“Of course,” she says without thinking. And then she glares at me, as if she’s playing a game of checkers and has just been kinged.
“There’s a song I like,” I say, “by Mariachi El Bronx. I was listening to it this morning. The chorus is about how everyone wants to be alone, until they find themselves alone.” I quickly pull up the song on my iPod and play it; the soft melody changes the mood in the room.
Nora seems to be contemplating the lyrics.
“Simple is easy,” I say. “I’ll give you that. No trouble. No complications. But you know what? Humans are complex. Yes, we like simple, we like easy, we don’t like problems. It’s relaxing to live a simple life, without complicated relationships. I’m drawn to it myself. Sometimes I just want to be alone, at home, on the couch, eating cereal, watching television.”
Brian is leaning forward now. We’ve been meeting for five weeks, and I’ve probably spoken more words today than in all of their previous sessions combined.
“But you know what?” I say to Nora. “Sometimes I need complicated, I need complex. It’s interesting. It challenges me. Easy rarely achieves anything grand, and sometimes I want something grand.”
Nora appears to be softening. Her shoulders have relaxed. Her expression has gone from angry to neutral.
“Do you like Brian?” I ask her.
“Yes.”
“Does he treat you well?”
“Of course he does.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
Nora smiles for the first time. “Yes.”
“What’s not to love?” Brian says, patting his overgrown stomach, and they both laugh.
And that’s when I know they’ll be okay.
62
Another full day goes by without Alice calling, emailing, or texting. We’ve reached that dreaded marital stage that usually doesn’t come until years after the wedding. We’re living like roommates, not lovers. Sure, we share a bed, but we’re never awake at the same time.
It’s already dark when I pick up my phone and text, Dinner?
Will be late.
You have to eat.
I have Wheat Thins.
Can I bring you something?
Long pause. No response. I’ll be out front at nine, I text.
Longer pause. OK.
I pack sandwiches, chips, drinks, and brownies in an insulated bag. I arrive early, so I pull into the loading zone beside Alice’s office building and just sit in the dark, listening to the radio. KMOO is doing the album caravan, and tonight it’s Blood on the Tracks. Of course. It’s one of the greatest albums of all time, yet I wish they’d chosen something else. Something happier. Marriage is difficult. Dylan understood that.
As the opening bars of “Simple Twist of Fate” come on the radio, Alice opens the passenger door and slides into the front seat.
“Blood on the Tracks?” She laughs. “How apropos.”
I hand her a sandwich and a bag of SunChips. I give her the choice of Peroni or Diet Coke, and she takes the latter. She digs into her food like a small wild animal. We don’t speak, just eat, listening to the music.
“I would’ve preferred Planet Waves,” I say.
“Of course you would.” Then she sings a few lines from “Wedding Song.” Her voice, even when she’s angry with me, is so pure and pleasing. But then she transitions from the brilliant, happy “Wedding Song” into singing along with Dylan, who’s now moved on to “Idiot Wind.”
She looks at me. So much in a look.
She finishes her sandwich, balls up the used paper, and stuffs it into the bag. “Vadim has been working for me nonstop for the past three days.”
“I’m not surprised. Vadim has a crush on you.”
“I know. But listen, he’s been working for me, on a personal research project.”
“Shit, Alice. You didn’t tell Vadim what’s going on with The Pact, did you?” I can almost feel my blood pressure rising. Dylan is singing about gravity pulling us down.
“Of course not. I just asked him about Eli and Elaine. Here’s the thing, Jake. He’s checked every major database, public records, LexisNexis, Pacer, Google, the news, everything. He’s called friends, the best hackers, and you know what he found? Nothing. There is no missing couple named Eli and Elaine. There have been no marriages between anyone with those names over the past five years. Not in San Francisco, not in California. There aren’t any couples with those names who’ve lived in the Bay Area during that time either. There was no disappearance at Stinson Beach. Eli and Elaine don’t exist.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” I’m struggling to process what she’s telling me. Why would JoAnne make that stuff up?
“There’s more. Dave’s first wife died after a nasty battle with cancer. At Stanford, with Dave standing by her side. Sad, not mysterious. You told me that his current wife, Kerri, had been widowed under mysterious circumstances. But her first husband, Alex, died of liver disease. At Mills-Peninsula Hospital in Burlingame. Also sad, but certainly not mysterious. I think your pasty ex-girlfriend is full of shit.”
I think about what she’s telling me. Dylan is still singing, his pointed words about love gone wrong filling the car, and it’s not helping things.
“Damn it. Why would she lie?”
“Maybe she just wanted to get close to you. Maybe it was some fucked-up kind of test. Maybe she’s working for The Pact. Or maybe—ever consider this, Jake?—she’s completely fucking off her rocker.”
I replay all of my encounters with JoAnne, trying to recall some tell, some clue, that she was making it up.
“Maybe Neil is behind it,” I reason. “Maybe he told her lies to keep her in line or something.”
Alice leans back against the door. It’s almost as if she wants to get as far away from me as possible. “You just can’t let go, can you, Jake? You’re convinced that JoAnne is some quivering victim in need of your help.”
“Vadim could be wrong.”
“Vadim knows his stuff. He worked for three straight days. If he says Eli and Elaine don’t exist, they don’t exist.”
A terrifying thought occurs to me. “What if Vadim is in on it, Alice?”
“Seriously?”
“Okay, you’re right. Shit. I just don’t get it.”
“Maybe The Pact isn’t killing people. And more important, maybe it isn’t really The Pact you’re so scared of.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean exactly what I said, Jake.” The tension crackles just beneath Alice’s words. She’s still so angry. “Is it possible you’re really just afraid of being married to me?”
“Alice, our marriage was my idea.”
“Was it?”
For a second, I’m stunned. Immediately, I wonder what the story of our marriage would sound like if she were telling it.
“You may have been the one to pop the question, Jake, but I’ve been the one carrying the heavy load. Every time you fight The Pact, to me it sounds like you’re trying to get out of this marriage. Everything you’ve done, every little clandestine conversation with JoAnne—it sounds like you’re having second thoughts, like you want your old life back, like you want to be free. And then you tell me this insane story about her naked in some shrinking cage.”