My parents had tried, without success, to keep my brother’s obsession contained to his own room, but it was a losing battle. The hallway, which Mom had painted pale yellow years ago, was totally papered over, nearly every square inch covered up. Standing at the top of the stairs, looking down the second-floor hall that led to the three bedrooms and a bathroom, I thought of how a World War II underground war room might have looked, with oversized maps of enemy territories pinned to the walls of the bunker, military strategists waving their pointers, planning their invasions. But in a war room, there would have been more order to the map arrangement. Maps of Germany, the cities within its borders, would no doubt be collected together along one part of the wall. France would have been on another. Italy nearby.
It seemed unlikely that any war planner worth his salt would tape a map of Poland next to one of Hawaii. Or have a street guide of Paris overlapping a gas station highway map of Kansas. Pin a topographical map of Algeria next to satellite shots of Melbourne. Staple, right into the wall, a tattered National Geographic map of India next to one of Rio de Janeiro.
This tapestry, this crazy quilt of maps that obscured every bit of wall in the hallway—it was as if someone had put the world into a blender and turned it into wallpaper.
Red streaks from a Magic Marker ran from map to map, making obscure, seemingly irrelevant connections. There were written notations everywhere. Across a map of Portugal was scribbled “236 miles,” for no apparent reason. Latitude and longitude numbers were jotted randomly up and down the hallway. Some destinations were adorned with photographs. A printout photo of the Sydney Opera House was stuck with a short piece of green painter’s tape to a map of Australia. A tattered shot of the Taj Mahal was stuck, with a glob of wadded gum, onto a map of India.
I don’t know how Dad, on his own, tolerated it. When Mom was alive, she was a buffer. Told her husband to get out of the house, go to a sports bar and watch a game with Lenny Prentice, or one of the others from work. Or Harry Peyton. How did Dad handle it, walking down this hall each and every day, week after week, month after month, trying to pretend there was nothing on the walls but the pale yellow paint he’d helped his wife roll on there so long ago?
I went to the first bedroom door, which was, as usual, closed. I raised my hand to rap lightly on it, but just before I touched my knuckles to wood, I listened.
I could hear talking on the other side of the door. A conversation, but only one voice. I wasn’t able to make out anything in particular.
I knocked.
“Yeah?” Thomas said.
I opened the door, wondering if maybe he’d been on the phone, but there was no receiver in his hand. I told him it was time for dinner, and he said he’d be right down.
THREE
“WELL, it sure is nice to hear from you.”
“Thank you for taking my call.”
“I don’t give my private line to just anyone. You’re a very special prospect.”
“I appreciate that, sir. I really do.”
“I got your latest e-mail message. Sounds like things are coming along very well.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Good to hear.”
“I’m still wondering…do you have any idea of the timing of the incident, sir?”
“If only we did. It’s like asking the exact moment when terrorists will hit next. We simply don’t know. But we have to be prepared for when, and if, that moment comes.”
“Of course.”
“And I know you’ll be ready. You’re going to be tremendously valuable to us. A wonderful resource.”
“You can count on me, sir.”
“You do appreciate that there is risk in what you’re doing?”
“I know.”
“Someone like you, there are forces hostile to our government that would be very glad to get their hands on you.”
“I’m aware, sir.”
“Good to know. Listen, I have to go. My wife gets back from a trip to the Mideast today.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’s got a lot on her plate, that’s for sure.”
“Is she sorry she didn’t get to become president?”
“I’ll tell ya, I don’t think she’s had a moment to think about it.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Anyway, carry on.”
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. President. It’s—it’s still proper to call you that, isn’t it?”
“Of course. You retain the title, even when you no longer hold the office.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I know you will.”
FOUR
“LET’S say you were staying at the Hotel Pont Royal and you wanted to get to the Louvre. How would you do that?” Thomas asked me. “Come on, this is a super-easy one.”
“What?” I said. “What city are you talking about?”
He sighed and looked at me sadly across the kitchen table, as though I were a child who had disappointed him by not knowing how to count to five. We looked a lot alike, Thomas and I. Both around five-eleven, thinning black hair, but Thomas had a few pounds on me. I was the slender Vince Vaughn from Swingers, Thomas the meatier Vince Vaughn from The Break-Up. I was definitely healthier looking, but that had nothing do with physical build. When you hardly went outside and spent twenty-three hours a day in your bedroom—he managed to pack breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the kitchen into three twenty-minute interruptions—you developed a pasty, washed-out complexion, an almost sickly pallor. He was probably suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency. He needed a week in Bermuda. And even though he’d never been there, he could probably name me all the hotels and tell me what streets they were on.