, time for Gerry to make his getaway and, lord knows, the escort seemed eager to escort him. He didn’t really have the energy for much, but if she wanted to do a little something in the car, that could work for him. He was a single man, unencumbered, a consenting adult.
He was about to slide through the bookstore’s rear exit when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“I guess you’re surprised to see me.”
Gerry shrugged.
“You seem to have done pretty well for yourself. How many copies of this book have you sold?”
A question Gerry hated, although at least the number was finally respectable. It seemed to him that only novelists were asked, in this indirect way, how much money they made.
“I’m doing fine,” he said. “What do you want?”
“To see my boy, of course.”
“I’m not your boy.”
“How’s Ellie?”
“Fine.”
“I bet she’s bursting with pride.”
“She’s always been proud of me, yes.”
“Yeah, once you came along, she didn’t really have anything left for me. When I would come home from being on the road, I felt like an interloper, like you two were the couple and I was the kid.”
Interloper. Gerry’s father had always liked to show off his vocabulary, much of it learned from the old Reader’s Digest feature Build Your Word Power. He took the quiz very seriously and woe to anyone who dared to mark it up before him.
But had his mother treated his father like an interloper? Gerry didn’t think so. His mother had lit up when his father walked into a room. She was a young, still quite beautiful woman when he left, yet she never dated again, and it wasn’t for lack of opportunities. It was always clear to Gerry that Gerry Senior was the only man his mother ever loved. He considered that unrequited, undeserved devotion the singular tragedy of her life.
“What do you want?”
“I’m going to be leaving Colleen.”
“Who?”
“My second wife.”
“Down from two wives to one to none. That will be different for you.”
“Maybe I’ll swing by Baltimore, pay your mother a visit. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
Gerry’s right hand was sore from signing, but he felt his fingers clench and unclench. God, it would be satisfying to punch him, just once. “Why would I care that you’re leaving Colleen? What does that have to do with me? What do you have to do with me?”
“You’ll never be rid of me,” his father said, pointing to Gerry’s head. “I’ll always be in there. You’re my boy.”
It was like a curse in a fairy tale. Gerry didn’t believe in fairy tales. He took the escort by the elbow and piloted her into the parking lot. Unfortunately, his decision to touch her, even if it was only an elbow, ended up committing him to far more intimate and intensive acts than he had planned. Ah well, he wasn’t married and if he noticed, when she plunged her hand inside his pants as they necked outside his hotel, that this “divorcée” wore a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, what business was it of his?
“Who was that man?” she asked later in his bed, after he had tried and failed to fuck her into silence. “Back in the bookstore.”
“Some run-of-the-mill crazy.”
“Yeah, we see those a lot. I would have thought you were more likely to be a magnet for the female crazies. Those sex scenes in Dream Girl—they’re pretty hot.”
Were they? Gerry had intended them to be more comic than erotic. She was probably saying what she thought he wanted to hear.
“Gosh, I hope I’m not in your next book,” she added in a tone that implied she yearned for just that.
“Who knows,” he said, wondering what other novelists she had slept with, and if he would consider any of them more accomplished than himself. “Anyway, I have a very early wake-up call.”
“I’m the one taking you to the airport. Should I call you or nudge you?” To her credit, she gave the old joke a curlicue of self-aware irony.
“Call,” Gerry said.
April 1
VICTORIA IS IN AN ODD MOOD on April Fool’s Day, a day that Gerry has always loathed, finding practical jokes to be a particular kind of sadism. His father, of course, had loved them. His father’s sense of humor was so low that he had thought it funny to shake his four-year-old’s hand with one of those old-fashioned buzzers that administered a shock. To this day, Gerry isn’t much for hand-shaking. People think he’s a germaphobe, but he’s simply never gotten over the idea that something hard and electric might be pressed into his palm.
He attributes Victoria’s mood to the weather. March has gone out like a wet, cranky lion, the temperatures falling from last week ’s springlike interlude, rain squalls sweeping across the city every few hours. She isn’t unkind—if anything, she is more solicitous of him than usual, asking him twice if he’s sure that a turkey sandwich will suffice for lunch, if he’s happy with his tea. She does inquire at one point whether the detective from New York has followed up with him about Margot, but she appears to be making idle conversation.
Yet—her hands are shaking when she clears his tray and she is unusually pale. Probably love trouble. A neurasthenic type, he decides, the kind of girl—woman—who takes long, solitary walks at night, considers the Bront?s and their heroines to be role models. He remembers a young woman in that vein whom he and Lucy had known, who was given to floaty, ankle-length dresses and outrageous hats. What a revelation she had been when they had gotten to know her better.
When Victoria comes in to say goodbye, she says: “We should probably start talking about the next phase of your care. You won’t need a nurse forever. Do you think you could be comfortable without Aileen once you’re able to use a walker?”
It’s a day he has been yearning for, but now he’s terrified of this benchmark. To move on his own again, to reclaim his body will be glorious. But—to be here, alone, in this apartment, where there are still things that can’t be explained. To not have Aileen in his sight or within earshot. How will they ever be free of each other? To think that this is the person he will be yoked to for the rest of his life, not because of love or passion, but because of a terrible secret. If he were to call the detective—no, if he were to call a lawyer, explain the situation, and they could cut a deal—no, if he were to call Thiru—
His mind abandons all plans as preposterous. He can never confess without a horrible scandal. Imagine the first line of his New York Times obituary if this should come to light.
“Let’s see what my doctor says. I admit, I am nervous about being alone here at night. What if I were to fall again?”