“Joan was telling me about the last time Syd was here, back in January. She said Syd was on the phone talking to someone he was meeting later that morning. Any idea who that could’ve been?”
Paige contorts her mouth as she thinks it over. “Maybe a broker?”
“Maybe,” I say, but it would have to have been someone other than Claire, who claimed she saw Syd only that one time in February. I find it hard to believe that Syd would fly out here three separate times just to look at properties and, on top of that, lie about it. It makes no sense. None of it does. “Before that phone call, you and Sydney were looking at his computer and you were talking about something. Joan, what were those words again? Wolf den. Breakfast time. And what was the last one?”
“D and D,” Joan says.
“Does any of that ring a bell?” I ask.
“D and D,” Paige repeats, working it into her brain.
“It sounded like you guys were trying to choose between the three,” I say, hoping to jog her memory. I’ve been spoiled by Joan.
“You know what?” Paige says, arriving at an idea. “Maybe he was showing me different ads his company was considering. He’d ask my opinion about that sometimes. But honestly, I can’t say for sure. It was more than six months ago. I’m sorry.”
I feel myself heating up. I know if I’m not careful I might end up igniting again. I left California in the hopes of cooling off and it almost worked. I’ve done my best to face up to the past, between the memories and writing the song and finally going home to see my mother, and I was nearly to the other side. This close to regaining some sense of control over my life. But now I’ve been blindsided again.
“Gavin.” Paige has her hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
She inspects my eyes. “You sure?”
“Yes.” It’s some of my best acting.
She heads for the front door, opens it, turns around, says something about a family outing that she’d like me to be a part of.
“Sounds good,” I say. But I barely heard a word she said.
Wolf den. Breakfast time. D and D.
I plug each of the three mystery items into Google and get a wide range of results. On the side of the results page is a list of nearby places whose names contain pieces of my search words. One place is essentially an exact match: a restaurant right here in town called D&D’s. It’s located near a stop on the Light Rail.
Joan and I are on the train before I have time to second-guess myself. I figure it can’t hurt to take a quick trip downtown to see what we can find. On that day in January, Syd was back at the Sullys’ by the afternoon and on a plane that same night, so he couldn’t have traveled far that morning. Maybe he was looking on his computer for a meeting place. Maybe, just maybe, he chose D&D’s.
It’s a long shot, I know. I turn to Joan, seated on the bench next to me, and ask her to write down the three mystery items on a clean page in her journal. As the train glides along, the two of us stare down at the page, hoping for enlightenment.
“What were the exact words Sydney said when he was getting off the phone?” I ask.
“‘Perfect, see you at eleven. Looking forward to it.’” Joan turns to me. “What does it mean?”
I have no idea.
And unfortunately, D&D’s is not going to provide the clarity I’m seeking. I know this as soon as Joan and I step inside. Syd would never set foot in a restaurant like this, if you can even call it a restaurant. It’s a tiny takeout joint serving mainly fried chicken. The numerous chicken variations are pictured on an illuminated box and the only place to sit is a shallow counter facing the street.
Joan approaches the large woman manning the deep fryer. “Excuse me,” she says, presenting her journal. “Do these words mean anything to you?”
The woman shimmies over, her puffed lips oozing annoyance. She sizes us up before deeming the journal worthy of her eyes. “Is this supposed to be your order?”
“No,” I say. “We’re not sure what it is.”
The woman takes the journal from Joan and holds it up to the light. Her coworker arrives and now they’re both inspecting it. “What is it?” the new woman asks. The previous woman grunts and hands it back.
My next question is asinine, given our surroundings. “I don’t suppose you keep a record of who dines here?”
She answers my question with a question of her own. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”
I turn to leave, but then I notice Joan ogling the soaking fries rising out of the oil. I place my wallet on the high counter.
“We’ll take a side of fries to go.”
We’re seated on a bench, waiting for the next train to arrive to take us home. Joan is munching on her fries, using her shorts as a napkin.
Now that my internal temperature has fallen, I see how ludicrous it was to come out here. All on a whim. And to drag poor Joan along with me. At least this time I was able to buy her some food she actually enjoys.
“You sure you don’t want any?” Joan asks, proffering a soggy fry.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
But I’m not good.
“I’m sorry,” Joan says.
“For what?”
“For not paying more attention to what Sydney was saying.”
I look over at her. I mean, I really look. Her scrawny but formidable presence. Her clothes in a mishmash of colors. Her determined eyes. She’s been a beacon for me this whole time. And I hardly noticed that somewhere along the line, I had adopted a trusted sidekick. That’s how organic our alliance was. She deserves my best attempt at a smile.
“It’s not your fault, Joan. Not at all. You’ve been a big help. Believe me.”
“What time is the next train supposed to come?” Joan asks.
“One twenty-four.”
“What time is it now?”
I take out my phone to check and get sidetracked by a new text message. It’s from my agent. He wants me to call him. Following some gut instinct, I scroll past it, keep scrolling, moving backward in time, passing older and older conversations, until I find one name.
“Hello?” Joan says. “The time?”
“Sorry.”
I give her the time and then I do something I haven’t done since Sydney died: I open our old message thread.
I had avoided this for the same reason I avoided all reminders. I feared the pain would be too extreme. But I’ve come a long way since setting that fire. Like Paige said, I can’t put it off forever. And besides, now I have a reason to look.
I scroll down, down, down, until I arrive, finally, at the date in question: January 26 of this year.
Sydney (1:31 p.m.): Mr. Winters. Plane gets in at 8:20. Can’t wait to see your battered face!
I feel that brief thrill, the past awakened. The words are unmistakably his.
The day before he left for New York, there was a minor accident on the set of The Long Arm. During a staged fight scene, another actor landed one of his pretend punches on my face and left me with a shiner on my left cheek.
Me (1:32 p.m.): Meet you at the terminal. I’ll be the one in the mask.
Sydney (1:32 p.m.): I got us a gift.
Me (1:33 p.m.): Sounds kinky.